On page 16 of "The Rise of English," Eagleton states that the Romantics valued fiction over hard fact, that fiction gives far more pleasure than the truth.
I've always found this to be true. This is most evident in the fact that I hate reading about history or science or anything grounded in staunch reality. I love the whimsical. This is also evident in the fact that I could never have a true romance with a real man or partake in anything that is not a dream.
Let's just start with this. I thought I loved dancing in nightclubs before I ever danced in one. Then when I visited a nightclub, I realized that was not the venue for me--the noise, the smoke, the alcohol, the touchy-feely guys were far too much dirt and grime for me. I wanted something, but after getting it, I didn't want it anymore.
Now, second, I always wanted to go on a date with a man. But when I hung out with a guy or two (not a date), I didn't enjoy it one bit. Imagine, if I had gone out on a real date, how horrific that would have been!
What I love is writing about romance and love, reading novels where the underdog ends up with the smashing brooding man, and of course dwelling in my dreams.
Why does reality stink? Well, I finally figured out why. We cannot control reality. And usually, when we get involved in rather lofty endeavors, we never see the dark side. Because while reality is a mixed pot promising pain and disappointment, fantasy is always beautiful and alluring, grandiose and awe-inspiring.
Life never turns out the way we want. But fantasy is the reality we can only hope for. I love fantasy, because I can take someone unattractive like me and pair myself with the man of my dreams. And that man will not abandon me, get sick, beat me, cheat me, rob me, murder me. That man is someone I can count on to please and satisfy my whims.
Perhaps an artist's lot is to dream. I consider myself an artist, primarily a poet, not particularly an exceptional one, but a poet who writes to get by.
And maybe if I weren't such a dreamer, maybe if I lived life rather than ruminated over it, I wouldn't be a poet. For Jane Austen never married and she wrote about love. Perhaps I am destined to write about things I can never attain or possess. Perhaps I shall always be on the outside peering in, wishing for the magic that really is not there.
I am a control freak, and life cannot be controlled. Therefore reality is disappointing and always falls short. I need to escape this existence of ambiguity and tragedy to reach a world of perfection and tranquility. The only way I can find peace in this godforsaken wasteland is to dream up many worlds, worlds that become words on paper, words I can crawl into, words that keep me warm on cold, creepy nights, words that become my dearest companions when everyone is gone and tired.
Eagleton also touches on what we discussed in class: emotion versus reason.
While reason is more conducive to survival, it is emotion that makes us who we are--human. Emotion is the glory of being on earth. It makes us loving, feeling, pulsating, fallible creatures who experience the gaunlet of God's miracles.
We are not here merely to exist and go about life robotically. We are here to know the inside of our souls and to let our hearts be sad at times, to let our hearts nurture the hearts of others and vice versa.
I've always been a very passionate person. I wear my heart on my sleeve. And I am not ashamed of my tears or desperations, because genuine emotions only come from good, loving people, and I want to believe I am a good, loving human being.
I believe far more in emotion than in words. That sometimes we don't need literature or a canvas to have art and inspiration. Emotion is the art that decorates our internal beings, emotion is the light that leads us out of the shadowy veins, emotion is the only way we can live successfully and purposefully.
How funny it is that we are so ashamed to open ourselves to strangers--perhaps for fear of being understood and hurt. But then when we are vulnerable and attacked, the assault is not on us, but on the buffoon who cannot understand what it means to weep generously in a crowd and not apologize for it.
Reason may be preferred, perhaps even easier to attain in its shallow dimensions. But emotion is the only thing that connects us to the earth and the divine. Emotion is sublime. It is the reason we have made it this far. It is the reason we keep going.
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