“Why Should We Read Narratives?” was the first reflection I ever wrote, which was published in two different bimonthly magazines. It was an essay that seemed to answer my own question right at the beginning of my journey, back when I would sit surrounded by my books, wondering what the true purpose of reading was. In a section of this article, born from the mental storms of those days, I wrote the following:
“I am Lazarus, but who is my Christ?
People ask me why we should read narratives. What use is reading stories? What relevance can a world born from someone’s imagination and populated by fictional characters possibly have to the real world? I wanted to draw my answer from within books themselves—not as a defense attorney for fiction and narrative, but simply under the guise of one who has been saved.
My entire concern was to explain why it matters. Why should we read? And how should one stand against what I have called the tormenting question?
The tormenting question many people ask me is this:
“I already know everything that is in this book, and I even know it better. So why should I read it?”
To quote Heraclitus: “It neither speaks nor conceals, but gives a sign.” (Kristeva)
What is at stake here is “speaking”: emerging from the cave of isolation and revealing oneself through praxis—that authentic and free act—within the space of in-between being. What we are dealing with here is a gap between the content of the “utterance” and the “meta-utterance” within a text. In such a way that the characters of a compelling narrative become responsible for stimulating your affects.
It is as though a form of co-activity were taking place. Yes, recline on your couch, leaf through the pages, and read: two people experience such-and-such in a war.
It is as though we were to see ourselves completely exposed before the characters of a narrative. We allow them to reveal us—and our emotions—to ourselves. Lacan places this kind of engagement among what he calls “interactive narratives.”
But wait; it does not end there. Hegel calls it the cunning of reason (List der Vernunft). In his view, narrative does not simply encourage passivity. Rather, it functions as a lever that enables us to lift a heavy weight. The completion of an event lies in its being remembered and narrated publicly by someone who knows both its outcome and its cause, and who extracts from it a moment of instruction.
Let me say, with some boldness, that declaration is more important than action. What would have become of Abraham’s story if there had been no one to tell it?”
You can read the rest of the article in the Chook and Totem bimonthly magazines. At the time, the publication of this piece brought me some fascinating experiences. But what mattered most to me were the closing sentences of my text:
“Let me say that if the word is the murder of the thing, narrative is the savior of objects and elements. It is an event rooted in universal experiences, summoned to breathe life into everyone. Let these messages flow through you; let a truth call out to you. Believe, and be revived.”