Bleaker Than Fiction

348sMy condition has no name I know. You might call it “impatience,” but that label seems too generic and mild:

  • I race through all the instant view options on Netflix, half reading each, without settling on one, or, settling finally, watch ten minutes and say, “Stupid. Unbearable….”
  • 625 pages into the 779 pages of The Goldfinch, I find myself irredeemably bothered and think, “Enough.” I can’t stand another mistake, another boneheaded decision.
  • My wife says, “You have to watch House of Cards!” and I do, only to find I can’t watch more than thirty minutes before anguishing over events that make me want to howl.

Empathy is the most flattering explanation. “If only I didn’t feel so much!” I think, “I might not be so bothered by every downturn and mishap!” I say. “It’s just that Pete Russo was such a good man,” I reassure myself.

Truth is, I’m an ice cube in a frying pan, spinning in the steam of its own disintegration. Empathy has less to do with my state than raw discomfort, agony akin to mild electrocution… willingly, deliberately, undergone.

As a boy, television used to agitate me profoundly. The Beaver’s next blunder would certainly send me running into the kitchen, and every Brady seemed, at one time or another, bound for humiliation. Even Petticoat Junction might lead me into baffled territory. My hand over my eyes, I wanted to retreat to a corner, hide myself from myself.

You might think forbearance might grow—certainly my exposure to literary and cinematic turnarounds should have grown. The outcome always settles on a steady note, experience ought to tell me. Yet, with age, my condition worsens. I try to figure it out. “Think of yourself in a room sealed tight,” I say to my wife, “when you pull the door closed, you trap another gulp of air and it’s too full and the pressure jumps. It’s too much.”

“Huh?” she says.

Maybe this is the problem, I think: I’m indulged. I’ve grown accustomed to the proper fit of circumstances, controlled environments where fulfillment is assured. I want complacency, worrylessness, satisfaction, pleasure. No challenges please, I’m tired of those. Give me candy.

I try convincing myself each strange development won’t be that strange or may even enhance my satisfaction when events, improbably, reverse. The present calamity could—ultimately—delight more than frighten. “Give it ten minutes,” I say, “then decide.” These fictions aren’t happening to me. I should stand above, drolly saying, “How interesting.”

The true issue, I say, is faith…or faith and courage… or faith, courage, and remove. When you believe in a positive outcome, suffer bravely through seemingly hopeless moments, and stop to breathe outside the fiction, you’re fine.

I’m not fine. Theo kicks drugs, he picks them up again. Finally, the poor influence of Boris is gone, and Theo runs into him on a New York street. Kitsey gets caught in infidelity, and Theo might easily leave her for Pippa—we know he loves Pippa best—then stays with Kitsey because Kitsey says, “My mother loves you. Leaving me will kill her.” I want to hurl the book and might, if my wife didn’t put her hand on mine and repeat, “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

I sometimes wish I lived in a naïve fantasy where everything, everything, everything will be so okay in the end. Maybe it will, but this world, the one I live in, is depraved, and nothing in reality persuades me (enough) fiction will be different. Nothing I experience convinces me, “Believe!”

 

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3 Comments

Filed under Aesthetics, Aging, Anxiety, Art, Desire, Doubt, Essays, Grief, Identity, Laments, life, Modern Life, Reading, Sturm und Drang, Thoughts, Worry

3 responses to “Bleaker Than Fiction

  1. Thomas

    Yep. I hear ya.

  2. I’m sadly addicted to happy endings — maybe that’s I skip to endings in some books that seem as if they will wind up in disaster for characters I’ve grown to love. I think that’s why detective novels are so appealing to me — there’s usually a godlike main character who will figure everything out and set the world to rights in the end. I’m so conflicted about The Goldfinch…I know I should read it but am deeply reluctant.

    • dmarshall58

      I joke sometimes about creating a cable offering called “The Pay-off Channel,” which would show the reveals of makeover shows, the last 30 minutes of redemption in movies we all know, and a bunch of last minute shots and remarkable comebacks. As I get older, I seem to want these redemptions more and more.

      As for the end of The Goldfinch, I’ve finished it now and can tell you to be patient. As agonizing as most of it was to me, it’s Dickensian in it conclusion as well as its description, characterization, and action. If you read it, you’ll be okay… though you’ll spend a lot of time thinking you won’t. Thanks so much for your thoughtful comments! –D

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