Story: A Search for Truth

A few Saturdays ago, we decided to spend the afternoon at one of our favorite local spots, a historic mansion with grounds overlooking the Hudson. My husband was reading The Ancient – he finished it that day, the first non-me human to read it, and his report was encouraging – and I was endeavoring to finish In Dubious Battle. Upon its completion, though I had other books in my bag, I found I could not simply jump to another tale. Steinbeck has a way of putting roots down in your soul, and I needed a moment to ponder what sort of fruit they might bear.

As I sat there on the veranda, enjoying the breezes wafting up from the river, my thoughts were not on the story itself. Instead, I began to ponder why I had read it; and then, why I read anything; and, finally, why anyone reads at all.

It would be terrible to realize I had read something just so I could say “I just finished another Steinbeck”, in lofty tone. If that were my motive for picking up In Dubious Battle, I think Steinbeck himself would rise from his grave in Salinas, California, and come howling across the country to smite me – like Fruma Sarah in Fiddler on the Roof, only with a scarier verbal arsenal. No, I realized: I read Steinbeck because I believe he had important things to say about the world, and he said them well. His work never fails to move me, and his portrayal of people – the masses, the individuals – challenges me to open my eyes wider. I hope, someday, to observe and write with even a tenth of his insight and compassion.

Having established my reason for reading Steinbeck, I realized I had found my reason for reading in general: I read to encounter Story, and I am drawn to stories that instruct and inspire me regarding the one great Story in which we are all caught up. And there, I think, is the answer to the final question: why does anyone read?

Madeleine L’Engle says it well:

“People have always told stories as they searched for truth. As our ancient ancestors sat around the campfire in front of their caves, they told the stories of their day in order to try to understand what their day had meant, what the truth of the mammoth hunt was, or the roar of the cave lion, or the falling in love of two young people. Bards and troubadours throughout the centuries have sung stories in order to give meaning to the events of human life. We read novels, go to the movies, watch television, in order to find out more about the human endeavor.” 
~ The Rock that Is Higher

Choosing which stories to encounter – which shows to watch, which books to read, which movies to see – therefore becomes a weighty exercise. The stories we embrace will, inevitably, shape the way we view our own story and its place in the larger Story.

If encountering Story is this significant, what of the role of the storyteller?

“The very act of story-telling, of arranging memory and invention according to the structure of the narrative, is by definition holy. . . . We tell stories because we can’t help it. We tell stories because we love to entertain and hope to edify. We tell stories because they fill the silence death imposes. We tell stories because they save us.” 
~ James Carroll, The Communion of Saints

My post-Steinbeckian musings reminded me afresh of the deep responsibility implicit in taking up a pen. I prayed with renewed desperation for grace, that the words I write may help catch people up into the larger Story, rather than distracting or misleading.

All this pondering poured itself out in a poem – and, to my delighted surprise, that poem found its way into The Ancient.

It’s perfect, for this is the essence of my upcoming novel: Story, and the importance of embracing it, and the need to keep telling it. The characters in The Ancient find themselves caught up again in the ongoing battle between the truth and the distorted lenses through which our self-made stories try to view it. Who wins?

For that, dear friends, you will have to wait just a bit longer.

In the meantime, here be the poem. May it lift your eyes to Story, and may your ears catch the echo of wonder ringing down from distant hills.

Upon Finishing A(nother) Steinbeck Novel

I watch the shadows move across the floor
Awed speechless that I can’t imagine when
I’ll ever see them move that way again
No time has seen them move that way before
I hear the birds hallooing out of sight
Unable to respond or understand
Slip softly free of repartee’s demand
Sink into space where “hush” alone is right
I feel the pages close beneath my arms
Still tasting their intent with every breath
More fuel to build a pyre for the death
Of ignorance and self-delusion’s charms
Each word a match to set my soul ablaze
A beacon guiding seekers through the haze