I just finished On Moral Fiction (1978), a book that I read somewhere was controversial when it was published because Gardner was highly critical of many contemporary writers who he called out by name. While the book may have been controversial for Gardner’s cutting critique of his contemporaries, his take on what is good, moral fiction is compelling. And I quote him at length (from page 126):

“I am convinced that…good art easily beats out bad, and that the present scarcity of first-rate art does not follow from a sickness of society but the other way around–unless, possibly, the two chase each other’s tails. In the past few decades we have shaken off, here in America, the childish naivete and prudishness we see in, for instance, movies of the thirties and forties, in which the killers say “Jeez” and the reporters say “Gosh,” but in our pursuit of greater truth we have fallen to the persuasion that the cruellest, ugliest thing we can say is likely to be the truest. Real art has never been fooled by such nonsense: real art has internal checks against it.”

“Real art creates myths a society can live instead of die by, and clearly our society is in need of such myths. What I claim is that such myths are not mere hopeful fairy tales but the products of careful and disciplined thought; that a properly built myth is worthy of belief, at least tentatively; that working at art is a moral act; that a work of art is a moral example; and that false art can be known for what it is if one remembers the rules. The black abyss stirs a certain fascination, admittedly, or we would not pay so many artists so much money to keep staring at it. But the black abyss is merely life as it is or as it soon may become, and staring at it does nothing, merely confirms that it is there. It seems to me time that artists start taking that fact as pretty thoroughly established.”

And I’m standing in the kitchen scarfing down the Ben and Jerry’s caramel-stuffed and chocolate-covered pretzels in vanilla ice cream with peanut butter and caramel swirls, which is so good it shouldn’t be true, and I say aloud “I’ve never seen a couple in all my nearly two years of parenting that had waistlines of the type and shape depicted in these images!” (and though I’m including the image’s baby’s purported mother, I’m more specifically eyeing the waist on the dude).

The whole scene felt, for lack of a creative way of putting it, very male.

***

Early on in my parental experience, numerous older strangers who saw me carrying my daughter said to me, “How lovely! Enjoy it. It goes by so fast.” And I just read a description of early parenthood in a book, 30 Lessons For Living, by Karl Pillemer, which characterized this period of life as one that is essentially “a middle-aged blur.” The period usually occurs for most people during their 30s through 50s (or 60s for some), and it is often paired with one’s escalating career demands. Having your time so occupied by parenting and work makes time seem to go by so much faster than it actually is. A busy, busy, busy blur. Sounds like an accurate description to me.

But where this description falls within the book is under the lesson about “Taking a Lifelong View of Relationships with Children.” Essentially, it’s so difficult while in the action of parenting during the early childhood, adolescent, and teen years, that it’s important to keep in mind that this is a lifelong relationship that you’re forming with your children. So, investing now with your time, love, and so on, will likely pay off greatly in the long run. Which sounds like a great piece of advice to consider on this day, while we’re all stopping to think about fatherhood.

***

And one last note. Do you think that fatherhood changes men? Here’s a cool Smithsonian.com article that describes various, collected research on the topic of how men are changed by fatherhood.

Yeah, no, I wouldn’t actually go that far, but even in the rough desert terrain one finds life and all its wonders.

I recently traveled to Tucson, Arizona and spent some time hiking just west of the city in Sagauro National Park near the Rincon Mountains. The area is essentially a desert showcasing acres of the famous saguaro cacti, which are geographically limited to this region of the world. Even if you’ve never heard of the saguaro, I’d bet that you’ve seen its image.* Known for its form, the prickly saguaro stands tall, often growing more than 25 feet high, with its branches, or arms growing out from its center and forming a distinctive body that, at an abstract level, looks almost human-like.

Reading National Park Service literature, I picked up some fascinating tidbits of data on saguaro cacti. I found that the saguaros do not sprout those famous arms until they are about 75 years of age and the plant can live up to 150 or 200 years before dying of age. But the most fascinating saguaro fact: a single plant produces as many as 40 million seedlings in a full lifetime and of those millions, due to the extremely dry climate and other environmental factors, only a few survive to grow into an adult cactus. Now that’s a rugged environment.

Check below for some photos that I snapped during my time in the desert.

*Interestingly enough, though depicted as being near synonymous with the American Southwest in numerous cultural references (e.g. the Old El Paso food products), the saguaro cacti is actually only native to the State of Arizona, a small area of California, and small sections of Mexico. I always imagined the American Southwest landscapes as being filled with saguaros. I don’t really know how I arrived at this interpretation, but I connect this false impression with the images embedded into my brain from the 1980′s comedy film, The Three Amigos, starring Steve Martin and Chevy Chase.

But I’m not lost in the fields, son. Those stalks are not tall enough yet anyway. No, I’m lost in David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, which happened to be published while DFW lived among the corn fields, in Normal, Illinois, circa 1996 (before subsidization).[1] I was in high school in Normal at the time, but too busy playing basketball and not reading to have even heard of DFW let alone imagine that, all these years later, I would be sitting around reading his epic book.

But after wanting to read it for a number of years,[2] despite my better judgment, I decided to pick up IJ on my Kindle.[3] It was sometime around the beginning of April. Soon thereafter, in the midst of my busy life, I was hooked. And now, three plus months later, I’m a mere one-third of the way through.

On reflection, I cannot say that, yes, this point in life is an ideal period to tackle such an epic, meandering, and, ultimately, difficult book. There are too many diapers to change, meals to cook, and too many hours to spend holding the daughter. But is there ever an ideal period in life for such a piece of literature? Probably there was. But like I said, I was too busy with other things.[4]

In any case, I will say that I’m happy I decided to lose myself in it. Reading IJ, one is constantly rewarded, scene upon scene, with beautiful prose, creative writing mechanics, tragic and touching stories, fantastic humor, enlivened characters, et cetera, et cetera.

Along the way, I have still taken time to read other stuff: short stories, flash pieces, essays, the WaPo (home delivery, actually), and other quick online reads. Of course, I still routinely watch film, one or two per week.[5] And I still plug away at my own writing regularly.

But still, but the point is that I’m lost in IJ. Ahh, how refreshing, I’m lost in art. Being absorbed in a piece of literature, for this long, at this point in life, there’s no better word to describe it than refreshing.

Of course, eventually, I’ll find my way back to another novel. In the meantime, I’ll keep plugging away at this great piece of contemporary writing. And though I look forward to finishing this work sometime in the distant future, I don’t care how distant. Let it go on. Let me absorb myself even further, deeper into this novel. And, if you’ve put off reading IJ just as I had, I’d recommend putting it off no longer. Just jump right in. No matter the life circumstance you’re in currently. ‘Cause it’s great fun, this being lost in Infinite Jest.

______
[1] DFW grew up nearby Normal in Champaign, Illinois, so he was certainly familiar with the corn fields himself. Familiar too with the ol’ saying, “Knee high by the fourth of July.” But really, who isn’t?
[2] I first heard about the text from my now ex-girlfriend’s brother, sometime around the year 2003, and was instantly both drawn to and repulsed by the idea of reading such a lengthy book. The girlfriend and her brother lived in St. Louis and I was living in Normal and working at an insurance company, working the phone lines. I recall telling a coworker, Dan, about my hearing about DFW and hearing him (Dan) tell me that he had DFW as an instructor several years back when he (DFW) taught courses at Illinois State University. I was thrilled to hear that DFW resided in the same town as I did. I guess it’s one of those strange tendency’s we experience where we have an affinity toward someone that we know is from where we are. Now, living on the East Coast, I experience this type of affinity each time I encounter someone from the Midwestern region of the country.
[3] Reading humongous texts on a Kindle is highly recommended, especially if a solid chunk of your reading time occurs in a chest-to-back and shoulder-to-shoulder type of train crowd en route to/from work.
[4] I spent so many hours playing basketball that I developed a keen sense of awareness on the basketball floor, to the point that I didn’t even have to look at the hoop when I shot the ball, I just sort of shot it. Later, I spent so many hours downing Jim Beam w/Coke’s that I developed a keen sense of awareness around any bar I entered, to the point that I didn’t even have to call out my drink when I approached the bartender, I just sort of stood there and somehow they figured me out.
[5] In fact, my wife and I just finished with Werner Rainer Fassbinder’s film, Berlin Alexanderplatz, an unusually great and epic work of art in its own right. Delivered in 13 parts with an epilogue, BA introduces us to a great character who will not soon leave my psyche, Franz Biberkopf. Part of the reason he’ll not be out of my head is that the wife and I go around the house constantly throwing his name into our dialogues. Like, for example, “Hey Rachel, Where did you put the–Franz Biberkopf–mayonnaise? I can’t seem to find it.”

MG accepted the three photos I submitted, titled “Chicago Skyline From Afar,” “Towering Smokestack,” and “Winter Field.” These photos are currently online here on lines two and three (counting from top to bottom). Note that the photos line-positioning will change as MG adds to their collection. Incidentally, MG also has some nice photos in their collection taken by an old friend of mine, Justin Hamm.

It’s definitely a nice feeling to see “Accepted” in my stories and photos submissions window. And I believe the first two of my shots add a nice Chicago-flavor to their beautiful collection. Go check out their online presence and order their journal in print or, like me, on the Kindle.