Imaginative writers write to arbitrate between contentious selves. Their psyches contain opposites contending for control. Othello and Iago, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Oliver Twist and Fagin, Sense and Sensibility uncomfortably cohabit single skulls. What are the wiles of each? Which will prevail? The intensity of a reader’s interest depends on identifying comparable contests in their own consciousness. A studious reader may seek to describe this contention. Plot is the arena where the combat occurs.
In juvenile and trivial stories, opposites are obvious: good vs. evil, order vs. chaos, bad guys vs. good. Detective stories, for example, assuage our need for moral clarity. The detectives, whatever their quirks or gripes, are soldiers for justice. If a detective fails to crack a crime, we are put out: happy endings, in such homely fare, are our sine qua non.
The subtler the fiction, the fuzzier the conflict. Good guys may seem bad and vice versa. If we can’t discern whom to root for, we discard a story with disgust. Readers seek reassurance that order can be restored, however tentatively. “The End” must feel like one, for now at least.
Though no storyteller, I write to settle my differences. Since adolescence a war’s been raging between me and me. My characteristic grammar is “on the one hand and the other;” my indefatigable conjunction “but.” My fracas will never end because the contending parties are incompatible. Yes, I want to be free and bound, apart and a part, wild and tame, independent and dependent, at home and on the road, male and female, cop and robber, here and there. How to accommodate these rival claimants to my soul?
All imaginative writing is moral – that is, it implies, if it does not decree, how best to be. “Art for art’s sake” is nonsense when applied to literature: we speak to a point – or else shut up. Nothing’s more irksome than a speaker whose drift we can’t discern. “Why is this person telling me this?” we wonder, restless.
When I was a student, few teachers discussed morality – good or evil, right or wrong. We approached works of literature as if they were porcelain vases: how did they compare, how did this style evolve? My generation – variously labeled Baby-Boomers, Woodstock, “me” – adopted a non-judgmental, do your own thing outlook, in defiance of our elders’ starchy conformity. Relativism ruled: to each his own decalogue, live and let live.
The day’s headlines manifest the results of this elastic tolerance. Did you ever foresee such deplorable behavior from folks in charge? The rudeness, crudeness, incivility, lying, cheating, skullduggery – where does it end? Trump, while amorality’s paragon, immune from shame, is but a symptom of this pandemic permissiveness.
To my surprise, the times propelled me into a moral certitude every bit as starchy as my dad’s. I can’t believe I live in a world where “Lying is wrong” is an opinion, not a truth, civility is an option, not a requirement, and love’s for losers. We blame parents for school shooters; what about the parents of politicians who shoot their mouths off?
Morality demands instruction and practice. In the study of stories – including history and current events – it’s the most urgent topic to teach. What is the contention here? Whose side are you on? What is your take on right and wrong? The more we practice morality, the better we get at it. No, it is not OK, Mister President, to lie, vilify, malign – not ever. Go to your room, rinse your mouth with soap, and say three Hail Mary’s, mea culpas or whatever your pledge to reform. Be your best.