entropic hearts

i’ve said on here for awhile and such that I think that fiction/poetry/etc is all about striking against entropy and loneliness. That good art is about making the lonely and sad moments and happy moments and everything beautiful, so that readers who read it or hear it or watch it and have had similar experiences feel less alone in the world…

& funny that I read this article at the New Yorker, and it makes me feel less alone as well because he says something I was talking about, and it’s nice to know that I’m not alone in my thoughts, that others think this way-

But even that reasoning, so attractively commonsensical, is inadequate. I think the tiredness may not be personal, but something about the universe in general: biology, physics. Art, whether fiction or not, is a challenge to entropy, a bumping up of something that must be flattened down again. When you think about it, it’s surprising that art is allowed to exist. It’s always a deviation: overly selective, overly concrete, and unfaithful, not to our actual experience but to our generalizing afterthoughts, the thoughts that get us through life. In “War and Peace,” when the excitable young heroine grows up and has kids and gets fat, young readers may be disappointed, but I think that adults may be comforted. Most of us want extraordinary things, after a while, to quit being extraordinary—to end. The stone fell in the water. The ripples ran. Now they should stop. The surface should be smooth again.



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