How fortunate! Reading Virginia Woolf's "Modern Fiction" this morning left me with a plethora of answers to the questions I had in my last blog. The proper role of fiction, the strong points, the importance of conveying lived life as it were, as closely as Joyce does in Ulysses and the importance of the Russians and their heart and compassion. Woolf points out Chekhov and where he does this extremely well, though perhaps I prefer Tolstoy's novels, the trend in many of the Russians runs strong and deep.
I thank Woolf for pointing out the British "materialists" of her time and comparing them to a "spiritual" writer like Joyce. Give me spirit! Give me fiction with heart. After all, it is how we wretched humans commune with God, or at least one way. We seek the divine in fiction, the evanescent, that which sparkles. And that is what I want to give to you, Dear Reader. The sublime. The closest thing to a spiritual experience you can find expressed in words.
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