We've all been conditioned by Hollywood to expect that everything will turn out right in the end. It's pretty much a rule in Tinseltown that you've got to have a good outcome, no matter how twisted the tale. And not only does the story have to end well, there can't be any loose ends left dangling, either. No ambiguity allowed. That's why all those one-hour crime shows seem to move faster at the end-- they have to cram in the answers to all the little questions that have been raised in the first forty-five minutes, along with a tidy ending.
Popular fiction, for those who still read, is fraught with the same expectations. There are strict formulae for success in any of the "genres." The books are so predictable that some aficionados of "romance" novels, for example, plough through two every day while doing the laundry or waiting for the kids to finish soccer practice or drying their toenails or eating lunch at their desk. The object of this consumption is not to challenge the imagination or develop new insights, not by any means. What it's really all about is anaesthesia, an attempt to blunt the dull pain of monotonous, everyday existence.
It's not just "romance" novels that provide this release, of course. "Mysteries" will do it, too, and I remember that long ago there used to be a thing called "Westerns." And almost every kind of book has vampires in them now, unless the book has got zombies, instead. Mostly the vampires are assigned the more sophisticated, glamorous roles, while the zombies are concentrated in the areas of "gross" or "hilarious."
Now don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against a little escapism. Hell, I spent all six years of my stint at the University of Blank stoned out of my skull, and I've imagined a lot more than I've actually lived. (You have, too, Smartass.) But I've paid enough attention to real life to know that those formulaic happy endings are more than elusive... maybe even mythical... in the real world.
Now, if one were to accept the premise that real life is crappy, as Jean-Paul Sartre and the rest of the "Existentialists" did, it would be perfectly natural to opt out when it came to structuring your entertainment, and to demand "upbeat" or "inspriational" endings to your stories... which you would probably immerse yourself in every waking moment you could, because that would be the only way out of the crappy morass of existence. That would make sense.
However, many of the people who consume this crap will tell you, if you can get them to put down their paperback or their I-pad or their Kindle for a moment, that they are happy... even that they "love" their lives, and life in general for that matter. If so, why wouldn't they be more interested in exploring the joys and mysteries of life, as opposed to avoiding any type of honest reflection?
Again, that big river in Africa, "de Nile," rears its head. My own take is that because people realize at some level that they are stuck here, and are afraid to leave, they have no choice but to try to convince themselves that their condition is A-O.K. Many choose drugs, some choose religion, some choose popular fiction and the movies. These diversions provide a buffer against the "real" world of war and disease and pollution and rape and murder and hatred and violence and poverty and slavery and disease and death and disappointment and frustration and guilt and doubt and so on. Not only does formula fiction insulate them from all this chaos, but the happy endings allow the fevered reader (or viewer-- I know that many people don't read) to experience a vicarious simulacrum of good feelings for a fleeting instant before grabbing the next book (or DVD).
Here's a radical thought: maybe the people who "love" life would get more out of it if they were to love it the way you're supposed to love people-- with acceptance of the whole package, warts and all. Is it really better to have everything sanitized and predictable?
You might have noticed, if you know any "intellectuals," that they are a pretty gloomy bunch, on the whole. Not a whole lot of laughing in those smoke-choked cafes. Not a lot of good times and humor in those dense tomes they churn out. (Ever try to read "Atlas Shrugged?") All very serious, all very gloomy. "Intellectuals," however, embrace at least some of reality... the part that hurts and is incurable. (Check out "The Myth of Sisyphus" by Albert Camus.)
Both the mindless and the hopeless have it wrong, though. There is a middle ground. At least in theory, it should be possible to "love" life, even while acknowledging that it sometimes sucks, to navigate life with one's eyes open. There is beauty in grief as well as in joy, after all. I never felt love for my late father or my late brother or my dead cats any more intensely than when I lost them. And when I read about war or death or hunger or disease, I feel grateful for the peace and the life and the plenty and the health that I am privileged to enjoy for the moment. This is called "The Pleasure Principle," and it's something that you study in Psychology 101.
Again, there's nothing wrong with a little numbness from time to time. But I'd suggest just using it as a spacer. You might try picking up a real book next time, something with some real thoughts, ideas and emotions in it.
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