The Scourge of Fiction

Not long ago, a friend admitted to me that he wished he read more. "I start books," he said, "but they just don't hold my attention." I offered to recommend a few good novels. "Oh, I have no problem reading fiction. It's nonfiction I can't get into."

I understand his sentiment—I'm reading (slowly) my third consecutive work of nonfiction, a triumph for me—but I'm not sure why reading fiction is considered less respectable than reading nonfiction. (Or why even I should consider reading nonfiction a triumph.)

Perhaps the stigma associated with fiction is because it's fabricated. The school librarian where I used to teach reminded the students that "fiction" means "fake." But is it fake? We can still learn from fiction because it presents universal truths. In fact, fiction can only be successful if it's grounded in truth—we, as readers, are capable of suspending a great deal of disbelief if we still have a semblance of reality to grasp.

More than retelling facts—what "really" happened—a skilled author will capture the essence of a theme, a culture, an icon. I've learned much more from literature than from American history class, courtesy of John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Harper Lee. In fact, my understanding of a spectrum of topics is directly because of my having read widely.

But Lennie and Gatsby and Boo Radley are no less real because they never existed. They are the portraits of their time and culture, not told by a man, but by a generation. As Ken Kesey wrote in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, "But it's the truth even if it didn't happen."