On Writing and Reality.

Last night I read a chapter of my new novel, Kafka on the Shore, in which a somewhat surreal character commits an act of extreme cruelty on several cats. I thought of skipping that chapter when it became apparent that this was going to happen because there’s enough darkness in this world as it is and I really didn’t want to accept any more by way of recreation.

I decided I shouldn’t. It’s a very good novel containing a selection of mysteries and I felt that to skip a chapter would leave the reading of it forever unfinished. And then there’s the fact that the very best of novels contain something which can be taken as a lesson, and I feel this one might prove to be no exception. And so I read the chapter.

On later reflection I realised that I could never have written something like that myself. I said in an earlier post that I lived my stories when I was writing them, and I could never have walked a road which involved the torture of animals. I also said that I assumed other writers felt the same way, and that made me question the nature and character of Mr Murakami, the writer of Kafka. Presumably, the same is not true of him. It would appear that he is the sort to remain dispassionate and accept that his fiction is just fiction and not be taken personally. On the other hand, maybe he did suffer through the writing of it, but felt he had to do so anyway in order to say what he needed to say.

And that reminded me of the story of Gustav Mahler who felt reluctant to write his song cycle, Kindertotenlieder (dirges for children), because he was superstitious and feared that it might provoke disastrous consequences. He did so anyway and his own two children were drowned soon afterwards. It’s said that he suffered badly, obviously from the loss but also his sense of guilt, for the rest of his life.

I asked the question on this blog many years ago: when a person puts pen to paper and creates a story – be it in prose, poetry, or musical form – are they creating some kind of subtle reality which will affect their consciousness and maybe even their worldly affairs? I still don’t know the answer to that and I doubt I ever shall. That’s because I don’t know what reality is, but I do strongly suspect that the reality in which we appear to exist and to which we appear to relate is but the tip of an iceberg. The rest is hidden to mortal eyes and senses, but we need to exercise caution if we’re not to emulate the Titanic.