The Chasm between Reality and the Novel

              One of the reasons I would read a novel that had me as a protagonist would be to see a skilled author attempt to recreate what I felt when I lived through life. It would be amusing to be drawn into it again, drift through it at the mercy of finely sculpted narrative techniques, and see, in actuality, the inherent gap between reality and a novel. I have the vague feeling that I'd leave disappointed - not, perhaps, because the author failed at his job, but because it would freeze me in time, at a certain stage of life, and have that take on myself permanently etched into the world. It proves daunting to think about meeting other people and knowing they had that idea of who I was in their minds. Or even of re-reading it, years down the line, and reliving myself through a completely different lens. It's almost like offering your self, your soul, to the pen of an author that is entirely different from you and has entirely different experiences and thus values. Could we ever feel satisfied with how we're painted? Perhaps he'd glorify us and shade us more brightly than we deem real, and then experience the awful feeling of having lied - of having led the author up a false path, of conjuring up an entirely different self from the sheer expectation of having a novel written about us. And the opposite case would prove as equally frustrating, if not more. My point is that I do think any human life is worthy of a story, but that the story would be too intrinsically related to the author rather than the subject. Of course, there would be stories that would hold up by the greatness of the story itself - if I would have lived as Bertrande de Rols, I'd offer a completely different answer here. Nevertheless, would Bertrande have been satisfied with Lewis' fictionalization of her own life? Perhaps she never even loved Martin at all! And for those lives that wouldn't hold up, essentially, by an incredible plot, the author's mastery would be more pressing, and thus his imprint on it more visible. What if Kafka were to rise from the tomb, and decide to write a novel about me? What would he have to say about my life at Stanford? I shudder at the mere thought of it. At any rate, I think a novel is inherently personal - every single sentence, detail, structure, dramatic mode, point of view, etc. are all experienced and felt by the author. Could anyone ever feel what it is to be me, or could I even convey truthfully who I am to allow that? Do I even know who I am? Jesus. 

       My whole argument, however, lies on the premise that a good novel needs to employ verisimilitude to be good. Which I don't necessarily agree with. I'd kill a priest (as they say) for Hunter Thompson to write a novel about a drug-addled night of mine. It would be highly entertaining to read, but would it portray who I am? Would it matter? A great author could make due with what he's given, and write a novel about anyone if his creative faculties permitted, but, for it to be entertaining in some cases, I think verisimilitude would have to be sacrificed. I don't see what's wrong with that.