I just finished reading David Duncan's novel The Brothers K this morning. I am amazed at the way some stories seem to be able to suck us in. The last few days I have spent quite a bit of time working my way through the story, and I even dreamed about it last night. I was amazed by how the people in one family were so different from one another. I think this applies at many levels. I am quite different from the other members of my family, and I sometimes think they don't understand me. But then again it seems arrogant of me to assume that I understand them, but they don't understand me. I guess this is part of what makes a family function: the ability to love even though you don't totally understand. Beyond that, are we able to truly understand ourself? I mean at a deep level. Possibily, but not often at the pace we live. This understanding requires reflection and silence, something that we don't easily find and must intentionally seek.
Are good novels all that different from real human experience? I think they are often not that removed. However, we see our life and the experiences in a novel from a different perspective. Maybe it would be helpful to consider our own lives and experiences from different angles. It might help us from taking ourselves too seriously and help us deepen our compassion and understanding of others.
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