Skip to main content

Let's argue forever :)


“All fiction can be profitably regarded as argument.” Agree, disagree?

The minute I began pondering this question, a steady stream of fiction I’m familiar with proceeded to crowd my thoughts. Books that show rather than tell a point of view, creations of new worlds, better worlds, worse worlds, stories told in chapters or diary pages, poems with made up narrators that collect like photographs tears or joys on the page. Don’t they argue? Do they?

So, let’s say for the moment that fiction does serve as a platform well-suited for argument. What is this “profitably regarded” nonsense? Must an argument be profitable to exist? Profitable in that it makes money? That’s silly. Profitable in that it invites opposing conversation? Maybe. So why must an argument be profitable to be regarded? Regarded where? Where is this mysterious arena where we are regarding fiction, assuming that all fiction inherently holds a stance in an argument? 

Anyways, isn’t everything an argument? After all, an argument can be made (and has been made by one of my favorite philosophers of language, Derrida) that all thought, all narrative, fiction or not, embodies two sides of one coin in one shape or another, portrays both the powerful and the powerless in some way. 

So if you’re asking whether all fiction is argumentative, I say yes. Every work of fiction, whether subtly or outright, does present an argument, does present privileged language, choice morals, favored points of view, whatever it is you’re looking to argue about. And if you’re looking to argue profitably, there will always be someone on the other end who disagrees about the narrative itself or how the narrative presents that argument. That’s what you’re looking for, right? Or would you like to argue about it? 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"You don't look like your dad!" Tales of Legal Adoption

"You don't look like your dad. You must be the spitting image of your mother!" or "Your brothers look just like your dad! I bet you take after your momma." I heard these statements a lot growing up. And it's true. I don't look like my dad. And for a while, I didn't really look like my mom. I do now, but that isn't the point. You see, my dad adopted me when I was around six or seven years old. He had been a part of my life, for, well, all of it. When my mother and biological father (sometimes I refer to him as my sperm donor, because I think it's funny, but his name is Chris), got divorced, my dad, Kenny, married my mom resulting in a blended family of me, who was biologically my mom's, and my two brothers, who were biologically his. Suddenly I went from being the only child to being the middle child in a family dynamic that takes a lot of explaining to do. They say divorce and the things I supposedly went through in my early childhood...

I'm adopted and I have trust issues. Here's why:

I grew up knowing that I was adopted. I’m a fair-skinned freckled brunette who never grew past 4’10” so I fit in photographs just fine with my brunette mother and blonde father who adopted me at birth. When I was little, they told me stories about how God had sent me to their arms, how they had chosen me, how special I was because I was adopted. The story of Moses was especially prominent, as was Tarzan. I grew up in middle America where everybody still goes to church on Sundays and Wednesdays like clockwork and trusts Disney to raise their children during TV time. My mother was (and still is with my daughter now) a firm believer in keeping children innocent as long as possible. She adores small children and works with them exclusively at the church where she directs the children’s choir and runs the after-school program. My father always had a nonchalant attitude towards these things. He wouldn’t go out of his way to introduce us to things that might be a tad inappropriate, but he...

No Calling, No Problem

I have no calling in a world where we all wonder what we're meant to do, who we're supposed to be. My mom called me the other day to tell me one of my childhood friends would be moving to my hometown soon because her husband had accepted a job with the Baptist church next door to her Methodist church. I don’t know why she thinks I give a shit about small town gossip or any news that concerns the church seeing as how she’s very aware of how I feel about organized religion. Nevertheless, she has nothing else to tell me because her world is much smaller than mine. “He used to be an airplane pilot,” she says. “Then why is he going to be a youth minister? How will they survive? Where will the money come from?” I ask, appalled. I know from my instagram that his wife is a stay-at-home mom of three. “It doesn’t matter, they’ll figure it out,” she brushes it off. “He has a calling to work for the Lord.” A calling. A goddamn calling. Half of my life, I waited for some fucking ca...