There’s a lot of utterly brilliant writing out there that’s just too damn bleak for me. I watch certain television shows, read certain books, and I’m left with both awe-struck admiration for the artists behind the work and a deep desire to run, screaming, for the hills. When I think of the books I’ve cherished most—Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine, Salinger’s Franny and Zooey, to name two—they left my heart full, my soul quickened. They cracked opened my consciousness and connected me to something bigger, and truer, than myself.
I read a quote, years ago, from Avatar Meher Baba that said the “truth is that which uplifts.” I feel the same way about art. It should look life’s struggles and sufferings square in the eye without flinching, then look farther, deeper, raise our eyes to the heavens and point the way there (a path that, in my experience, leads us straight back to our own hearts). I don’t mind a crawl through the darkness—I think we’ve all done our share of midnight-wrestling with demons, of sinking, neck-deep, in the quagmire of despair—but, in the end, I need a story to bring me to the light, to remind me that life has meaning, purpose, value; that the universe is, ultimately, a positive, loving place. That there’s hope.
I had a conversation with a friend the other night about the 1960’s and what it was like growing up in the Nuclear Shadow. I’m old enough to recall, with traumatic clarity, the Cuban Missile Crisis of October, 1962—most notably President Kennedy’s speech to the nation that, stripped of its Oval Office patina and translated by my eight year old brain, said, “Head for the shelters, kids. The missiles will be flying and our asses are cooked.” The instant that speech was over I flew into my bedroom, dropped to my knees and prayed to God, with every iota of my being, begging Him to spare us from the coming holocaust. (I don’t recall praying much, or ever, before that: Perhaps that moment was the beginning of my own spiritual search.) I also remember walking to school the next day—I was in the fourth grade—and the conversation with my friends as we discussed the imminent end of the world. Understand, this wasn’t a “could be” or “maybe,” we really thought the End Was Nigh. The next year, when JFK was assassinated, it seemed that the very fabric of reality was unravelling, that the center would not, could not possibly, hold.
And yet, as the 60’s progressed, as the generation that grew up in the shadow of armageddon grew older, the popular and political culture of the time was defined, above all, by a sense of hope, of limitless possibility, of the belief that this world that tottered on the brink of destruction could be changed for the better. In many ways the Beatles, who appeared on American television just months after the Kennedy assassination, became the embodiment of that optimism. “All You Need is Love,” they sang. “It’s getting better all the time.” “Don’t y’know it’s gonna be all right.” And many of us believed it. I certainly did. And still do.
Perhaps the unpredictable nature of a world where terrorist bombs could explode anywhere, any time, where global warming threatens to upend the natural balance and blot out the future, has given rise to the current wave of Bleak Chic. But is the current reality any more harrowing or hopeless than the reality I faced at eight years old, the one where a sudden flash of light, a deafening roar, could have left the human race on its knees in a nuclear ruin? I don’t think so. Which is why I’d love to see more optimism, more awe, more joy and wonder, in the arts—and, yes, in our social and political discourse.
I’m not trying to tell anyone else how to approach their art: If you honestly believe that life is a chaos-ride to hell, rot and ruin, then you owe it to yourself to present that in your stories (or songs or paintings)—and do it with honesty and passion. If you do it well enough, there’s a good chance I will watch, or read, or listen—and applaud your effort. But I doubt I will cherish your work or hold it in the deeps of my heart.
I often return to a quote from the science-fiction writer David Gerrold (who, among many other achievements, wrote the “Trouble with Tribbles” episode of the original Star Trek—a show rooted optimism and idealism). I tore it out of a science-fiction magazine back in the mid-1970’s, tacked it to a corkboard and it’s travelled with me ever since. I think Gerrold’s words about writing apply not just to all art—but to all of life:
"A good story is about pain and hope and the transition from one to the other. Most important, it is about what we learn in the process of that transition. The essential quality is hope."
©copyright 2013 J.M. DeMatteis
