As we begin to study literature, the following question might occur to us:
"Why should I study this? I like books, just like I like cupcakes, but I don't want to study cupcakes, I just enjoy them. Why shouldn't I just enjoy books? Why should I study them?"
This is a valid question. Should we always study the things that we enjoy? In some cases, study can lessen our enjoyment, as shocking as that sounds. In keeping with the cupcake metaphor (and thereby extending the metaphor further), the one who enjoys cupcakes, but does not know anything about how they are made, is consistently, and hopefully, pleasantly, surprised. As they sample cupcakes, a parade of tastes will come and go, delighting the cupcake enjoyer. Contrast this with the cupcake expert, who knows their constitution intimately: nothing can surprise him, for he knows by sight what their flavour and fluffiness shall be.
And so, the expert shall no longer have that same joy of surprise. But another, perhaps greater joy is open to them: it is the joy of the conoisseur, who knows by taste the origin of the ingredients, and who considers the merits of each, based on subtle details of their composition. He silently and magnanimously judges the intent and execution of the cupcake-baker with each bite.
Surely this is the greater joy? Surely it is the evolved form of appreciation? Just as we, since childhood, have refined our sense of play, so too do we rise to meet the challenges of our ever-expanding horizons. And since literature is much healthier to consume than cupcakes, there are no adverse consequences to our wellbeing.
So you see, if you enjoy cupcakes, you should study literature.
Another question we might ask, is, "Why do writers write?"
One could answer this by asking, "Why does anyone create anything at all?" which opens the door to much philosophical speculation.
For our purposes, however, we might narrow our view very slightly, and suppose that every writer, when they write, has some idea which they wish to express through their writing.
This supposition appears to be patently obvious in the context of non-fiction writing. Some thought or theory is brought forth, so that the reader may apprehend the idea, or be informed about a given topic. But what of fiction? Ask, "Are there forms of knowledge or ideas which can only be realized if experienced personally?" and we shall see that our supposition is a good one. Are there not vast differences in the character of knowledge gained from instruction, on the one hand, and lived experience, on the other? Common sense tells us that this is so. We have expressions to this effect, encouraging us to "walk a mile" in the shoes of another. Through the characters presented to us in fiction, we are able to do so. Furthermore, those characters and the experiences we go through alongside them can be tailored to a specific purpose. Through their writing, an author has a platform upon which to showcase whatever ideas they wish to explore. In this case, then, fiction is the best hope we have of transmitting experience, knowledge, and its fruit, wisdom.
If, after all this, we haven't yet been convinced that there is a deeper purpose to literature; if we think that stories are mere entertainment, perhaps all we need to do is remember the reader's perspective: No one wants to read pure fluff. There has to be a point to the story. Good stories tell us something interesting about ourselves and the world around us, growth, and despair - in short, the human experience. And so, with this in mind, we may begin our studies in literature, knowing that our true object of study is what it means to be human.
Onward to Analyzing Literature.
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