Chinua Achebe: The Bravery, even, of the Lions

Chinua Achebe was a great writer and perhaps most famously known for his work Things Fall Apart. As a student, I actually read the assigned material (as opposed to my Sparknoting colleagues) and this piece, an intimate examination of colonial powers and their influence on traditional African culture, will always be one of those works of literature that I carry with me.

The literary world recently lost this great writer at the age of 82 and, in memoriam of his passing, I think we should all remember what great works of literature have the power to do: tell people's stories that otherwise might not be told or heard.

In a 1994 interview with The Paris Review, Achebe contemplates the importance of telling all sides--every side--of the story:

"There is that great proverb — that until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter. That did not come to me until much later. Once I realized that, I had to be a writer. I had to be that historian. It’s not one man’s job. It’s not one person’s job. But it is something we have to do, so that the story of the hunt will also reflect the agony, the travail — the bravery, even, of the lions."

The bravery, even, of the lions.

Random Ramble: I'd Like A Teacup Piglet Please

I recently had the pleasure of holding a very tiny, very snorty teacup piglet. Gah! It was so damn adorable. When he started falling asleep in my lap I was like . . . .

"All! This! Cuteness! I! Can't! Handle!"

Magical Realities, Perspectives, and the Human Condition: What Does Fantasy Do?

As a person and writer, I've never been able to look at a rock and see just a rock. The rock might grow a pair of legs and walk about the world, wondering why he's been given such a hard exterior in a land full of soft things, or that same rock might sprout a pair of wings and desire a home in the nest of an eagle. Perhaps I'm prone to disregarding the rules and laws of our world because I never quite meshed with my Organic Chemistry and Physics textbooks; or, perhaps, I gravitate toward this magical way of thinking because it is how I come to interact with and wrap my head around the confusing experiences of life.

For me, it's important to embrace this idea of other within literature because it encourages us to stand on our heads and view the world from a different perspective: a fantastical way for us to understand the human condition and experience.

I tell fantastical stories because I don't believe in saying to a character, You have to stop now--you can't go any farther because reality tells you no. I tell fantastical stories because I live for that moment when a character stumbles over that word no and does something special with it. There are many heavy things in this world, and it is my greatest pleasure as a writer to see how a character will interact with that weight: How might he lift it? How might she movie it? How will their directions change once that weight rests in their hands? [These questions might easily be applied to all genres of literature, including realistic--how might they take on different meanings?]

I tell fantastical stories because what if always has and always will intrigue me.

For me, a successful piece of fantastical literature conveys the notion that we don't always have to participate in the traditionally accepted versions of reality in order to understand ourselves and the inherent qualities that make us human. In my eyes, the goal of fantastical literature is to break apart the world we've come to know and, using all those pieces, a combination of recognizable things and never-before-seen things, slowly and carefully snap the universe back together again.