A wonderful thing about taking
care of a 21 month old that might not look, on its face, like a wonderful
thing, is the amount of app-less time the child’s care forces upon you.
Adam, at some point a month ago,
changed his sleeping pattern. The 9 month old that got to bed at 7 p.m. and
slept until 6 or 7 a.m. stopped working like a sleep machine. Now, it is around
8 p.m. that he gets to bed, and we have to stay with him until his breathing
takes on a certain open mouthed regularity and the sound of the pacifier being tasted,
taken out of the mouth, and reinserted ceases. While this activity, or
hopefully, inactivity, is going on, we lay in the bed next to his crib. If we
get up too soon, if we misjudge the breathing and the routine with the
pacifier, if we try to escape from the nursery and get back to making dinner or
watching a video prematurely, Adam turns on the waterworks.
Last Monday, this is just what I
was doing. I didn’t have a light on or a tablet near by. I didn’t have a book
or a piece of paper. The only app I had was the high window in Adam’s room,
which frames a random portion of the sky. Although this portion of the sky does
its best, no doubt, to be interesting, it isn’t, very. However, it does have
one good trick: it turns, as though bruised, from a lighter blue to a clotted
bluish purple in the hour between 8 and 8:30. And I, lying app-less on the bed
with my head propped on the pillow, am in a good position to confirm the
progress of the evening, the regress of the sunlight.
At this moment that I’ve been
laboriously budging us towards in this fudge of words, I was not so much
thinking of the physics of light but about realism. Again.
To return to the thread I was
pulling in a previous post about realism: I think that it is a mistake to
connect realism to the real, as its distingushing characteristic. Rather, it is
the real through the lens of the plausible, the credible. What constitutes the
plausible or credible, in a society, is closely connected with the whole
question of credit in every sense – economic, sociological, epistemological. To
see realism as a narrative form – or rather, to see realism as making up the kind of world in which narratives of
plausibility exist – helps us to disconnect it from a defining opposition with,
say, idealism, or romanticism.
I’m concerned with fiction – so I
thought, lying app-less. Adam was still not snoring.
But I am not saying that this is the
only characteristic, am I? Connected to it is the fact that in these
narratives, the world is “full”. The authorial voice can represent that
fullness – as it does in Balzac or in Dickens. Or the authorial voice can be
removed, and the world be given as full, as in Flaubert. It is no wonder that,
so often, the pursuit that traverses these words is that of the borrower by the
creditor. Credit is everywhere – or so it represents itself.
Against this realism there is another world of
narratives that are shot threw with the plausible. One could say that they are
parasitic on realism in so far as the implausible effect requires some sense of
the codes of realism. In these narratives, the assumption of the fullness of
the world and the creditworthyness of the narrator suddenly snaps in the
readers head, like a pencil.
For instance, the pencil which,
having written the account of the barber who accidentally cut off the nose of
one of his customers and found it in a roll baked by his wife, decides to get
rid of the culpable probosis by taking it to a bridge and throwing it in the
Neva – only to be wrapped in a fog both physical and textual:
“Ivan Yakovlevich turned pale..
But at this point everything became so completely enveloped in mist it is
really impossible to say what happened afterwards…”
But at this point Adam’s
breathing became unmistakeable, and what happened afterwards to my meditation
on realism is really impossible to say, since I can’t remember it. It was time
to make dinner.
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