Whether fiction has had much tangible effect on the world is up for debate. Despite people having read 1984 and Brave New World, we appear to inch closer to a brave new world of our own. A new political exposé might appear to not make a lick of difference. Societal ills persist, occasionally get worse. There are times I’ll read a book and think, This author saw these things so clearly, and articulated them so clearly, and put it out for the world to see, and the world saw, and nothing changed. These are moments both depressing and enlightening. Enlightening because I have now been filled in (and clearly now know better than everyone else—wink), depressing because these ideas are out there and the world is still doomed so what’s the point, anyway?
Yet what keeps my past, more optimistic self alive and flickering is fiction. I will defend the power of fiction to an almost absurd degree. Those more cynical may dismiss this as naïveté , but I do believe that people, on an individual level, can change the world, by which I mean human society (I see no reason something run by humans can’t be changed by humans). Also, I believe in deepening the perception of the individual, for the individual’s sake.
I’m not sure whether fiction, on its own, can change the world. But fiction can change the people running it for the better.
That fiction can change people I’m certain of, because it changed me, and continues to change me. No, I don’t finish a book having attained Nirvana. I don’t even finish a book as a better person than when I started—usually. My interior landscape, though, emotional, spiritual, even logical, has been sculpted largely by fiction. Whatever meager ideas I possess, they likely stem from fiction. The way I view the world certainly does stem from it.
In 2020, when I lost my job to Covid-19, I quickly rebounded to bigger and better things: from restaurant host to butcher of fish. Rising at 5:00 AM, I would head down to Oregon City to begin the days work, filleting salmon and—well, not much else. During this time I picked up Anna Karenina to feed my little fish-monger’s head. I read AK at home and read it outside on lunch breaks. Probably underlined something on every other page. And I can now say with confidence that Anna Karenina is one of the few books that have really, truly, had a measurable impact on my life.
Above: Ol’ Tolstoy
There are easier things to do than convincing someone to pick up an 800 page Russian novel. But I do think that reading Anna Karenina should be required reading for all human beings everywhere. Tolstoy draws each character so deftly, so fully, that it’s hard to believe he isn’t describing real people. This feat isn’t unique to Tolstoy, it’s unique to fiction, and Tolstoy happens to have written some of the best fiction out there.
Remember when you were told to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes? What you’re being told is to practice empathy. Tolstoy puts you in several pairs of shoes, some of which may take some getting used to—but become more comfortable as you walk—and has you take them on a thru-hike. Tolstoy will put you through your paces. If you’re like me, you’ll come out looking at people on the street, at anyone, and feeling as if you might know them.
Empathy is the word. If there’s anything that will improve human society, it’s empathy. Next to maybe a good film, good fiction is the best way I’ve found to sharpen the contours of others on the street, to remind us that, yes, we are not alone, we are not unique, we share these depths with others. At the least, stories, and fiction, make the world more relatable. At best, they change our perception. I can trace an uptick in my empathy and curiosity toward the world to AK to this day, and it’s all thanks to some old Russian I’ll never meet. Isn’t that special? And also, I think, important. Everyone should practice empathy—especially those in power.
Now put aside all that.
Because, really, is there anything better than sitting down on the couch with a good book?