I went through a long phase (in high school, no less) of reading only non-fiction because I did not see the point in wasting my time reading about things that didn't happen when there was so much to learn about things that actually happened. Great literature ticked me off at least as much as lousy writing. I hated so many of the classics we were forced to read in school. Catcher in the Rye just seemed so whiny and BORING. Don't even get me started on The Awakening. Yawn yawn yawn and then someone dies, the end. I still feel this way about a lot of fiction. College changed a bit though for me. Every corner of history I studied seemed permeated by the pungent odor of paradox, but I didn't have the tools to explore that stink to my satisfaction within the bounds of thesis-driven non-fiction work. In a class I took on Caribbean history, we studied how literature was essential to the political history of many Caribbean nations. In places where myriad cultures lived together in the shadow of their troubled pasts, nation-building had to go hand-in-hand with identity-building. Novels and poetry were thus part of an unending conversation around the questions like "Who are we?" and "Where did we come from?" I came to see this same process occurring in America, and here is where, I think, historical fiction has an important place at the juncture of where history and imagination intersect--it is part of that vital discourse into who we are, both as individuals and as parts of broader, complex, overlapping--and often conflicting--lineages.
Anyway, all this reminds me of a John Berryman poem:
Dream Song 14
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.