Of life and art
Life imitates art or so they say but I disagree, life merely coincides with art to a certain degree every now and then.
I’ve experienced such coincidences a number of time to a rather slight coincidence at that. In Murakami’s “Wild sheep chase” there is a scene where the protagonist’s lover asked him whether he’d like to kill her they’ve had after sex. Contemplating on how nice it is to die a sudden abrupt death and freedom death brings. Where as in reality a girl asked me the exact same question though without the thoughtful insight and it was through a text message and it would make a thoroughly unremarkable fiction instead. If it were up to me, I’ll trade places with my fictional counterpart without the slightest consideration.
Currently I’m the the shoes of Juan Garcia Madero but just for the opening paragraph. Like my latin counterpart I’m currently pressured into pursuing law though I’d like to do literature. Of course there are differences that keeps life and art asunder. First, Garcia Madero is an orphan living with his uncle, as for me the family ties/obligations are much stronger. There ideal set of circumstances would hardly materialize in reality as opposed how things more or less effortlessly fall into place in the fictional world. I’m referring here to my possible lack of qualifications, lack of means and lack of decent institution within proximity. A slightest fraction of Juan Garcia Madero.
If life were to imitate art, like a perfect carbon based copy it should be, I’ll trade the end of Arthur Dent and Fenchurch with my ill fitting Capulet-ish ending. I’ll trade the globe to be in Stavogrin’s little town. My zero sum luck with candide’s string ill luck. But I can’t? Guess I have to cry instead then.
