A Heavenly Thought

“A fever called Living.” It’s a line in Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, “To Annie.” I was so moved by it that I instantly decided it would make an ideal theme and perfect title for an essay. But like what unfailingly happens when I write, thoughts and words veered in the direction they would.

“To Annie” is a melancholy paean about resting serenely in the afterlife. Perhaps it was Poe’s notion of heaven. Maybe, but the poem indirectly alludes to the intensity of life in the 1840s. Since then, it’s grown exponentially more feverish.

Poe’s writings, like those of the many greats, invariably cause my mind to wonder about the mystery of life. That penchant began in the first grade when I was introduced to my first tome: my reader of Dick and Jane’s escapades. I quickly became fascinated with stories, both fictional and true-to-life. In time, history, psychology, and the other ologies became strong interests. Actually, passions. The human condition and experience.  

I found adventurous stories very much to my liking. In the eighth grade, Sister Elenita prompted us boys to read The Hardy Boys series, but I when I saw what they were about, I thought, “Meh,” or something close to that. But it was then I discovered Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I had no clue what a league was in that context because for me at that time it was the group of teams the Pittsburgh Pirates played in. I consulted a dictionary, but the concept remained vague. But it didn’t matter because I dove into the depth with Captain Nemo and discovered a wondrously mysterious world. To this day, I still find adventure stories like Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air, Daniel James Brown’s Boys in the Boat, and the host of Hampton Sides’ books to be gripping page-turners.

Nevertheless, my heart resides primarily in stories about the human condition. Generally not packed with page-turning adventure, mystery, or romance, literary fiction takes the reader on a more perilous journey: into the recesses of the human mind. For me, there’s no better guide than John Steinbeck. In my estimation, he was the best in developing complex characters as they make their ways through the maze of life. Thus it happens that that literary preference dovetails perfectly with my passion for the ologies.

As I wrote in “Toning the Mind,” reading ought to provide an enjoyable escape from the mundane, bustle, and travails of life. But I already live far from Thomas Hardy’s Madding Crowd, never inclined to amass a golden nest egg, and continue to be a voracious reader. And now a writer. As such, I ruminate about the madness that’s infected us. I think about the world of illusion, delusion, and fantasy that the great writers diligently worked to bring to our consciousness with the hope, I presume, of dispelling social pathologies from our psyches. To little avail, it seems. But they never quit trying.

I try to carry on their work, but it’s a never-ending work in progress. Like it is with sports, art, and craftsmanship, watching and learning from the great ones is a terrific way to hone your skillset. To do that, to absorb an iota of Steinbeck’s literary touch, I crawl slowly through his novels and marvel at how without wasting words, even in his 600-hundred page opus, East of Eden, he guides the reader through the caverns of his characters’ minds and souls, discreetly detailing how their lives intersect in relation to the moral principle in play, like how the biblical Cain has gotten a bad rap.

I marvel at the human spirit and the achievements, perseverance, and goodness of those who don’t put money and career front and center, who are generous with their time, who are caring for and appreciative of their family, neighbors, and nation, and who live authentic, full-throated lives. I find their stories uplifting and inspirational counterweights to the excesses of those in the throes of the fever of living.

Poe, like each of us, had his notion about the afterlife. And here’s where I’ll probably offend at least part of the 73 percent of Americans that polls indicate believe in a literal heaven. For me, that notion is a fantasy, although I understand why many subscribe to it. Being that as it is, I prefer Robert Browning’s description of heaven: One’s reach exceeding their grasp.

Thus, I pluck away on my keyboard with visions not of sugar plums dancing in my head but of carrying on the tradition of Steinbeck by doing what he tried to do—explain the inexplicable—and in like manner encouraging you, no matter your age or circumstance, to extend your reach beyond your grasp.