Some of you might be wondering about the title of this blog. What doesit mean?

 The title came to me last summer when I was reading the forward to John Barth's The Sot Weed Factor in a Barnes and Noble. Somethingabout Barth's book suddenly caught my imagination--you know, themystique behind a book which catapults a reader on a wild-goosechase to find it. But before I was going to shell out the money to buythe book I wanted to find out if the contents were as enticing as theidea (as well as the cultural fame of Barth's "greatest novel"). And so Ifound myself a big leather chair and began John Barth's Forward to theAnchor Books Edition. I read the following:

“For one thing, I came to understand that innocence, not nihilism, wasmy real theme, and had been all along, though I'd been too innocentmyself to realize that fact. More particularly, I came better toappreciate what I have called the "tragic view" of innocence: that it is,or can become dangerous, even culpable, that where it is prolonged orartificially sustained, it becomes arrested development, potentiallydisastrous to the innocent himself and to bystanders innocent orotherwise; that what is to be valued in nations as well as individuals, isnot innocence but wise experience.”

Other phrases he'd written in the Forward resonated with me, including"the bitter quest for independence." Yes, I could relate to being tooinnocent, dangerously innocent, and much of my adolescence revolvedaround this theme of tragic innocence.

Now that I'm an adult, what does it mean to be innocent? Can I stillpreserve some of that innocence without sliding into the despised stateof arrested development? Nobody wants to be stuck in a place theywere twenty years ago. And yet, sometimes my life strikes me as sofoolish and pure. As if I were enjoying the thrill of it for the first time,even if the momentary delight meant forgetting my entire past and thevery troubles which caused me to lose my innocence.

Which brings me to another Forward by an author speaking about hisnovel, Pornographia, in much the same way Barth does--that is, intrying to make sense of the novel for future readers. The novel is bythe Polish writer, Witold Gombrowicz.

 The theme is not innocence exactly, but the value of youth. Here hewrites:

“Let us try to express ourselves as simply as possible. Man, as weknow, aims at the absolute. At fulfillment. At truth, at God, at total

 

maturity . . . To seize everything, to realize himself entirely--this is hisimperative.”

“Now, in Pornographia it seems to me that another of man's aimsappear, a more secret one, undoubtedly, one which is in some wayillegal: his need for the unfinished . . . for imperfection . . . forinferiority . . . for youth . . .”“When the Older creates the Younger everything works very well froma social and cultural point of view. But if the Older is submitted to the Younger--what darkness! What perversity and shame! How many traps.And yet Youth, biologically superior, physically more beautiful, has notrouble in charming and conquering the adult, already poisoned bydeath.”

In writing his epic historical novel, Barth comes to the realization thatinnocence poses a far greater danger to society and the individual thannihilism. It is "wise experience" which we should then aim for. ButGombrowicz takes a different angle. Fascinated by youth, he believesthere is actually something valuable in incomplete experience andunfinished work. He believes that a sort of tragic innocence might saveus. But it is not the same tragic innocence that Barth talks about. Thetragic innocence of Gombrowicz is the body, sex, Eros.

Whatever innocence I have preserved in my life stems, I believe, fromthe sensual, artistic makeup of my being. I have an inherent curiosityin the moment--the moment when you are so engulfed by life youcannot possibly see it or examine it--your only option is to embrace itand live in it like a child in a giant body of water, lulled by the waves of emotion, sensitivity, and the sparks that humans create together,whether it is through an engaging conversation with a friend or aromantic encounter with a stranger. I become innocent to life in thesemoments.

Is this a case of arrested development? I hope not. But some of mybehaviors lean toward what John Barth calls the "dangerouslyinnocent". Take, for example, right now. It is 2:40 in the morning and Imay stay up all night writing. Or my latest fall into dissolution which Italk about in the essay, "Aphorisms and Meditations". I may go to bedwith the knowledge that sleep is good for me. Yes, an entirely adultthing to do. Or I may continue to break the boundaries I set up formyself in the adult world.

Am I embracing Gombrowicz's positive view of innocence or Barth'snegative one? I see value and truth in both. Clearly, I cannot go backto being a drug addict. The life of an addict is the epitome of arrested

 

development. It is a juvenile, idiotic and selfish person who thinks onlyof their own pleasure. Not innocence at all.

As an artist, I rarely display the behavior of a drug addict, but I getclose to that of a child. I flirt with the boundaries in my mind, if not inreality. I attempt an attitude of innocence toward new experiences. I'mturned off by my cynical friends. They don't represent wisdom to me,or intelligence. They represent fear.

 To be truly innocent is to be open to the world, unafraid to die, andlooking forward to the "awfully big adventure" of life. That's what PeterPan said when looked across the wide ocean. But where did he end up?Never Never Land, which can't be anything but a state of arresteddevelopment.

Or Don Quixote, another innocent saint. His innocence caused him a lotof bloody wounds and beatings. What do his strivings represent?

I'm drawn to the magical quality of innocence in life. I don't think Iwant to "preserve" my innocence. There should be no effort involved.Innocence should be a natural state. And if we've been hurt before andif it is impossible to be innocent, then we should try to forgiveourselves and others. Because love and innocence seem very closelyrelated. To love someone, you must forget.

More essays . . .

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