There is a light that never goes out.

As I think of how I’d want to start my first post, the only thing that comes into my mind is these words, as sung by Morrissey in one of the most touchingly hopeless lovesongs around: There is a light that never goes out.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, I, a fiction ranger, welcome you to an island of thought.

See, there was once this lovely little art form:

If one were to boil it down, and encapsulate the whole thing in a phrase, perhaps “There is a light that never goes out” would make as much sense as anything. See, there was this art form, and it was storytelling. It was practiced by people everywhere, on every island and continent humans tread. It was every culture’s treasure. Their beliefs and struggles were in it, their joy and pain. And as the world changed, and humanity grew, so did it. It was about the birds and the trees. It was about houses and cities. It was about love and battle.

And it grew and continued, and as technology advanced became more individual: storytellers gained alphabets and printing presses, and eventually the ability to mass produce a story rather than tell it verbally. With these innovations, incredible works were made for hundreds of years.

And those storytellers who switched from verbal communication to text called themselves writers, and they wrote and wrote, until the world was full and libraries were vast…

And a different kind of person began reading it all, and these people, reading it all, began to utter some of the most deadly words a writer could ever hear: “Everything’s Been Done.”

I’m telling you a story, listen. These people, they were educated. They’d been to universities, and studied Naturalism and Modernism and Structuralism and probably even “Got diverse” by reading Africans and Indians and Myths, had read all the Russian greats and had read so many academic papers about the Russian greats and Naturalism and Modernism and Structuralism that this bad thing started happening, their egos began telling them that they’d read everything. That there was nothing left. And, believing this, everything new they found was subconsciously judged by what had come before. Everything was brilliant or derivative of brilliance. In the words of Joseph Heller, They knew everything about literature but how to enjoy it.

I’ll re-tell you a different story, first told in a David Gemel book called “Morningstar.” They inform each other, so listen: The first vampire was named Golgoleth. He was a king and had two brothers, and ruled over his kingdom with wisdom and strength. He was curious and fascinated by the world. In love with it. And so he began what was in his mind a great quest: to understand it. Everything.

So these people, these educated readers, they didn’t create themselves but they had a contribution to the world as well, or so they thought: they would study this great form that they loved. They would write articles too, and teach the youth to see it as they did. And make a name for themselves, and spread ideas and books about their idols, in a parody of their idols. The writers, who were nothing anyway but parodies of god.

So, our educated readers go to graduate school.

Where all love they had of writing is stripped of them by a whetstone of overanalysis and speed-reading.

Novels aren’t art to them anymore. They’re homework, they must be solved and conquered. Intelligent things need to be said about them, to gain respect of classmates and teachers. The artist must be criticized because dethroning Immortals or wannabe masters is the best way to make a name for yourself.

And in the end, nothing is left but that. The joy of the kill. Of holding the writer up and saying: If he is worthy, then why? And if he is not, then why not?

Whole schools of thought evolve from these questions. And, because their careers and names depend on it, these educated readers, they go to war with each other over who’s Right about it.

Golgoleth, remember him? He’s dealing in some bad magic now. He’s gone far into the dark, his quest for knowledge is endless. He’ll do anything, he’ll destroy anything. He makes pacts with unclean powers, because they exist.

In the end, there’s only one school of thought left. Can you imagine it? If it snuffed out all the others, imagine what it had to have been like. It is big enough to encompass everything. It is vague enough so that nothing can contradict it. And, more importantly for them, they can argue endlessly about who’s right about it all, have drama in their lives and make themselves names. It’s dead enough to compartmentalize every beautiful thing that any writer ever wrote, from stanza to opus, to make a sentence by Shakespeare small enough to fit into one’s hand. (Was he a man? A woman? Was he a eunuch with dung in his hair and a penchant for abusing waterfowl?) With it, anything can be torn down. And it’s variable enough so that our educated readers, championing it, can all continue to squabble forever.

It is called postmodernism.

And the underlying principle behind it?

It’s rarely said, but in every discourse they have. Four poisonous words.

Everything has been done.

And with these words, the horrible change is complete. They no longer study the beautiful art. They study when, where, why, how, and by what tragic and twisted psychosis every little bit of everything was done.

After many years in strange lands on his quest for all knowledge, Golgoleth returns home to his kingdom. His brothers see he’s changed immediately. He tells them he’s found the secret to immortal life, and then he takes theirs. He doesn’t suck their blood, though he bites their necks. He sucks their innocence. They do not die, but become Vampires, as well. They are powerful, and Vampirism spreads through the kingdom unopposed. There is no answer, because it came the knowledge of everything.

It is now the postmodern age. Almost all seeking the art form are being educated at universities; at universities, they are indoctrinated with modern literary critique, postmodernism, modernism, structuralism, compartments, explanations for how and why and who and by what nasty subconscious urge. They are all influenced by exactly the same work, because everyone has agreed already which books are worth reading, and these books make up what is called “Cannon” and “Curriculum.” They are all taught by the people who went to school and had every beautiful thing about writing explained, every mystery picked at, until a suitable and tragically small explanation was found for it. “In this line,” the students hear sometimes, “Elliot is describing his marriage.” And is it true? Perhaps, probably, maybe. But if they were wise about it, perhaps they’d close the book holding the great poem, knowing that it’s richness and depth is impossible to contain but by the words Elliott already used, look up at their class, and simply say eight words that may be the poem’s anti-theme:

There is a light that never goes out.

I, who was once in the room with the students losing their love thoughtlessly, am a writer, and this is my island. I got a perspective and I got a voice, and I got a problem with how things are going for my art form. You may want to know, I attended grad school in a creative writing program for a while, but then got so sick of it I found I couldn’t continue. But having been there I assume that if I keep up this way, some educated reader’s going to take the opportunity to tell me I’m wrong about everything — they always do. And they might be right. However, in the end for a writer like me, there’s nothing but the courage to sit in front of a page and tell your truth, and let those bastards say — or not say — whatever they like. What is mine is the sound of my fingers on the keyboard. And this is all I have.

I’ve already been long-winded and it’s time for my bow. So happy trails, and think about it, maybe, sometime later today, or tomorrow. Will you? The Light that Never Goes Out, I mean.

It’s all any honest writer will ever ask of you, I’d say.

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