"On Why We Read"

by Stephanie Drinkard

The most inner secret of man --
his innate nature --
laid bare, stretched taut on a frame 
constructed haphazardly from
swords and shackles and bars of gold,
and laid gently on display on the gossamer scales 
of insect wings.
It appears suddenly,
startlingly
in the mind --
an image so familiar
it is unaccustomed.
This secret:
we understand it, for
men we be,
all of us;
then why so surprising
when we encounter it,
face-to-face,
in tale or fable?
We know our souls;
they are that dark fabric that lies
enthroned on the tools of metaphor,
and yet we remark,
bewildered or pretentious,
on the greatness of the author
and the cleverness of the tale.
“Kafka -- a great man,” say we --
“he understands something important.”
“Voltaire! What a wit!” --
But we too understand these things, and 
we get the joke.
Why do we, instead of dealing
with the source of the inspiration,
turn to the penned catharsis of others;
eat it up, chew it,
discuss, digest, and spit it out
as ink on paper?
Why have classes in literature?
We should have a course in 
Self.

c. 1996