Do you know what existentialism is?
A year ago, neither did I—and to be honest, I’m still a little fuzzy on the details. But as far as I can tell from my community college philosophy class, it’s a philosophical movement that questions the reality of everything around us. Not exactly a Christian concept—and not one that was covered in homeschool.
I still remember that day in early December, when I was studying for finals and finishing papers and a thousand other things that always seem to get pushed to the end of the semester. I lacked the mental energy for a philosophical debate, but I also knew that what I was hearing wasn’t right.
So instead of answering with logic, I answered with a story. At its heart, C. S. Lewis’s children’s novel The Silver Chair (#6 in The Chronicles of Narnia) is a story about existentialism—about what a virtuous man will do when he doubts the reality of everything he’s ever known, even Aslan himself.
Lewis’s character Puddleglum answers that question by saying, “Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things. . . . Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a great deal more important than the real ones. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it.”
As a ten-year-old reading The Silver Chair, I didn’t underline that passage and write in the margin, “Excellent rebuttal of existentialism.” But the idea stuck with me because I loved the story. And therein lies the true power of good fiction.
The great fathers of Christian fantasy, C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, saw fiction (and fantasy in particular) as more than an escape from a dull and dreary reality. Instead, fiction is an escape to a deeper reality—to a world where good and evil are clearly painted, where heroes may suffer but ultimately see triumph.
Idealistic? Perhaps.
But in a way, idealism is the purpose of fiction.
Sometimes I’ve wondered whether writing fiction is really worthwhile. Sure, it’s something I love doing—but is it really worth putting time and energy and even money into? Or is it nothing more than a glorified childhood hobby?
But what I’m slowly coming to realize is that fiction is much more than a hobby. Ultimately, fiction is the moral training ground of the human soul.
When I was learning to drive (a harrowing experience which I try to forget whenever possible), my training wasn’t just on the road. A lot of it happened sitting on the living room floor with toy cars. Of course the toy was an oversimplified version of the real (and terrifying) machine sitting in the driveway, but playing with those plastic cars still taught me a lot. And likewise, good fiction is instructive to the reader.
To be clear, I’m not advocating preachy fiction. When a book hits you over the head with a moral message, that’s lazy storytelling—and it’s not even effective. It’s better to learn from instruction than experience—we all know that. But how many of us actually put it into practice?
Yes, my parents told me countless times which way to turn the steering wheel when I was going in reverse. I remembered maybe a third of the time—until I tried it with toy cars on the living room rug. Then it stuck.
Fiction works like those toy cars. Of course it’s not true to life—it’s not meant to be. Of course it’s idealistic—that’s the whole point. Fiction provides a moral training ground where the lines are clearer and the colors are brighter. Real life isn’t that simple—but by practicing in a simple context, we strengthen our own understanding of good and evil.
A good story, in its essence, provides that moral training ground—a place where readers can experience, through the characters, the results of their actions. This isn’t to say that nonfiction is unimportant—but nonfiction speaks to the mind, while fiction speaks to the heart by allowing us to suffer and triumph alongside the story’s characters.
And while good fiction provides a welcome escape from the messiness of real life—an escape into a world where good triumphs and evil falls—good fiction does far more than that. It also strengthens us to enter back into the confusing world we live in, where good and evil aren’t so easy to spot as in The Lord of the Rings or The Silver Chair. It provides a shield for our hearts and minds—and ultimately, our souls—against the lies of the devil, the world, and our own flesh.
By all means, read for pleasure. I didn’t pick up The Silver Chair as a ten-year-old in order to enlighten myself on the philosophy of existentialism.
But when you read, realize that you’re doing something more than mere entertainment.
You’re teaching yourself to have the courage of Frodo and the faith of Lucy. When you watch Frodo succumb to the influence of the Ring, you realize afresh your own helplessness in the face of sin. And when you witness with Lucy the Deep Magic of Aslan’s resurrection, you see again the Savior who conquers death itself.
Fiction-writing is much more than a childhood hobby—and reading fiction is more than a way to pass a boring weekend. Of course good fiction entertains, but more than that, it trains. It trained me to argue against existentialism long before I knew what that word meant. What it will train you to do, I don’t know. But by all means, keep reading it. Entertainment and pleasure are only the beginning of what good fiction has to offer.
If you’re looking for a new book to read, you can find my recommendations here.
And if you’re curious about existentialism, that’s one of the many concepts I explore in my novella Tangled Threads (available as a free PDF!).