This summer, I read a brilliant op ed. piece
by David Brooks in the New York Times
(“The Power of the Particular,” June 25, 2012). His thesis is that “when we are
children, we invent these detailed imaginary worlds that the child
psychologists call ‘paracosms.’ These landscapes, sometimes complete with
imaginary beasts, heroes and laws, help us orient ourselves in reality.” Brooks
asserts that we carry this need into adulthood, and that those authors and
creative souls who reach a large global audience ironically create a very
localized and small, yet vivid, detailed, imaginary world. Such artists include
J.K. Rowling and Evelyn Waugh, but, most particularly, Bruce Springsteen.
A worldwide audience knows the landscape and characters of the
paracosm that Springsteen has created over a forty-year plus career. Millions
of fans can identify Greasy Lake, Highway 9, the boardwalk of Asbury Park (now
truly a City of Ruins), or the back roads of Nebraska. The ghosts, tramps, and
downtrodden citizens of Springsteen’s landscapes are familiar: Tom Joad, Johnny
99, and Outlaw Pete, to name a few. Springsteen’s success, Brooks suggests, is
because he has the gift of the particular, which gives the Troubadour of the
Road “depth and definition.” Because Springsteen stays true to the roots and
traditions he knows best, he is able to reach hundreds of millions. One does
not have to be “Born in the USA” to be a citizen of Springsteen’s paracosm.
Likewise, Jane Austen is noted for creating a miniature world in the
countryside of England, peopled with familiar denizens. In fact, one of the
most famous quotations about the small scale of Austen’s six completed novels
is one she penned to her sister in a letter, where she spoke of her works as
paintings “on a little bit of ivory two inches wide” (November 26, 1815). When
I read and reread Pride and Prejudice,
I can picture the country lanes leading into Meryton or the fields and forests
through which Elizabeth Bennet roamed. I am quite familiar with the annoying
personality of Mrs. Bennet, the shyness of Jane, the arrogance (at first only)
of Darcy, and the pomposity of Collins. Jane Austen, too, has the gift of the
particular.
Austen constructs in Hampshire an imaginary, detailed world that is as
authentic and vivid as Springsteen’s New Jersey. Austen’s microcosm – a small
world which mirrors the larger universe – is as true as Bruce’s paracosm.
Because both artists did not try to be citizens of some “artificial globalized
community” but reached deeply into his or her own traditions, they have
generated a passion for their works that knows no bounds. Because both artists
are committed to authenticity, they allow their audience to perceive a larger
reality than the small worlds each created. Because both paint particular
landscapes and do not pretend to represent a larger yet unfamiliar community,
they reach the world. Springsteen fans in Madrid and Austen fans in Australia
are at home. I, too, dwell comfortably in both worlds.
