Read the text
We speak confidently and playfully about the “death of the author” but not one wants to seriously consider the death of literature. But this is precisely what we risk when we treat literature as ethnography, or worse, as the last living remnants of what seem to be vanishing cultures. We don’t read novels, at any rate, to educate ourselves. Or if we do we shouldn’t. And if we do commit this soul error we don’t enjoy novels because of the information they contain. Rather, we enjoy them, we clutch novels to our very souls because they move us, surprise us, transport us, entertain us, shock us, and (ultimately) trick us into caring about people and places that don’t exist and never existed.