One morning after Sunday Mass my dad carried me up to meet the priest. The sheen of his gold leaf Bible lured me in. Talking with him I got the idea that God had written it. I just about lost it. You mean the man who lives up in the sky and made everything… wrote a book?! I have to learn to read IMMEDIATELY! But my parents shrugged me off. I was only two years old at the time so unless I wanted to wait a literal lifetime and a half for school, I’d have to teach myself. Duty-bound, I grabbed my Speak & Spell and set out alone to learn to read on pilgrimage.

Today for lodestar fiction I use The Nova Trilogy. It resists being understood in the typical sense and yet still cuts straight to the quick. In intriguing, unknowable ways it raises just the questions I like. The story chronicles an ongoing struggle between the Nova Heat and the Nova Mob. The Nova Heat are a hapless group of pervert artists trying to spread the word that infinite consumption on a finite planet might not be such a bright idea. They’re up against the Nova Mob, a gang of apocalyptic forces trying to suck the world dry before they blow it up. Their main thing is snatching bodies at will; seducing everyone with all the most depraved, exciting vices. In the end the author, William S. Burroughs, doesn’t declare a winner. The struggle persists as it must.

Maybe my favorite thing about it is the way it uses the stuff of dreams: word salad, repetition, psychological refuse etc. Through these literary discards, to the patient reader The Nova Trilogy reveals itself to be a paraliterature—a literature designed to go beyond itself and take the reader along. But when it succeeds, where does art that goes “beyond” actually go? Publishers Bennett Cerf and Donald Klopfer must’ve had an idea when they snagged Ulysses, the chaotic novel that brought Random House to prominence. What did they see? Why were they right? Where does the march of the avant-garde, art’s front lines, lead?

At its best, the page can provide neutral grounds where we might encounter the sublime. Like the space that holds both the yin and yang (“the wuji”), readers can potentially meet both the terrors and miracles of life and self simultaneously. If the piece works, it does a demi-transubstantiation in its reader. It changes into something that stirs its reader’s world, even if only subtly. Hopefully, through this encounter the reader is compensated for their time with at-least slightly improved skills toward the ends of having really lived before dying. From Ulysses to The Nova Trilogy to Lincoln in the Bardo, the march of the avant-garde proves itself a heartbeat of sorts, beckoning audiences to know the world beyond the confines of themselves. In this way the avant-garde shows itself as being on its own pilgrimage, shadowing the death-defying call of life itself.

Carefully stepping into overgrown grass gone to seed, I lifted the leg of my pants. Royalty always elevates a skirt before moving through the thicket by foot. Regardless of whether this act may result in a tidy hemline. It is expected. Navigating around burdock, the car keys shifted in my pocket. I grasped my thigh and pressed the metal into my leg. Hard. I’ve sworn an oath to maintain the safety of these keys. The only ones known to open a portal to another world.

I eyed my destination. The entire frame of the old grey barn shifted more each year. The structure leaned alarmingly to one side. Decades had passed since the last of the dairy cows were sold off and farm equipment auctioned. I pretended to use one of the car keys to open a side door. They clinked softly as I returned them to my pants pocket. I forced the wooden barn door closed behind me. The stillness was sublime. The air thick with the rich sweet scent of hay. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

Where are you, my siblings? I must be released from this prison of an existence. I must find the door to Narnia.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis provided escape from the world I inhabited. The youngest of four children, I did my best to avoid my parent’s proximity and drug fueled violence. I’d roam the rural land for hours searching for the door. Entire days hidden in the woods of the Adirondacks, dense with trees, the ground obscured by plant growth. Miles of shale riverbed hiked and explored. As the season’s heat waned, I’d open milkweed pods and pile downy seeded strands at my feet. Eventually releasing them to the wind.

I would grieve the loss of summer until she returned.

Harsh winters forced almost all time to be spent indoors. Relying on books for strength, I turned to them more. Borrowed from friends and school libraries. Hidden under pillows. I devoured them during long nights locked in my childhood bedroom. Praying for moonlight sufficient to read by, I hoped to continue hours after the house fell silent.

I recognized characters. The insurmountable obstacles they faced. Beloved protagonists would misstep and at times intentionally hurt others. Individuals capable of selfless and cruel behavior. Motivated by fear and pain. Worthy of forgiveness.

My books gave me a means to briefly elude my reality. To access desperately needed respite. To discover characters resembling those I’d been hurt by. Like those I hurt. To find myself in the pages and grant her grace.

Now with three young children myself, I relish their request, “Tell us a tale Mommy! One we haven’t heard before!”

Completely immersed in story, losing sense of time and place, my boys intently focus on my words. I am filled with gratitude. I lead them to the secret door to another world. Together, we go through.