Via the Dr. Who fandom conversation that's developed in an earlier thread -- Proust has this thing to say about enthusiasm substituting for introspection. (Proust being his dear windy self, I'll continue this in extensions of remarks.)
Even in our artistic enjoyment, although sought after for the impressions it gives, we are very quickly content to leave those impressions aside as something that cannot be expressed and confine our attention to those phases which allow us to experience the pleasure without analysing the sensations thoroughly, while thinking that we are communicating them to others with similar tastes, with whom we shall be able to converse because we shall be talking to them of something which is the same for them as for us, the personal root of our own impression having been eliminated. At the very times when we are the most dispassionate observers of nature, of society, love, even art itself, since every impression has two parts, one of them incorporated in the object and the other prolonged within ourselves and therefore knowable only to us, we are quick to neglect the latter, that is to say, the one part to which we ought to devote our attention, and consider only the other half, which, being outside ourselves, cannot be studied deeply and consequently never will cause us any fatiguing exertion; the slight groove that a musical phrase or the sight of a church made in our consciousness we find it too difficult to try to comprehend. But we play the symphony again and again or keep returning to look at the church, until, in this running away from our own life which we have not the courage to face -- they call this 'erudition' -- we come to know them as well, and in the same manner, as the most learned lover of music or archaeology. How many there are, consequently, who stop at that point and extract nothing from their impression, but go to their graves useless and unsatisfied, like celibates of art. They are tormented by the same regrets as virgins and idlers, regrets that fecund labour would dispel. They are more wrought up over works of art than the real artists, because they do not labour arduously to get to the bottom of their emotional state and therefore it is diffused in outward expression, puts heat into their remarks and blood into their faces; they think they are doing something really great when, after the execution of a work they like, they shout vociferously "Bravo! Bravo!" But these manifestations do not force them to seek light on the nature of their love; they do not know what it really is...Casts some light on fan clubs, maybe? Posted by Martha Bridegam at June 20, 2004 10:52 AM
As I sit here posting on a blog founded by fans of George Orwell who have dissected his books in a gazillion different ways, I'm not entirely sure why you, or Proust, need to pick on science fiction or TV fans. We could all just simply look in the mirror.
There is an assumed difference--and I would argue an implicit value judgement-- between, say, owning all the Collected Works of George Orwell edited by Peter Davison, and all the videos of Doctor Who featuring Peter Davison (no relation). As a fan of Orwell, Doctor Who, Francois Truffaut and the Toronto Maple Leafs--passions I pursue with equal intensity and interest (okay, maybe not the Leafs anymore), I think they're all worthy of my passion and I don't think of one being inherently more 'worthy' than the other.
I don't see much distinction between my interest in a 40 year old television series than say, my friend's all-consuming passion for the critic and philosopher Theodor Adorno. The tendency to write in a fanzine (and read one) isn't much different than the tendency to write in a literary journal (and read one). And as I've done both, I know of which I speak.
It's a natural tendency to be consumed with an interest on a particular patch of humanity, whether that be Orwell, Nietzche, the English Football team, bawdy seaside postcards, or Blake's 7. I don't think it's a form of "running away from our own life", I think it's part of a unique human characteristic to specialize their knowledge and, by extension, celebrate the things they enjoy.
But then what do I know? According to one poster on the other thread, all Doctor Who fans are apparently 'fucking inadequate' and 'nuts'
Posted by: Graeme Burk at June 25, 2004 04:30 AMRight on, Graeme. I agree with you almost completely. Almost all interesting people are geeks. What makes someone a great cell biologist or biographer or economist or historian is almost exactly the same thing that makes someone spend all summer knitting an eight foot long scarf. No doubt about it.
What it comes down to, it seems to me, is a need which humans have to justify their enthusiasms. I love harpsichord music. Why? I certainly didn't grow up hearing it, I have no special connection to harpsichords or European baroque culture in general. I wind up either admitting that I don't know why I like harpsichords, or making a claim that harpsichords are inherently important. But that's obviously an evasion. Are harpsichords any more important than tubas? Why would I like one and not the other? But as long as I can claim that harpsichords have some kind of inherent value, and as long as other people buy it, I can go on pretending that my enthusiasm is something that originates outside of myself, that value is something inherent in the objects I admire and not something bestowed upon things by an act of my own will. In doing this I save myself the trouble of taking full responsibility for myself and my decisions.
So when someone brings the kind of enthusiasm that sinks ships to bear on an entertaining but rather silly TV show, people start getting upset, and I think it's because it points up this essential nothingness at the core of a human being. That's something people never like to be reminded of. So it seems to me.
Graeme -- Sorry if I wasn't clear about intending self-criticism by that post. It came out of my own thought that I've spent too much time yelling about Orwell's reputation in public & not enough remembering what I liked about the fellow in the first place.
Posted by: Martha Bridegam at June 26, 2004 06:42 PM