My definition of magic in the human personality, in fiction
and in poetry, is the ultimate level of attentiveness. Nearly everyone goes
through life with the same potential perceptions and baggage, whether it’s
marriage, children, education, or unhappy childhoods, whatever; and when I say
attentiveness I don’t mean just to reality, but to what’s exponentially
possible in reality. Go into
the jungle and take a look around. This old Chippewa I know—he’s about
seventy-five years old—said to me, “Did you know that there are people who
don’t know that every tree is different from every other tree?” This amazed
him. Or don’t know that a nation has a soul as well as a history, or that the
ground has ghosts that stay in one area. All this is true, but why are people
incapable of ascribing to the natural world the kind of mystery that they think
they are somehow deserving of but have never reached? This attentiveness is
your main tool in life, and in fiction, or else you’re going to be boring.
Jim Harrison
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