Need help replying to response to the following discussion question.
Why tell stories?
One of the challenges faced by storytellers for centuries has been to justify the creation of fiction. For example, Plato is famous for banning poets from his "Republic" for being liars. "1001 Nights" is banned by conservative Muslim governments because it is a celebrated fiction that represents Allah, demons, magic, sex, drunkenness, and other matters. The challenge is: what purpose do these stories serve? Within the context of the narrative frame, what functions do the stories fulfill? If we apply Sidney's famous claim in his "Defense of Poesy," how do these stories both teach and entertain? Scholars often see the tales as a systematic re-education program for a mad king. What lessons do they teach? Our own editor comments that "The Tale of the Ox and Donkey" and "The Tale of the Merchant and His Wife," told by the Vizier to Shahrazad, are "both irrelevant and unpersuasive." Do you agree? Why or why not? What purposes do YOU think poetry, storytelling, or fiction-making serve?
Response:
"The Tale of the Ox and Donkey" and "The Tale of the Merchant and His Wife" were probably not meant to be persuasive. The stories served as a funny and shocking establishment of how the stories were going to be told. The world needs stories, whether they be fact or fiction. Where some have disdain for imagination, others find such musings appalling. Stories give people a chance to imagine other lives, see other worlds, and exercise their empathy. Fiction is sometimes the only way to get a point across, because society finds fault in reality. The problem inherent with fiction, and not really with fiction itself, is that some individuals cannot separate their realities from the machinations of their minds. My favorite series, Harry Potter, uses magic to address death, loss, and even abstinence. It did so in such a way that the reader barely noticed they were learning how to deal with heartbreak and growing up. Caught between the dangers of dungeons, Death Eaters, and Blast-Ended Skrewts, it was hard for a child to notice they were learning about companionship, loyalty, and love. Dementors are J.K. Rowlings' depression given form. Perhaps the greatest lesson she ever taught was how to fight a Dementor. Remus Lupin tutors Harry on how to conjure a Patronus, "With an incantation, which will work only if you are concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very happy memory" (Rowling 237). With the memory of his beloved parents, Harry conjures a brilliant Patronus in the image of a stag. It becomes known as one of the most powerful symbols of love and hope in the series, until the readers discover that the cruel potions master has his own beloved Patronus. A doe, a symbol of his unending love for Harry's mother, unifies the two characters in mutual forgiveness. When J.K. Rowling wrote that every child in the world would know Harry's name, she did not know how prophetic that sentence would become. People all over the world who do not share the same religion, language, culture, or race can find common ground in a magical place called Hogwarts, a small cupboard under the stairs, and Hagrid's warm hut by the Dark Forest. For this, and so much more, I am thankful that fiction prevails.