Making fluid of something rigid, manifests in the reader as assiduous attention and detailed memory. This in no way diminishes the work done by musicians, painters, etc. Van Gogh, a tuning fork for eternity, defies this world, transcends almost everything known to man and cannot be escaped. But since the human mode is defined by its parameters, one of them being the limitation of speech, literature serves as an existentially referential and intimately human degree of expression.
Maybe it is not so much literature’s innate qualities as it is our human predictability that something using language, our own invention, appeals so deeply to us. Literature may simply be the highest form of flattery, not art — the injection of language with a musical heart, the created used to manipulate the creator. Yet the difficulty of accomplishing such a feat classifies it as something above the mundane, defying the fundamental matrix of human experience. It is inextricably bound to our ancient, desperate attempt to concretize our instinct, and therefore its achievement adheres, in perhaps the most detail, inside the mind. In using the human to transcend it, literature assumes a sort of divinity. Literature, precisely because