N: An unseasonably cold day in London had led me to the depths of Waterstones in Piccadilly, where after many shelves perused and many titles purchased, I found myself tucked away at a  table of the 5th View Restaurant. Far beyond the bar, where echos of “Guinness!” bounced off the finished wood, I sat pressed into the right wall’s corner, fiddling with the aglet reading “Earl Grey” that hung from my near-empty cup. Staring into the cork-colored drink, I laid out the rest of the trip’s plans, and had thought to signal the waiter, when I was alerted to unfamiliar voices in heated debate.

W: “James, you cannot honestly believe that what you have just said is not identical to what I have been explaining for the past half-hour!”

The jay’s song dissolved in the air and settled amongst the crowd who, ignorant to life’s sudden wind, remained, sighing collectively for all sorrows, unable to commit it to the sea, but no uptorn shore or violent wave could have shaken the gaze from the distant table.

N: For there she was, Virginia Woolf, blooming with grace. You will forgive me not immediately noticing the gentleman beside her, or the one at the hostess stand, until my line of sight was cut, and I saw James Joyce offer his left elbow toward her. The couple walked to a table adjacent to mine where the second man waited. Upon further inspection, I realized I was looking at Kazuo Ishiguro, and was all of a sudden grateful for my covert angle with which to view and hear the ensuing conversation. I pulled my laptop out of my briefcase, and ordered another cup of tea.

J: “O Ginny, I really do believe that what I am saying is entirely different, and that one’s self and one’s environment are not equal contenders when one chooses to write. Did Jung not say that it is our inner child that affects us for all of life? And is it not the environment that child was nurtured in that takes half the blame of our future wellbeing? Why then, should it not be the purpose of all literature to understand the places we were raised?”

W: “James, you know that I find you truly remarkable, but I cannot believe that, as you seem to suggest, one’s self can be half-removed from where we happened to see our early years, or that who we once were is anymore important as to who we are now.”

J: “Ginny, I do not think you are fully hearing-”

W: “On the contrary, James, I believe my ears are working just fine.”

N: Playful banter, I think, though awfully passionate for it to be inconsequential. While Joyce and Woolf were consumed with one another, Ishiguro was rather quiet, stoic even, and ordered a round of afternoon tea.

W: “People ebb and flow throughout their existence, do they not? And as people shift, does society not as well? It is certainly more telling of the greater human experience to explore how one changes throughout their life rather than chronicle how their life was. To live in our organized society shows as much human dilemma as is needed to come to grips with who we are; literature proves that.”

N: A cloud passed by the window, darkening Woolf’s once illuminated face, but the dim light overhead left Joyce and Ishiguro quite plainly visible.

J: “How very Russian of you.”

N: Ishiguro peered at the pair through his rectangular frames.

I: “If you will allow me to interject, could one not argue that it is our past we search for in writing, an understanding of how we came to be through the time before us?”

N: It was at this time the tea arrived, and the group was left to mull over the suggestion. Ishiguro splashed milk into his tea, as did Woolf, who added two sugar cubes. Joyce left his as is.

W: “While that may be part of it, Kazuo, I do not think that it is what we can call the purpose. In a properly conveyed written idea, any reader will be able to see the progression, see the character’s conscious, and if not relate to it, recognize what it means for the greater world; reflecting on one’s self and using it as a vessel for a larger group; holding a mirror to society; that is true purpose, and that is good literature.”

J: “You make it seem so philosophical, Virginia, but isn’t it the way one grew up that affects how they view themselves and their future surroundings? No matter how desperately one tries, it will always be what was known to us as children that impacts us the most, making the task of a writer not only to explore such events, but analyze them, explain them.”

N: The sun was further covered, and the bench holding Woolf and Joyce was sent into complete shade. Joyce’s monologue seemed to have tired him a bit, for his posture slightly failed and he reached for a scone, smearing clotted cream on the face and taking a bite.

J: “If we can agree on one thing, it is that for literature to not convey some point, whether that is who we are, what we have experienced, and where we come from, would be a complete waste of paper.”

N: Woolf grabbed a cucumber sandwich, biting the corner.

W: “A waste.”

N: Ishiguro looked up from his tea, his plate free of residue.

I: “A waste indeed. However, it would also be a waste not to realize the influence of the past on how we see the future, how we live in the world, how we view the world. Is it not our nation’s history, our nation’s evolution, that has formed our core identity? Is it not the parents who imprint on the youth, altering their perceptions in ways never known? And it all remains distinctly different from our environment, from what we remember.”

N: Woolf looked up from her tobacco-dusted fingers in time for the sky to cloud in entirety, and the table sat still in the shadows.

I: “That is, of course, all speculation of what can understand by some compulsion we share.”

N: The table laughed, and finished their tea with a debate over greek philosophy and ideology, but that is a blog post for another time. Around half past three, the group stood, Woolf linking to the left of Joyce, Ishiguro parting the way, and walked into the gloomy streets of London. So, as I sit with what I have heard, and weigh each argument with its counter long after the departure of the trio, I have realized that the nuance in conversation was so little, and they all, in fact, were cheering for the same opponent; had the same victor. And when I left 5th View, and Waterstones, and left in search of hot cross buns, I find the only thoughts in my head of the purpose of discrepancy, or the meaning of anything at all.