In fiction, I love the guileless character. The character that just takes life however it comes. Bobby Morrow: “I just sorta catch whatever happens to blow through.”

The process of life, the big noisy world, all of it, just simple, just taking what comes, just love and life and the beat. The innocent is always such an endearing character. Where everything is just another beat, another instrument, where sex or rejection or death is just another part of the beautiful process.

The innocent is not overly concerned with what it means, what it signifies; the innocent already understands the perfect order, or at least understands it enough and has no need for God, for structure, yes, sometimes, for law, no need for irony or regret. The innocent is such a seductive character. I don’t need to articulate, I don’t need to define my place in this world. I’m here already. That’s enough.

The witnesses, the watchers, the others, they impose that meaning on the innocent and the guileless. As with what happens to Billy Budd. Billy, of course, the greatest innocent, accepts that fate too.

With the innocent, everything is new and fresh. Everything is rhythm. Everything expands; nothing collapses. Where noise and death and disturbance are beautiful. Where mortality is beautiful. Where morality and where God become artificial and superfluous. Which is not permission to commit all manner of hurly burly, to commit any useful sin. Because there is no sin either.

In real life, perhaps, the innocent, the guileless might be quickly tiresome.

SS