The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn begins with a notice to its readers: “Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot will be shot.” I hope to not risk meeting such a dreadful fate in this essay! If I do happen to comment on motive, moral or plot, that is purely by chance or accident! The word story carries lexical semantics. A story can be described in one sense, as a belief in your past or the sum total of your experiential piggy bank (What’s your story?). A story can serve as a unifying theme to otherwise mind-bogglingly variant daily sensations. A story backed up with faith becomes evidence we exist and that life means anything. All spiritual traditions use parables and our stories have socialized us. Along these lines, authors are like dream factories, planting themes. If we give them our time they seduce our senses, intersecting with our story, from the inside out. Authors capitalize on the idea that our memories are like fictions and that by this principle fictions become memories. So their fictions enter into us, spirit in to matter. In “The Dark Night of the Soul”, Miller begs the question, what value does literature have to society? He uses examples where writers are attempting to make sense of the senseless. His uses examples from Rene Descartes who, “[H]ad to raze everything to the ground and begin again from the original foundations” and Mary Karr, who wrote about, “mundane horrors of the past in order to make peace with that past.” He gives his reasons for thinking there is a superiority to one work, over another. He suggests literary arts hold value when used as a practice in constructing hope and optimism atop a life of horrors. Often literary symbolism is lost on me but like most people stories still grab my attention like a spark in dry grasses. When a story oozes with descriptive sights and sounds, we get hooked. We take the adventure on, sentence by sentence hand in hand with the author and often unbeknownst to us, we are learning and empathizing. When I was a child my father read Huckleberry Finn to me before bed. I would lie in my pine, antique, single bed with an old thin family quilt pulled up to my underarms. The sconce light on the wall, the one that turned on by the pull of a little string of ball chain was splaying its off-white light along the white walls of my small bedroom. I was too young to didn’t grasp much of motive, moral or plot in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn but as a “daddy’s girl” I made sure to smile in satisfaction when he looked to see ho