the narrative unfolds at a brisk pace, luring the ear from rhyme to rhyme, dramatizing the strangest events in what seems to be an inevitable sequence. The willing suspension of disbelief : this phrase, coined by Coleridge to justify in the name of a larger truth the fantastic elements in his poem, is a useful formula for explaining the structure of belief, which depends upon giving oneself over to a story that can both enchant and explain the meaning of one’s walk in the sun. The more implausible the tale, the more rigorous the writer must be to make it believable: In the beginning was the Word. . . . And the formula applies not just to poetry and religion but to every aspect of experience. We want to believe, hoping against hope that what we believe is true: that our beloved feels as we do; that our calling is the right one; that our time here below matters. Most of our decisions—to attend a particular school, a house of worship, a film; to marry, take a job, raise children; to travel to one place instead of another; to vote for someone; to launch a war; to negotiate for peace; to make a record of our deeds—are predicated on hope, however misguided, for ourselves and our families, for our tribe and country, for posterity and the planet, for God.
The willing suspension of disbelief leads some to clarity, others to blind faith. In Coleridge’s waking dream lie truths of a philosophical and religious order—that we are judged and punished for our actions; that prayer and love are intertwined; that expiation requires confession, a story—that a fanatic can translate into a nightmare. But clarity and faith need not be at odds, as writers in every religious tradition make plain, and an idea shared by most faiths—that vision is always partial—can instill the humility required for the marriage of clarity and faith: one theme of Coleridge’s poem. He strikes a balance between what he knows and what he does not know, leaving unexplained certain crucial matters, beginning with the Mariner’s decision to kill the Albatross. Why did he commit the crime? The poet lets the reader imagine that the Mariner is afflicted by some anxiety, the only relief for which is to kill the bird that in sea lore carries the souls of lost sailors. Nor does he explain how the Mariner’s silent blessing of the water-snakes restores him to human society, what compels him to stop certain strangers to tell his tale of guilt and redemption, or why the Wedding-Guest stays to listen. We cannot presume to understand everything, he seems to say, and therein lies hope for our salvation.
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