Ah, the tragedy! My attempt is doomed from the very beginning, from the very first words that constitute the circumference of its meaning. I set out to lament how the literary has been politicised, how literature has been snatched from its lofty artistic sphere and applied to the banal and the scientific, and I have ended up with a political oxymoron akin to Žižek’s.
To discuss the matter we must dirty our hands; we must engage the political discussion as St. George engaged the dragon, and return the damsel to her kingdom. No, I do not think that on this matter we can afford to act like Solon or Trajan, for we are losing the battle and must intervene to change its course; let us not refrain from action lest we invite the famous remark of the battle of Dyrrhachium.
We have explored in depth the cultural and existential importance of art and artforms, and we have shown that literature contains the highest potential for artistic expression. The significance of literary art is almost as great as the significance of meaning in society, for literary art encompasses the entirety of human experience. We still retain the works of old, and can revel in their majestic accomplishment, but our societies have lost their ability to consume – let alone produce – those works of art. Surely, from an existential and cultural standpoint, we can only gain from a renewed appreciation of classical literature.
And yet our current situation is unmistakeable; our crisis is clear: literature has been vanquished and a usurper has taken its place. But why has this dethronement happened, and what can we do to ‘return the wreath,’ as is written in the Talmud?
Let us begin by analysing the origin of the problem. Three assaults were made upon literature as an artform, and three times literature was pushed back, for its ethereal and gentle nature does not lend it the strength to oppose brute force. Just as the crude Dorians stifled the Hellenic flame and the militant Romans conquered the sophisticated Etruscans, so has a crude nature once again conquered a purer and more sublime spirit despite the latter’s meliore natura.
The first assault comes in the form of visual media. Victor Hugo was concerned with the way in which the page replaced the stone, when the invention of the press allowed man to imprint his ideas upon the world through the distribution of pages rather than through monumental architecture; little did he know that the page will later be replaced by the screen.
We must concede that, to the human brain, reception is easier than dissection. The insomniac can abandon his attempt to sleep and turn to film; he can maintain his attention and understanding despite the heaviness of his eyelids and fogginess of his thoughts, but he would never attempt to read a literary work.
We are quite justifiable in pursuing the simple and the easy rather than the hard, for although many valuable things lie beyond hardships, the objective itself is the valuable and the hardship is simply a hindrance. Reaching out for low-hanging fruit is a wise maxim, for when we climb the tree we are never guaranteed that we shan’t say ‘magno conatu nugas’ afterwards. Indeed, humans seek ease rather than hardship; for that reason, assibilation tends to move towards softer, more fluent sounds.
But let us not eat sour grapes in our haste! If our choice is between the valuable but hard and the valuable but easy, let us choose the latter. If our choice is between the valuable and the easy, let us always choose the valuable! In the case of art and entertainment, the dichotomy of value and ease is clear.
Literature requires effort by default, for literature reaches its peak through complex ideas, intricate words, and literary interconnectivity, which hamper the attempt of the unprepared reader. But only literature can produce the greatest works of art, and indeed no hardship is more justifiably overcome than the hardship of literary education.
The second assault originated from the same source as the first, but caused a deadly internal attack. When the great orator of Assyria spoke before the walls of Jerusalem, he did so in the Judean tongue to drive the Israelites to rebel from within. Because of the tyrannical demands of Angelo, Claudio pressured poor Isabella to surrender her body. Under the threat of the Persians, Ephialtes betrayed the hidden path.
Just so have authors turned upon their own artform in fear of succumbing to visual media, thereby robbing contemporary readers of opportunity to discover true literary characters. The modern reader does not discuss the wit of a modern Tom Jones, the emotion of a contemporary Werther, or the tragic longings of a new Gatsby; instead, he busies himself with adventure, fantasy, eroticism, and drama. The greatest writer of our times is considered to be Tolkien, whose worldbuilding was phenomenal but whose dualism betrayed an inartistic nature.
But drama, worldbuilding, and fantasy are not to be disposed of; in fact, they have always lent their quality and force to the best works of art. Demosthenes favoured action to drive logic, and just so can art thrill the heart to augment the artistic experience. But the thrill of adventure is subordinate to the overall artistic quality of the piece; excitement is just a garnish on a plate, a gloss upon a painting – in short, a secondary element.
How eager is the modern reader to immerse himself in plot, as if plot were the key element of stories! But plot is just the circumstances and movement; in musical terms, it is the conspicuous melody whose force is lost without a harmonic base, for it is simply ‘what’ happens without a convincing ‘why.’ The plot driven story aspires to spectacle and the imaginative, as if to say ‘I shan’t bore you with the usual, for I am the original!’ Those stories depart from realism to seek the bombastic and bizarre in an attempt to shock, and as a result can do no more than grant us transient pleasure. But for a story to be truly compelling, fret upon the strings of heart, and imprint an image on our mind, it must invest in the personality and philosophy of its characters.
The most enticing development is meaningless if the character experiencing it is superficial and banal, but the most mundane scenes can move us if we sympathise with the protagonist. The simple, common moment Bloom and Stephen share in the garden is far more meaningful and memorable than the most outlandish elements of the rest of Joyce’s story, just as we remember Proust for his madelaine and Cyrano for the sharpness of his mind rather than his sword. The human element of stories matters most.
We can treat plot as the tip of the story’s spear, for it is the first part to pierce through, and it is shiny and apparent. But we reject conventional wisdom, which deems the tip to be superior to the body and would seek to mould it of aluminium rather than stone. We deem the tip inferior to the whole. Indeed, without the stick the tip loses its gravity, for the latter could not have contributed to the historic significance of the spear without the range and thrust provided by the former. In this manner does character development affect the quality of the literary story: it grants the thrust and leverage that makes the tip pierce the target.
The attentive reader might accuse me of betraying my own purpose; ‘are we expected to conclude,’ he might say, ‘that modern literature lacks character development? On the contrary! The most popular books are fantasy series whose characters are explored deeply and continuously. Yes, the fantastical element is just a setting, but it enables authors to place their characters in far more interesting and unique situations, and to bring forth far more shades of personality. It is you, sir, whose spear is less effective, for yours is gilded with pompous artistic reference and hanged upon the wall for decoration. Do you pretend to talk of piercing the target with such a spear in hand?’
What an interesting rebuttal that would be, but also what a short-sighted one. Yes, the fantasy novel is an effective, simple, sturdy spear that can penetrate the disinterest of readers and hold their attention, and indeed that is its intention. Nevertheless, those who know the different forms of power understand that the ornamental spear is more powerful than the sturdy one, for its power requires no brute force to exert its will. The general who conquers by force is less successful than he who, as in the battle of Ulm, need only advance to achieve victory; the unchallenged general is more successful still.
Had the United States had sufficient soft power, it would not have sought to display its military prowess in Vietnam. When the power and status of Roman emperors deteriorated they moved from being Princeps, whose power was clandestine, to Dominates, whose power was revealed, for they could no longer exert their will without a display of force that betrayed their weakness. I’m certain that Plato’s Ideal Spear should have been ornamental rather than sturdy, for the ornamental spear achieves the purpose of war more excellently.
Just so, the artistic literary work is superior to the entertaining one; the former is a manifestation of meaningfulness and the latter is a form of escapism that only serves to draw the reader’s attention away from the devilish passage of time. One is valuable and the other is merely useful, and competes in its usefulness with other forms of entertainment – especially visual media. Contemporary literature is mostly business, not art.
Good contemporary literary works, which don’t focus on plot and excitement but rely on breadth of characters instead, still fail to introduce any scope of symbology and reference, which contribute to nuanced and deep storytelling and characterisation. Modern stories are constructed with efficiency and worldbuilding, rather than intricacy, in mind. The similarity between the Verdurins and Domitian is unseemly in a fantasy series, whose characters live in a disconnected world, just as the bitterness and emptiness of a usurpation loses its impact without the recollection of Macbeth. Deep, analogical, and subtle storytelling can only be possible in higher spheres of artistic literature.
The final assault upon literature comes from the specialisation that our period requires. How can our age produce polymaths when every field of study has been advanced by the concentrated effort of those whose ability is on par? I do not complain of the progress and utility that specialisation has brought, but of the insulation that it has brought at the expense of the Humboldtian model of knowledge.
This development has two main drawbacks for literature. Firstly, the modern intellectual is incentivised to focus on his particular craft and seek convergence rather than divergence in his studies. The intellectual is left ignorant of other fields of study, and takes little interest in knowledge that does not advance his proficiency. Indeed, even within its own field of expertise the sharpest mind cannot divert its attention; the master of combinatorics can hardly afford to study trigonometry, let alone progress its sphere. The further the intellectual advances the spheres of human knowledge, the more he fits the humorous description of ‘knowing everything about nothing.’ No wonder that the intellectual has lost his interest in art! For how can he appreciate the interconnectivity and intricacy of artistic work when his sphere of knowledge is so specific? Even if that intellectual were to attend an opera, would he understand the scene in which Figaro is likened to both Oedipus and Odysseus? Would he notice the significance of the accompanying horns, which suggest that the protagonist is yet to overcome the count?
Secondly, the common man, the member of the so-called ‘middle class,’ exhausts his cognitive capacity through his work. We have already explored elsewhere Rousseau’s comment on the wilful slavery of the modern man, and indeed the rise in complexity and intellectual requirement of work has not changed that condition. Even the most capable and sought-after worker is just a cognitive slave whose work produces usefulness at the expense of his vitality; at the end of his workday, he cannot bear to seek anything but entertainment and simple rejuvenation.
The modern man’s incapacity to pursue art has left the literary scene deserted and barren. In the golden ages of literature, one could taste its sweetness in the air, for the essence of works of art was carried by the lips of men. “The Greeks were a nation of art critics” said Wilde. When art is the common subject of discussion, social persons can neither escape it nor afford to ignore it, and so they become versed in art by default. But when art is discussed infrequently and dispassionately, becoming an art critic requires deliberate effort and social sacrifice.
Rather than appreciation and affirmation, the avid artist meets wondering looks and cold admiration; his interlocutors do not enthusiastically seek his artistic opinion, but rather offer empty mantras: ‘I wish I understood art!’ they say, and follow with ‘how could you have not watched the latest drama?’ But the causality is lost on them. When the modern man determines to enrich himself through literature, he turns to non-fiction and politics, for to him the realm of art is foreign and bizarre.
How I envy musicians! Not for naught have I praised the uselessness of music, for its purity has spared it the ordeal that literature has undergone. While literature has been dragged through the dirt like Hippolytus, music has managed to maintain the reins of its carriage, although it now rides across a muddy, splattering path. For, like literature, music has become in many regards a sturdy spear used for entertainment; it has also suffered from similar obstacles: hedonism, cognitive exhaustion, and artistic ignorance.
Nevertheless, the creation of artistic music has not ceased. What genius and artistic ability can be found in today’s jazz scene! Its musicians challenge the greatest creators of the classical age in composition, and yet they continue to expand the horizons of musical expression through polyrhythms, microtonality, and metre changes. How I wish writers were as professionally artistic as our musicians have remained! Luckily, music cannot be forced to become useful, and even complex music does not greatly tax the mind.
Furthermore, music deals directly with emotions, and therefore the elements that made it lofty in the past are still applicable today; unlike other artforms, music does not compete with advertisements for our attention and does not draw so readily upon the profane. In our age of utility, commercialism, and cognitive exhaustion, musicians are the only true artists.
Were music useful it would surely not have been spared by the greedy fingers of utility, which has all but risen to the status of divinity. The adoration of utility can be seen most notably in politics, to which, like Orpheus rescuing Eurydice, we descend to retrieve our beloved literature, for in politics we can view the tyrannical prominence utility has acquired.
The modern political ideologue may flourish complex and novel ideas, but he usually misinterprets them completely – not because he does not understand the concepts, but because his thought terminates with a means rather than with an end; he is too concerned with utility itself to pay attention to its ultimate purpose.
The constitution of the United States does not fail to include the goal of the founding fathers: to facilitate the pursuit of happiness. Had those gentlemen not preceded existential thought and had they been non-religious, they surely would have had the insight to spell out the meaning of that term and to explain the importance of subjective meaningfulness to the populace. Similarly, Marx did not neglect to clarify that his proposed system would lead to individuality by releasing men from their professions.
But the modern ideologue fails to consider the teleology of his beliefs; he treats the means by which the philosopher proposed to reach the common goal as ends. ‘Let us have freedom above all else!’ cries the ideologue, and would do so in the face of another whose chant differs only in replacing ‘freedom’ with ‘equality.’ Those two citizens might tear at each other’s throat and yet forget that both seek the same goal, but believe that different means will lead to the desired result; to them, politics is but a sport: they paint their faces, beat their drums, swear at the fans of the other team, and insult the referee. The tribalism of political discussion has caused the chanters to forget their common cause and scoff at reconciliation; rather than observe the ways in which the opposition proposes to attain the goal, they reduce values that differ from their own ad absurdum and sink deeper into radicalism.
Surprisingly enough, even the most commonplace voter will purport the most novel form of radicalism in a political discussion. Some suggest rejecting modern society and living as hunter-gatherers, others suggest erecting a benevolent dictatorship for the sake of ‘efficiency,’ others express pure xenophobic hatred and call for segregation (while others call for the same policies in the name of communal identity), and some, for the sake of equality, call for nuclear warfare.
How absurd must one’s thought be to argue for the sake of efficiency without considering the ultimate goal for which that efficiency should be used, or to esteem equality so highly as to invite the criticism of Calgacus. While radical circumstances may call for radical measures, turning to radicalism in our age of prosperity and stability is the peak of absurdity.
These ideologues are simply confused; the influence of tribalism, radicalisation, artlessness, and utility has led them to champion means rather than ends. Indeed, Delacroix was right to depict Liberty leading the people, for where might Liberty be headed if it were the goal itself? No, Delacroix’s Liberty led the people, paradoxically, back to the route of progress, which in turn aspires to a goal.
The modern ideologue sees Liberty pointing the way and falls in love with the bare-chested heroine; his infatuation blocks his ears, he becomes blind to the path to which his beloved points, he kneels prone before her and looks up in awe – in short, he swears his total allegiance and charges in the wrong direction.
With such celerity do men lock their minds; our age is not only fraught with misinformation and bias, but also with haphazard decisiveness. The casual science enthusiast reads a paper that shows a new discovery on the deterministic mechanisms of the brain and immediately concludes that the part signifies the nature of the whole, that the brain is a completely deterministic organ with no scope for free will, while many neuroscientists refrain from making such a claim. Ironically, many would point at this observation and draw what they believe to be the graph depicting the Dunning-Kruger effect, to which the actual graph shown in that research bears no resemblance; they too commit a fallacy.
Literature was shoved into this mess of confused utility, in which it is regularly abused. The artistic element of literature is continuously stifled by the hand of visual media, specialisation, and political radicalism. Rather than focus on literature for its own sake, our societies have chosen to focus on politics and to subordinate literature to the political cause.
Mahan described how France was in such a position of strength, abundance of resources, and favourable geographic condition as to be able to choose its path to dominance over Europe. France continuously chose to nurture its army and neglect its navy, and after centuries of wars fought on land found itself under the yoke of British naval dominance. Ironically, had France focused on conquering the seas it would have also conquered the land. Britain, who had no alternative but to follow the doctrine of Themistocles, regularly surpassed a far wealthier state. Similarly, the USSR attempted the Heartland theory of Mackinder and lost supremacy over the world to the naval power of the United States. But acquiring warm water ports has long been a well-known aspiration of the leaders of the Russian land, and so the political failure of the USSR was not by choice, whereas France tragically squandered its unique geographic advantage.
Just so, our society could have chosen to cultivate literature and art but has decided to nurture the political, thereby tragically losing both. Literature’s artistic element could have mitigated the very hand that beat it down and enhanced the meaningful existence of our fellow men, while avoiding the political confusion in which we now find ourselves.
Now we must call for the renewal of that element! The ‘progress’ of literature is political in the full sense of the word, for literature itself has succumbed to the political and the useful. Let us oppose that progress, in all but a political manner, and return to the days in which literature featured art! Let us call for literary reactionism: a return to a period of art in which this very term could not have existed!
We shall not confound the end with the means.