WHY LITERATURE?

By Prof. N. S. PHADKE, M.A.

There is a saying in Sanskrit that discussions and Counter discussions reveal Truth. But this wise saying is falsified by the heated controversies which rage amongst literary artists and their critics. They manifest a mulish obstinacy and cling to the opinions which they have once fancied. It is said that a man who cannot write a novel becomes a critic. There is thus a greater number of critics today who pronounce favourable or unfavourable judgments on Literature than artists who produce first-class Literature. Controversies and quarrels resound much more loudly than first-class stories and novels and plays and verse. This is all right so far as it is a token that people’s interest in Literature is alive. But apart from this these literary controversies seem to fie overdone, particularly since they follow set unchangeable patterns. And one very much wishes that a strenuous effort was made to make the literary public understand the fundamentals of Literature, so that they would be able to decide for themselves, once and for all, which particular school of literary criticism was right and which wrong. I believe that the literary controversies continue, and the reading public goes on believing the men whose only virtue is a loud and abusive voice, because they are rarely invited to do some thinking about the essential principles of creative Literature.

What exactly is Literature? Why does the writer create it? Why does the reader read it? Bradman, the world famous Australian cricketer, in his remarkable autobiographical book on cricket asks “Why Cricket?”, and proceeds to answer that question. In a similar fashion let us ask, “Why Literature?” Why is it produced, and why is it read? From where comes the urge to write a beautiful story? And the urge to read a beautiful poem? In other words, what is the intrinsic purpose and function of literature?

The Sanskrit word “Pratibha” is rather difficult to translate into English. Its exact shade of meaning and suggestion eludes translation. I am, therefore, using the phrase “creative imagination” as the one that comes nearest in meaning to the Sanskrit word. As an alternative you may use the phrase “poetic genius”. Whichever phrase you choose, I mean by it the faculty which grapples with the Riddle of Beauty that lies hidden in the Universe, as Science grapples with the Riddle of Truth. Nature is made of millions of inanimate objects and living things. And just as they have their properties which science tries to determine, they have their Beauty too. The bottomless depth of the sea, the summits of mountains covered with snow, the rivers, the trees and birds and wild animals and insects, the fruits and the flowers, the rain and wind, animals and men and women, all these have, on the one hand, specific properties governed by laws, and on the other hand they have each a Beauty of its own.

We want to understand the myriads of things which surround us, but we also want to enjoy their beauty. We must understand the ocean, so that we may build ships and cross it. But we would also like to enjoy its Beauty. We strive to understand the mountain–its surface and the layers inside its womb; but we also crave for the sheer enjoyment of its majesty. The properties of trees and plants have to be understood before we can make them bear fruit and flower. But there is also a grace and a beauty in the trees and plants and fruit and flower which give us pure enjoyment. We react to our surroundings intellectually and also emotionally. In each one of us there is a scientist and also an artist. Our reason unravels the mystery of Truth. And our creative imagination discovers the Beauty that lies in all the things of which Nature is made.

There is Beauty in the tides of the seas, in the terrific eruption of the volcano, in the blossoming of the fragrant flowers, in the movement of the tiny creeping insect, in the lovers’ embrace and their sweet words and kisses, in the innocent prattle of a child, in the agonies of a dying soldier, in the heart-rending shrieks of a mother who has lost her only beloved child in the sobs of a disappointed lover or a widow. In fact there is Beauty everywhere–in the soft caressing moonlight as well as the destructive burst of a volcano, in the laughter of men and women as well as in their screams of utter grief. Beauty is where you find it. The artist finds it everywhere, since he possesses uncommon faculties of perception, absorption, and interpretation. A well-known Marathi poet-saint Ramdas has said, “The poet sees things which even the Sun fails to penetrate.”

We, common mortals, do not feel our joys and sorrows to their full measure, and we also lack the power to give expression to what little we feel. But the poet, the novelist, and the playwright can, by the power of sympathy, enter into our feelings and can express them beautifully. In the hands of the artist, even a sad experience turns into a thing of Beauty. The artist finds Beauty in the wrinkled face of an old beggar woman, and when he paints her face, puts it in a frame, and hangs it in an exhibition, we stand before the picture and exclaim “Beautiful!”. The very face which in actual life we will call horrid and ugly and detestable becomes beautiful when presented as a piece of art. This is the magic of Literature–the magic of all Art. The business and purpose of Literature is thus to unravel the Riddle of Beauty and to make you see Beauty and joy wherever you turn your eyes. At the touch of the literary artist grim things lose their grimness, sorrows lose their sadness, villainy loses its detestability, cowardice sheds its pitiability, and even vice drops its shamelessness. Like the Sun gilding all things with its splendour and light, Literature makes all things beautiful and delightful. The purpose of Literature is thus to interpret to you the delight and beauty in your life. That is why you look upon the poet and the novelist and the playwright and the storywriter as your representatives. They help us to experience the emotional exuberance in our lives which, without their help, we shall miss. They are the manufacturers of an indescribable delight without which our lives will not be full.

The actual life which has fallen to the lot of each one of us is limited and narrow. If I am a Professor I am not a soldier, a statesman, a shopkeeper, a bank clerk, a bus driver, or a postman. The very fact that I live the life of a professor precludes me from a thousand other ways of life. I live within the four walls of my house, and lead a life which is, as Shakespeare said, “Cabined, cribbed, and confined.” I become impatient with these limitations on my experience. There is an urge in me to peep into the lives of other men and women–brave and timid, kind and cruel, generous and miserly, virtuous and vicious. Each one of us experiences this urge to break through the bonds of our narrow lives and to enter into the lives of others–soldiers and prisoners, lovers and gamblers, devoted wives and prostitutes, saints and crooks! “Ekoham Babusyam.” “I am only one but I want to be many!” “I am single but wish to be multiple.” Our ancient philosophy believes that this was the urge that made Brahman take on Maya, and manifest Himself in millions of things and living beings. Literature owes its origin to the same urge–the urge which lies in the depths of the heart of every man–to smash the limitations of the actual, and to enter into the lives of all kinds of people. This is not “Escapism”. If you need a name and a label for it, you may call it the “widening of the self”–its ennobling, its enrichment. And the irresistible lure of Literature lies in the fact that it affords to its readers this enrichment, giving them the much desired opportunity to rise above the prison of actual lives, and to spread the wings and to soar into the limitless expanse of Experience.

To catch the hidden beauty in whatever is seen or heard or experienced and to express it so as to convey this beauty to others–this is the primary urge that leads to the writing of poetry or the short story or the novel or the play. And if this is the urge behind all Literature, its purpose and aim is obviously the sharing of the emotional mood by the writer with his readers. The essence of Literature is this Emotional mood–which our Sanskrit critics called “Rasa”. They considered it as the very heart and core of Literature, and defined poetry by saying, “That alone is Poetry which affords us the delight of a deep Emotional Mood.” The Literary Artist is he who possesses an uncommon emotional sensitivity and also an uncommon power of imparting his own emotional exuberance to his readers. A poet or a novelist is different from ordinary people by virtue of his keen emotional susceptibility. We, common men, lack this keenness. Our susceptibility is blunt. We are not moved deeply by what we see or hear, by the comic and the tragic things that we witness. This is why we miss the beauty of life. The poet however is differently made. Even an ordinary thing like a butterfly fluttering round a flower may send him into raptures of joy. And the sight of a wounded bird may cause him a deep anguish. This is why the poet is regarded as mad–unfit to live in a society of sober people whose cold callousness helps them to forget life’s joys and sorrows easily. The things which impress us common people only casually and superficially, impress the poet with shattering intensity, so that he must share his emotional experience with others. This is why and how poetry comes to be written. The intensity and quickness and subtlety of emotion, and the power to express an emotional experience in beautifu1 words–these are the essential virtues of the literary artist. They are the true test of his goodness and greatness. And, therefore, they are also the only test of the quality of all Literatutre. A novelist is great, not because he champions a social, religious or political cause, but because his writing bears the hall-mark of his emotional depth and intensity, and also of his power to convey to the readers his own emotional exuberance. All other tests are evidently extraneous and irrelevant.

If this fundamental consideration was kept in view, the so-called ‘problems’ of Literature would never arise, and there would also be no heated controversies about the role of Literature. It is easy to argue that since man lives in a society, he is in duty bound to serve his society. Therefore, the poet and the novelist too must contribute his share towards social reform and national regeneration. In other words the poet and the novelist must use his pen in the service of the society and the nation. This argument is very attractive, and therefore, there arises a school of critics who maintain that the purpose of a novel must be to arouse political consciousness, that propaganda is the business of the novelist, and that his art would be great only if it promotes morality, imparts some valuable lesson to the people, and is marked by the fervour of the social reformer or a national leader. We shall judge Literature, they declare, by this standard, and they refuse to sign a certificate of merit if a literary Artist follows in his writings the maxim of “Art for the sake of Art”. They contend that “Art for the sake of Art” is a vicious and dangerous doctrine, and that the artist must use his art in the service of his society and his nation.

This argument is so facile that timid and weak-kneed novelists are frightened out of their wits and begin to think that, in order to achieve greatness in Literature, they must achieve greatness as a social reformer or a political propagandist. They begin to give their verse and stories, and novels and plays a political colour. They join the ranks of the Congressites, or the Mahasabhaites, or the Socialists or Communists, and hope thereby to be called great literary artists. There can be no greater danger to Literature which must be repudiated with all possible vehemence and determination by those who have the true welfare of Literature in their hearts.

The writer lives in a society. Who will contest this obvious truth? It is also true that since the writer lives in a society he must serve it. But is political or social propaganda the only way to serve society? Certainly not. There are countless ways in which a man may give of his best in the service of the society or the nation.

Unfortunately we in India are so obsessed by the importance of political propaganda and agitation that we forget that a nation does not live and thrive by politics alone. Our undue obsession with politics is perhaps the hang-over of the struggle for liberty which engaged all our attention and energy for more than a century. But now that we are a free nation we must cure ourselves of this obsession and the consequent distortion of perspective which has affected our literary standards of judgment. We must understand that although a literary Artist owes a debt or service to his fellowmen, since he lives in a society, he must not be told–and if he be told he must not believe–that the only way in which he can serve society is to sell somebody’s moral or political ideas, and to turn his writings into a warehouse of political doctrines. The literary Artist must tell his critics that the is far bigger than politics. A politician’s service may catch the public notice most easily. There may be a glamour about it as there is about the work of a film-star. But this should not, in our eyes, minimise the value of the service which other men render to society. We must not forget the saying “they also serve who stand and wait.” The soldier, the banker, the farmer, the scientist–hundreds of persons who are not politicians–serve society in their own ways. Their service is as important as that of the politician. If we want to build a great free nation, let us remember that we can achieve all round strength and greatness only by asking the soldier to become a model soldier, by asking a scientist to become a model scientist.

Literature possesses an intrinsic value, and the best service to society or nation which the writer can give is by functioning as a literary Artist, without accepting the dictation of the preacher or the politician. Just as men must learn to use weapons and to fight, just as they must learn the pursuit of business and industry, they must also learn to be sensitive and alive to the joyful and sorrowful experience which life brings them, so that they will come to find beauty in life and they will achieve an enrichment of the heart. Men must learn to laugh and to weep heartily. They must cultivate a capacity for the enrichment of the heart.. Who will help men in the cultivation of the capacity if not a literary Artist? The writer must, therefore, have confidence in the value of the service which he renders to society as an artist, and he must never for a moment believe that he will be great only if he stands on the props of moral or political propaganda.

The regimentation of Literature is a very dangerous doctrine to which genuine lovers of Literature and true artists will never submit. The experiment of producing Literature under State control and according to politically conceived blue-prints has been tried in Russia with disastrous results. Soviet Russia has not produced that type of Literature which the pre-revolution Russian writers gave to the world. If the history of the Literature of the world has any lesson for us, it is that the greatness of Literature–its lasting quality–has nothing to do with social or political propaganda. The domination of propaganda kills the finer qualities of Literature. Shakespeare never aimed at teaching or preaching. Kalidas and Bhavabhuti were not propagandists. The creator of Faust did not sell any political ideas. Even Ibsen was not a champion of any political cause. Nor was Galsworthy. If any great novels or plays, marked to some extent by a fervour of political or social reform, have lasted through the passage of time and become immortal, they have done so, not because of, but in spite of, the propaganda they contained. What made these books immortal was their artistic excellence–the subtlety and the depth of the emotion which the writer experienced and the power with which he conveyed his emotional exuberance to his readers.

I do not intend to suggest that the poet or the novelist must remain strictly aloof from political ideas and ideals. On the contrary, I do believe that as a citizen of the nation the writer cannot help being aware of the political events happening in his country, and also in the world. I shall go one step further and say that since the writer is essentially an artist, his political consciousness will be more keen than that of other men, his admiration of those who lead the country and fight for her liberty will be more warm, and his disgust for the forces which retard the progress of his nation more profound. It is farthest from my mind to suggest that the literary Artist lives, or should live, in a water-tight world of his own–a sort of ‘fools’ paradise’–where serious social and political ideas cannot find access. My belief on the contrary, is that the Artist is more susceptible than the common people to all the things that happen around him, and therefore his national or political consciousness is bound to be much more acute than that of a common citizen. But it is one thing to admit all this and quite another thing to demand that the writer must turn his poetry or stories or novels into a vehicle of political doctrines, and to threaten that he would not be called great unless he plays the role of a preacher and a propagandist. How ridiculous and misconceived is this threat which is flung at the writers of today! Literature does not have the strength to bring about a revolution. And is there any shame in admitting this? Is there any shame in admitting that you cannot make a sword out of gold? Is there any shame in admitting that a beautiful garden of flowers does not give man the food which the paddy fields yield? Literature was not born for the purpose of national uplift or revolution. Its urge is different. Its aim is different. Its business must be different.

Another thing. Even if a writer or a novelist is inclined towards writing problem novels or problem plays, you cannot expect him to take up each and every problem and make it the subject of his books. There are great things happening in free India today. Take for example the Bhakra Nangal Dam. It is indeed a great project which will bring happiness to millions of people. But can it be said that because it is a wonderful project of which India should be proud, therefore a writer like me should produce a novel about it? Take again the problem of Kashmir, or the problem of United Maharashtra. Why, even the sterling problem is a vital one, so far as the interests of our nation are concerned. But do you mean that because these are the burning questions of the day, therefore our writers of fiction must turn them into subjects of novels and plays?

Literature is not produced in this way. A novel or a play is a piece of art, and the artist must feel deeply about what he writes, and will write only about that which moves his emotions. A writer is not a machine. He is not a slave. You cannot dictate to him, “write about this and write about that.” He cherishes his own freedom, and will write only about that which moves him deeply. And his greatness as a writer will be totally irrespective of his contribution to political propaganda. Rabindranath Tagore is acclaimed as one of the greatest writers modern India has produced. Did he preach politics in his novels and plays? Is there a single novel of his which aimed at bringing about a political revolution? He lived in the days of the Bengal Partition. The ruthless partition of Bengal was a political event which insulted and enraged forty crores of Indians and led to a country-wide agitation, the like of which was not seen before. But did Rabindranath Tagore write a novel or a play on this partition? He did not. And yet his greatness is today beyond all challenge.

Rabindranath Tagore reached heights of greatness and glory and fame, not because of the political character of any of his novels or verse, not because he aimed at bringing about social or political revolution, but because of has unique brilliance as an artist, because of his amazing powers to make his readers distil and enjoy the emotional beauty of human experience. We cherish Tagore’s Literature, not for its propaganda value, but for the rare literary qualities which it possesses. “Art for the Nation” is a maxim with which we need not have any quarrel. But we shall insist that Art serves the nation by being great art. When the artist is asked by the present day politically-minded critics to use his art in the service of the nation, the artist must tell them that he will serve the nation by being a great artist. An artist must remain an artist first and last. He must be loyal to no other master than his art. The value of his work must be determined by no other test than the principles and standards of his Art. This is what I mean by “Art for the sake of Art.” And the entire history of the great Literature of the world will bear ample testimony to my contention.

It need not surprise us that politicians and revolutionaries wish to use Literature in their own interests and ask the writers of fiction to turn their novels and plays into instruments of propaganda. I have said above that Literature does not have the strength to bring about a revolution. But let his admission not be taken as a mark of diffidence on my part as to the power of Literature. Literature has a power of its own, the power to entertain, to enrich and widen the self of man, to expand his experience and to quicken and sharpen his emotional response. Owing to this power Literature exercises a very strong and wide appeal. People have, therefore, always wanted to grind their own axes on the stone of Literature, and have always tried to persuade the literary artist to become the mouthpiece and slave of some other master. It has always been a problem for the literary artist how to guard the sanctity of his art, and how to protect the frontiers of his literary kingdom. The history of the Literature of Maharashtra, the Literature of Bengal–in fact the Literature of every country in the world–shows that the Church and the State have always tried to dominate Literature.

It may seem that since Free India is a Republic and since India’s administrative machinery is far too different from the one which operates in countries like Russia, Literature in India need not have any fear of State control. But let us remember that there are many ways in which the State may control the lives and pursuits of its people. State invasion has many forms. It may be direct, and it may be indirect, it being equally dangerous in both cases. The Indian Government of today, it is true, does not directly and openly invade the field of Arts and Literature. But the prizes and gifts and subsidies and the silver and gold medals and the high-sounding titles which it bestows upon musicians and painters and novelists and playwrights constitute a very alluring seduction of Artists. And seduction is after all a subtler and a veiled form of coercion and control. Those who are in power in India today have accepted the Gandhian philosophy of life. Apart from the question how far this philosophy is truly suited to the needs of modern India, it is evident that our present rulers are bent upon making as much capital as they can out of it, and carrying out schemes after schemes for the betterment of the Indian people as they conceive it–even including the morals of the people, and their means of entertainment like Music, and Film and Theatre.

I believe that the problem before the writers of fiction in India today is, will they let themselves be seduced? Will they consent to become the slaves and mouthpiece of those who are in power or of those who wish to bring about a political revolution? Will they, or will they not hold fast to the true test of the greatness of Literature? It will not much matter if gold ceased to be drawn from gold mines, but it would be disastrous if the touchstone on which the quality of gold was tested was lost and tinsel came to be sold in the market as gold. In the same manner, it will not matter much if the production of Literature was suspended or slowed down. But it will be the most lamentable disaster if literature began to be judged by extraneous and irrelevant standards. The problem before the literary artists of today is, will they allow this to happen?

If we wish to preserve the enduring excellence and beauty of our Literature, if we want to carryon the traditions that have come down from the Epics of the Ramayana and Mahabharata, we must decide to repudiate firmly any form of invasion of Literature attempted by any political party, or any fanatical moral or religious cult. Let us, writers of fiction, refuse to imagine that our political colours or moral enthusiasms will bring us greatness in the literary field. Let us not think of standing on any props in order to increase our stature as artists. Let us have faith in the intrinsic value of the service which we can render to our nation, altogether apart from all question of political or moral propaganda. Let us have faith that, like the politician or the industrialist, or the banker or the soldier, we too are great and useful in our own ways. Let us have faith that the deity we worship is as great as any other God. Let us be unflinchingly loyal to Goddess Saraswati. She will then bestow her blessings on us, and we shall have lived not in vain.

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