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Why Literature?
By Mario Vargas Llosa
The New Republic, Issue Date: 05.14.01 Post Date: 05.03.01
It seems clear that literature has become more and more a female
activity. In bookstores, at conferences or public readings by writers, and
even in university departments dedicated to the humanities, the women
clearly outnumber the men. The explanation traditionally given is that
middle-class women read more because they work fewer hours than
men, and so many of them feel that they can justify more easily than
men the time that they devote to fantasy and illusion. I am somewhat
allergic to explanations that divide men and women into frozen
categories and attribute to each sex its characteristic virtues and
shortcomings; but there is no doubt that there are fewer and fewer
readers of literature, and that among the saving remnant of readers
women predominate.
They earn my pity not only because they are unaware of the pleasure
that they are missing, but also because I am convinced that a society
without literature, or a society in which literature has been relegated--
like some hidden vice--to the margins of social and personal life, and
transformed into something like a sectarian cult, is a society condemned
to become spiritually barbaric, and even to jeopardize its freedom. I wish
to offer a few arguments against the idea of literature as a luxury
pastime, and in favor of viewing it as one of the most primary and
necessary undertakings of the mind, an irreplaceable activity for the
formation of citizens in a modern and democratic society, a society of
free individuals.
Literature has even served to confer upon love and desire and the sexual
act itself the status of artistic creation. Without literature, eroticism
would not exist. Love and pleasure would be poorer, they would lack
delicacy and exquisiteness, they would fail to attain to the intensity that
literary fantasy offers. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that a couple
who have read Garcilaso, Petrarch, Gongora, or Baudelaire value
pleasure and experience pleasure more than illiterate people who have
been made into idiots by television's soap operas. In an illiterate world,
love and desire would be no different from what satisfies animals, nor
would they transcend the crude fulfillment of elementary instincts.
his brings me to Bill Gates. He was in Madrid not long ago and visited
the Royal Spanish Academy, which has embarked upon a joint venture
with Microsoft. Among other things, Gates assured the members of
the Academy that he would personally guarantee that the letter "ñ"
would never be removed from computer software--a promise that
allowed four hundred million Spanish speakers on five continents to
breathe a sigh of relief, since the banishment of such an essential letter
from cyberspace would have created monumental problems.
Immediately after making his amiable concession to the Spanish
language, however, Gates, before even leaving the premises of the
Academy, avowed in a press conference that he expected to
accomplish his highest goal before he died. That goal, he explained,
is to put an end to paper and then to books.
I was not present at Gates's little discourse; I learned these details from
the press. Had I been there I would have booed Gates for proclaiming
shamelessly his intention to send me and my colleagues, the writers of
books, directly to the unemployment line. And I would have vigorously
disputed his analysis. Can the screen really replace the book in all its
aspects? I am not so certain. I am fully aware of the enormous revolution
that new technologies such as the Internet have caused in the fields of
communication and the sharing of information, and I confess that the
Internet provides invaluable help to me every day in my work; but my
gratitude for these extraordinary conveniences does not imply a belief
that the electronic screen can replace paper, or that reading on a
computer can stand in for literary reading. That is a chasm that I cannot
cross. I cannot accept the idea that a non-functional or non-pragmatic act
of reading, one that seeks neither information nor a useful and
immediate communication, can integrate on a computer screen the
dreams and the pleasures of words with the same sensation of intimacy,
the same mental concentration and spiritual isolation, that may be
achieved by the act of reading a book.
Literature says nothing to those human beings who are satisfied with
their lot, who are content with life as they now live it. Literature is the
food of the rebellious spirit, the promulgator of non-conformities, the
refuge for those who have too much or too little in life. One seeks
sanctuary in literature so as not to be unhappy and so as not to be
incomplete. To ride alongside the scrawny Rocinante and the confused
Knight on the fields of La Mancha, to sail the seas on the back of a
whale with Captain Ahab, to drink arsenic with Emma Bovary, to
become an insect with Gregor Samsa: these are all ways that we have
invented to divest ourselves of the wrongs and the impositions of this
unjust life, a life that forces us always to be the same person when we
wish to be many different people, so as to satisfy the many desires that
possess us.
How could we not feel cheated after reading War and Peace or
Remembrance of Things Past and returning to our world of insignificant
details, of boundaries and prohibitions that lie in wait everywhere and,
with each step, corrupt our illusions? Even more than the need to sustain
the continuity of culture and to enrich language, the greatest contribution
of literature to human progress is perhaps to remind us (without
intending to, in the majority of cases) that the world is badly made; and
that those who pretend to the contrary, the powerful and the lucky, are
lying; and that the world can be improved, and made more like the
worlds that our imagination and our language are able to create. A free
and democratic society must have responsible and critical citizens
conscious of the need continuously to examine the world that we inhabit
and to try, even though it is more and more an impossible task, to make
it more closely resemble the world that we would like to inhabit. And
there is no better means of fomenting dissatisfaction with existence than
the reading of good literature; no better means of forming critical and
independent citizens who will not be manipulated by those who govern
them, and who are endowed with a permanent spiritual mobility and a
vibrant imagination.
When the novel Don Quixote de la Mancha appeared, its first readers
made fun of this extravagant dreamer, as well as the rest of the
characters in the novel. Today we know that the insistence of the
caballero de la triste figura on seeing giants where there were
windmills, and on acting in his seemingly absurd way, is really the
highest form of generosity, and a means of protest against the misery of
this world in the hope of changing it. Our very notions of the ideal, and
of idealism, so redolent with a positive moral connotation, would not be
what they are, would not be clear and respected values, had they not
been incarnated in the protagonist of a novel through the persuasive
force of Cervantes's genius. The same can be said of that small and
pragmatic female Quixote, Emma Bovary, who fought with ardor to live
the splendid life of passion and luxury that she came to know through
novels. Like a butterfly, she came too close to the flame and was burned
in the fire.
he inventions of all great literary creators open our eyes to unknown
aspects of our own condition. They enable us to explore and to
understand more fully the common human abyss. When we say
"Borgesian," the word immediately conjures up the separation of our
minds from the rational order of reality and the entry into a fantastic
universe, a rigorous and elegant mental construction, almost always
labyrinthine and arcane, and riddled with literary references and
allusions, whose singularities are not foreign to us because in them we
recognize hidden desires and intimate truths of our own personality that
took shape only thanks to the literary creation of Jorge Luis Borges. The
word "Kafkaesque" comes to mind, like the focus mechanism of those
old cameras with their accordion arms, every time we feel threatened, as
defenseless individuals, by the oppressive machines of power that have
caused so much pain and injustice in the modern world--the
authoritarian regimes, the vertical parties, the intolerant churches, the
asphyxiating bureaucrats. Without the short stories and the novels of that
tormented Jew from Prague who wrote in German and lived always on
the lookout, we would not have been able to understand the impotent
feeling of the isolated individual, or the terror of persecuted and
discriminated minorities, confronted with the all-embracing powers that
can smash them and eliminate them without the henchmen even showing
their faces.
MARIO VARGAS LLOSA's new book, The Feast of the Goat, will be
published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux in November. He is professor of
Ibero-American Literature and Culture at Georgetown University.
Source: http://www.crab.rutgers.edu/~goertzel/vargasllosa.htm