Back from Computer Hell

Friends and followers, I’m back! (haha)

News flash. My computer crashed nearly a week ago.  I’ve been unable to access my online accounts for that period of time.

However, all data was successfully recovered and the computer was essentially “rebuilt” from the ground up. Great back up systems have been put in place to avert any possible future disasters like this, thank heavens.

I’m very fortunate to have top of the line security and really terrific computer gurus watching my back.

All of which is to say, I have a lot of catching up to do at this point, particularly with my editorial services

Thank you for hanging in there with me during this infernally aggravating time.  Look for new posts to appear here very soon!

Thanks, guys!



Posted in computers, editor, Literature | Tagged , , , , | 7 Comments

Love is the slowest form of suicide–Fiza Pathan

(C) Copyright 2016, Margaret Langstaff,, All Rights Reserved


 Fiza Pathan, a very young self-published author, recently was awarded three prestigious book prizes, one at the London Book Festival and two at the New England Festival of Books. fiza pic
Her attentive, admiring uncle Blaise reports that “at the New England Book Festival  Amina The Silent One received an award in Regional Literature, and Raman and Sunny: Middle School Blues received two awards in Young Adult, one at the above festival and the other at the London Book Festival.”
Fiza is 26 years old, a middle school teacher in Mumbai, and English is not her native language.  It has been my pleasure and privilege to edit most of her books, and to watch her rapid growth and development, as she agreeably responded to a light editorial hand.  Her skills and imaginative range have exploded almost exponentially with each new book.  She has become more daring, confident and proficient–surprisingly so to this veteran editor.  One rarely encounters a nascent writer as responsive to example, correction and new and greater challenges.
Fiza has written and published nine books and one short story to date.
Except for the short story, all are available in paperback and Kindle format. At this tender stage of her career she has already accumulated 20 awards for her titles.
Let’s listen to what Fiza has to say about all this. Her candor may shock you.  This is not a writer thrilled with her sudden notoriety, nor one in pursuit of literary fame and fortune for selfish reasons or personal gain.

Miss Fiza, as you know, an eternal question readers who are not writers have is “why write?” It is a question that can only be answered individually by any given writer.

I write because I am helpless! Everything that I have been through in my life has caused me pain and being a person who is not very vocal about her feelings, I tend to bring out my anguish in the form of the written word. When I wasn’t a writer, I used to write in my diaries.  Now since I am a published writer, I celebrate my sadness in my books.

My father and his family did not want to look after me because I was a girl, so my mother left her in-laws’ place when I was barely a few months old, to lead the life of a single parent in her mother’s house. I grew up thinking at first that every child lives with a single parent until I realized the truth at age 6…and that hurt.

Since then the lacerations inflicted upon my soul and heart have grown from tiny scratches to open wounds infested with the worms of melancholy, which gnaw at my very being, not wanting me to go on. In such a state, what could I do but write? I had no mouth to speak, for I was told that people go through worse problems, so I must push the pain back. I’ve been pushing ever since.

Writing is my way of pushing the sorrow back. I don’t write my books; I bleed on my books with the blood everyone calls ‘ink.’ I am 26 years old and my writing is my “life support system.” If I don’t write, I will die and I cannot afford to do so because I have to look after my mother and her family, my family who raised me, even though I was not their responsibility. So I have got to go on, no matter how bad the pain is. I’ve got to keep writing. The morbid joke is that, the better the books are that I write, the greater the pain involved at that point in time.

Isn’t that funny! I am a very simple person, so I can assure you of one elementary fact in my life which holds true: the day I stop writing, I will cease to exist.

Very simply, what made you want to write? All writers encounter failure and discouragement, but you were able to overcome these things. Something kept you going. Was it faith or an inner voice? Did you perhaps find your greatest joy and satisfaction losing yourself in the lives of your challenged characters?

I am a very insignificant person with simple wants and needs. Simple people like me don’t encounter the travails of the regular “writers.” I have never felt discouraged, I have never needed a ‘push’ to write. I have no idea what a “writer’s block” is nor what my inner voice says or doesn’t say. My characters don’t live in me and neither do I live in them. I’m here referring to my fiction books only. The moment I finish bleeding in one book, I go on to the next. If given the freedom to do so, I would have written a book every month, or maybe two in a month, or maybe four.

But I have got my responsibilities. I need to teach to earn money for my family and to fulfill many dreams. I would like to complete my own education, to build a school for the street children of Mumbai, to open a study centre for poor students, to start a circulating library for disadvantaged sections of the Indian society and much more. In order to fulfill these dreams I need to be alive, of course, and the only way I can be alive is to be on my “life support system”…by writing. So therefore I at least can manage to write three books in a year. Amina: The Silent One was written in a month’s time while Raman and Sunny: Middle School Blues took me 50 days exactly.

If I can sit still in Church even for a moment, at least ten ideas for new books come to me with the whole story intact from beginning to end. All the books which I have penned till now have been somehow ‘sent’ to me during mass, especially during the elevation of the Host, the moment of consecration, when the Catholic priest blesses the bread and it is transformed into the body and blood of Christ; that is, during the miracle of transubstantiation.


I have never been in want of ideas to write, but yes, I had to write. I am just muffling my sobs in the pages of my notebooks, and that’s the blunt truth. I don’t like to be fake, and I dislike people who speak a falsehoods. Maybe that is why I am always getting “hurt.”

Would it be strange to say that I started writing because I have no friends, except the ones I create? Would it be peculiar to say that I wanted to write because I am the butt of all jokes because of my physical looks? Would it be novel to say that my characters are more like someone you may recognize, but whom I find hard to even fathom? I am a very simple person with a mystery within my heart to be unlocked, but you shall never have the key, for who but I know the meaning of that cliché … “love is the slowest form of suicide?”

Social injustice is a recurrent theme in your writing. Would you say the effort to defeat it keeps you writing?

To be truthful, I myself don’t know why I am often inspired to write about social issue topics. Sometimes I don’t realize it is a social issue that I am writing about until the book or story is finally over! Maybe this is because social injustice has become such a part of my life, which I see every day in the world around me. What seems like a serious social issue to some people, seems quite normal and routine to me. I’m now too used to pain to be shocked anymore. That I want to do something about it, yes, it is true, and when I say I’m going to do something about it, I’ll do it, but not in writing. That is to me another form of “witnessing” and we’ve got way too many “witnesses” here on our planet than “people who act.”

Rape, molestation, communalism, terrorism, regionalism, bureaucratic corruption, wars, child abuse, female foeticide, female infanticide, bride burning, poverty, epidemics, famines, environmental destruction, drug abuse.

Yes, Fiza, all themes that wend their way into your novels . . . .

Well, these are everyday affairs in my world, and I seriously want to stop writing about them and start doing something concrete about them. Injustice in any form has been a blood brother to me and not only me, but to hundreds of millions of people all over the world. The world needs to rehabilitate this monster before he lifts up his serpent hydra head and spits out his toxic venom to such an extent that it destroys us all. If my books help in some way towards “action” and “reaction” against this possibility, then I will be indirectly pleased. But if my writing on social issues is read for the sake of “entertainment,” well, that is for the reader to decide, not me.

I’m just a writer… as Samuel Johnson has said:
“A writer only begins a book. A reader finishes it.”

Many write out of a simple “what if” curiosity about human nature and begin a book with a character or two in mind in a certain situation, desiring to see how he or she will handle the challenge, not having a foregone conclusion for a book at the outset. The writer wants to discover, given the situation and the character of the protagonist (s), how will this all play out. Haha, that’s why I write: I want to discover what people will do in certain situations. Writing is an act of discovery, solving a mystery for me. It’s for me an exercise in learning about human nature and mankind’s on again off again relationship with God. Flannery O’Connor has been a major influence on my work. Many other writers, however, are incapable of writing the first word until they have the book completely outlined, start to finish. John Irving (whom I know, author of the bestseller The World According to Garp ) writes like that.

No, Ma’am, before I write a word, I know the ending of all my stories as well as their beginning. I know which characters are going to appear in my story and what they have to do. I have got several ideas for the books which I wish to write. I want to write the Indian version of Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita…I wish to write a complete study guide of the famous Indian writer R.K.Narayan’s works as he is my favourite author, and I am currently researching on this very topic. I wish to write a theosophical novel on a Vampire and a lot more.

It just comes to me…everything, but always in a church while meditating. I am an avid reader of books of all genres, yet it is strange that I have never taken literature as a subject either in college, or even now for my masters which I am currently pursuing! My pet subject happens to be History and I’m doing my masters in that subject. The only time I really studied literature was in school and in my teacher’s training college. Political science is another one of my favourite subjects along with Sociology, which I may pursue at a later date.


Fiza Pathan has bootstrapped her way into publication and reader and award recognition as a self-published author. Kudos and honors are difficult to acquire from such a vantage point, as we all know.  Talent, motivation and unwavering persistence are key, but then so is luck, sad to say.

Congratulations, Miss Fiza. Godspeed.

Posted in Book Reviews, editing, fiction, Literature, novel, novelists, writers, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

BIG NEWS! FIZA PATHAN, One of my clients, took awards at the London Book Festival and …

the New England book Fair!  Kudos! She is barely a child, but has worked very hard at her writing craft, studied the classics intensely, and in the last year has made stellar improvements, writing several great and lasting books!

The full story and, I hope, an interview with this paragon of persistence, determination and huge talent will appear here tomorrow or the next day.

Fiza is a smart, conscientious middle school teacher in Mumbai, India. I have had the pleasure of working with her editorially on many of her books and expect–based on my proffiza pic experience with young writers–great things to issue from her pen.



Posted in fiction, Literature | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Gigging a Gig! Journalists, for what it’s worth


(As you know if you’ve been hanging around here for a bit, there is almost no kind of writing or editing I haven’t done over the years, with the exception of erotica and other icky or brutalizing stuff.  So this is the deep voice of experience responding to a plea for help.)


Perhaps it will be useful to others too.

Short, but to the point.

It works!


tortured writer

delete, revise, reprise …


“I am a feature writer for newspapers and magazines and I want to branch out to write for businesses and organizations. I am finding out about skills such as Search Engine Optimization and I’m wondering if anyone has done anyone who has done any PR writing knows of any other skills that would be helpful to acquire? Also, anyone who writes for business/non-profits – how do you reach out to potential clients?”

REPLY–(from moi)

Skills you learn on the job.  If you have a hot story idea and some clips to prove you’re legit, don’t be shy! Pick up the phone and just call editors. CALL THEM! If you exude enough confidence, they’ll put you through. Then you have less than 60 secs to pitch and convince them, so make it good. Do your homework on the mag or journal or newspaper. Prove you know their publication and know what they need to sell copies/get subs etc. I’ve gotten the editors of Forbes, the LA Times Book Review., Vanity Fair and the NYT, etc. on the line this way.

All editors need hot stories, skills (other than brilliant writing ability) can be tapped from staffers.

Not everything pans out, some eds are quirky and want tweets or smoke signals, or referrals, but if your pitch is irresistible (it must be true, do not stretch the facts!), you have introduced yourself and now have a new valuable connection you can call again.

Go for voice communication over texts, tweets or email,  if at all possible.

Sound knowledgeable, intelligent, articulate–and in a hurry.  Other editors are just dying to have a crack at this piece of yours!  No time to spare!


Don’t leave a message unless it is so compelling, shocking and newsworthy the editor HAS to call you back.

You can do it, so prep thoroughly and make the calls.  Good luck.

Posted in journalism, Literature | 4 Comments

#shortstory Zoya’s Christmas Eve-a short story from my book S.O.S. Animals And Other Stories

Posted in Literature | 2 Comments

#shortstory Zoya’s Christmas Eve-from my book S.O.S. Animals And Other Stories


Zoya was a girl living a normal Christian life with her family in a small apartment overlooking the sea. Zoya was a happy child and was thoroughly spoilt by her parents, uncles and aunts because she was the only child in the family. Every day was made special for little Zoya including Christmas.
There would be the beautiful decorations, the elaborate dinner party, the get together and a basketful of Christmas goodies. But little Zoya loved the Christmas season, not for the Christmas Stockings nor for the gifts neatly packed by friends and loved ones but for that Christmas Eve when she would tuck herself up warmly under a little bed cover early, so that Santa would come on his Reindeer driven sleigh and deposit her Christmas gift under her little Christmas Tree. Come Christmas morning she would awaken to clasp her precious gift from her Santa and then go…

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“A Child Was Born in a Cave to Save the World”

Joseph Brodsky was an emigre poet from the Soviet Union who lived in New York City, and won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1987.

He was an amazingly gifted, modest man.  He wrote in English after emigrating as an adult to the US.

His poems are full of the longing and the deep unease of the displaced person; his loneliness is palpable, and yet he retains a wry wit — something that no doubt carried him through the desolation and isolation of a man without a country and permanently isolated from his loved ones and his native land.

star of the nativity brodsky

Russian emigre poet



The ache of such a compromised living, disoriented, unmoored, is painfully laced through his verse.

A wonderful intellectual poet, multiphasic, tough yet sensitive.

His Nobel Lecture December 8, 1987



For someone rather private, for someone who all his life has preferred his private condition to any role of social significance, and who went in this preference rather far – far from his motherland to say the least, for it is better to be a total failure in democracy than a martyr or the crème de la crème in tyranny – for such a person to find himself all of a sudden on this rostrum is a somewhat uncomfortable and trying experience.

This sensation is aggravated not so much by the thought of those who stood here before me as by the memory of those who have been bypassed by this honor, who were not given this chance to address ‘urbi et orbi’, as they say, from this rostrum and whose cumulative silence is sort of searching, to no avail, for release through this speaker.

The only thing that can reconcile one to this sort of situation is the simple realization that – for stylistic reasons, in the first place – one writer cannot speak for another writer, one poet for another poet especially; that had Osip Mandelstam, or Marina Tsvetaeva, or Robert Frost, or Anna Akhmatova, or Wystan Auden stood here, they couldn’t have helped but speak precisely for themselves, and that they, too, might have felt somewhat uncomfortable.

These shades disturb me constantly; they are disturbing me today as well. In any case, they do not spur one to eloquence. In my better moments, I deem myself their sum total, though invariably inferior to any one of them individually. For it is not possible to better them on the page; nor is it possible to better them in actual life. And it is precisely their lives, no matter how tragic or bitter they were, that often move me – more often perhaps than the case should be – to regret the passage of time. If the next life exists – and I can no more deny them the possibility of eternal life than I can forget their existence in this one – if the next world does exist, they will, I hope, forgive me and the quality of what I am about to utter: after all, it is not one’s conduct on the podium which dignity in our profession is measured by.

I have mentioned only five of them, those whose deeds and whose lot matter so much to me, if only because if it were not for them, I, both as a man and a writer, would amount to much less; in any case, I wouldn’t be standing here today. There were more of them, those shades – better still, sources of light: lamps? stars? – more, of course, than just five. And each one of them is capable of rendering me absolutely mute. The number of those is substantial in the life of any conscious man of letters; in my case, it doubles, thanks to the two cultures to which fate has willed me to belong. Matters are not made easier by thoughts about contemporaries and fellow writers in both cultures, poets, and fiction writers whose gifts I rank above my own, and who, had they found themselves on this rostrum, would have come to the point long ago, for surely they have more to tell the world than I do.

I will allow myself, therefore, to make a number of remarks here – disjointed, perhaps stumbling, and perhaps even perplexing in their randomness. However, the amount of time allotted to me to collect my thoughts, as well as my very occupation, will, or may, I hope, shield me, at least partially, against charges of being chaotic. A man of my occupation seldom claims a systematic mode of thinking; at worst, he claims to have a system – but even that, in his case, is borrowing from a milieu, from a social order, or from the pursuit of philosophy at a tender age. Nothing convinces an artist more of the arbitrariness of the means to which he resorts to attain a goal – however permanent it may be – than the creative process itself, the process of composition. Verse really does, in Akhmatova’s words, grow from rubbish; the roots of prose are no more honorable.

If art teaches anything (to the artist, in the first place), it is the privateness of the human condition. Being the most ancient as well as the most literal form of private enterprise, it fosters in a man, knowingly or unwittingly, a sense of his uniqueness, of individuality, of separateness – thus turning him from a social animal into an autonomous “I”. Lots of things can be shared: a bed, a piece of bread, convictions, a mistress, but not a poem by, say, Rainer Maria Rilke. A work of art, of literature especially, and a poem in particular, addresses a man tete-a-tete, entering with him into direct – free of any go-betweens – relations.

It is for this reason that art in general, literature especially, and poetry in particular, is not exactly favored by the champions of the common good, masters of the masses, heralds of historical necessity. For there, where art has stepped, where a poem has been read, they discover, in place of the anticipated consent and unanimity, indifference and polyphony; in place of the resolve to act, inattention and fastidiousness. In other words, into the little zeros with which the champions of the common good and the rulers of the masses tend to operate, art introduces a “period, period, comma, and a minus”, transforming each zero into a tiny human, albeit not always pretty, face.

The great Baratynsky, speaking of his Muse, characterized her as possessing an “uncommon visage”. It’s in acquiring this “uncommon visage” that the meaning of human existence seems to lie, since for this uncommonness we are, as it were, prepared genetically. Regardless of whether one is a writer or a reader, one’s task consists first of all in mastering a life that is one’s own, not imposed or prescribed from without, no matter how noble its appearance may be. For each of us is issued but one life, and we know full well how it all ends. It would be regrettable to squander this one chance on someone else’s appearance, someone else’s experience, on a tautology – regrettable all the more because the heralds of historical necessity, at whose urging a man may be prepared to agree to this tautology, will not go to the grave with him or give him so much as a thank-you.

Language and, presumably, literature are things that are more ancient and inevitable, more durable than any form of social organization. The revulsion, irony, or indifference often expressed by literature towards the state is essentially a reaction of the permanent – better yet, the infinite – against the temporary, against the finite. To say the least, as long as the state permits itself to interfere with the affairs of literature, literature has the right to interfere with the affairs of the state. A political system, a form of social organization, as any system in general, is by definition a form of the past tense that aspires to impose itself upon the present (and often on the future as well); and a man whose profession is language is the last one who can afford to forget this. The real danger for a writer is not so much the possibility (and often the certainty) of persecution on the part of the state, as it is the possibility of finding oneself mesmerized by the state’s features, which, whether monstrous or undergoing changes for the better, are always temporary.

The philosophy of the state, its ethics – not to mention its aesthetics – are always “yesterday”. Language and literature are always “today”, and often – particularly in the case where a political system is orthodox – they may even constitute “tomorrow”. One of literature’s merits is precisely that it helps a person to make the time of his existence more specific, to distinguish himself from the crowd of his predecessors as well as his like numbers, to avoid tautology – that is, the fate otherwise known by the honorific term, “victim of history”. What makes art in general, and literature in particular, remarkable, what distinguishes them from life, is precisely that they abhor repetition. In everyday life you can tell the same joke thrice and, thrice getting a laugh, become the life of the party. In art, though, this sort of conduct is called “cliché”.

Art is a recoilless weapon, and its development is determined not by the individuality of the artist, but by the dynamics and the logic of the material itself, by the previous fate of the means that each time demand (or suggest) a qualitatively new aesthetic solution. Possessing its own genealogy, dynamics, logic, and future, art is not synonymous with, but at best parallel to history; and the manner by which it exists is by continually creating a new aesthetic reality. That is why it is often found “ahead of progress”, ahead of history, whose main instrument is – should we not, once more, improve upon Marx – precisely the cliché.

Nowadays, there exists a rather widely held view, postulating that in his work a writer, in particular a poet, should make use of the language of the street, the language of the crowd. For all its democratic appearance, and its palpable advantages for a writer, this assertion is quite absurd and represents an attempt to subordinate art, in this case, literature, to history. It is only if we have resolved that it is time for Homo sapiens to come to a halt in his development that literature should speak the language of the people. Otherwise, it is the people who should speak the language of literature.

On the whole, every new aesthetic reality makes man’s ethical reality more precise. For aesthetics is the mother of ethics; The categories of “good” and “bad” are, first and foremost, aesthetic ones, at least etymologically preceding the categories of “good” and “evil”. If in ethics not “all is permitted”, it is precisely because not “all is permitted” in aesthetics, because the number of colors in the spectrum is limited. The tender babe who cries and rejects the stranger or who, on the contrary, reaches out to him, does so instinctively, making an aesthetic choice, not a moral one.

Aesthetic choice is a highly individual matter, and aesthetic experience is always a private one. Every new aesthetic reality makes one’s experience even more private; and this kind of privacy, assuming at times the guise of literary (or some other) taste, can in itself turn out to be, if not as guarantee, then a form of defense against enslavement. For a man with taste, particularly literary taste, is less susceptible to the refrains and the rhythmical incantations peculiar to any version of political demagogy. The point is not so much that virtue does not constitute a guarantee for producing a masterpiece, as that evil, especially political evil, is always a bad stylist. The more substantial an individual’s aesthetic experience is, the sounder his taste, the sharper his moral focus, the freer – though not necessarily the happier – he is.

It is precisely in this applied, rather than Platonic, sense that we should understand Dostoevsky’s remark that beauty will save the world, or Matthew Arnold’s belief that we shall be saved by poetry. It is probably too late for the world, but for the individual man there always remains a chance. An aesthetic instinct develops in man rather rapidly, for, even without fully realizing who he is and what he actually requires, a person instinctively knows what he doesn’t like and what doesn’t suit him. In an anthropological respect, let me reiterate, a human being is an aesthetic creature before he is an ethical one. Therefore, it is not that art, particularly literature, is a by-product of our species’ development, but just the reverse. If what distinguishes us from other members of the animal kingdom is speech, then literature – and poetry in particular, being the highest form of locution – is, to put it bluntly, the goal of our species.

I am far from suggesting the idea of compulsory training in verse composition; nevertheless, the subdivision of society into intelligentsia and “all the rest” seems to me unacceptable. In moral terms, this situation is comparable to the subdivision of society into the poor and the rich; but if it is still possible to find some purely physical or material grounds for the existence of social inequality, for intellectual inequality these are inconceivable. Equality in this respect, unlike in anything else, has been guaranteed to us by nature. I am speaking not of education, but of the education in speech, the slightest imprecision in which may trigger the intrusion of false choice into one’s life. The existence of literature prefigures existence on literature’s plane of regard – and not only in the moral sense, but lexically as well. If a piece of music still allows a person the possibility of choosing between the passive role of listener and the active one of performer, a work of literature – of the art which is, to use Montale’s phrase, hopelessly semantic – dooms him to the role of performer only.

In this role, it would seem to me, a person should appear more often than in any other. Moreover, it seems to me that, as a result of the population explosion and the attendant, ever-increasing atomization of society (i.e., the ever-increasing isolation of the individual), this role becomes more and more inevitable for a person. I don’t suppose that I know more about life than anyone of my age, but it seems to me that, in the capacity of an interlocutor, a book is more reliable than a friend or a beloved. A novel or a poem is not a monologue, but the conversation of a writer with a reader, a conversation, I repeat, that is very private, excluding all others – if you will, mutually misanthropic. And in the moment of this conversation a writer is equal to a reader, as well as the other way around, regardless of whether the writer is a great one or not. This equality is the equality of consciousness. It remains with a person for the rest of his life in the form of memory, foggy or distinct; and, sooner or later, appropriately or not, it conditions a person’s conduct. It’s precisely this that I have in mind in speaking of the role of the performer, all the more natural for one because a novel or a poem is the product of mutual loneliness – of a writer or a reader.

In the history of our species, in the history of Homo sapiens, the book is anthropological development, similar essentially to the invention of the wheel. Having emerged in order to give us some idea not so much of our origins as of what that sapiens is capable of, a book constitutes a means of transportation through the space of experience, at the speed of a turning page. This movement, like every movement, becomes a flight from the common denominator, from an attempt to elevate this denominator’s line, previously never reaching higher than the groin, to our heart, to our consciousness, to our imagination. This flight is the flight in the direction of “uncommon visage”, in the direction of the numerator, in the direction of autonomy, in the direction of privacy. Regardless of whose image we are created in, there are already five billion of us, and for a human being there is no other future save that outlined by art. Otherwise, what lies ahead is the past – the political one, first of all, with all its mass police entertainments.

In any event, the condition of society in which art in general, and literature in particular, are the property or prerogative of a minority appears to me unhealthy and dangerous. I am not appealing for the replacement of the state with a library, although this thought has visited me frequently; but there is no doubt in my mind that, had we been choosing our leaders on the basis of their reading experience and not their political programs, there would be much less grief on earth. It seems to me that a potential master of our fates should be asked, first of all, not about how he imagines the course of his foreign policy, but about his attitude toward Stendhal, Dickens, Dostoevsky. If only because the lock and stock of literature is indeed human diversity and perversity, it turns out to be a reliable antidote for any attempt – whether familiar or yet to be invented – toward a total mass solution to the problems of human existence. As a form of moral insurance, at least, literature is much more dependable than a system of beliefs or a philosophical doctrine.

Since there are no laws that can protect us from ourselves, no criminal code is capable of preventing a true crime against literature; though we can condemn the material suppression of literature – the persecution of writers, acts of censorship, the burning of books – we are powerless when it comes to its worst violation: that of not reading the books. For that crime, a person pays with his whole life; if the offender is a nation, it pays with its history. Living in the country I live in, I would be the first prepared to believe that there is a set dependency between a person’s material well-being and his literary ignorance. What keeps me from doing so is the history of that country in which I was born and grew up. For, reduced to a cause-and-effect minimum, to a crude formula, the Russian tragedy is precisely the tragedy of a society in which literature turned out to be the prerogative of the minority: of the celebrated Russian intelligentsia.

I have no wish to enlarge upon the subject, no wish to darken this evening with thoughts of the tens of millions of human lives destroyed by other millions, since what occurred in Russia in the first half of the Twentieth Century occurred before the introduction of automatic weapons – in the name of the triumph of a political doctrine whose unsoundness is already manifested in the fact that it requires human sacrifice for its realization. I’ll just say that I believe – not empirically, alas, but only theoretically – that, for someone who has read a lot of Dickens, to shoot his like in the name of some idea is more problematic than for someone who has read no Dickens. And I am speaking precisely about reading Dickens, Sterne, Stendhal, Dostoevsky, Flaubert, Balzac, Melville, Proust, Musil, and so forth; that is, about literature, not literacy or education. A literate, educated person, to be sure, is fully capable, after reading this or that political treatise or tract, of killing his like, and even of experiencing, in so doing, a rapture of conviction. Lenin was literate, Stalin was literate, so was Hitler; as for Mao Zedong, he even wrote verse. What all these men had in common, though, was that their hit list was longer than their reading list.

However, before I move on to poetry, I would like to add that it would make sense to regard the Russian experience as a warning, if for no other reason than that the social structure of the West up to now is, on the whole, analogous to what existed in Russia prior to 1917. (This, by the way, is what explains the popularity in the West of the Nineteenth-Century Russian psychological novel, and the relative lack of success of contemporary Russian prose. The social relations that emerged in Russia in the Twentieth Century presumably seem no less exotic to the reader than do the names of the characters, which prevent him from identifying with them.) For example, the number of political parties, on the eve of the October coup in 1917, was no fewer than what we find today in the United States or Britain. In other words, a dispassionate observer might remark that in a certain sense the Nineteenth Century is still going on in the West, while in Russia it came to an end; and if I say it ended in tragedy, this is, in the first place, because of the size of the human toll taken in course of that social – or chronological – change. For in a real tragedy, it is not the hero who perishes; it is the chorus.

Although for a man whose mother tongue is Russian to speak about political evil is as natural as digestion, I would here like to change the subject. What’s wrong with discourses about the obvious is that they corrupt consciousness with their easiness, with the quickness with which they provide one with moral comfort, with the sensation of being right. Herein lies their temptation, similar in its nature to the temptation of a social reformer who begets this evil. The realization, or rather the comprehension, of this temptation, and rejection of it, are perhaps responsible to a certain extent for the destinies of many of my contemporaries, responsible for the literature that emerged from under their pens. It, that literature, was neither a flight from history nor a muffling of memory, as it may seem from the outside. “How can one write music after Auschwitz?” inquired Adorno; and one familiar with Russian history can repeat the same question by merely changing the name of the camp – and repeat it perhaps with even greater justification, since the number of people who perished in Stalin’s camps far surpasses the number of German prisoncamp victims. “And how can you eat lunch?” the American poet Mark Strand once retorted. In any case, the generation to which I belong has proven capable of writing that music.

That generation – the generation born precisely at the time when the Auschwitz crematoria were working full blast, when Stalin was at the zenith of his Godlike, absolute power, which seemed sponsored by Mother Nature herself – that generation came into the world, it appears, in order to continue what, theoretically, was supposed to be interrupted in those crematoria and in the anonymous common graves of Stalin’s archipelago. The fact that not everything got interrupted, at least not in Russia, can be credited in no small degree to my generation, and I am no less proud of belonging to it than I am of standing here today. And the fact that I am standing here is a recognition of the services that generation has rendered to culture; recalling a phrase from Mandelstam, I would add, to world culture. Looking back, I can say again that we were beginning in an empty – indeed, a terrifyingly wasted – place, and that, intuitively rather than consciously, we aspired precisely to the recreation of the effect of culture’s continuity, to the reconstruction of its forms and tropes, toward filling its few surviving, and often totally compromised, forms, with our own new, or appearing to us as new, contemporary content.

There existed, presumably, another path: the path of further deformation, the poetics of ruins and debris, of minimalism, of choked breath. If we rejected it, it was not at all because we thought that it was the path of self-dramatization, or because we were extremely animated by the idea of preserving the hereditary nobility of the forms of culture we knew, the forms that were equivalent, in our consciousness, to forms of human dignity. We rejected it because in reality the choice wasn’t ours, but, in fact, culture’s own – and this choice, again, was aesthetic rather than moral.

To be sure, it is natural for a person to perceive himself not as an instrument of culture, but, on the contrary, as its creator and custodian. But if today I assert the opposite, it’s not because toward the close of the Twentieth Century there is a certain charm in paraphrasing Plotinus, Lord Shaftesbury, Schelling, or Novalis, but because, unlike anyone else, a poet always knows that what in the vernacular is called the voice of the Muse is, in reality, the dictate of the language; that it’s not that the language happens to be his instrument, but that he is language’s means toward the continuation of its existence. Language, however, even if one imagines it as a certain animate creature (which would only be just), is not capable of ethical choice.

A person sets out to write a poem for a variety of reasons: to win the heart of his beloved; to express his attitude toward the reality surrounding him, be it a landscape or a state; to capture his state of mind at a given instant; to leave – as he thinks at that moment – a trace on the earth. He resorts to this form – the poem – most likely for unconsciously mimetic reasons: the black vertical clot of words on the white sheet of paper presumably reminds him of his own situation in the world, of the balance between space and his body. But regardless of the reasons for which he takes up the pen, and regardless of the effect produced by what emerges from beneath that pen on his audience – however great or small it may be – the immediate consequence of this enterprise is the sensation of coming into direct contact with language or, more precisely, the sensation of immediately falling into dependence on it, on everything that has already been uttered, written, and accomplished in it.

This dependence is absolute, despotic; but it unshackles as well. For, while always older than the writer, language still possesses the colossal centrifugal energy imparted to it by its temporal potential – that is, by all time Iying ahead. And this potential is determined not so much by the quantitative body of the nation that speaks it (though it is determined by that, too), as by the quality of the poem written in it. It will suffice to recall the authors of Greek or Roman antiquity; it will suffice to recall Dante. And that which is being created today in Russian or English, for example, secures the existence of these languages over the course of the next millennium also. The poet, I wish to repeat, is language’s means for existence – or, as my beloved Auden said, he is the one by whom it lives. I who write these lines will cease to be; so will you who read them. But the language in which they are written and in which you read them will remain not merely because language is more lasting than man, but because it is more capable of mutation.

One who writes a poem, however, writes it not because he courts fame with posterity, although often he hopes that a poem will outlive him, at least briefly. One who writes a poem writes it because the language prompts, or simply dictates, the next line. Beginning a poem, the poet as a rule doesn’t know the way it’s going to come out, and at times he is very surprised by the way it turns out, since often it turns out better than he expected, often his thought carries further than he reckoned. And that is the moment when the future of language invades its present.

There are, as we know, three modes of cognition: analytical, intuitive, and the mode that was known to the Biblical prophets, revelation. What distinguishes poetry from other forms of literature is that it uses all three of them at once (gravitating primarily toward the second and the third). For all three of them are given in the language; and there are times when, by means of a single word, a single rhyme, the writer of a poem manages to find himself where no one has ever been before him, further, perhaps, than he himself would have wished for. The one who writes a poem writes it above all because verse writing is an extraordinary accelerator of conscience, of thinking, of comprehending the universe. Having experienced this acceleration once, one is no longer capable of abandoning the chance to repeat this experience; one falls into dependency on this process, the way others fall into dependency on drugs or on alcohol. One who finds himself in this sort of dependency on language is, I guess, what they call a poet.

Translated from the Russian by Barry Rubin.

From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1981-1990, Editor-in-Charge Tore Frängsmyr, Editor Sture Allén, World Scientific Publishing Co., Singapore, 1993


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