To Mr. Louis Germain
Speech on December 10, 1957#
I accept the honor bestowed upon me by your free Academy of Sciences with deep gratitude, especially knowing that this award greatly exceeds my personal merits. Everyone, particularly artists, wishes to be recognized. I am no exception. However, upon learning of your decision, I could not help but compare its impact with my actual self. How can a person who is still relatively young, possessing only doubts and unfinished work, accustomed to living in the solitude of work or the shelter of friendship, not feel somewhat panicked when suddenly standing alone in a blinding light? In Europe, some of the greatest writers are forced into silence, while their homeland is enduring endless suffering; what kind of mood can one have when receiving such an honor at this moment?
I do feel this unease and inner turmoil. To regain my peace, I must ultimately settle accounts with a fate that is too generous. Since I can only rely on my personal merits to match it, the only thing I have found to help me is the view I hold about my art and the role of the writer, which has supported me in the most contradictory environments throughout my life. I only ask to be allowed to express this view as simply as possible, with gratitude and friendship.
Personally, I cannot live without my art; however, I have never placed this art above everything else. On the contrary, if it is indispensable to me, it is because it does not separate me from anyone; it allows me to live as I truly am, just like everyone else. In my view, art is not a solitary pleasure. It is a way of moving people by giving the greatest number a special image of shared joys and sorrows. Therefore, it forces the artist not to live in isolation; it makes him obey the most humble and universal truths. A person often chooses the fate of an artist because he feels different from others, but he soon realizes that he can only nourish his art and his difference by acknowledging his similarity to everyone else. It is precisely in the constant back-and-forth between himself and others, on the way to his indispensable beauty and the collective he cannot separate from, that the artist matures. This is why a true artist despises nothing; they force themselves to understand rather than to judge. If they have any cause to support in this world, it can only be a social cause, according to Nietzsche's grand declaration, where the creators, whether they are manual laborers or intellectuals, rule society, not the judges.
Thus, the role of the writer is intertwined with certain difficult responsibilities. By definition, he cannot serve those who create history today because he serves those who endure history; otherwise, he isolates himself and loses his art. The millions of soldiers of tyranny cannot pull him from solitude, especially when he agrees to follow them step by step. However, the silence of an unnamed, humiliated prisoner on the other side of the world is enough to bring the writer out of exile, as long as he can remember this silence in the privilege of freedom and can evoke it through art to a degree that none of us is great enough to accomplish; yet, the writer, in various situations throughout his life, whether anonymous or famous, in the shackles of tyranny or temporarily enjoying freedom of speech, can find a living community of feelings to defend him, provided he accepts as much as possible the two great responsibilities that created his profession: to serve truth and to serve freedom. Since his mission is to unite as many people as possible, this mission cannot compromise with lies and servitude, as lies and servitude quickly spread loneliness wherever they dominate. Regardless of our personal flaws, the nobility of our profession will always be rooted in two difficult commitments: to refuse to lie about what is well known and to resist oppression.
In over twenty years of absurd history, I, like all my contemporaries, have been lost in the turmoil of the times, supported by a vague feeling that writing today is an honor because this action carries an obligation, not merely writing. It particularly forces me to endure our shared pain and hope alongside those who experience the same history, according to my own nature and strength. These people were twenty years old at the beginning of World War I, during the establishment of the Hitler regime and the initial revolutionary trials, and subsequently faced the Spanish Civil War, World War II, the world of concentration camps, and the Europe of torture and prisons, thus completing their education; today, they must educate their sons in a world threatened by nuclear destruction and pursue their careers. I think no one can expect them to be optimistic. I even believe we should understand (and sometimes constantly struggle with) the mistakes of those who, burdened by increasing despair, demand the right to belittle themselves, rushing toward the nihilism of the times. However, in my homeland, in Europe, most of us have rejected this nihilism and have begun to seek legitimacy. They must create an art of living through catastrophic times to achieve rebirth and then openly fight against the death instinct that operates in our history.
Every generation takes it upon itself to transform the world, but my generation knows it cannot transform the world; however, its task may be greater. This task is to prevent the world from falling apart. This generation inherits a corrupt history, where fallen revolutions, mad technologies, dead deities, and exhausted ideologies are all mixed together, where mediocre powers can destroy everything today but no longer know how to persuade, and where intellect bows down to the extent of becoming a servant of hatred and oppression. Therefore, this generation must begin to restore something that gives dignity to life and death from self-denial within itself and its surroundings. Faced with a world at risk of disintegration, where our great judge may permanently establish a kingdom of death, this generation knows it should restore a non-enslaving, peaceful peace among nations in a mad race against time, re-coordinate labor and culture, and rebuild the Ark of the Covenant with all people. It cannot be certain that it will accomplish this enormous task, but it can be certain that it accepts the dual gamble of truth and freedom worldwide and knows how to die for it without hatred when the time comes. It is qualified to be cheered and encouraged wherever it goes, especially where it sacrifices itself. In any case, I wish to pass on the honor you have just given me to it, and I am sure you agree deep down.
After speaking of the nobility of the writing profession, I must also return the writer to his true position, where he shares only in the name with his comrades, fragile yet stubborn, unjust yet intoxicated by justice, constructing his work without shame or pride in the public eye, forever caught between pain and beauty, and wholeheartedly trying to extract from his dual existence the work he stubbornly attempts to establish amid the destructive movement of history. In this sense, who can expect ready-made solutions and pleasant moral lessons from him? Truth is mysterious, elusive, and always needs to be fought for. Freedom is dangerous, both hard to bear and exhilarating. We should strive toward these two great goals, firmly convinced in advance that we will faint on such a long road. After that, which writer would dare to act as a proclaimer of virtue with a clear conscience? As for me, I must reiterate that I have nothing to do with these things. I could never give up the light, the happiness of life, and the freedom in which I grew. However, although this nostalgia explains many of my mistakes and shortcomings, it undoubtedly helps me understand my profession, and it continues to help me stand beside those silent people who endure the lives imposed upon them in this world only because of memories or the brief happiness of regained freedom.
By returning to my actual self, to my limitations, to my debts, and to my difficult faith, I feel freer to show you the breadth and generosity of the honor you have just given me, and to express my willingness to accept it as a tribute to all those who share the same struggle but have received no privileges, suffering instead misfortune and torment. Finally, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and publicly make that ancient loyal promise as a sign of my personal gratitude, a promise that every true artist makes to himself in silence every day.
Speech on December 14, 1957 — The Artist and His Time#
An Eastern sage always asks the divine in his prayers to spare him from an age that refuses to be lonely; we are not sages, the divine does not spare us, and we are experiencing an age that refuses to be lonely, which does not allow us to be indifferent to it. Today's writers know this. If they speak, they are immediately criticized and attacked; if they become humble and silent, people will only talk to them about their silence, loudly accusing them.
In this clamor, writers can no longer hope to remain outside and continue their beloved thoughts and imaginations. Until now, abstention has at least been possible in history; but today everything has changed, silence itself has taken on a terrifying significance. From the moment abstention is seen as a choice, artists who are punished or praised for it are drawn in, whether they want to be or not. Here, I think "drawn in" is more appropriate than "intervened." In fact, for the artist, the issue is not one of voluntary intervention, but rather a kind of conscription. Today, every artist has boarded the ship of the times. He must obey, even if he thinks the ship smells of fish and the guards are indeed too many, and worse, the course chosen is not right. We are in a tide-filled sea. The artist must row like everyone else, and if possible, not die, which means continuing to live and create.
To be honest, this is not an easy task; I understand artists' nostalgia for their past comforts. The change is somewhat sudden. Indeed, there are always victims and lions in the arena of history: the former are sustained by eternal consolation, while the latter rely on bloody historical sustenance. However, the artist has previously sat in his seat, singing aimlessly for himself, or at most to encourage the victims and slightly alleviate the lions' hunger; now it is different, the artist stands in the arena, and his voice is certainly not what it once was, far from being so confident.
People clearly see what this unchanging obligation has cost art. First, it has lost its ease, along with the sacred freedom that permeates Mozart's works. People better understand the panic-stricken and stubborn expressions of our artworks, the worried frowns, and the sudden collapses. They understand why there are more journalists than writers among us, more craftsmen than Cézanne, and why pink books and black novels have replaced "War and Peace" and "The Brothers Karamazov." Of course, one can always counter this situation with humanitarian lamentations, becoming the embodiment of condemnation that Stepan Trofimovich strives to be in "The Possessed." One can also vent a national melancholy like this character; however, this melancholy does not change reality in the slightest. In my view, it is better to join this age, since the age demands it so strongly; it is better to calmly admit that the era of beloved masters, artists with camellias, and geniuses sitting in armchairs is gone forever. Today, creating is dangerously creating. Any publication is an action, and this action will provoke intense emotions from an age that forgives nothing. Therefore, the question is not whether this harms art. For those who cannot live without art or its meaning, the question is merely how the peculiar freedom of creation is possible amid so many ideologies (how many churches, what loneliness!).
It is not enough to say that art is threatened by state power; if so, the problem would be simple: the artist either fights or surrenders. However, once people realize that the battle begins within the artist's heart, the problem becomes more complex and more deadly. Our society is not lacking in good examples of hatred toward art, and this hatred has such power today only because it is maintained by the artists themselves. Previous artists' doubts were related to their own talents; today's artists' doubts concern the necessity of their art, and thus their very existence. Racine wrote "Bérénice" without fighting for the Edict of Nantes, and in 1957, he had to ask for forgiveness.
There are many reasons for this doubt of artists toward art, and some are less noble; however, regardless of these reasons, they all aim for the same goal: to prevent free creation by attacking its fundamental principle, that is, the artist's belief in himself. Emerson wisely said, "A man's obedience to his own talent is the best belief." Another American writer of the 19th century added, "As long as a man is true to himself, everything will follow naturally, including government, society, the sun, the moon, and the stars." Today, this incredible optimism seems to have died. In most cases, artists feel ashamed; if they have privileges, they feel ashamed of their privileges. They must first answer the question they pose to themselves: Is art a deceptive luxury?
I#
The first honest answer one can give is: indeed, art can sometimes be a deceptive luxury. We know that people can always stand on the stern of the ship and sing to the stars while the laborers are rowing in the hold, exhausted; people can always record the elegant conversations taking place in the arena's audience while the victims are crunching between the lions' teeth. It is hard to propose anything against this art that has achieved great success in the past, except to say that things have changed somewhat, especially that the number of laborers and victims on Earth has increased unbelievably. In the face of so much suffering, if this art still wishes to continue being a luxury, it must today also admit that it is simultaneously a lie.
So what will it actually say? If it is to meet the demands of the majority of our society, it will be a meaningless pastime. If it closes its eyes and simply refuses, if the artist decides to dwell in his fantasies, then it will only express a refusal and nothing else. Thus, what we have will be works of entertainers or specialists in form, both of which lead to an art detached from living reality. For about a century, we have lived in a society that is not even a society of money (where gold and silver can evoke fleshly desires) but merely a society of abstract symbols of money. A merchant society can be defined as a society where things disappear for the sake of symbols. When a ruling class no longer measures its wealth in land and gold bars but in numbers that correspond exactly to a certain amount of exchange activities, it simultaneously places a certain type of mystification at the center of its experience and its world. A society built on symbols is essentially an artificial society, in which the living reality of people is mystified. Thus, this society chooses a morality whose principles are merely formal as its religion, writing the words "freedom" and "equality" both in its prisons and its financial temples, which is not surprising. However, one cannot abuse words without facing punishment. Today, the most slandered value is undoubtedly the value of freedom. Some orthodox thinkers (I have always believed there are two types of intelligence: one is clever intelligence, and the other is foolish intelligence) consider freedom merely an obstacle on the true path of progress. Such solemn nonsense can be loudly proclaimed because for a hundred years, the commodity society has unilaterally and exclusively utilized freedom, viewing it as a right rather than an obligation, shamelessly trying to use a principle of freedom to serve a reality of oppression. Thus, this society does not demand that art become a tool for liberation but only requires it to be an activity of little consequence and merely a pastime; what is so surprising about that? The entire upper class, whose primary concern is money, whose only worry is the emotional upper class, is satisfied with its romantic novelists and the most boring art; regarding this art, Oscar Wilde, before tasting the flavor of iron bars, once said of himself that the greatest sin is superficiality.
The artists of bourgeois Europe (I have not yet said "artists") around 1900 accepted this lack of responsibility because taking responsibility meant a tiresome rupture with their society (the ones who truly ruptured were Rimbaud, Nietzsche, Strindberg; people know the price they paid). The theory of "art for art's sake" began at this time, which merely demanded this lack of responsibility. The solitary pastime of the artist for art's sake is precisely the art of an artificial, abstract society. Its logical result is salon art or purely formal art, nourished by pretentiousness and abstract fantasies, ultimately destroying all reality. Certain works please certain people, while many vulgar things corrupt many. In the end, art stands outside society, severing its living roots. Gradually, even popular art becomes lonely, or is only known to the public through newspapers or broadcasts, which provide people with a convenient, simplified concept. In fact, the more specialized art becomes, the more vulgar it inevitably becomes. Thus, thousands of people believe they know a contemporary great artist because they read in the newspapers that he raises canaries or that he never stays married for more than six months. Today, the greatest fame lies in being appreciated or despised without being read. Any artist who wants to become famous in our society should know that it is not him who is famous, but someone bearing his name, who will ultimately rid himself of him, perhaps one day removing the true artist from him.
Thus, it is not surprising that almost everything of value created in the commercial Europe of the 19th and 20th centuries, for example in literature, is against the society of the time! It can be said that until the approach of the French Revolution, active literature was generally a literature of approval. However, once the bourgeois society born from the revolution stabilized, a literature of resistance developed. Official values were denied, for example here, either by the deniers of revolutionary values from Romanticism to Rimbaud or by the maintainers of aristocratic values, with Vigny and Balzac being their excellent representatives. The common people and the nobility are the two great sources of all civilization, and both opposed the false society of the time.
However, this refusal persisted too long, became rigid, and turned false, leading to another kind of poverty. The theme of the "demonic poet" arose in commercial society (the best illustration is "Chatterton"), which solidified into a prejudice, resulting in the belief that only by opposing the society of the time can one become a great artist, regardless of what society it is. When this theme asserts that a true artist creates for the world of money, it is reasonable; however, when people conclude that an artist can only succeed by opposing everything, this principle becomes erroneous. Thus, we have many artists who wish to be cursed; otherwise, they feel guilty, longing for applause while also hoping for hisses. Of course, society today is tired or indifferent; it only occasionally applauds or boos. The intellectuals of our time continuously make themselves stronger to appear larger. However, by rejecting everything, even the tradition of his art, the contemporary artist fantasizes about creating his own rules, ultimately believing himself to be God. At the same time, he thinks he can create his own reality. But far from society, he can only create formal or abstract works, which are moving as experiences but lack the richness unique to true art, whose mission is unity. In short, the difference between contemporary subtlety or abstraction and the works of Tolstoy or Molière is the same as the difference between a promissory note expecting unseen wheat and a thick, fertile land filled with furrows.
II#
Thus, art can be a deceptive luxury. Therefore, it is not surprising that some people or artists want to retreat and return to reality. They do not acknowledge that artists have the right to live in solitude; they suggest that artists should not make their dreams the theme but rather the realities experienced and endured by the masses. These people are convinced that art for art's sake, from theme to style, cannot be understood by the masses or does not express reality at all; they hope that artists will take it upon themselves to depict the pain and happiness of ordinary people in the language of ordinary people, thus gaining universal understanding. As a reward for being absolutely true to reality, he will gain comprehensive communication between people.
This ideal of universal communication is, in fact, the ideal of all great artists. Contrary to popular prejudice, if anyone has no right to live in solitude, it is precisely the artist. Art cannot be a monologue. A lonely, unknown artist, when he appeals to posterity, merely reiterates his profound mission. When he believes that it is impossible to have a dialogue with contemporaries who are deaf or indifferent, he hopes for more dialogue with future generations.
However, to speak to everyone, to appeal to everyone, one must talk about what is well known, about our shared reality. The sea, rain, needs, desires, and the struggle with death are what unite us all. We resemble each other in what we collectively see and endure. Dreams vary from person to person, but the reality of the world is our shared homeland. Therefore, the aspiration for realism is reasonable because it is deeply connected to the adventure of art.
So let us be realists, or more precisely, let us strive to be realists, as long as realism is possible. Because whether this term has meaning is not very reliable; although realism is desirable, whether it is possible is not very reliable. First, we must consider whether pure realism in art is possible. According to the declarations of 19th-century naturalists, realism is an accurate reproduction of reality; thus, it is to art what photography is to painting, but the former is reproduction, while the latter is selection. However, what does photography reproduce? What is reality? In any case, even the best photography is not sufficiently faithful or realistic. For example, what could be more real in our world than a person's life? What could better reproduce it than a realistic film? However, under what conditions could such a film be possible? Under purely imaginary conditions. In fact, one must assume that there is an ideal camera aimed at this person day and night, continuously recording his smallest actions; the result would be a film that runs as long as this person's life, and only those viewers who are willing to sacrifice their lives to focus on another person's life details could watch it. Even under these conditions, such an unimaginable film would not be realistic. The reason is simple: the reality of a person's life does not solely exist in the place where he is; it also exists in other lives that give this person a form of life, primarily in the lives of loved ones, which must also be filmed, as well as in the lives of other unknown people, whether powerful or pitiful, fellow citizens, police, professors, invisible partners in mines and construction sites, diplomats or dictators, religious reformers, and artists who created some myths that decisively influence our actions, as well as those humble representatives sent by the supreme randomness that controls the most orderly lives. Therefore, the only possible realistic film would be one that continuously projects the world as a screen in front of us with an invisible machine. The only realistic artist would be God, if he exists; the rest of the artists are certainly unfaithful to reality.
Thus, the artist who rejects bourgeois society and its formal art, wanting to talk about reality and only reality, finds himself in a painful dilemma: they should be realists, yet they cannot; they want their art to obey reality, yet they cannot depict reality without making choices, and this choice makes reality obey a certain uniqueness of art. The beautiful and tragic works from the early days of the Russian Revolution clearly demonstrate this pain. At this time, Russian Blok, the great Pasternak, Mayakovsky, Yesenin, Eisenstein, and the first novelists depicting concrete and steel provided us with a magnificent laboratory of form and theme, a rich unease, and a madness of exploration. However, it should be concluded that we should explain how to become realists, even though realism is impossible. Despotism here, as elsewhere, is straightforward; in its view, realism is first necessary and then possible, provided it is willing to be socialist. What does this command mean?
In fact, it frankly admits that without making choices, one cannot reproduce reality; it rejects the kind of realism theory proposed in the 19th century, leaving only the need to find a principle of choice, and the world will be organized accordingly. It has found it, but not in the reality we know, but in the future reality. To reproduce the present well, one must also depict the future. In other words, the true object of socialist realism is precisely that which is not yet reality.
This contradiction is quite clever. However, after all, the expression "socialist realism" itself is contradictory. In fact, reality is not entirely socialist; how can socialist realism be possible? For example, the reality of the past is not socialist, nor is the present entirely so. The answer is simple: people will select from today's or yesterday's reality what is ready and conducive to establishing the ideal future. Therefore, on the one hand, people insist on denying and condemning what is not socialist in reality; on the other hand, they praise what is socialist or will become socialist. We inevitably obtain propaganda art, including both its good and bad aspects; we obtain a pink book that, like formal art, has also detached itself from complex, vivid reality. Ultimately, this art will be socialist, precisely not realistic.
This desire to become realistic thus becomes a new idealism, which bears no fruit for a true artist, just as bourgeois idealism does. Reality is openly placed in the highest position only to be eliminated more cleanly. Art is turned into nothingness. It serves something, and because of this service, it is enslaved. Only those who are careful not to depict reality are called realists and are praised, while others are criticized in the applause of the former. In bourgeois society, fame lies in not being read or being misread; in totalitarian society, fame lies in preventing others from being read. Here, true art is distorted or suppressed, and it is precisely those who fervently wish for universal communication who make it impossible.
In the face of such failure, the simplest thing is to admit that so-called socialist realism has nothing to do with great art; for the sake of the revolution, revolutionaries should seek another aesthetic. On the contrary, we know that defenders of socialist realism loudly proclaim that there can be no art outside of it. They indeed proclaim this loudly. However, I firmly believe they themselves do not believe it; they think the value of art should serve the value of revolutionary action. If these things were explicitly stated, the discussion would become easier. People can respect some individuals' great renunciation; they feel too painful the opposition between their concern for the misfortunes of ordinary people and the privileges sometimes granted to artists, rejecting this unbearable distance between those oppressed by suffering and their mission to express themselves and those people. People can understand these individuals and try to dialogue with them, for example, by telling them that canceling the freedom of creation may not be a good way to overcome servitude, and that it is foolish to abandon the right to speak for at least some people while waiting to speak for everyone. Yes, socialist realism should acknowledge its kinship; it should recognize that it is the twin brother of political realism. It sacrifices art for a purpose unrelated to art, while art can occupy a higher position in the hierarchy of values. In short, it temporarily cancels art to establish justice first; in a future that is still unclear, once justice is achieved, art will be revived. Thus, people have implemented this golden rule of contemporary wisdom regarding art: one cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs. However, this irresistible reason does not deceive us. To make a good omelet, it is not necessary to break thousands of eggs; I feel that the quality of the chef cannot be judged by the number of broken eggshells. The artistic chefs of our time should fear overturning more baskets of eggs than they wish, fearing that they will no longer be able to make omelets and that art will ultimately not be revived. Barbarism has never been temporary; it is indivisible, and it is normal for it to extend from art to customs. Thus, we see meaningless literature, reputable newspapers, photographic portraits, and hatred replacing religious educational dramas arising from human misfortune and blood; art here reaches the peak of enforced optimism, which is precisely the worst kind of luxury and the most ridiculous kind of lie.
What is so surprising about this? Great suffering is a noble theme; unless, like Keats, who is said to be so sensitive that he could touch suffering itself, no one can touch this theme. When a literature of obedience seeks to give this suffering official consolation, people clearly see this. The lie of art for art's sake pretends not to know evil, thus taking on responsibility; however, the lie of realism, if it has the courage to acknowledge the misfortunes of human reality, equally betrays this misfortune by using it to praise a future happiness that no one knows, so it can allow any mystification.
The two aesthetics have long been opposed: one demands a complete rejection of the present, while the other claims to abandon everything non-contemporary, ultimately leading to a distance from reality, converging in the same lie and the cancellation of art. The right-wing academicians do not know suffering, while the left-wing academicians exploit it. However, in both cases, while art is denied, suffering becomes even more profound.
III#
Should we conclude that this lie is the essence of art? I want to point out that the two attitudes I mentioned above are lies only because they have little to do with art. So what is art? It is certainly not so simple. And amid the clamor of so many eager to simplify everything, it is even more difficult to know what art is. On the one hand, people hope that genius is both brilliant and solitary; on the other hand, they demand that he resemble everyone else, which is actually more complex. Balzac made people feel this with the phrase: "Genius is like everyone, and no one is like him." Art is like this; without reality, it is nothing, and without art, reality is insignificant. In fact, how can art be separated from reality, and how can it obey reality? The artist chooses the object just as it is chosen by the object. In a sense, art is a resistance to what is fleeting and unfinished in the world: it merely wants to give a reality another form, while it must maintain this reality because this reality is its source of excitement. From this perspective, we are all realists, yet we are not. For what exists, art is neither a complete rejection nor a complete approval; it is both a rejection and an approval, which is why art is a constantly renewing division. The artist is always in this ambiguity, unable to deny reality while forever critiquing its eternally unfinished aspects. To paint a still life, the painter and the apple must oppose and correct each other. If there is no light, form is nothing; yet form also adds something to this light. The real world, through its brilliance, gives rise to shapes and sculptures, while also receiving a second light that fixes the sky's light from them. Great style thus exists between the artist and his object.
Therefore, the question is not whether art should separate from or obey reality, but merely how much reality a work should accurately contain so as not to disappear into the void or stumble along in lead-soled shoes. Each artist solves this problem to the best of his feelings and abilities. The stronger an artist's resistance to the reality of the world, the greater the weight of balanced reality he may achieve; however, this weight will never stifle the artist's demand for solitude. Just as in Greek tragedy, Melville, Tolstoy, or Molière's works, the finest works are those that balance the rejection posed by reality and humanity against this reality, keeping both sides active in a continuous surge, which is the surge of a joyful yet painful life. Thus, a new world gradually emerges, different from the everyday world, yet still the same world, both special and universal, filled with innocent insecurity, born from the power of genius and dissatisfaction with the moment. It is so, yet not so; the world is nothing and everything; this is the dual, constant cry of every true artist, a cry that keeps him standing, always wide-eyed, gradually awakening those who are at the center of a sleeping world to a fleeting, ever-changing image of reality, an image we recognize yet have never encountered.
Similarly, in the face of the times, the artist can neither ignore nor lose himself in them. If he ignores them, he will speak empty words. However, conversely, when he treats the times as an object, he affirms his own existence as a subject and cannot completely obey it. In other words, the artist affirms what kind of person he is by choosing to share the fate of ordinary people. He cannot escape this ambiguous state. What the artist obtains from history is what he can see in himself, or he directly or indirectly tolerates the strictly contemporary and those who are alive now, rather than the relationship between this contemporary and living artist and a future that this contemporary and living artist cannot foresee. Judging contemporary people in the name of those who do not yet exist is the role of a prophet; the artist can only measure people based on the myths they propose to him according to their influence on living people. Religious or political prophets can judge absolutely, and people know they are inevitable; however, the artist cannot. If he judges absolutely, he will indiscriminately divide reality into good and evil, falling into a melodrama. On the contrary, the purpose of art is not legislation and domination but primarily understanding. Due to its profound understanding, it sometimes also rules. However, no work of genius has ever been built on hatred and contempt. This is why the artist, at the end of his journey, always forgives rather than condemns. He is not a judge but a defender. He is the eternal defender of living creations because creations are alive. He truly defends love for one's neighbor, not that distant love, which reduces contemporary humanitarianism to a courtroom creed. On the contrary, great works will ultimately leave all judges speechless. Thus, the artist pays tribute to the greatest figures while bowing before the most despicable criminals. Wilde wrote in prison: "Among the unfortunate who are locked up with me in this miserable place, none is without a symbolic relationship with the secrets of life." Yes, and these secrets of life coincide with the secrets of art.
For one hundred and fifty years, writers in commercial society, with very few exceptions, have believed they could live in a happy irresponsibility. In fact, they live in solitude and die in solitude. We, the writers of the 20th century, will never be alone again; on the contrary, we should avoid the shared suffering of all, and our only defense, if any, is to speak for those who cannot speak. However, we should do this for all those who are suffering at this moment due to the governments and parties that oppress them, regardless of how powerful they were in the past or will be in the future: for the artist, there are no privileged executioners. This is why beauty today, especially today, cannot serve any political party; it can only serve the suffering and freedom of people, whether in distant or nearby days. The only artist who intervenes is the one who never refuses to fight but at least refuses to join the regular army; I mean the free shooter. The lesson he learns from beauty, if it is rightly drawn, is not a lesson of selfishness but a difficult lesson of philanthropy. The beauty born from this has never enslaved anyone; on the contrary, for thousands of years, it has alleviated the servitude of millions every moment, sometimes even liberating certain people forever. Finally, perhaps in this permanent tension between beauty and suffering, love for people and the madness of creation, unbearable solitude and the exhausting crowd, refusal and approval, we touch upon the greatness of art. It walks between the two abysses of boredom and propaganda. Great artists advance along this ridge, each step being an adventure, an extreme risk; however, the freedom of art is precisely, and only, in this adventure. Is this freedom difficult? Is it more like a discipline of asceticism? Which artist would deny this? Which artist would dare to claim competence in this never-ending task? This freedom means the health of the mind and body, a style that resembles the power of the soul, and the conflict of patience. Like all freedoms, it is a constant adventure, a tiring journey; this is why people today flee from this adventure as if escaping the demands of freedom, rushing toward various forms of servitude, which at least can provide comfort for the soul. However, if art is not an adventure, then what is it? What is its reason? No, a free artist, like a free person, is not a comfortable person. A free artist is someone who establishes his order with great difficulty; the more chaotic the things he has to organize, the stricter his rules become, and the more he affirms his freedom. Gide has a saying I have always agreed with, although it may cause misunderstanding: "Art lives on constraint and dies in freedom." Indeed, it is so. However, one should not think that art can be manipulated because art only lives on the constraints it sets for itself; it dies under other constraints; conversely, if it is not constrained by itself, it will babble and become a slave to shadows. Therefore, the freest art, the most resistant art, is the most classical art; it will strive to succeed to the greatest extent. As long as a society and its artists do not support this greatest effort, as long as they pursue the comfort of leisure or the comfort of complacency, the tricks of art for art's sake or the preachings of realist art, its artists will remain in nihilism and poverty. This means that today's revival depends on our courage and our visionary will.
Yes, this revival is in the hands of each of us. Whether the West can produce some anti-Alexanders depends on us; these anti-Alexanders should reconnect with the Gorgon's knot of civilization, which was cut open by the sword. For this, we must bear all the risks and work of freedom. The question is not whether we can maintain freedom in the pursuit of justice; the question is knowing that without freedom, we will accomplish nothing, losing both future justice and existing beauty. Only freedom can free people from loneliness, and loneliness can only soar above lonely people. Due to this nature of freedom that I attempt to affirm, art unites people wherever tyranny separates them; thus, it becomes an open enemy of any oppression; what is so surprising about this? Artists and intellectuals become the first victims of modern tyranny (whether right or left); what is so surprising about this? Tyrants know that there is a liberating power in artworks, and this liberating power is only mysterious to those who do not worship artworks. Every great work makes a person's face more admirable and richer; this is its entire secret. Thousands of concentration camps and prison bars are not enough to blur this shocking evidence of dignity. This is why people cannot temporarily suspend culture, even to prepare for a new culture. People cannot suspend the uninterrupted testimony of humanity to its suffering and nobility; people cannot suspend breathing. There is no culture without heritage; we cannot and should not reject our Western heritage. Regardless of what the future works will be like, they will contain the same secret, a secret forged by the courage, freedom, and audacity of thousands of artists from various eras and nations. Yes, when modern tyranny shows us that the artist is an enemy of the public while being confined to his profession, it makes sense; however, it also expresses respect for a human image through the artist, an image that has yet to be shattered by anything.
My conclusion is simple: amid the clamor and madness of our history, let us loudly proclaim, "Let us rejoice!" Indeed, let us rejoice at seeing a lying, comfortable Europe die, let us rejoice at facing harsh truths, let us rejoice as human beings; for a long-standing mystery has collapsed, and we have seen what threatens us. Let us rejoice as artists who have awakened from sleep and deafness, who must stand before suffering, prisons, and blood. If we can remember the past years and the faces of people in the face of such a scene, if we can not forget the humiliated people in the face of the beauty of the world, then Western art will gradually regain its strength and superiority. It can be said that artists face such severe problems, which are rare in history. However, precisely because of words, even simple words must pay the price of freedom and blood, artists have learned to use them with restraint. Danger brings classicism; in short, anything great is rooted in risk.
The era of irresponsible artists has passed. We nostalgically remember this era for some small happiness. However, we also know that acknowledging this trial also helps us gain our authenticity; we accept this challenge. When artistic freedom only means ensuring the comfort of the artist, it is less precious. To root a value or quality in a society, one should not deceive it; that is, one should pay the price for it as much as possible. If freedom becomes dangerous, then it will no longer be sold. For example, I cannot agree with some people who complain that wisdom is declining today. On the surface, they seem reasonable; however, wisdom was once the untroubled joy of certain scholarly humanists, and in reality, it has never declined as much as it has now. Today, it finally faces real danger; on the contrary, it has the opportunity to stand up again and regain respect.
It is said that Nietzsche, after breaking with Lou Salomé, fell into a decisive solitude, gazing at the enormous work he had to complete without help, feeling both overwhelmed and spiritually uplifted. One night, he walked in the mountains overlooking the Gulf of Genoa, igniting a large pile of branches and leaves, watching them slowly burn out. I often dream of this great fire, sometimes wanting to place certain people and certain works before the fire to test them. Thus, our time is like this great fire, its unbearable flames will undoubtedly turn many works to ashes! However, for those works that remain, their metal remains intact, and we can unreservedly immerse ourselves in this supreme joy of intellect, a joy called "admiration."
Of course, people can hope for a gentler fire, a relief, a pause conducive to dreams; I hope so too. However, for the artist, perhaps there is no other peace than that which exists in the most intense battle. Emerson said well: "Every wall is a door." Do not seek doors and exits beyond the walls our lives face; instead, let us seek relief where there is relief, meaning in the midst of battle. It has been said that great thoughts arrive in the world attached to the feet of doves. Perhaps at that time, if we listen carefully, we will hear the gentle stirrings of life and hope amid the clamor of empires and nations, as if the faint sound of wings passes by. Some say this hope is brought by a nation, while others say it is brought by a person; I believe the opposite is true: it is the thousands of lonely individuals who stir, activate, and maintain this hope, whose actions and works daily negate the boundaries of history and its coarsest appearances, allowing the truth, which is always threatened, to shine for a moment, a truth that everyone establishes upon their own suffering and joy.
[Notes]#
[1] Louis Germain, Camus's elementary school teacher.
[2] Camus was forty-four at this time.
[3] Referring to Algeria.
[4] According to ancient Greek mythology, the Gorgon's knot was firmly tied and later cut open by Alexander with a sharp sword.
Source#
Albert Camus, "Discours de Suède"