Creative Writing Around the World Matthew Mccool

22 Creative Writing around the World Matthew McCool

I want my writing to be as clear as water. No ornate language; very few obvious tricks. Andrew Motion

And yet it was quite clear that playing Go with a foreigner was very different from playing Go with a Japanese. Yasunari Kawabata, The Master of Go

Literature not only delights, it also instructs. This maxim is of the utmost importance, as it conveys a truth that the written word not only transports us to a different time and place, but that it also has practical value. Stories and literature are bundles of wisdom packaged in vivid mental images. Love, sex, beauty, status, power, revenge, and violence are just a few of the things we expect from literature (Gottschall; Pinker, The Blank Slate). We enjoy these aspects of literature because they deal with those things that matter most. At the same time, literature takes place through the medium of language, and language interacts with culture. Thus, if literature takes place through language, and language is an engine of culture, then literature and culture also interact. This essay assumes the concerns that matter most to the mind, goals that affect the entire human species, are presented in language that reflects the culture in which it originates. Although all members of our species have the same set of ambitions, culture has something to say about how these goals are achieved. Your goal of earning a doctoral degree may be countered by someone else’s goal of being wealthy. Both goals speak

(c) 2013 Kogan Page Ltd. All Rights Reserved Creative Writing around the World 335 to the concern for status, but they reach these ends in very different ways. Culture is similar in that it gives us rules about the kinds of goals we find most important, and how best to go about achieving them. This is not to say that everyone adheres to every rule of a society, or even most of them (Durkheim). Individuals are certainly free to pick and choose those rules or maxims they find most useful or important. Some cultures, for instance, advocate for status based on personal achievement, while other cultures strive for status through family name or ascription (Hofstede). The point is that status can be achieved in multiple ways, and agreement on these kinds of goals is a mixture of individual desire and social pressure. At the root of these deep cultural differences is a tacit understanding of how people communicate, especially in writing (Connor). As we will see, not everyone on the planet has the same assumptions about the power of language, what it should be used for, how it is supposed to be applied in complex social situations, or what happens when you put it into print. These factors converge on an understanding that cultures do not write using the same strategies because they do not strive for the same goals. Basic assumptions about nouns, verbs, adverbs, overwriting, and underwriting are just a few of the ways that cultures differ when they communicate in writing (McCool). My goal for this essay is to convince you of this argument, and then to offer a few thoughts on predicting how language will come to be understood in terms of creative writing and world literature. Before getting to that point, though, we need a basic understanding of how cultures use language to communicate, and to then transfer this knowledge to different writing strategies.

What Is Culture?

When the March 11, 2011 Tōhoku megathrust earthquake and tsunami devastated Japan’s eastern coastline, comparisons were made almost immediately to the 2005 Hurricane Katrina in the United States. People from around the world marveled as the Japanese stood in long lines for hours on end, patiently waiting for basic supplies such as bread and water. After people who waited for many hours found out that supplies had been depleted, they did not resort to looting or violence. Instead, they simply went on their way. Journalists from China, the Philippines, and the US were quick to note Japan’s patience, honesty, and good will (Beam 2011; Japan Today; Takei). Theories to explain this difference came from many directions, but most settled on the notion that the Japanese are a group-oriented culture. Unlike individualistic Americans, Japanese believe in sacrificing the self for the group (Condon and Mas- umoto; Sadri and Flammia). Viewing culture in this broad “big picture” sort of way is not the only view one can take. Some people think of culture in terms of its classical sense, as in that which is considered fine or elite. An in-depth understanding of painting, poetry, and classical music might fall in this category. Another way to approach culture is from a popular perspective, as in movies, television, and radio. A third way might be to think of

Table 22.1 Three basic aspects of culture: social relationships, communication strategies, and authority individualism collectivism direct communication indirect communication authority minimized authority emphasized Source: Adapted from Condon and Masumoto; Hofstede; Thatcher. culture in terms of food and music. Sushi and taiko drums are found in Japan, but they do not tell us much about its people or culture. For our purposes, then, culture is defined as a group of people who share local expertise that, for better or worse, is loosely drawn at the borders of countries. This is not without problems, although it has enormous practical application (Hofstede). While it is important to pay attention to individual trees, our view is going to be the forest. When social scientists think of culture, they are usually talking about aspects of behavior regarding relationships, communication strategies, and hierarchies. Indi- vidualism and collectivism are used to help explain strategies for obtaining status and maintaining social relationships. Direct and indirect forms of communication address different assumptions about the kind of information that is shared, how it is com- municated, and even who is responsible for decoding the message. The third dimension, social hierarchies, refers to assumptions about equality and rank (Hofstede). These are only three of the many possible dimensions to culture, yet they are among the most important (Table 22.1). Status may be acquired and social relationships maintained through what may be called individualism and collectivism. Individualistic cultures believe in treating people as individuals, with unique aptitudes, traits, and abilities. Status is achieved rather than granted, and social relationships are maintained by trying to minimize hierarchies and rank (Sadri and Flammia; Stewart and Bennett). An employee at a bar with a manager would not feel obliged to pour his boss a drink, and would expect to be promoted on the merit of his accomplishments rather than the school he attended. Collective cultures believe in treating people as members of a group, with similar aptitudes, traits, and abilities. Status is granted rather than achieved, and social relationships are maintained by reinforcing hierarchies and rank. In collective cultures such as Japan, an employee out with a superior is expected to pour drinks for his boss, and expects to be promoted for his loyalty, work ethic, and his ability to maintain group harmony (Condon and Masumoto). Neither of these cultural values is better than the other, although they have different assumptions and goals. Culture is never so simple, but this continuum helps explain basic overall differences in the ways people interact with others. But people do not just go to work and have drinks; they also use language to communicate. At one end of the spectrum is direct or low context communication. Language is seen as an ideal medium for exchanging information, which is why people from low

(c) 2013 Kogan Page Ltd. All Rights Reserved Creative Writing around the World 337 context cultures tend to view it as a digital medium. Low context or direct communication strategies are linked with societies that have a lower need for saving face, and tend to underappreciate the many hidden meanings packaged in a message. This is not to say that low context cultures exchange information like digital computers, but the analogy is not altogether wrong (McCool, Thatcher). At the other end of the spectrum is high context communication. Here, language is seen as an imperfect medium for exchanging information, and more meaning may even be found in what is left unsaid (Condon and Masumoto, McCool). People from high context cultures tend to view language as an analog medium (McCool). High context or indirect communication strategies are linked with societies that have a higher need for saving face, and that tend to over-appreciate the many hidden meanings packaged in a message (Condon and Masumoto, Thatcher). This does not mean that high context cultures exchange information like pantomimes, but the example is not entirely wrong. Although the link is imperfect, direct or low context communication strategies tend to be associated with individualistic cultures. Indirect or high context communication strategies tend to be associated with collective cultures (McCool). Social relationships and communication strategies are also associated with proper ways for interacting with superiors, a measure in the distance of power. The third and final dimension of culture to be addressed is known as power distance, or authority ranking, and it can be an especially tricky aspect to come to terms with. Some societies are called low power distance, which is the tendency to minimize the difference between superiors and subordinates. The presumption behind low power distance societies is that people are more or less the same, which facilitates the notion that people are also equal. Although superiors carry more weight and enjoy higher status and rank, they are perceived as more effective by subordinates if they try to act just like them. In the classroom, students who evaluate a teacher as being just like them are giving tremendous praise (McCool). But other societies may be called high power distance, which is the tendency to maximize – or at least emphasize – the difference between superiors and subordinates (Hofstede, Thatcher). The presumption behind high power distance societies is that people are innately different, which aids the notion that people are also unequal. Superiors are perceived as good managers when they assume an instructive, protective, and vertical relationship with their subordinates. In the classroom, students who evaluate a teacher as wise and all- knowing are giving the highest compliment. If there is a need to find a connection, low power distance is typically associated with individualism and direct communication. High power distance is typically associated with collectivism and indirect communication. These dimensions may seem fine, although breaking down culture in this way is not without problems. No doubt there are many people in more individualistic societies who communicate primarily in an indirect fashion (a common strategy in academia in North America, traditionally a low context culture), and treat superiors with deference and subordinates with disdain. Similar problems may arise among some people from more collective societies, where one may speak directly without much concern

(c) 2013 Kogan Page Ltd. All Rights Reserved 338 Matthew McCool for authority and rank. Although these complexities make a basic understanding of culture seem problematic, or even hopeless, they are actually cause for appreciation. Just as with people, trying to understand culture is fraught with an endless string of variables that always keep you guessing. Culture is complex for these very reasons, which makes any intercultural success all the more enjoyable (Sadri and Flammia). These three dimensions are just a few of the many ways to understand what makes a particular group of people tick. More interesting, though, is the link between culture and the way people write. As we will see, culture is related not only to communication, but also to writing (Connor, Kroll, McCool, Thatcher).

Intercultural Writing

Many people believe that effective communication, especially writing, is based on a universal set of laws or principles (Williams). Writing should be clear, concise, and concrete. Sentences should flow smoothly from one to the next. Paragraphs should also flow, an effect made possible by transitional sentences at the beginning and end of paragraphs. These same people believe that the logic of an essay should be linear, proceeding from one natural point to the next, with no gaps in between (Connor, McCool). There is no question that this type of writing is effective and admired. It is my claim, however, that this kind of writing is prized only among certain people, and these societies just happen to be the ones that use English as their native language (Table 22.2). Linguists often divide writing strategies into three types but, in the name of sim- plicity and space, we will look briefly at two. The first type is called writer responsibility, which places the onus of communication on the writer. Elements of writer responsibility include a clear and logical connection between sentences and ideas. The syntactic logic of writer-responsible prose is AB/BC, which is when a sentence begins with an old idea and ends with a new one. The first sentence overlaps with the second, which creates a seamless transition. People in linguistics, intercultural pragmatics, and contrastive rhetoric largely agree that this pattern is easy to follow, and probably

Table 22.2 Differences between reader and writer responsibility Writer responsibility Reader responsibility AB/BC syntactic structure AB/CD syntactic structure clear, concise, concrete flowery, ornate, narrative logic of deduction logic of quasi-induction individualism, direct communication, authority collectivism, indirect communication, minimized authority emphasized Linguists typically call these parallel syntactic progression and sequential syntactic progression – or just parallel and sequential progression.

(c) 2013 Kogan Page Ltd. All Rights Reserved Creative Writing around the World 339 speaks to the problem of finding a common language among diverse readers. This is why writer responsibility is associated with clear, concise, and concrete language, and follows an overall pattern of logical deduction (McCool). The second type is called reader responsibility, which places the onus of communication on the reader. Elements of reader responsibility include a clear but somewhat illogical – at least in a technical sense – link between sentences and ideas. The syntactic logic of reader-responsible prose is AB/CD, which is when a sentence begins and ends with a different idea. The first sentence may but often does not overlap with the second, which creates “gaps” that must be inferred by the reader. Many linguists agree that reader responsibility is clear and effective, and follows a logic of its own. This is probably because reader responsibility tends to be found among homogeneous societies where large groups of people share a great deal of cultural, historical, and linguistic background (Connor, McCool, Thatcher). Some people disagree about how best to wrestle with reader and writer responsibility. Viewed from an opposite perspective, reader-responsible prose is airy, disjointed, sometimes convoluted, logically fallacious, and assumes too much from the audience. Similar difficulties are encountered with an opposite view of writer-responsible prose, which seems simple, obvious, possibly condescending, and may even appear to speak down to the audience. There is merit to both of these perspectives, and that is precisely the point (McCool). Effective writing in the US is categorically different from that in Japan, although both are equally good. Knowing the differences between reader and writer responsible prose is helpful for the practical concerns of life, but it may not be entirely clear how intercultural writing may help us understand creative writing and world literature. In the next and last section of this essay, we will make connections between culture and creative writing through the product of two authors well known in world literature. Although our efforts will be met by a few challenges, it is possible and even worthwhile to see how literary prose shapes and is shaped by the language and culture of a given society. Our journey will take us to two authors on opposite ends of the globe – the United States and Japan.

Language, Culture, and Creative Writing

Japanese author Yasunari Kawabata and American author Ernest Hemingway were both born in 1899. Both won the Nobel Prize for Literature, Hemingway in 1954 and Kawabata in 1968. Both suffered serious health problems toward the end of their lives, and both checked out by suicide. In the most important areas, their lives seem to be remarkably similar, yet they are split by a profound difference in culture. As we will see, the relationship between language and culture is also linked with individual authors, which provides a fascinating lens through which to think about creative writing and world literature. Our story starts with Kawabata’s The Master of Go, a novella that sealed his place in the annals of letters.

The novella is based on a series of dispatches that Kawabata sent to a Japanese newspaper in which he followed the actual 1938 retirement game between master Honinbo Shōsai and his younger opponent Minoru Kitani. The elder Shōsai, known throughout the story as the Master, is at the end of an illustrious career steeped in rite and tradition. His younger opponent, Otaké, is a rising star on the competitive circuit, and seems to lack respect for tradition and the ways of his elders. In the end, Otaké bests the Master in a game that lasts six months. Go is a game of time, respect, instinct, authority, and tradition. Often compared with the Western game of chess, which may take mere hours to complete, a game of Go may take days, weeks, or even months. A sense of time in a game of chess is altogether different than in a game of Go, but that is not their only distinction. There is also a deep sense of culture, which can be seen in various layers of meaning. On one level, the story is the explicit chronicle of a famous and noteworthy match between two outstanding players. On another level, the story reveals the complexities of seeing the young replace the old, an especially tricky problem in a culture of filial piety and vertical relationships. A third layer or level of analysis also addresses the problem of reconciling the ancient and modern, the difference between tradition and convention. Although less common, some readers think of the story as a symbol for Japan’s loss in World War II. This theory has some merit because Kawabata began work on the novella before the war and did not finish until it was over. Whether explicit or implicit, there is no question that the aging master and his younger opponent sym- bolize a shift in cultural thought. All three of these problems – health, inadequate respect for one’s elders, and emphasis on the future instead of the past – are compressed into a scene early in the book (Kawabata):

Because of the Master’s illness and for other reasons, numbers of disagreements arose, and Otaké’s manner, as he repeatedly threatened to forfeit the match, carried suggestions of an inability to understand the courtesies due to an elder, a want of sympathy for a sick man, and a rationalism that somehow missed the point. It caused considerable worry for the managers, and always the technical arguments seemed to be ranged on Otaké’s side.

This passage is telling because it reveals something important about Japanese culture, the game of Go, and how both are positioned in world literature. Otaké’s continued threats to forfeit the match were seen as an act of aggression because it symbolizes a lack of cooperation. In collective cultures such as Japan, one should have respect for their elders, regardless of rank or position. A student who goes on to be more suc- cessful than his professor will nonetheless continue to show respect and deference until the end of his life (Davies and Ikeno). Otaké’s inability, or unwillingness, to follow this social code puts him at odds with those in the Master’s circle. But Otaké is perceived not only as a brash youth eager to rebel against social convention; he is actually seen as bringing a strange kind of “technical” thinking to the game. The word is

(c) 2013 Kogan Page Ltd. All Rights Reserved Creative Writing around the World 341 never used in the novel, but Otaké is being “analytical,” and one of the traits of an analytical mind is distancing oneself from a problem. The biggest problem, though, is Otake’s reluctance to follow the Japanese custom of deference to one’s elders. Japan is a collective culture that goes to great length to emphasize what is known as wa, or harmony (Davies and Ikeno). Cultures are collective for various reasons, but in Japan it has a lot to do with location. Japan is a small island country, which means it is in an interesting global position. Its small size and dense population means its few resources must be used efficiently and effectively. The island is also located next to monolithic countries in Asia, such as China, which puts it in precarious political uncertainty. Japan is also at the crosshairs of several conti- nental shelves, which means it is susceptible to natural disasters such as earthquakes and tsunamis. All of these geographic and political factors, including limited land use in agriculture, means that the Japanese have long had a need to maintain cooperation and social harmony (McCool). Making sure that people get along, the harmony of wa, is without question a natural product of Japan’s dense population and geographic position (Davies and Ikeno). Japan’s geography, culture, language, and population density help explain the problems between Otaké and the Master. Keep in mind that Kawabata was not so much writing a novella as he was reporting on a story about a real game of Go. Before Kawabata published his novella, in fact, he dispatched vignettes of the game to the Mainichi Shimbun newspaper chain, first headquartered in Tokyo. The fact that he was compelled to turn it into a novel, and that it was particularly well received by the Japanese public, speaks to basic assumptions about what compels a Japanese person. Deference to authority, respect for elders, an emphasis on feeling or intuition rather than analytical thinking, and the extraordinary tension when these do not take place say something important about the Japanese mind (Davies and Ikeno). There is little question that Kawabata was tapping into something deep and ethe- real when he made this famous match into a novella. But there remains one word that seems to capture Japan so well that it would be remiss to overlook it, and that word is aimai. This word roughly translates as a kind of ambiguity, especially in terms of communication and personal opinion (Davies and Ikeno). Although ambiguity can be instrumental in maintaining group cohesion and social harmony, it also speaks to a higher order issue of analytical thinking. It is not so much that the Japanese do not think critically or have personal opinions. Instead, the Japanese simply have a strong social convention to avoid such topics in public. Although aimai is typically reserved for ambiguity in communication, it has a natural place in Kawabata’s novella. Con- sider a game of chess, which has 64 squares and 32 pieces. Although chess seems like a fairly simple game, at least in terms of pieces and squares, the number of possible games actually exceeds the atomic complexity of the known universe (Pinker, How the Mind Works). A game of Go, with its larger board and many more stones, has a complexity of a much higher order. Such magnitudes are difficult for the mind to process, which means that even human supercomputers must be humbled by the awesome complexity of Go. This is also why a game of Go can take weeks or even months to

(c) 2013 Kogan Page Ltd. All Rights Reserved 342 Matthew McCool complete, not to mention the difficulties of scoring such matches by hand before the advent of computers. With these variables in mind, there is no question that Go is also a symbol for the analytical ambiguity captured in wa. Perhaps the best illustration of the difference in American analytical thinking and Japanese intuition, or feeling, is from Kawabata himself. At a later point in the book, he issues a stunningly brief yet profound statement on the state of Go in Japan. More than any other point in the story, it is perhaps his most telling passage: “From the way of Go, the beauty of Japan and the Orient had fled. Everything had become science and regulation.” Keep in mind that Kawabata began his book before the war and finished after. Although Japan is a technical and scientific superpower today, its history is not one of cutting-edge innovation. Shintoism, in fact, which is a religion steeped in the natural world, is hardly the sort of doctrine or philosophy one expects from an empiri- cal mindset (Smith). Yet, at the apex of their game, Kawabata provides a nearly tragic analysis of not only Japan’s insularity, but also its startling openness. The game of Go, and perhaps Japan as a whole, seems to morph from a land of imperfect beauty, so-called wabi-sabi, to a cold and calculating computer. Through the eyes of its elders, Japan had ceased to be a socially inclusive island nation. It had become a monolithic machine. The fact that this touched something deep in the Japanese psyche speaks for itself. It is not only the difference between age and youth, the old and the young. It has something to do both with the cycle of life, and the way that some cultures can be forever transformed. Consider what happens when people emigrate to other countries and negotiate extraordinary linguistic and cultural pressures. Added to this is the apparent loss of immediate family and friends, or at least the ability to see them quickly. Even in an age of electronic information, the internet and email, and an ability to hop onto a jetliner at a moment’s notice, there is something a bit unsettling about being on the other side of the planet. It is not simply a matter of being so far away, since a 14-hour flight is really no different than a 14-hour drive. The difference is much deeper, writ not only in a society’s bones but also in its language and culture. The leap from one place to the next can be immense. Kawabata was an extraordinary writer who left this earth too soon, but he at least left behind a few literary gifts. If The Master of Go seems too foreign, then consider our second novella. Instead of the exotic East, as some people have been known to say, we are in the ordinary West. Our journey takes us to that space between the US and Cuba. But before touching warmer climes, consider one last passage from Kawa- bata’s work:

Quite aside from matters of skill, I sensed no response, no resistance. There was no muscular tone in his play. One always found a competitive urge in a Japanese, however inept he might be at the game. One never encountered a stance as uncertain as this. The spirit of Go was missing. I thought it all very strange, and I was conscious of being confronted with utter foreignness.

This passage details the strange but otherwise innocent play of a game of Go with a foreigner, in this case an American. The scene goes on for several pages, but the passage speaks for itself. The narrator is puzzled by the American’s willingness to engage in many games of Go, seemingly unharmed by his inferior play. Our Japanese narrator cannot quite figure out why his opponent continues on with such a cheery disposition, content that he must be learning something important about this strange and new game. The narrator seems concerned that his American adversary seems to lack a “competitive urge,” but perhaps this is because the foreigner is accustomed to making friends easily. Such is the case among individualistic cultures, a people who fluidly navigate novel social circles (Stewart and Bennett). You may have noticed the epigraph for this essay is from Andrew Motion, the former Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom and author of the foreword of this very book. “I want my writing to be as clear as water,” he says, “no ornate language; very few obvious tricks” (British Council). Motion’s quote rings true, but perhaps that is because I am an American speaking my native language of English. When it comes to linguistics and writing, a person’s native language can say a lot about how that person thinks, or at least what they value. Such is the case with Andrew Motion, a British national by birth. So why should his quote be so important? The answer to that question can be found in just about any book on English language writing and linguistics (Connor, McCool, Williams). I will briefly discuss one of the more popular books on the US market, which is Joseph Williams’s Style: The Basics of Clarity and Grace. I have already read the book, although there was little need to go through the trouble again. Its lessons are actually contained on the inside flap of the front cover of the print edition, with a few additional pointers on the inside flap of the back. The front cover gives such advice as “open your sentences with short, concrete subjects,” “open your sentences with information familiar to your reader,” “be concise,” “control sprawl,” “use parallel structures,” and “above all, write to others as you would have others write to you.” This probably sounds like terrific advice, assuming you come from Canada, the US, the UK, Australia, or South Africa. This is not to say that the advice is bad, or even wrong, but it surely puts the rest of the world in a curious situation (Connor, Kroll, McCool, Thatcher). Consider the last tip, which is the goal of writing to others as you would have them write to you. On the surface, this seems like a difficult maxim to avoid, at least until you realize that most of the world would find such advice hard to stomach. The goal of writing the same for everyone, regardless of who that person may be, can only be true in a society that presumes equality among most or all of its people (McCool). As an American, I can tell you this tip is readily accepted by writing professors in the US. The same cannot be said of many other cultures, such as Latin America and most parts of Asia, because equality is not presumed. In these societies, group harmony and authority ranking are central to a well-run society (Hofstede). Thus, Hemingway shows his American writing patterns through his clear and concise prose, Williams’s seventh tip.

Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea betrays an American style of writing in a nearly identical manner, namely culture. Consider the plot. An old man and a boy are friends. The old man is described as humble and proud, although he has caught no fish in 84 days. Because of the old man’s poor luck, the boy brings him food. The old man teaches the boy how to fish, even though his days of fishing seem over. Nearly the entire novella is about hooking a marlin, which lasts three days. The old man sees the fish as a kind of brother, but vows to kill him and eventually succeeds. As the old man and the boy return to shore, a shark attacks the boat and starts eating the marlin. The old man tries to fight the shark first with a harpoon, then a club, and then a knife, although nothing but skeleton remains by the time they reach shore. With nothing left of the marlin, the old man falls asleep, where he dreams of lions. The language and story are interesting on several levels, but perhaps most peculiar in terms of the characters. There are only two main characters, the old man and the boy. The old man is alone, trying to figure out how best to resurrect his youth or keep away death. The old man’s solitary life reveals something important about his background, especially his culture. It is unlikely, or at least less likely, that an old man would be alone at the end of his life in a collective or group-oriented culture. In societies such as Japan, the elderly do not get shipped off to geriatric institutions or quietly disappear in solitude. Instead, elderly Japanese live with family, and usually their children (Davies and Ikeno). This is not some kind of burden or problem, although it might be perceived that way from an American perspective. And from a Japanese perspective, an old man who lives alone and leads a solitary life must have a very poor family indeed, or have been an unusually difficult person. Of course, none of these assumptions need be true if the old man’s culture values independence, which makes it difficult for the elderly to live with their children. As though he wrote it to contradict Kawabata, Hemingway’s culture surfaces fairly early in the novella.

Once he stood up and urinated over the side of the skiff and looked at the stars and checked his course. The line showed like a phosphorescent streak in the water straight out from his shoulders. They were moving more slowly now and the glow of Havana was not so strong, so that he knew the current must be carrying them to the eastward. If I lose the glare of Havana we must be going more to the eastward, he thought. For if the fish’s course held true I must see it for many more hours. I wonder how the baseball came out in the grand leagues today, he thought. It would be wonderful to do this with a radio. Then he thought, think of it always. Think of what you are doing. You must do nothing stupid. Then he said aloud, “I wish I had the boy. To help me and to see this.” No one should be alone in their old age, he thought. But it is unavoidable. I must remember to eat the tuna before he spoils in order to keep strong. Remember, no matter how little you want to, that you must eat him in the morning.

The old man worries about his solitude and isolation and the fact that he is going through the final stages of life alone. He does not seem to feel sorry for himself, but

(c) 2013 Kogan Page Ltd. All Rights Reserved Creative Writing around the World 345 there is no question that he does not feel connected to anyone in the world except maybe the boy. Such thoughts tempt, but he fights and moves forward, only to have them return yet again.

Aloud he said, “I wish I had the boy.” But you haven’t got the boy, he thought. You have only yourself and you had better work back to the last line now, in the dark or not in the dark, and cut it away and hook up the two reserve coils.

There is a calm but utter sadness to his thoughts, a dogged self-reliance and stalwart individualism so typical of the American psyche. The American mind has been written about beautifully by a number of different people, but few have hit a nerve like Robert Putnam’s article titled “Bowling Alone,” which eventually became a book of the same name. In his article, Putnam provides a statistical account of America’s declining socialization in which its people have become increasingly isolated. The trend, he says, is one that began during the mid-twentieth century, and has been on a rapid decline ever since. Putnam advances his claim by explaining that Americans, and presumably most if not all individualistic cultures, have removed themselves from nearly every type of social function, including clubs, churches, sports, charity work, and politics. Putnam is not merely advancing a provocative theory about the American mind; he is warning of its precarious position and declining social capital. He argues that the only mem- berships actually increasing are found among organizations that wield strong political influence, such as the American Association of Retired Persons. While AARP’s increasing membership seems to counter Putnam’s thesis that American life has become increasingly isolated, it actually does nothing of the kind. In fact, AARP’s growing membership has nothing to do with socializing and connecting with other people because the only thing people need to do is mail in a check. There are no meetings, no social functions, and no opportunities for meeting like-minded people. AARP is an economic and political group, not a social one. Hemingway is not writing in a vacuum; he is simply one member of a society that highly values individual identity and personal freedom, to the point of self-destruction. One of the predictions of a theory of culture is that its deepest values and beliefs, though mutable, do not simply change overnight (Durkheim, Hofstede). Culture is deep and enduring, and it takes many generations for significant change to occur. This is why Hemingway’s life in the early twentieth century can speak so well to us today. His language may be clear and concise, the sort of thing for which Hemingway is known. Yet, the old man’s concerns are hardly odd or unusual. There is no concern that the young boy has been disrespectful to the old man, that any sort of tradition has been violated, or that intuition has been replaced by analytics. In fact, the old man is unconcerned with all of these things. He is simply old, unlucky, and at the end of his mortal journey, a time of severe sadness and isolation in a culture that does little to care for its elderly.

Culture is not the only way to look at literature and creative writing around the world, but it is one of the most critical. Language no doubt is important for understanding what makes a group of people the way they are, but few scholars today would be willing to assign any kind of linguistic determinism, the spurious notion that language shapes thought. Instead, language seems far more likely to reflect and rein- force values maintained by culture (Connor, Kroll, McCool, Thatcher). It is difficult to pin down the creative writing process of the world’s literature in a brief essay. The complexities are simply too great and the exceptions too numerous. On the other hand, there is some satisfaction in reining in this kind of complexity into useful terms. There is no question that Kawabata and Hemingway, similar in so many ways, also have enormous cultural differences. They may share the same year of birth, the Nobel Prize for Literature, declining health in later life, and a solitary suicide, but their work may as well have been from a different time and was from a different place. Their nuances are not simply linguistic, but also cultural, and they provide us with an extraordinary first lens into literature and creative writing around the world.

References

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