CHAPTER I LITERATURE AND ITS GENRE Answering the frequently-asked question ―What is literature?‖ is the main aim of this chapter. Although literature is sometimes defined as anything written, this definition is both too broad and too narrow. While it is true that a housewife can ask the department of Agriculture for ―literature‖ about canning artichokes, surely we can distinguish between literature in the sense of any writing, and literature in the sense of verbal works of art. And, on the other hand, to say that literature must be written and printed is too narrow, because it excludes oral literature, e.g., ballads that are sung and stories that are recited. We can begin saying that literature is (quoting Robert Frost‘s words) a ―performance in words‖. It has in it an element of entertaining display, and surely we expect literature to be in some sense entertaining, or to put it in slightly different items, to afford pleasure. That literature is an adult game, a sort of make- believe, is suggested in some of the words we apply to pieces of literature-―fiction,‖ ―story‖, ―tale‖, ―play‖. 1 Now, what is it that makes literature pleasant? Without attempting a complete answer, perhaps we can say that a literary work seizes our interest and more or less- at least for a moment- makes the rest of the world fade or vanish. If the writer has done his job well, our attention is focused on the work, and we are in some measure detached from our usual surrounding. Consider, as an analogy, our reaction when we suddenly get a whiff of new-mown hay. We are walking along a road, either fretting about a dozen things or engaged in a pleasant vague reverie, when suddenly we smell the hay. At once we are caught up, keenly interested in this experience, intensely aware of this one thing, a thing that seems complete and satisfying in it. For the moment we forget about the time of day, the dust of the road, the heat of the sun, and we find in this thing which is complete, whole, independent, something that catches us up and delights us. A work of art has this power to catch us up momentarily, and to delight us. Art, it is commonly said, offers truth as well as pleasure. Such a view is at least superficially plausible, but when we begin to think about it, we encounter problems. What‖truth―is there in Oliver Twist? The characters in the novel are fictional; 2 we cannot say that Dickens is giving us a true picture of English history. Look at the short poem by Walter Savage Landor (1775- 1864): There is a flower I wish to wear, But not until first worn by you- Heart‘s-ease__ of all earth‘s flowers most rare; Bring it; and bring enough for two. Is it true that the flower called heart‘s-ease is the earth‘s rarest flower? If we want to know about flowers, hadn‘t we better listen to botanists than to poets? These are big problems, and they have not yet been solved to general satisfaction. Not only literary critics but creative artists themselves have numerous theories about the nature of literature. But most theories of literature can, without much distortion, be put into one of three pigeon-holes which are called ―imitative‖, ―expressive‖ and ―affective‖. A. The Imitative Theory It holds that art is an imitation of something. In his Poetics, Aristotle (384-322 B.C.) says, for example, that a tragedy is an imitation of an action that is serious and 3 complete. Because imitation now has negative associations, it is well to think of Aristotle‘s mimesis as not only ―imitation‖ but also ―re-creation‖ or ―re-presentation‖. In an artistic imitation, Aristotle holds, a form is presented in a substance not natural to it. In its simplest form the imitative theory appeals to the naïve: ―How life-like that wax apple is!‖ ―How like a Frenchman that actor looks! But more sophisticated people may ask: ―What is so pleasing about a wax apple or a fake Frenchman? There are plenty of real apples and real Frenchmen for us to look at.‖ Aristotle‘s theory includes such a close copy of nature as a wax apple, but it goes farther. He says that art is superior to history because where history must stick to the facts, art refines nature, showing, one might say, not what happened but what should have happened in a world free from accident. The artist is a sort of greenhouse man, producing not the rose that grows wild, cankered, and stunted, but the rose that has fulfilled all its potential, the rose that is more than any wild rose. The artist, in short, does not imitate servilely; he recreates reality and presents it to us in a fashion in which we see its essence more clearly. 4 It is only half-true, then to say that Aristotle‘s imitator is a maker of an imitation. (This idea of the artist as a maker, by the way, survives dimly in the word ―playwright‖__ ―wright‖ being a maker, as in ―shipwright‖, and having nothing to do with ―write‖) Because the artist‘s imitation is more than a copy of what is apparent to every eye, his imitation is in some measure a creation. It is imaginative and interpretive; it reflects a special view of reality. The imitative theory often includes the notion that art gives us not only pleasure but knowledge, insight into the nature of reality. If you say that you enjoy wax apples simply because we enjoy seeing man‘s skill at imitation, you are not introducing the criterion of knowledge. If, however, you say that by looking at the imitation we come to know something about reality, you are saying that art furnishes knowledge, and that its value depends partly on its truth. Many people want their literature to be true – to be an illuminating reflection of reality. Milton, it might be said, in Paradise Lost imitated the fall of Adam and Eve, and he did so in an effort (he says) to ―justify the ways of God to men‖. He was merely trying to divert, he was trying to help his readers to understand certain 5 facts. The danger, of course, is that the reader may turn literature into a message: he reduces the whole work to a neat moral. Does literature give knowledge? Perhaps the answer is that we do not learn from literature how to act in a particular situation, but we do learn something about life in general. After seeing a play, we feel that we have achieved at least a momentarily understanding of some of facts of life. The happening in the book or on the stage not only seems some degree to resemble things in real life, but they also clarify real life, making us say: ―Yes, people are like that, but I hadn‘t noticed it before.‖ B. The Expressive Theory It holds that the artist is not essentially an imitator but a man who expresses his feelings. A quotation from William Wordsworth will make this theory clear. ―Poetry,‖ he said, ―is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.‖ The artist‘s vision, the theory holds, is more inward than outward; the work of art is not an imitation of the external world but an expression of the internal world, the embodiment of an 6 emotion. This theory sometimes holds that ―truth‖ has nothing to do with literature; Landor‘s ―Heart‘s-Ease‖, it might be said, expresses his feelings, and his feelings cannot be true or false. They simply exist. But sometimes an expressive theory insists that a work is true if it is sincere. Since, however, the reader of a piece of literature cannot know if the author was sincere when he wrote it, the criterion of sincerity is valueless. We cannot say that Julius Caesar is sincere; perhaps Shakespeare wrote it to a theater-owner‘s prescription. Most expression of emotion, after all, are valueless to everyone but the person expressing them. Not all expression of emotion, clearly, are works of art, and conversely, if a work of art is an expression of emotion, it must be a very special kind of expression. People who advocate the expressive theory still have another argument. By showing us how he sees and feels something, a writer may pluck the blinders from our eyes and melt the ice around our heart. An awareness of how other people feel is, after all, a way of expanding and enriching one‘s own personality. 7 C. The Affective Theory It holds that a work of art ought to arouse a particular emotion in the perceiver. This theory us often closely related to the expressive theory: the artist allegedly expresses his emotion, embodying it in a work of art, and this work evokes in the perceiver a similar or identical emotion. Usually the affective theory insists that the aim is not to induce a temporary emotional state, but to induce an emotional state that will lead to action. Such a theory might hold, for example, that the artist is so to stimulate in people an awareness of the horror of war that they will go out and do something about stopping wars. This chapter opened with the query, ―What is literature?‖ and it has not yet given a satisfactory answer. Nor will it. No one has come up with a satisfactory answer. Textbooks and theoretical treaties are filled with neat definitions, but no definition has yet withstood all criticism.