Is literature in the sway of the melancholic and the miserable?
Apr 8, 2019 9:43:37 GMT
theravenking likes this
Post by pimpinainteasy on Apr 8, 2019 9:43:37 GMT
do you agree with this writer? do read the whole article. i posted fragments below.
A man in the mainstream of society who is placed well to excel in the material world may believe that he is reaping the rewards of superior genes, a superior religion and an exuberant joyous outlook. On the other hand, those who are underdogs in any given situation develop great respect for human wounds, elevating them to human nature.
Literature is in the sway of the second group. They have natural advantages in storytelling. Readers are self-obsessed. Often they are searching for themselves in every page of every story ever told. And miseries are more memorable than soaring kites and happy honey-bees. There is a reason for this. If I may paraphrase Leo Tolstoy, all happy people are alike; every unhappy person is unhappy in his own way. Joy is banal and uniform, while misery is diverse and interesting. As a result those who are on the side of strength are no match for those who can linger on fragility and melancholy.
This is the reason I wish there were a special category of literary awards for the sort of writer who is truly at a disadvantage—the happy upper-caste family man, the reliable bore who will never hurt his children, who has no mental, physical or social problems, and who does not ingest any narcotic substance, and who takes on all adversities standing akimbo, if not spitting on the palms and slapping his thighs. It appears that the way we must live life is not what we must celebrate when we write.
Literature is in the sway of the second group. They have natural advantages in storytelling. Readers are self-obsessed. Often they are searching for themselves in every page of every story ever told. And miseries are more memorable than soaring kites and happy honey-bees. There is a reason for this. If I may paraphrase Leo Tolstoy, all happy people are alike; every unhappy person is unhappy in his own way. Joy is banal and uniform, while misery is diverse and interesting. As a result those who are on the side of strength are no match for those who can linger on fragility and melancholy.
This is the reason I wish there were a special category of literary awards for the sort of writer who is truly at a disadvantage—the happy upper-caste family man, the reliable bore who will never hurt his children, who has no mental, physical or social problems, and who does not ingest any narcotic substance, and who takes on all adversities standing akimbo, if not spitting on the palms and slapping his thighs. It appears that the way we must live life is not what we must celebrate when we write.
