Narrative tension, character development, and verisimilitude are among the least interesting things writing can achieve.
In “Dialogue on the Art of Composition”, Milan Kundera remarks on what novels did prior to signing “the verisimilitude pact”:
They were not looking to simulate reality; they were looking to amuse, amaze, astonish, enchant. They were playful, and therein lay their virtuosity.
Literary realism is a mode of storytelling that precludes a reader’s “discretionary power” (Andre Breton) to transcend “superimposed images taken from a stock catalogue”. It is, moreover, a version the materialism that has made “an evil, pointless joke out of the universe” (Vasilii Kandinsky). But when we tell a story, what is “reality”, anyway? Jorge Luis Borges:
I think one should work into a story the idea of not being sure of all things, because that’s the way reality is. If you state a given fact and then say that you know nothing whatever of some second element, that makes the first fact a real one, because it gives the whole a wider existence.
More than one “reality” can exist in a location and time. There is always an area of consciousness we have yet to unlock in the present.
During the interwar years, surrealists sought alignment with communists, but communists were reluctant to have such friends. Italo Calvino comments, here, on the intersection between politics and literature:
When politicians and politically minded people pay too much attention to literature, it is a bad sign—a bad sign mostly for literature, because it is then that literature is in most danger. But it is also a bad sign when they don’t want to hear the word mentioned, and this happens as much to the most traditionally obtuse bourgeois politicians as to the most ideological revolutionaries. This is a bad sign mostly for them, because they are showing themselves afraid of any use of language that calls the certitude of their own language into question.
In “Sixty-three Words”, Milan Kundera writes of one kind of misomusist who “takes revenge on art by forcing it to a purpose beyond the aesthetic”; in “Somewhere Behind”, of writing for “the preconceived truth”: “a poet who serves any truth other than the truth to be discovered (which is dazzlement) is a false poet.”
And from Theodor Adorno (one is obliged, it seems, to quote Adorno):
Artworks that want to divest themselves of fetishism by real and extremely dubious political commitment regularly enmesh themselves in false consciousness as the result of inevitable and vainly praised simplification. In the shortsighted praxis to which they blindly subscribe, their own blindness is prolonged.
Perhaps anyone who has studied literature is aware of Roland Barthes’ “The Death of the Author”, and it is worth revisiting:
The author is a modern figure, a product of our society in so far as… it discovered the prestige of the individual… [The] culmination of capitalist ideology… has attached the greatest importance to the ‘person’ of the author.
Surrealism… contributed to the desacrilization of the image of the Author by ceaselessly recommending the abrupt disappointment of expectations of meaning…
We know now that the text is not a line of words releasing a single ‘theological’ meaning (the ‘message’ of the Author-god) but a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash. The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture.
The tendency in Canada’s literary culture has been counter to the above—to such an extent our literary journals will soon consist of nothing more then biographical entries in a list of contributors. Each entry will include the results of a genealogical DNA test.
There is a scene in the film The Road, by Darezhan Omirbaev, in which the protagonist—a film director—gives a long and pompous speech to a theatre audience at the premier of his latest work. Then the film begins, but it is not his film: the projectionist has put on a martial arts movie by mistake. The director runs to the projection room to have the mistake corrected but is advised against: the audience is clearly enjoying this wrong movie, and are likely to riot if it is changed. Dejected, the director leaves for the theatre’s washroom, where he intends to kill himself. He produces a gun, but puts it away just as quickly, embarrassed by the entry of another.
“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.”