No More Learning

The detachment which our predecessors were so fond of practising had become impossible. There was a collective adventure which was taking form in the future and which would be our adventure. That was what would later permit our generation, with its Ariels and its Calibans, to be dated. Something was awaiting us in the future shadow, something which would reveal us to ourselves, perhaps in the illumina- tion of a last moment, before annihilating us. The secret of our gestures and our most intimate designs lay ahead of us in the catastrophe to which our names would be attached.
History flowed in upon us; in everything we touched, in the air we breathed, in the page we read, in the one we wrote; in love itself we discovered, like a taste of history, so to speak, a bitter and ambiguous mixture of the absolute and the transitory. What need had we patiently to construct self-destructive objects since each of the moments of our life was subtly whisked away from us at the very time that we were enjoying it, since each present that we lived with gusto, like an absolute, was struck with a secret death,
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seemed to us to have its meaning outside itself, for other eyes which had not yet seen the light, and, in a way, to be already past m its very presence? Besides, what did surrealist destruction, which leaves everything in place, matter to us, when a destruction by sword andfirethreatened everything, surrealism included?
It was, I believe, Miro^ who painted a Destruction of Painting. But incendiary bombs could destroy the painting
and its destruction together. We would no longer have dreamed of crying up the exquisite virtues of the bour- geoisie. To do that we would have had to believe that they were eternal, but did we know whether the French bour- geoisie would exist tomorrow? Nor of teaching, as the radicals had done, the means of leading in peace-time the life of an honest man, when our greatest care was to know whether one could remain a man in war-time.
The pressure of history suddenly revealed to us the inter- dependence of nations. An incident in Shanghai was a snip of the scissors in our destiny, but at the same time it re- placed us, in spite of ourselves, in the national collectivity. We very soon had to realize that the travelling of our elders, their sumptuous voyages abroad, and the whole ceremonial of travel on the grand scale, was an illusion. Everywhere they went they carried France with them. They travelled because France had won the war and the exchange was
favourable. They followed the franc. Like the franc, they had more access to Seville and Palermo than to Zurich and Amsterdam.
As for us, when we were old enough to make our world tour, autarchy had killed off the novels about the grand tour, and then, we no longer had the heart to travel. With a perverse taste for standardizing the world, they amused themselves with finding the imprint of capitalism every- where. We would have found, without any difficulty, a much more obvious uniformity--cannons everywhere. And then, whether travellers or not, in the face of the conflict which threatened our country, we had understood that we were not citizens of the world since we could not make
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ourselves be Swiss, Swedish, or Portuguese. The destiny of our works themselves was bound to that of a France in danger. Our elders wrote for idle souls, but for the public which we, in our turn, were going to address the holiday was over. It was composed of men of our sort who, like us, were expecting war and death. For these readers without leisure, occupied without respite with a single concern, there was only one fitting subject. It was about their war and their death that we had to write. Brutally reintegrated into history, we had no choice but to produce a literature of a historical character.
But what makes our position original, I believe, is that the war and the occupation, by turning us into a world in a state of fusion, perforce made us rediscover the absolute at the heart of relativity itself. For our predecessors the rule of the game was to save everybody, because suffering is atoned for, because nobody is bad voluntarily, because man's heart is unfathomable, because divine grace is shared equally. That meant that literature--apart from the Sur- realist extreme left which simply spread mischief--tended to establish a sort of moral relativism. Christians no longer believed in hell. Sin was the place devoid of God; carnal love was love of God gone astray.
As democracy tolerated all opinions, even those which aimed expressly at destroying it, republican humanism, which was taught in the schools, made tolerance the primary virtue. Everything would be tolerated, even intolerance. Hidden truths had to be recognized in the silliest ideas, in the vilest feelings. For Le? on Brunschvicg, the philosopher of the re? gime, who all his life assimilated, unified, and inte- grated, and who shaped three generations, evil and error were only false shows, fruits of separation, limitation, and finiteness. They were annihilated as soon as one over- threw the barriers which compartmentalized systems and collectivities.
The radicals followed Auguste Comte in this, that they held progress to be the development of order; thus, order was already there, in posse, like the hunter's cap in the
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illustrated puzzles. It was only a matter of discovering it. That was how they passed their time; it was their spiritual exercise. They thereby justified everything--starting with themselves.
The Marxists at least recognized the reality of oppression and capitalist imperialism, of the class struggle and misery. But the effect of dialectical materialism, as I have shown elsewhere, is to make Good and Evil vanish conjoindy. There remains only the historical process, and then Stalinist communism does not attribute so much importance to the individual that his sufferings and even his death cannot be redeemed if they help to hasten the day when power is seized.
The notion of Evil, which had been abandoned, had fallen into the hands of some Manichaeans--Anti-Semites, fascists, anarchists of the right--who used it to justify their bitterness, their envy, and their lack of understanding of history. That was enough to discredit it. For political realism as for philosophical idealism Evil was not a very serious matter.
We have been taught to take it seriously. It is neither our fault nor our merit if we lived in a time when torture was a daily fact. Chateaubriand, Oradour, the Rue des Saussaies, Tulle, Dachau, and Auschwitz have all demon- strated to us that Evil is not an appearance, that knowing its cause does not dispel it, that it is not opposed to Good as a confused idea is to a clear one, that it is not the effects of passions which might be cured, of a fear which might be overcome, of a passing aberration which might be excused, of an ignorance which might be enlightened, that it can in no way be diverted, brought back, reduced, and incorpor- ated into idealistic humanism, like that shade of which Leibnitz has written that it is necessary for the glare of daylight.
Satan, Maritain once said, is pure. Pure, that is, without mixture and without remission. We have learned to know this horrible, this irreducible purity. It blazes forth in the close and almost sexual relation between the executioner and his victim. For torture isfirstof all a matter of debasement.
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Whatever the sufferings which have been endured, it is the victim who decides, as a last resort, what the moment is when they are unbearable and when he must talk. The supreme irony of torture is that the sufferer, if he breaks down and talks, applies his will as a man to denying that he is a man, makes himself the accomplice of his executioners and, by his own movement, throws himself into abjection. The executioner is aware of this; he watches for this weak- ness, not only because he will obtain the information he desires, but because it will prove to him once again that he is right in using torture and that man is an animal who must be led with a whip. Thus, he attempts to destroy the human- ity in his fellow-creature. Also, as a consequence, in him- self; he knows that the groaning, sweating, filthy creature who begs for mercy and abandons himself in a swooning consent with the moanings of an amorous woman, and who yields everything and is even so carried away that he im- proves upon his betrayals because the consciousness that he has done evil is like a stone round his neck dragging him still farther down, exists also in his own image and that he--the executioner--is bearing down upon himself as much as upon his victim. If he wishes, on his own account, to escape this total degradation, he has no other recourse than to affirm his blind faith in an iron order which like a corset confines our repulsive weaknesses--in short, to commit man's destiny to the hands of inhuman powers.
A moment comes when torturer and tortured are in accord, the former because he has, in a single victim, sym- bolically gratified his hatred of all mankind, the latter because he can bear his failing only by pushing it to the limit, and because the only way he can endure his self- hatred is by hating all other men along with himself. Later, perhaps, the executioner will be hanged. Perhaps the victim, if he recovers, will be redeemed. But what will blot out this Mass in which two freedoms have communed in the des- truction of the human? We knew that, to a certain extent, it was being celebrated everywhere in Paris while we were eating, sleeping, and making love. We heard whole streets
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screaming and we understood that Evil, fruit of a free and sovereign will, is, like Good, absolute.
Perhaps a day will come when a happy age, looking back at the past, will see in this suffering and shame one of the paths which led to peace. But we were not on the side of history already made. We were, as I have said, situated in such a way that every lived minute seemed to us like some- thing irreducible. Therefore, in spite of ourselves, we came to this conclusion, which will seem shocking to lofty souls: Evil cannot be redeemed.
But, on the other hand, most of the resisters, though beaten, burned, blinded, and broken, did not speak. They broke the circle of Evil and reaffirmed the human--for themselves, for us, and for their very torturers. They did it without witness, without help, without hope, often even without faith. For them it was not a matter of believing in man but of wanting to. Everything conspired to discourage them: so many indications everywhere about them, those faces bent over them, that misery within them. Everything concurred in making them believe that they were only insects, that man is the impossible dream of spies and squealers, and that they would awaken as vermin like every- body else.
This man had to be invented with their martyrized flesh, with their hunted thoughts which were already betraying them--invented on the basis of nothing, for nothing, in absolute gratuitousness. For it is within the human that one can distinguish means and ends, values and preferences, but they were still at the creation of the world and they had only to decide in sovereign fashion whether there would be anything more than the reign of the animal within it. They remained silent and man was born of their silence. We knew that every moment of the day, in the four corners of Paris, man was a hundred times destroyed and reaffirmed.
Obsessed as we were by these tortures, a week did not go by that we did not ask ourselves: 'Suppose I were tortured, what would I do? ' And this question alone carried us to the very frontiers of ourselves and of the human. We oscillated
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between the no-man's-land where mankind denies itself and the barren desert from which it surges and creates itself. Those who had immediately preceded us in the world, who had bequeathed us their culture, their wisdom, their cus- toms, and their proverbs, who had built the houses that we lived in and who had marked the roads with the statues of their great men* practised modest virtues and remained in the moderate regions. Their faults never caused them to fall so low that they did not find others beneath them who were more guilty, nor did their merits cause them to rise so high that they did not see other souls above them whose merit was greater. Their gaze encountered men farther than the eye can reach. The very sayings they made use of and which we had learned from them--'a fool always finds a bigger fool to admire him/ 'we always need someone smaller than ourselves'--their very manner of consoling themselves in affliction by telling themselves that, whatever their un- happiness, there were others worse off, all goes to show that they considered mankind as a natural and infinite milieu that one could never leave and whose limits could not be touched. They died with a good conscience and with-
out ever having explored their condition.
Because of this, their writers gave them a literature of average situations. But we could no longerfindit natural to be men when our best friends, if they were taken, could choose only between abjection and heroism, that is, between the two extremes of the human condition, beyond which there
is no longer anything. If they were cowards and traitors,
all men were above them; if heroic, all men were below them. In the latter case, which was the more frequent, they
no longer felt humanity as a limidess milieu. It was a thin flame within them which they alone kept alive. It kept itself going in the silence which they opposed to their executioners. About them was nothing but the great polar night of the inhuman and of unknowingness, which they did not even see, which they guessed in the glacial cold which pierced
them.
Our fathers always had witnesses and examples available,
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For these tortured men, there was no longer any. It was Saint-Exupe? ry who said in the course of a dangerous mission, *I am my own witness/ The same for all of them; anguish and forlornness and the sweating of blood begin for a man when he can no longer have any other witness than himself. It is then that he drains the cup, that he ex- periences his human condition to the bitter end. Of course, we are quite far from having all felt this anguish, but it haunted us like a threat and a promise.
Five years. We lived entranced and as we did not take our profession of writer lightly, this state of trance is still reflected in our writings. We have undertaken to create a literature of extreme situations. I am not at all claiming that in this we are superior to our elders. Quite the contrary. Bloch-Michel, who has earned the right to talk, has said that fewer virtues are needed in great circumstances than in small. It is not for me to decide whether he is right or whether it is better to be a Jansenist than a Jesuit. I rather think that there must be something of everything and that the same man cannot be one and the other at the same time.
Therefore, we are Jansenists because the age has made us such, and in so far as it has made us touch our limits I shall say that we are all metaphysical writers. I think that many among us would deny this designation or would not accept it without reservations, but this is the result of a misunderstanding. For metaphysics is not a sterile discussion about abstract notions which have nothing to do with ex- perience. It is a living effort to embrace from within the human condition in its totality.
Forced by circumstances to discover the pressure of his- tory, as Torricelli discovered atmospheric pressure, and tossed by the cruelty of the time into that forlornness from where we can see our condition as man to the very limit, to the absurd, to the night of unknowingness, we have a task for which we may not be strong enough (this is not the first time that an age, for want of talents, has lacked its art and its philosophy). It is to create a literature which unites and reconciles the metaphysical absolute and the relativity
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of the historical fact, and which I shall call, for want of a better name, the literature of great circumstances. 29 It is not a question for us of escaping into the eternal or of abdicating in the face of what the unspeakable Mr. Zaslavsky calls in Pravda the 'historical process'.
The questions which our age puts to us and which remain our questions are of another order. How can one make one- self a man in, by, and for history? Is there a possible synthesis between our unique and irreducible consciousness and our relativity; that is, between a dogmatic humanism and a perspectivism? What is the relationship between morality and politics? How, considering our deeper inten- tions, are we to take up the objective consequences of our acts? We can rigorously attack these problems in the abstract by philosophical reflection. But if we want to live them, to support our thoughts by those fictive and concrete ex- periences which are what novels are, we have at our disposal the technique which I have already analysed here and whose ends are rigorously opposed to our designs. Specially per- fected to relate the events of an individual life within a stable society, it enabled the novelist to record, describe, and explain the weakening, the vections, the involutions, and the slow disorganization of a particular system in the middle of a universe at rest. But from 1940 on, we found ourselves in the midst of a cyclone. If we wished to orient ourselves in it we suddenly found ourselves at grips with a problem of a higher order of complexity, exactly as a quadratic equation is more complex than a linear. It was a matter of describing the relationship of different partial systems to the total system which contains them when both are in movement and the movements condition each other reciprocally.
In the stable world of the pre-war French novel, the author, placed at a gamma point which represented absolute rest, had fixed guide-marks at his disposal to determine the movements of his characters. But we, involved in a system in full evolution, could only know relative movements. Whereas our predecessors thought that they could keep
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themselves outside history and that they had soared to heights from which they could judge events as they really were, circumstances have plunged us into our time. But since we were in it, how could we see it as a whole? Since we were situated, the only novels we could dream of were novels o? situation, without internal narrators or all-knowing witnesses. In short, if we wished to give an account of our age, we had to make the technique of the novel shift from Newtonian mechanics to generalized relativity; we had to people our books with minds that were half lucid and half overcast, some of which we might consider with more sympathy than others, but none of which would have a privileged point of view either upon the event or upon
itself. We had to present creatures whose reality would be the tangled and contradictory tissue of each one's evalu- ations of all the other characters--himself included--and the evaluation by all the others of himself, and who could never decide from within whether the changes of their des- tinies came from their own efforts, from their own faults, or from the course of the universe.
Finally, we had to leave doubts, expectations, and the unachieved throughout our works, leaving it up to the reader to conjecture for himself by giving him the feeling, without giving him or letting him guess our feeling, that his view of the plot and the characters was merely one among many others.
But, on the other hand, as I have just pointed out, our very historicity reinstated us because from day to day we were living that absolute which it had seemed at first to take away from us. If our plans, our passions, and our acts were explicable and relative from the viewpoint of past history, they again took on in this forlornness the uncertainty and the risks of the present, their irreducible density.
We were not unaware of the fact that a time would come when historians would be able to survey from all angles this stretch of time which we lived feverishly minute by minute, when they would illuminate our past by our future and would decide upon the value of our undertakings by their
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outcome and upon the sincerity of our intentions by their success. But the irreversibility of our age belonged only to us. We had to save or lose ourselves gropingly in this irreversible time. These events pounced upon us like thieves and we had to do our job in the face of the incomprehensible and the untenable, to bet, to conjecture without evidence, to undertake in uncertainty and persevere without hope. Our age would be explained, but no one could keep it from having been inexplicable to us. No one could remove the bitter taste, the taste it will have had for us alone and which
will disappear with us.
The novels of our elders related the event as having taken
place in the past. Chronological order permitted the reader to see the logical and universal relationship, the eternal verities. The slightest change was already understood. A past was delivered to us which had already been thought through. Perhaps two centuries from now an author who may decide to write a historical novel about the war of 1940 mayfindthis a suitable technique. But if it occurred to us to meditate on our future writings, we were convinced that no art could really be ours if it did not restore to the event its brutal freshness, its ambiguity, its unforeseeability, if it did not restore to time its actual course, to the world its rich and
threatening opacity, and to man his long patience.
We did not want to delight our public with its superiority to a dead world--we wanted to take it by the throat. Let every character be a trap, let the reader be caught in it, and let him be tossed from one consciousness to another as from one absolute and irremediable universe to another similarly absolute; let him be uncertain of the very uncertainty of the heroes, disturbed by their disturbance, flooded with their
present, docile beneath the weight of their future, invested with their perceptions and feelings as by high insurmount- able cliffs. In short, let him feel that every one of their moods and every movement of their minds encloses all mankind and is, in its time and place, in the womb of history and, despite the perpetual juggling of the present by the future, a descent without recourse towards Evil or an ascent
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towards Good which no future will be able to contest. This is what explains the success we have accorded Kafka's works and those of the American novelists. As for Kafka, everything has been said: that he wanted to paint a picture of bureaucracy, the progress of disease, the condition of the Jews in eastern Europe, the quest for inaccessible transcendence, and the world of grace when grace is lacking. This is all true. Let me say that he wanted to describe the human condition. But what we were particularly sensitive to was that this trial perpetually in session, which ends abruptly and evilly, whose judges are unknown and out of reach, in the vain efforts of the accused to know the leaders of the prosecution, in this defence patiently assembled which turns against the defender and figures in the evidence for the prosecution, in this absurd present which the characters live with great earnestness and whose keys are elsewhere, we recognize history and ourselves in history.
We were far from Flaubert and Mauriac. There was in Kafka, at the very least, a new way of presenting destinies which were tricked and undermined at their foundation, which were lived minutely, ingeniously, and modestly, of rendering the irreducible truth of appearances and of making felt beyond them another truth which will always be denied us. One does not imitate Kafka. One does not rewrite him. One had to extract a precious encouragement from his books and look elsewhere.
As for the Americans, it was not their cruelty or pessimism which moved us. We recognized in them men who had been swamped, lost in too large a continent as we were in history and who tried, without traditions, with the means available, to render their stupor and forlornness in the midst of incomprehensible events. The success of Faulkner, Hemingway, and Dos Passos was not the effect of snobbery, or at least, not atfirst. It was the defence reflex of a literature
which, feeling itself threatened because its techniques and its myths were no longer going to allow it to cope with the historical situation, grafted foreign methods upon itself in order to be able to fulfil its function in new situations.
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Thus, at the very moment that we were facing the public, circumstances forced us to break with our predecessors. They had chosen literary idealism and had presented us with events through a privileged subjectivity. For us, historical relativism, by positing the a priori equivalent of all sub- jectivities,30 restored to the living event all its value and led us back, in literature, to dogmatic realism by way of absolute subjectivism. They thought that they were justifying, at least apparently, the foolish business of storytelling by ceaselessly bringing to the reader's attention, explicitly or by allusion, the existence of an author. We hope that our books remain in the air all by themselves and that their words, instead of pointing backwards towards the one who has designed them, will be toboggans, forgotten, unnoticed, and solitary, which will hurl the reader into the midst of a
universe where there are no witnesses; in short, that our books may exist in the manner of things, of plants, of events, and not at first like products of man. We want to drive providence from our works as we have driven it from our world. We should, I believe, no longer define beauty by the form nor even by the matter, but by the density of being. 31
I have shown how Retrospective* literature denotes the taking of a position from which one surveys the whole of society and how those who choose to narrate from the viewpoint of past history seek to deny their body, their historicity, and the irreversibility of time. This leap into the eternal is the direct effect of the divorce which I have pointed out between the writer and his public.
Vice versa, it will be understood without difficulty that our decision to re-integrate the absolute into history is accompanied by an effort to confirm this reconciliation of author and reader which the radicals and the rallie? s had already undertaken.
When the writer thinks that he has pathways to the eternal, he is beyond comparison. He has the benefit of an illumination which he cannot communicate to the vulgar throng which crawls beneath him. But if it has occurred to him to think that one does not escape one's class by fine
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sentiments, that there is no privileged consciousness any- where, that belles-lettres are not lettres de noblesse^ that the best way to be bowled over by one's age is to turn one's back on it or to pretend to be above it, and that one does not transcend it by running away from it but by taking hold
of it in order to change it, that is, by going beyond it towards the immediate future, then he is writing for every- body and with everybody because the problem which he is trying to solve by means of his own talents is everybody's problem. Besides, those among us who collaborated in the underground newspapers addressed themselves in their articles to the whole community. We were not prepared for this kind of thing and we turned out to be not very clever; the literature of resistance did not produce anything to get excited about. But this experience made us feel what a literature of the concrete universal might be,
In these anonymous articles we practised, in general, only pure negativity. In the face of a manifest opposition and the myth it was shaping from day to day to sustain itself, spirituality was dissent. Most of the time our job was to criticize a political action, to denounce an arbitrary measure, to warn against a man or against propaganda, and when we happened to glorify someone who had been deported or shot, it was for having had the courage to say no. Against the vague and synthetic notions which were crammed into us day and night, Europe, Race, the Jew, the anti-bolshevik crusade, we had to reawaken the old spirit of analysis which alone was capable of tearing them to pieces. Thus, our function seemed a humble echo of the one which the eighteenth-century writers had so brilliandy fulfilled. But as we could not address the oppressor, as Diderot and Voltaire
could, except by literaryfiction,be it only to have made him ashamed of his oppression, as we never had relations with him, we did not have the illusion of these authors that we were escaping our oppressed condition by practising our profession.
On the contrary, from within oppression itself we depicted to the oppressed community of which we were part its anger
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and its hopes. With more luck, more skill, more talent, more cohesion, and more drive, we might have been able to write the interior monologue of occupied France. More- over, even if we might have managed it, there would have been no reason for glorifying us inordinately. The National Front grouped its members by profession. Those among us who worked for the Resistance in their specialized jobs could not ignore the fact that the doctors, the engineers, and the railway workers were, in their specialized jobs, doing work of far greater importance.
Whatever the case may be there was the risk that after the liberation this attitude, which was easy for us because of the great tradition of literary negativity, might turn into systematic negation and might once again bring about the divorce of writer and public; because we were at war, we glorified all forms of destruction; desertions, refusals to obey, derailing of trains, setting harvests on fire, and criminal attacks.
The war was over. By persisting in this attitude, we might have joined the surrealist group and all those who make of art a permanent and radical form of destruction. But 1945 does not resemble 1918. It wasfineto invoke the flood upon a victorious and smug France which thought that it would dominate Europe. The flood has come. What remains to be destroyed? The great metaphysical destruction of the other post-war period was carried on joyously, in a spirit of unleashed explosion. Today, there is the threat of war, famine, and dictatorship. We are again super-charged. 1918 was holiday-time. A bonfire might be built of twenty centuries of culture and accumulations. Today thefirewould go out by itself or would refuse to catch. It will be a long time before the holiday season comes round again.
In this age of lean cows, literature refuses to link its destiny to that of consumption, which is too precarious. In a rich oppressive society art can still be taken for the supreme luxury because luxury seems the mark of civiliza- tion. But today luxury has lost its sacred character. The black market has turned it into a phenomenon of social
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disintegration. It has lost the aspect of 'conspicuous con- sumption* which made up half its charm. One hides oneself in order to consume; one isolates oneself; one is no longer at the top of the social hierarchy, but on the margin. An art of pure consumption would be neither here nor there. It would no longer be supported by solid luxury, whether culinary or sartorial. It might just barely provide a handful of privileged souls with solitary escapes, onanistic pleasures, and the opportunity to miss the old sweetness of living.
When the whole of Europe is preoccupied before every- thing else with reconstruction, when nations deprive them- selves of necessities in order to export, literature (which, like the Church, adapts itself to all situations and saves itself, come what may), reveals its other face. Writing is not living. Neither is it running away from life in order to contemplate Platonic essences and the archetype of beauty in a world at rest. Nor is it letting oneself be slashed, as by swords, by words which, unfamiliar and not understood, come up to us from behind. It is the practising of a profession, a pro- fession which requires an apprenticeship, sustained work, professional consciousness, and the sense of responsibility.
It is not we who have discovered these responsibilities. Quite the contrary. For a hundred years the writer has been dreaming of giving himself to his art in a sort of innocence, beyond Good and Evil, and, so to speak, before the fall. It is society which has just laid our burdens and our duties on our shoulders. It must think that we are quite formidable since it condemned to death a hundred of us who collabor- ated with the enemy while it left manufacturers who were guilty of the same crime at liberty. It is said nowadays that it was better to build the Atlantic wall than to talk about it. I don't find that particularly scandalizing.
To be sure, it is because we are pure consumers that the collectivity proves to be pitiless towards us. An author shot is one mouth less to feed. The least important producer would be a greater loss to the nation. 32 And I am not saying that this is just. On the contrary, it opens the way to all sorts of abuses, to censorship, to persecution. But we ought to
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rejoice that our profession involves some dangers. When we wrote clandestinely, the risks for us were minimal, but for the printers they were considerable. It often made me feel ashamed. At least it taught us to practise a sort of verbal deflation. When each word might cost a life, you ought not take time off to play the 'cello. You go as fast as possible. You make it snappy. The war of 1914 precipitated the crisis of language. I would readily say that the war of 1940 has reval- orized it. But it is to be hoped that in taking up our names again, we were taking risks on our own account. After all; a steeple-jack will always be running a great many more.
In a society which insists upon production and restricts consumption to what is strictly necessary, the work of litera- ture is evidently gratuitous. Even if the writer strongly stresses the work that he puts into it, even if he points out, and rightfully, that this work, considered in itself, involves the same faculties as that of an engineer or doctor, the fact remains that the created object is not to be compared with
goods. This gratuitousness, far from grieving us, is our pride, and we know that it is the image of freedom.
The work of art is gratuitous because it is an absolute end and because it presents itself to the spectator as a categorical imperative. In addition, although it neither can nor wants to be production by itself, it wants to represent the free consciousness of a productive society, that is, to reflect production upon the producer in terms of freedom, as Hesiod did in the past. It is not, to be sure, a matter of picking up the thread of that boring literature of work of which Pierre Hamp was the most solemn and soporific representative. But as this type of reflection is both a sum- mons and a surpassing, it is necessary to manifest to the men of this age the principles, aims, and inner constitution of their productive activity, at the same time that we show them their works and days.
If negativity is one aspect of freedom, constructiveness is the other. Now, the paradox of our age is that constructive freedom has never been so close to becoming conscious of itself and never has it been so profoundly alienated. Never
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has work more powerfully manifested its productivity, and never have workers been more swindled out of its products and its significance. Never has homofaber better understood that he has made history and never has he felt so powerless before history.
Our job is cut out for us. In so far as literature is negative
it will challenge the alienation of work; in so far as it is a creation and an act of surpassing, it will present man as creative action. It will go along with him in his effort to pass beyond his present alienation towards a better situation. If
it is true that to have, to make, and to be are the prime categories of human reality, it might be said that the literature of consumption has limited itself to the study of
the relations which unite being to having. The sensation is presented as enjoyment, which is philosophically false, and
the one who knows best how to enjoy himself is the one who exists most. From The Culture ofthe Selfto The Possession of the World, including Fruits of the Earth and Bamabooth9s
Journal, to be is to appropriate.
The work of art, an outcome of similar pleasures, itself pretends to be enjoyment or promise of enjoyment. So the circle is completed. We, on the contrary, have been led by circumstances to bring to light the relationship between being and doing in the perspective of our historical situation. Is one what one does? What one makes of oneself? In present- day society, where work is alienated? What should one do, whatendshouldonechoosetoday? Andhowisittobedone, by what means? What are the relationships between ends and means in a society based on violence?
The works deriving from such preoccupations cannot aim first to please. They irritate and disturb. They offer themselves as tasks to be discharged. They urge the reader on to quests without conclusions. They present us with experiences whose outcomes are uncertain. The fruits of torments and questions, they cannot be enjoyment for the reader, but rather questions and torments. If our results turn out successful, they will not be diversions, but rather obsessions. They will give not a world 'to see* but to change.
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On the other hand, this old, used, sore, snivelling world will lose nothing thereby. Since Schopenhauer it has been assumed that objects are revealed in their full dignity when man silences in his heart the wish for power. It is to the idle consumer that they yield their secrets. It is permitted to write about them only in moments when one has nothing to do about them. The fastidious descriptions of the last century were a rejection of utility. One did not touch the universe; one took it in raw, with the eyes. The writer, in opposition to bourgeois ideology, chose to speak to us of things at the privileged moment when all the concrete relations which united him with the objects were broken, save the slender thread of his gaze, and when they gently undid themselves to his eyes, untied sheaves of exquisite sensations.
It was the age of impressions, impressions of Italy, of Spain, of the Orient. The man of letters described these landscapes, which he absorbed consciously, at the indefin- able moment between the end of the taking-in and the beginning of the digestion, when subjectivity had come to impregnate the object but before its acids had begun to eat into it, when fields and woods are still fields and woods and already a state of soul. A glazed and polished world inhabited bourgeois books, a world for sojourns in the country, which tinges us with a decent gaiety or a well-bred melancholy. We see it from our windows; we are not in it. When the novelist peoples it with peasants, they are in contrast with the vacant shadow of the mountains and the silvery sheen of the rivers. While they are hard at work digging their spades into the earth, we are made to see them dressed up in their Sunday clothes. These workers, lost in this seventh-day universe, resemble the academician of Jean Eiffel whom Pre? vost introduced into one of his caricatures and who excused himself by saying, Tm in the wrong cartoon/ Or, perhaps they too have been transformed into objects--into objects and states of soul.
For us, doing reveals being. Each gesture traces out new forms on the earth. Each technique, each tool, is a way that opens upon the world; things have as many aspects as there
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are ways of using them. We are no longer with those who want to possess the world, but with those who want to change it, and it is to the very plan of changing it that it reveals the secrets of its being. One knows the hammer best, says Heidegger, when one uses it to hammer. And the nail, when one drives it into the wall, and the wall when one drives the nail into it.
Saint-Exupe? ry has opened the way for us. He has shown that, for the pilot, the aeroplane is an organ of perception. 33 A chain of mountains at three hundred and seventy-five miles an hour and in the new perspective of flight is a tangle of snakes. They settle down, grow dark, thrust their hard, scorched heads against the sky, trying to do damage, to strike. Speed with its astringent power gathers the folds of the earthly gown and hems them in. At fourteen thousand feet above, the obscure attraction which draws San Antonio towards New York shines like rails.
After him, after Hemingway, how could we dream of describing? We must plunge things into action. Their density of being will be measured for the reader by the multiplicity of practical relations which they maintain with the char- acters. Have the mountain climbed by the smuggler, the customs-officer, and the guerilla, have it flown over by the aviator34 and the mountain will suddenly surge from these connected actions and jump out of your book like a jack-in- the-box. Thus, the world and man reveal themselves by undertakings. And all the undertakings we might speak of reduce themselves to a single one, that of making history. So here we are, led by the hand to the moment when the literature of exis must be abandoned to inaugurate that of
praxis.
Praxis as action in history and on history; that is, as a
synthesis of historical relativity and moral and metaphysical absolute, with this hostile and friendly, terrible and derisive world which it reveals to us. There is our subject. I do not say that we have chosen these austere paths. There are surely some among us who are carrying within them some charming and heart-breaking love story which will never
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see the light of day. What can we do about it? It is not a matter of choosing one's age but of choosing oneself within
it.
The literature of production which is being proclaimed
will not make us forget the literature of consumption, its antithesis; it should not pretend to surpass it, and maybe it will never equal it. No one is dreaming of claiming that because of it we shall get to the very bottom and realize the essence of the art of writing. Maybe it will even disappear soon. The generation which is following us seems hesitant; many of its novels are about sad and stolen holidays, like those parties during the occupation when young people danced between two alerts while drinking cheap wine to the sound of pre-war gramophone records. In that case, it will be a revolution that didn't come off. And even if this literature does manage to establish itself, it will pass like the other, and the other will return, and perhaps the history of the next few decades will record the alternating from one to the other. That will mean that men will have definitely botched up another Revolution of infinitely greater import- ance. The fact is that only in a socialist collectivity would literature, having finally understood its essence and having made the synthesis of praxis and exis> of negativity and construction, of doing, having, and being, deserve the name of total literature. While waiting, let us cultivate our garden. We have our work cut out for us.
Indeed, to recognize literature as a freedom, to replace spending by giving, to renounce the old aristocratic lie of our elders, and to want to launch, through all our works, a democratic appeal to the whole of the collectivity is not the whole story. We still have to know who reads us and whether the present state of affairs does not make our desire of writing for the 'concrete universal' Utopian. If our desires could be realized, the twentieth-century writer would occupy between the oppressed and the oppressors an analogous position to that of eighteenth-century authors between the bourgeois and the aristocracy, to that of Richard Wright between the blacks and the whites, read
? 196 I What Is Literature?
by both the oppressed and the oppressor, furnishing the oppressor with his image, both inner and outer, being con- scious with and for the oppressed of the oppression, contri- buting to the formation of a constructive and revolutionary ideology. Unfortunately, these are anachronistic hopes; what was possible in the time of Proudhon and Marx is so no longer. So let us take up the question from the beginning, and without any preconceived conclusions let us take an inventory of our public.
From this point of view, the situation of the writer has never been so paradoxical. It seems to be made up of the most contradictory characteristics. On the credit side, brilliant appearances, vast possibilities; on the whole, an enviable way of life. On the debit side, only this: that literature is dying. Not that talent or good will is lacking, but it has no longer anything to do in contemporary society. At the very moment that we are discovering the importance ofpraxisy at the moment that we are beginning to have some notion of what a total literature might be, our public collapses and disappears. We no longer know--literally-- for whom to write.
At first glance, to be sure, it would seem as if writers of the past ought to envy our lot. 35 Malraux once said, 'We are profiting from the suffering of Baudelaire/ I don't think that that's quite true, but it is true that Baudelaire died without a public and that we, without having proved our merit, without even knowing whether we ever will prove it, have readers all over the world. One might be tempted to blush at this, but, after all, it is not our fault; it's all the result of circumstances. The pre-war autarchies and the war deprived
national publics of their annual contingent of foreign works. Today people are catching up. They're gobbling up double mouthfuls. On this point alone there is decompression. The states are in on it. I have shown elsewhere that in the conquered or ruined countries literature has recently begun to be considered as an article for export. This literary market was expanded and regularized when the collectivities got busy with it. We find there the usual procedures: dumping
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(for example, the American Overseas editions), protectionism (in Canada, in certain countries of Central Europe), inter- national agreements. The countries flood each other recipro- cally with 'Digests', that is, as the name indicates, of literature already digested, of literary pap. In short, belles- lettres, like the movies, are in the process of becoming an industrialized art. To be sure, we benefit: the plays of Cocteau, of Salacrou, and of Anouilh are being performed everywhere. I could cite any number of works which have been translated into six or seven languages less than three months after their publication. Yet, all this is brilliant only on the surface. Perhaps we are read in New York or Tel Aviv, but the shortage of paper has limited our editions in Paris. Thus the public has been dispersed more than it has increased. Perhaps ten thousand people read us in four or five foreign countries and another ten thousand in our own.