It is a mistake to think that the highest function of literature is to be clear and easily digested by the so-called “average reader.” If an author begins with that as his guiding aim, he has already renounced the essence of literature. Literature is not journalism, nor is it popular entertainment. Its responsibility is to truth, beauty, and form — all of which often resist simplification.
History shows us that the greatest works were never designed to accommodate mediocrity. Shakespeare did not write for the “average man,” he wrote out of the fullness of genius — and the public rose up to meet him. Likewise, Dickens’ novels did not become powerful because they were simplified, but because they were uncompromising in their emotional and social depth, which happened to resonate across classes. When we turn to Proust or Joyce, we see another path: works that may be daunting, but which reveal new dimensions of consciousness and art. To dismiss them as unreadable is to confuse difficulty with worthlessness. Art that endures often requires patience, discipline, and cultivation.
The insistence that authors “write simply” in order to instruct or entertain reduces art to pedagogy. The great writer is not a schoolmaster but a creator of worlds. His task is not to tell the reader what he already knows, in familiar words, but to expand his horizon — sometimes painfully. This is why Mishima, Dostoevsky, and Sōseki retain their authority: they confront us with truths we cannot encounter in popular forms, even if their readership is narrower as a result.
Universality should not be confused with accessibility. True universality means that the work speaks to the essence of human experience, but the reader must cultivate himself in order to receive it. Beethoven’s late quartets are not understood by a first-time listener, yet they remain universal. Likewise, the responsibility lies with the reader to rise up to the work, not with the author to lower himself.
If we accept that literature must always aim at the average reader, we condemn it to mediocrity. We would flatten Shakespeare into a pamphlet, Dante into a sermon, Joyce into a newspaper column. The duty of the writer is not to please the crowd but to preserve the dignity of art. If, in doing so, he wins a wide audience, so much the better; but if not, his work still endures as a beacon for those who are willing to climb to its height.
Great literature can have widespread popular appeal: e.g., anything Alexander Dumas or Charles Dickens wrote, the Sherlock Holmes stories, the Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, the Harry Potter books (even 3rd graders love them). And as already noted, Shakespeare's plays (which were popular in his time).
But I never saw a writing which the author sought to make "intellectual" worth reading. e.g., anything James Joyce, Marcel Proust, etc. wrote.
If a writer has anything to say worth hearing, he should make it clear & simple - and with a captivating style of writing (that's where the artistic talent comes in). Write to instruct and elevate and entertain. Don't write to impress the reader with one's "erudition". Charles Dickens' novel, "Bleak House", is said to have caused much needed reforms in the British Chancery Courts. A novelist can have great power to bring about change - another example is Harriet Beecher Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin".
Consider also the "flash mob" performances of great music in the Malls! The "Masses" love them. Here's one with a Tenor singing a famous Italian aria: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgYh3BG4w4U
This is, with respect, a terrible commentary. To lump The Lord of the Rings or The Chronicles of Narnia together with One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich — and then to dismiss Proust and Joyce as not “worth reading” — is to erase the very distinctions on which serious literature rests. Tolkien and Lewis may be beloved storytellers, but they operate in a different sphere entirely from Solzhenitsyn, Proust, or Joyce, whose works grapple with the structure of memory, history, and consciousness itself. To compare them as if they were interchangeable is to confuse children’s fantasy with the summit of modern literature.
Great works are not measured by how quickly they can be understood by a third grader. Universality does not mean vulgar accessibility; it means that a work contains truth and beauty that reward the cultivated reader, even if it demands patience and refinement. The highest literature has always required effort — Dante, Cervantes, Dostoevsky, and yes, Proust. To ask that all art be “clear and simple” is to demand that it never rise above journalism.
As for concerts in shopping malls: this is not culture but vulgarity. To drag Verdi or Mozart into a marketplace, surrounded by neon and food courts, strips the music of its dignity and trivializes its grandeur. The masses may “love it,” but that love is conditioned by surprise and spectacle, not cultivated appreciation. True art deserves reverence, not background noise while buying sneakers.
In short: literature and music exist to elevate us beyond the average, not to conform to it. To reduce them to popularity, clarity, or convenience is to destroy precisely what makes them great.
Read Shakespeare. It’s so simple and yet how many “writers” fail to do it? In Shakespeare is everything you need to know about universality. Shakespeare’s audiences were composed of every walk of society. A writer does not learn from generalizations about art-making, he takes some writer (like Shakespeare) into himself and his love allows him to own it and from that experience comes authenticity.
Thanks for your great work!
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It is a mistake to think that the highest function of literature is to be clear and easily digested by the so-called “average reader.” If an author begins with that as his guiding aim, he has already renounced the essence of literature. Literature is not journalism, nor is it popular entertainment. Its responsibility is to truth, beauty, and form — all of which often resist simplification.
History shows us that the greatest works were never designed to accommodate mediocrity. Shakespeare did not write for the “average man,” he wrote out of the fullness of genius — and the public rose up to meet him. Likewise, Dickens’ novels did not become powerful because they were simplified, but because they were uncompromising in their emotional and social depth, which happened to resonate across classes. When we turn to Proust or Joyce, we see another path: works that may be daunting, but which reveal new dimensions of consciousness and art. To dismiss them as unreadable is to confuse difficulty with worthlessness. Art that endures often requires patience, discipline, and cultivation.
The insistence that authors “write simply” in order to instruct or entertain reduces art to pedagogy. The great writer is not a schoolmaster but a creator of worlds. His task is not to tell the reader what he already knows, in familiar words, but to expand his horizon — sometimes painfully. This is why Mishima, Dostoevsky, and Sōseki retain their authority: they confront us with truths we cannot encounter in popular forms, even if their readership is narrower as a result.
Universality should not be confused with accessibility. True universality means that the work speaks to the essence of human experience, but the reader must cultivate himself in order to receive it. Beethoven’s late quartets are not understood by a first-time listener, yet they remain universal. Likewise, the responsibility lies with the reader to rise up to the work, not with the author to lower himself.
If we accept that literature must always aim at the average reader, we condemn it to mediocrity. We would flatten Shakespeare into a pamphlet, Dante into a sermon, Joyce into a newspaper column. The duty of the writer is not to please the crowd but to preserve the dignity of art. If, in doing so, he wins a wide audience, so much the better; but if not, his work still endures as a beacon for those who are willing to climb to its height.
Great literature can have widespread popular appeal: e.g., anything Alexander Dumas or Charles Dickens wrote, the Sherlock Holmes stories, the Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, the Harry Potter books (even 3rd graders love them). And as already noted, Shakespeare's plays (which were popular in his time).
But I never saw a writing which the author sought to make "intellectual" worth reading. e.g., anything James Joyce, Marcel Proust, etc. wrote.
If a writer has anything to say worth hearing, he should make it clear & simple - and with a captivating style of writing (that's where the artistic talent comes in). Write to instruct and elevate and entertain. Don't write to impress the reader with one's "erudition". Charles Dickens' novel, "Bleak House", is said to have caused much needed reforms in the British Chancery Courts. A novelist can have great power to bring about change - another example is Harriet Beecher Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin".
Consider also the "flash mob" performances of great music in the Malls! The "Masses" love them. Here's one with a Tenor singing a famous Italian aria: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgYh3BG4w4U
This is, with respect, a terrible commentary. To lump The Lord of the Rings or The Chronicles of Narnia together with One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich — and then to dismiss Proust and Joyce as not “worth reading” — is to erase the very distinctions on which serious literature rests. Tolkien and Lewis may be beloved storytellers, but they operate in a different sphere entirely from Solzhenitsyn, Proust, or Joyce, whose works grapple with the structure of memory, history, and consciousness itself. To compare them as if they were interchangeable is to confuse children’s fantasy with the summit of modern literature.
Great works are not measured by how quickly they can be understood by a third grader. Universality does not mean vulgar accessibility; it means that a work contains truth and beauty that reward the cultivated reader, even if it demands patience and refinement. The highest literature has always required effort — Dante, Cervantes, Dostoevsky, and yes, Proust. To ask that all art be “clear and simple” is to demand that it never rise above journalism.
As for concerts in shopping malls: this is not culture but vulgarity. To drag Verdi or Mozart into a marketplace, surrounded by neon and food courts, strips the music of its dignity and trivializes its grandeur. The masses may “love it,” but that love is conditioned by surprise and spectacle, not cultivated appreciation. True art deserves reverence, not background noise while buying sneakers.
In short: literature and music exist to elevate us beyond the average, not to conform to it. To reduce them to popularity, clarity, or convenience is to destroy precisely what makes them great.
Read Shakespeare. It’s so simple and yet how many “writers” fail to do it? In Shakespeare is everything you need to know about universality. Shakespeare’s audiences were composed of every walk of society. A writer does not learn from generalizations about art-making, he takes some writer (like Shakespeare) into himself and his love allows him to own it and from that experience comes authenticity.
A=A
Ayn Rand and the Aesthetic 🤔
Are you familiar.....? 🌐💪🏼💲