Toward a Morality of Writing (Creativity and Ethics)
This essay arose in part from Sue’s
saying, “Definitely not the Waltons,” about my novella, Following Wolfie.
I agree, absolutely, that the characters in Following Wolfie do not have
a Father Knows Best (or Waltons) kind of family. But I believe that
despite this, it is reasonable and appropriate for each of them to strive
toward decency and emotional wellness.
I
once told a friend that I believed that a protagonist should not do truly
evil things (I was upset about The Death of Grass), and he became
indignant and said that a writer should write what they want to write. And I agree.
I had not expressed my opinion as clearly as I might have—my thoughts on the
subject were half-formed and poorly articulated.
I
do not believe in censorship. I do not wish to foist my opinion on anyone, but
rather, to consider the question of morality in literature and art. I admit my
biases: I believe, personally, that a novel is generally better if the
protagonist avoids real evil and struggles toward virtue. As a plotline, I
prefer the rise toward integrity over the fall from grace, although, of course,
either is acceptable and great literature contains both. (One might say I never
grew up and that I like a nice happy ending. Only that’s not entirely
true.) I recently read a book, a crime novel set in South Africa, which
ended with the murderer escaping and the wrong guy being tried for murder and
probably convicted. It was an excellent book. I liked it. A lot!
(Unfortunately, I cannot think of the name! ☹)
In
Daemon Voices, Essays on Storytelling, Philip Pullman says,
“stories can offer a moral education.” He says,
“we can learn what’s good and what’s bad, what’s generous and unselfish, what’s
cruel and mean, from fiction.”
He
uses, as an illustration, this quote
from Jane Austen‘s Emma. It’s a long quote but worthy of consideration I
believe:
‘Were she your equal in situation –
but Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has
sunk from the comfort she was born to; and, if she lived to old age, must
probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly
done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up
from a period when her notice was an honor, to have you now, in thoughtless
spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her – and before her
niece, too - and before others, many of whom (certainly some) would be
entirely guided by your treatment of her. This is not pleasant to you,
Emma, and it is very far from pleasant to me, but I must, I will, tell you
truths while I can, satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful
counsel, and trusting that you will sometime or other do me more justice than
you can now.’
While they talked, they were advancing
toward the carriage; it was ready; and before she could speak again, he handed
her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted and
her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,
mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on
entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome – then reproaching
herself for taking no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness,
she looked out with voice and hand eager to show a difference; but it was too
late. He had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look
back but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were halfway
down the hill, and everything left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could
be expressed – almost beyond what she could conceal.
Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her
life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of his representation there was
no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so
cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in
anyone she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of
gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
Philip
Pullman says
that he “quotes that passage in full because we need to see that whole progress
of her shame and mortification and grief, grief that she has done wrong, mixed,
to be sure, with grief that it had been noticed by someone whose good opinion
she especially values; but genuine sorrow, too, that she hurt someone
thoughtlessly.” He suggests that Emma is being educated and so are we.
One
of the books Philip Pullman quotes is Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar
Nafisi. Azar Nafisi says that Jane Austen is a natural adversary to the Khomeini
Regime. She also says that the leftists
. . . “needed to read fiction like the
Great
Gatsby because [they] needed to know about the immorality of American
Culture.”
She
says the leftists wanted to read “revolutionary material,” but needed to read
books like the Great Gatsby to understand the enemy.
Philip
Pullman goes on to say that the fundamentalist way of reading,
“. . . in which everything is taken
literally, doesn’t allow for ambiguity, or mystery, or subtlety, or what as
Azar Nagisi called interiority of any kind. Everything is black-and-white, true
or false, good or bad, right or wrong. There is no scope for interpretation,
except the kind which is taught in the official schools and approved by the
authorities. There is one way of reading and understanding a text, and only
one: the correct way.”
[9]
I
believe in ambiguity, mystery, subtlety and interiority. I do not believe in “one
correct way.” I think that if the writer is worthy, he or she can address
morality by examples of bad behavior, as well as by examples of exemplary
behavior, e.g.: The Great Gatsby—terrific literature, but a burnt ember
of a man. (I recently reread The Great Gatsby and was astounded by it
all over again.)
Here
is a question for consideration: how bad an act can a protagonist commit and
still be considered a hero rather than a villain? A novel to ponder in this
regard might be The Death of Grass,
by John Christopher, an apocalyptic story about the death of all grass species
including wheat, oats, rye, etc., and the effects of that on civilization. Louise
Penny considers the question of morality in one of her novels, Glass Houses,
where she and the protagonist, Armand Gamache, deeply deliberate whether the
means can justify the ends and the role of conscience and the risks of defying
conscience in police work. And, what about Where the Crawdads Sing, by
Delia Owens? Also an excellent book.
While
this is a writing group and not a book club, discussing books in ways that help
us with our writing could be a good use of our time, if time remains after
everyone has read and received feedback.
If, as Philip Pullman suggests, the reader
sympathizes with and identifies with the first character who appears in the
novel,
how will that reader feel if the first character is evil? And what exactly is
evil? Where is the fine line between “not the Waltons” (human foibles) and
actual evil?)
I must say, and I may well be admitting to a
short coming on my part (one of many), that I cannot fully settle into and nest
within a novel until I locate a character with whom I can identify. Some novels
have few likable characters and I find it difficult to care about those
characters or like the novel much. Perhaps each of us must consider what
audience we wish to address. Some audiences may prefer (or willingly accept) unlikable
characters and horrible endings but many readers like characters with whom they
can identify. That brings us to another question, what is the difference
between literature and popular fiction and is there an overlap?
How
do morality and conscience affect poetry? Can you think of any examples? What
about Howl? How do morality and conscience affect nonfiction? Relationships?
Life?
Do
you think that writing can be improved by considering the moral aspect of the
work? Or not? How can we, as “moral” writers, consider these concerns without
beating the reader over the head with them? How can we show, not tell?
2nd draft Wednesday,
September 18, 2019, 10:10 AM, submitted to the Ewald Writer’s Group by
Mary Stebbins Taitt
