Some philosophers tell of a time when literary form was an act of magic or an exorcism of chaos.
The philosophical conceit aside (not its proper place), literary form is more mysterious than the casual reader, or writer for that matter, would care to admit or recognize. In George Steiner’s words, literary form once had the “driven force of dance.” Fortunately, no one will go that far these days.
Essays — or articles, as they are commonly known these days — are a recognized literary form that follows, or should follow, certain rules.
Letters were once of that category but have given way to telephones and e-mails.
If you look around you, it would be difficult to find style, logic, and cohesive syntax in the articles or letters sent to the editor.
What used to be the musings of an active mind have become nothing but propaganda, warped logic, and the quickest way to fame or infamy — both being the same these days.
Enter the bloggers. There isn’t much style or form to what most of them write, but in our world, they have become more popular than “recognized” essayists and writers. That is because they have “truth”, or a semblance of it, which is desperately missing from our pages.
I won’t get into the fact that nepotism will get you published while style and form will invariably land you in a dungeon.
If, for the sake of argument, we agree that literary form is “an exorcism of chaos”, then we should accept that its absence is nothing less than chaos itself.
That is the only explanation I can find for what is going on in our press today: A thousand voices and not a single coherent sentence. For example, America is angry about Al-Jazeera television station and so am I.
The Americans don’t like the way they report from Iraq and I don’t like the way they turned shouting matches into a fixture on our screens. Neither the Americans nor I have understood that in today’s world “bad” reporting (verbal and written) is better than no reporting at all.
Having written the above sentence, I realize that it is easier to criticize America than to criticize myself. That came unconsciously and I consciously had to check the urge.
If I criticize myself, I will get letters (I have had many) that tell me their writers are “ashamed” of me carrying the name I do. What intellectual cowardice do we harbor in our midst? How can such people defend a cause or further an idea?
It is froth that rises to the top of the glass, and it is no different in this milieu. Keep reading if you doubt my words.
