DIRTHumus, soil – that which we often call “dirt” in many types and textures – has a proper and controlling place in the botanical world but some question remains as to the wisdom of making it the basis of our literature.
I doubt that the use of excessive cursing, obscenity and sacrilege is really any worse today than it has been for generations, but the means of communicating them have burgeoned into a gelid mass which cannot be measured as it continues to grow, to spread, to penetrate, to infect, canker, rot and ruin – constantly selecting, choosing, setting apart, scarfing in learned, science-tainted methods and carefully delineating among fringe and factions seeking to emulate the lowest elements of civilization. It seems, at times, filth feeds upon filth. The arts of printing, photography, the transmission of actual sounds and the sight of human bodies in action are cast into space and passed along for prurient perusal.
To some extent the writer who uses such language contends it to be “realism”. You will hear the same argument today in favor of filth in literature. The Norwegian writer Ibsen said that he and Zola were alike in some ways. “Yes, said Ibsen, “ Zola descends into the cesspool to take a bath; I to cleanse it!” The novel “Nana“, read today, probably would not excite comment. It is mild by today's standards - or lack of them. Today's writers insist their dialog is typical of today's conversation. Emile Zola had a special ability which enabled him to select subject which were distasteful to the general level of society of his time. Zola could pick and choose ways to handle the material he selected in such a manner that it would titillate as well as educate. Some writers in our own time are adept in the use of that same technique. They, you might say “get away with it” and other writers emulate their work in a clumsy, oafish and crass manner.
All of us, of course - even though we find it difficult to admit having done so – have tried to our hand at such forms of the art - “the stuff that sells” - with varied results. I have known that strange loneliness of having a story published which caused that edition of the magazine to be banned on campus at girl's. The local paper had an ombudsman-type gossip column declared it was the use of a piece of classical nude art which had got critics excited. I felt better about the whole affair after that and continued to write short stories. From that time I learned which stories should bear my real name and which ones were pen- named. None of those stories ever fell into a low level which seems to be today's accepted mode. Had I spiced them up a bit I may have become a famous writer. But - a poorer person.
A.L.M. February 21, 2006 [c488wds]
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