“Anyone who says the artist’s field is all answers and no questions has never done any writing or had any dealings with imagery. . . . You are confusing two concepts: answering the questions and formulating them correctly. Only the latter is required of an author.”
What little I’ve ever known and understood seems to be dissolving. I can still name all
the presidents, in order, and the capitals of every state. But I haven’t a clue
as to AI, the midterm elections or what to do about Russia. There was a time
when, if I had no intelligent answers to such questions, I would have bluffed
my way through them. Answering questions was not a quest for truth but an
exercise in ego-massaging.
The passage above is taken
from the letter Anton Chekhov wrote to his friend and editor Alexi Suvorin on
October 27, 1888. Suvorin had an earnest streak. Like many people today, his choice
of politics seemed to be performative. He conformed to the fashions of his set.
Chekhov writes:
“I sometime preach
heresies, but haven’t once gone so far as to deny that problematic questions
have a place in art. In conversations with my fellow writers I always insist
that it is not the artist’s job to try to answer narrowly specialized
questions. It is bad for the artist to take on something he doesn’t understand.
. . . The artist must pass judgment only on what he understands; his range is
as limited as that of any other specialist . . .”
I’ve never read a work of
literature, whether novel or poem, looking for answers, though they have occasionally
been supplied with them me seeking them.
[Chekhov’s quotes are
taken from Life and Thought: Selected Letters and Commentary (trans. Simon Karlinsky and Michael Henry Heim, 1973).]
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