Adab Aur Inqilaab

What is the relationship between literature and revolution? Should literature aid the cause of revolution? If so, to what extent? Before attempting to answer these questions, we must first define what revolution actually means. Often, those who champion revolution do not even know what the word signifies or what we intend by it. It is not just in literature; in politics, too, many problems arise from a failure to understand this term correctly. To complicate matters further, like all specialized terminology, the meaning of this word is shaped less by an individual's sensory experience and more by the needs—and sometimes the mere convenience—of factions built upon political or sociological ideologies. In any case, if we examine the word revolution from different angles, several meanings emerge.

The first thing we encounter is the common man's conception of revolution. Since every revolutionary process is accompanied by displays of force, bloodshed, and inevitable looting, every nation has witnessed such spectacles on varying scales. Consequently, the mere mention of revolution immediately conjures up images of bloodshed. Because ruling individuals or classes are rarely willing to relinquish their positions easily, they must be removed by force. Therefore, the very groups working toward a revolution actively encourage this violent conception of it. While it is true that after the revolution, this same mindset becomes a noose around their own necks, prior to the revolution, they are forced to propagate this idea—either directly or by turning a blind eye—in order to incite the masses to use force.

The atmosphere of political and economic suffocation that precedes a revolution inherently breeds a sadistic tendency in people's temperaments. Consequently, when participants or supporters of a revolution chant Long Live the Revolution, their primary thought is not that the revolution will make them the new rulers. Instead, their first thought is that they will finally get the chance to annihilate the current rulers. This conception of revolution is not confined to the general public. During revolutionary times, even those who are typically peace-loving fall under its spell. In fact, poets and writers embrace this idea even more swiftly, as they are deeply attuned to the unconscious desires of their era. Even Shelley, who advised revolutionaries to resist oppression through non-violence, generally could not write about revolution without invoking bloodshed and destruction.

It is true that at times he becomes horrified by the very idea of a revolution that necessitates the killing of human beings, yet he is second to none in his fascination with bloody imagery. But why single out Shelley? From the French Revolution onward, the revolutionary poetry produced across Europe is replete with references to bloodshed. Even the revolutionary poems written under the influence of orthodox Marxism are not devoid of it. This tendency can be found even in the works of serious poets like Day Lewis, Spender, and Auden. The same has been true for our own Urdu literature. Recall the political poems written just a decade ago, and how heavily they featured daggers, swords, fire, and blood. This reached its absolute peak in a particular poem by Ehsan Danish—the one in which the poet dreams of revolution. This same hue colors art as well as literature. The finest example is Delacroix, who cannot separate revolution from bloodshed for even a single moment. In short, if we were to seek out examples of this specific conception of revolution in literature, we could easily fill hundreds of pages.

But can such literature offer a truly great vision? Even Marxists would deny this. Literature, by its very nature, is the search for a new equilibrium, whereas this particular conception of revolution leaves no room for equilibrium at all. Literature seeks a new balance because it is fundamentally aligned with construction and creation. In the aforementioned view of revolution, however, destruction for the sake of destruction overrides everything else. Therefore, while this mindset might produce effective literature, it cannot produce great literature. On such occasions, the writer typically delivers mere rhetoric rather than true literature. Once the revolutionary era has passed, this rhetoric begins to feel incredibly bland, hollow, and sometimes even downright ridiculous.

Yeats once said that when a man wages war against himself, poetry is born; when he wages war against others, rhetoric is born. In the kind of revolutionary poetry we are discussing, the conflict is not even with the souls or principles of others; rather, it treats others merely as objects—objects that we simply wish to smash and discard. You can never adopt a creative attitude toward something you merely wish to destroy. As long as your mind is dominated by the urge to smash things (not human beings or principles, but mere things) simply for the sake of smashing them, you will never be able to create great literature. This attitude is fundamentally anti-human, and a person cannot create anything of human significance once they have lost their own humanity.

One thing, however, is certainly possible. The urge for destruction for the sake of destruction may gradually evolve into a desire to observe that destruction objectively or with profound interest, allowing the artist to paint a highly effective picture of the destructive process. In such a scenario, they can indeed produce valuable literature and art. The finest examples of this are, once again, the paintings of Delacroix. Nevertheless, a person can only accomplish this after the revolution, not before it—especially an artist who actively wishes to aid the revolutionary process and whose mind is consumed by thoughts of bloodshed.

Artists whose minds are dominated by revolutionary bloodshed should not be considered free from sexual complexities. I am reminded again of a painting by Delacroix... The Goddess of Liberty at the Barricades... This painting clearly articulates the psychological autobiography not just of Delacroix, but of all such revolutionary artists. The Goddess of Liberty is a broad, robust woman with a very full bosom. This kind of woman is the center of the painter's attention, but physically, he lacks the capacity to overpower her. Therefore, his restlessness and frustration transform into sadism and masochism, and he simply cannot imagine such a woman without heaps of corpses and piles of wounds. If such an artist also takes an interest in politics, he immediately becomes an aficionado of revolutionary bloodshed. There is no doubt that because of this sexual complexity, the intensity of political destruction for the sake of destruction is diminished. Psychological issues enter the artist's creation, saving it from becoming non-literature or non-art. Consequently, this sexual entanglement has both good and bad aspects. Without it, Delacroix's paintings could never have been successful.

(2) The second meaning of revolution is much deeper. The sensible ones among revolutionaries are aware of this meaning from the very beginning. Others either get to the bottom of the matter after the revolution, or they become so engrossed in worldly affairs that they no longer care what a revolution is or isn't. The true meaning of revolution is not bloodshed and destruction, nor is just any kind of change actually called a revolution. These are the cheapest definitions of revolution. A true revolution can occur without shedding blood—although blood is usually shed. In reality, revolution means that an obsolete system of life is replaced by a new system that aligns with new circumstances. A true revolution is not merely political or economic; it is a revolution of values. In a revolution, it is not just the outward structure of society that changes, but hearts and minds change entirely. A true revolution is a psychological revolution. It gives birth to a new human being (obviously, I am using new in a very limited sense).

Literature is always an ally in this kind of revolution; in fact, it walks four steps ahead of it. It is literature that first awakens the realization that fundamental changes are needed. Literature shapes the psychological aspects of these changes. Without calling itself revolutionary, literature serves as the herald of every major, fundamental revolution. D.H. Lawrence went so far as to say that unless a writer reflects the fundamental changes in human consciousness, he cannot become a great writer... Even though Lawrence himself declared a distaste for politics, he conceded that Shakespeare achieved such greatness because he depicted certain changes in human political consciousness. Although I do not fully accept this statement regarding Shakespeare, Lawrence is fundamentally correct. Indeed, even in Joyce, we find traces of shifts in consciousness and new revolutions. In this respect, we can call Joyce a revolutionary writer as well.

Anyway, for now, let us not expand the definition of revolution; let us keep it confined to political and economic changes. Because these are the changes that often seem most essential to people, and they manifest in the most prominent forms. When the need for such changes arises, literature always supports them. If one or two, or even ten or twelve writers oppose these changes, it makes no difference... collectively, literature is in their favor. Since literature is an instrument in the hands of a nation to seek a new equilibrium, supporting change is inevitable for literature. This has always been the case, and it will always remain so.

There is no doubt that there is also a strong reactionary aspect to a writer's personality. The fact is that a writer can only write about things that have entered their sensory and mental experience. These are the things that exist at a specific point in time. A writer cannot write anything about things that will come into existence in the future, because they fall outside their experience. Consequently, they want to preserve existing things. This stance of theirs is non-revolutionary and, to a certain extent, permanent. But at the same time, when circumstances force humanity to change, literature also becomes the voice of those circumstances.

Literature that points toward change is of two kinds. One group consists of those writers who demonstrate, in various ways, why the old system and old values are inadequate and obsolete. Sometimes, such writers have a profound love for the old ways and do not want to change them, but the writer's truth-seeking spirit compels them to see the obsolescence of those old things. Such writers also serve the revolution; their literature is not destruction for the sake of destruction, but destruction for the sake of construction. The second group consists of people who consciously know which new values should replace the old ones. At the very least, they unconsciously point toward the new values. These are the true revolutionary writers, whether they possess violent tendencies or not. Even if you do not call them revolutionaries, a revolution—at least in a psychological sense—cannot come into existence without them.

Like all other literatures, Urdu literature has always supported such revolutionary changes—that is, changes in human consciousness. Sir Syed's movement also contained certain revolutionary elements, even if it outwardly appeared to be a hundred percent reformist. In any case, literature was an equal partner in the changes that this movement brought about in the consciousness of Muslims. In fact, those changes occurred largely through literature. After that, the need for our consciousness to change its course arose around 1936. Even then, our literature, in its collective capacity, remained ahead of politics in this psychological revolution. These psychological changes were not brought about solely with the help of writers who consciously favored creating a revolution of values; rather, writers who consciously wanted to keep literature free from revolutionary demands also played a major role in it. These latter writers carried the spirit of revolution beyond politics and economics, reaching into the smallest corners of life.

(3) While these are the two primary interpretations of revolution, its meaning is sometimes altered merely for the convenience of political parties. The French philosopher and writer Jean-Paul Sartre provided two recent examples of this while discussing the relationship between literature and revolution. During the German occupation of France, many politicians collaborated with the Germans. One such gentleman declared that, given the country's current situation, revolution meant maintaining the status quo exactly as it was. A second definition was offered by a communist, who claimed that revolution simply meant increasing production.

These two definitions completely turn the very concept of revolution upside down. It is understandable that a revolution is not always necessary. Once an old value system has been dismantled, it becomes essential to halt destructive activities and establish new values on solid foundations. However, while this process is necessary, it cannot be called a revolution. The reality is that revolution is a highly captivating word; hearing it inevitably stirs up a certain level of passion in anyone. Since political parties rally their supporters precisely through such fervor, how could they possibly abandon such a useful word? Yet, because a new party comes into power after a revolution, the true meaning of the word goes against its vested interests. At the same time, it remains essential for them to exploit the word for their own benefit. Consequently, the very meaning of the word is altered. Revolution no longer means to change, but rather to preserve. This is the miracle of our twentieth-century politics. Dishonesty has always existed, but people in the past did not know how to twist the meanings of words quite so effortlessly.

Literature only aligns itself with revolution when life itself demands one. Since the aforementioned type of revolution is an absurd term, literature simply cannot support it. If a writer is convinced that the need for revolution has passed, they will accept it. However, if a non-revolutionary process is labeled a revolution to solicit their support, their very sensibilities will refuse to accept this definition. It is, of course, a different matter if a country's writers have become absolute slaves to politicians, accepting everything without question. But accepting an interpretation of reality that contradicts their own sensory experience means they will be entirely incapable of producing literature of any real value. This is exactly what is happening in Russia today.

All these interpretations of revolution have been more or less political. Because the word revolution is most frequently applied to political and economic institutions, political parties have turned it into their plaything. They expect writers to blindly accept whatever concept of revolution they wish to popularize. But why should literature tolerate such a restriction? Revolution is not merely a political phenomenon; it is far more of a psychological one. So, when discussing literature, why shouldn't we keep the broadest possible meaning of revolution in mind?

If revolution means transforming oneself to adapt to new circumstances, then the need for such adaptation arises at every moment in the smallest spheres of life, and literature generally reflects these very moments. The process of harmonizing with the demands of reality is itself a continuous revolution, and literature is the primary mirror of this revolution. In fact, this is precisely why literature is essential for human survival. The revolutionary function of literature is to create harmony with reality, and it achieves this by appropriately altering the modes of life in tandem with the changing forms of reality. The dialectical process in life does not occur solely on political and economic levels; rather, there are countless arenas for this dialectical process. Literature encompasses every manifestation of this dialectical process, no matter how great or small. Consider this famous couplet by Mir:

Faqirana aaye sada kar chalay

Miyan khush raho hum dua kar chalay

[Like a beggar I came, called out, and departed

Be happy, my friend, I have said my prayer and departed]

Is there any less dialectics in this couplet...? In truth, the most genuine dialectics are found in everyday human relationships. Notice the profound revolution—a psychological and moral revolution—hidden in the following couplet by Mir:

Wajah-e-begangi nahi maloom

Tum jahan ke ho waan ke hum bhi hain

[The reason for this estrangement is unknown

I belong to the very same place that you do]

If people were to truly understand the dialectics of this couplet by Mir, the resulting revolution would be far greater than the revolution of Marx. Granted, the majority of humanity cannot comprehend this dialectic, which is why the revolution envisioned by Mir will never actually materialize. Nevertheless, the fundamental task of literature is to continually present humanity with ever-new forms of revolution, constantly broadening and deepening its meaning. A great writer is, ultimately, the greatest revolutionary.

What is the relationship between literature and revolution? Should literature aid the cause of revolution? If so, to what extent? Before attempting to answer these questions, we must first define what revolution actually means. Often, those who champion revolution do not even know what the word signifies or what we intend by it. It is not just in literature; in politics, too, many problems arise from a failure to understand this term correctly. To complicate matters further, like all specialized terminology, the meaning of this word is shaped less by an individual's sensory experience and more by the needs—and sometimes the mere convenience—of factions built upon political or sociological ideologies. In any case, if we examine the word revolution from different angles, several meanings emerge.

The first thing we encounter is the common man's conception of revolution. Since every revolutionary process is accompanied by displays of force, bloodshed, and inevitable looting, every nation has witnessed such spectacles on varying scales. Consequently, the mere mention of revolution immediately conjures up images of bloodshed. Because ruling individuals or classes are rarely willing to relinquish their positions easily, they must be removed by force. Therefore, the very groups working toward a revolution actively encourage this violent conception of it. While it is true that after the revolution, this same mindset becomes a noose around their own necks, prior to the revolution, they are forced to propagate this idea—either directly or by turning a blind eye—in order to incite the masses to use force.

The atmosphere of political and economic suffocation that precedes a revolution inherently breeds a sadistic tendency in people's temperaments. Consequently, when participants or supporters of a revolution chant Long Live the Revolution, their primary thought is not that the revolution will make them the new rulers. Instead, their first thought is that they will finally get the chance to annihilate the current rulers. This conception of revolution is not confined to the general public. During revolutionary times, even those who are typically peace-loving fall under its spell. In fact, poets and writers embrace this idea even more swiftly, as they are deeply attuned to the unconscious desires of their era. Even Shelley, who advised revolutionaries to resist oppression through non-violence, generally could not write about revolution without invoking bloodshed and destruction.

It is true that at times he becomes horrified by the very idea of a revolution that necessitates the killing of human beings, yet he is second to none in his fascination with bloody imagery. But why single out Shelley? From the French Revolution onward, the revolutionary poetry produced across Europe is replete with references to bloodshed. Even the revolutionary poems written under the influence of orthodox Marxism are not devoid of it. This tendency can be found even in the works of serious poets like Day Lewis, Spender, and Auden. The same has been true for our own Urdu literature. Recall the political poems written just a decade ago, and how heavily they featured daggers, swords, fire, and blood. This reached its absolute peak in a particular poem by Ehsan Danish—the one in which the poet dreams of revolution. This same hue colors art as well as literature. The finest example is Delacroix, who cannot separate revolution from bloodshed for even a single moment. In short, if we were to seek out examples of this specific conception of revolution in literature, we could easily fill hundreds of pages.

But can such literature offer a truly great vision? Even Marxists would deny this. Literature, by its very nature, is the search for a new equilibrium, whereas this particular conception of revolution leaves no room for equilibrium at all. Literature seeks a new balance because it is fundamentally aligned with construction and creation. In the aforementioned view of revolution, however, destruction for the sake of destruction overrides everything else. Therefore, while this mindset might produce effective literature, it cannot produce great literature. On such occasions, the writer typically delivers mere rhetoric rather than true literature. Once the revolutionary era has passed, this rhetoric begins to feel incredibly bland, hollow, and sometimes even downright ridiculous.

Yeats once said that when a man wages war against himself, poetry is born; when he wages war against others, rhetoric is born. In the kind of revolutionary poetry we are discussing, the conflict is not even with the souls or principles of others; rather, it treats others merely as objects—objects that we simply wish to smash and discard. You can never adopt a creative attitude toward something you merely wish to destroy. As long as your mind is dominated by the urge to smash things (not human beings or principles, but mere things) simply for the sake of smashing them, you will never be able to create great literature. This attitude is fundamentally anti-human, and a person cannot create anything of human significance once they have lost their own humanity.

One thing, however, is certainly possible. The urge for destruction for the sake of destruction may gradually evolve into a desire to observe that destruction objectively or with profound interest, allowing the artist to paint a highly effective picture of the destructive process. In such a scenario, they can indeed produce valuable literature and art. The finest examples of this are, once again, the paintings of Delacroix. Nevertheless, a person can only accomplish this after the revolution, not before it—especially an artist who actively wishes to aid the revolutionary process and whose mind is consumed by thoughts of bloodshed.

Artists whose minds are dominated by revolutionary bloodshed should not be considered free from sexual complexities. I am reminded again of a painting by Delacroix... The Goddess of Liberty at the Barricades... This painting clearly articulates the psychological autobiography not just of Delacroix, but of all such revolutionary artists. The Goddess of Liberty is a broad, robust woman with a very full bosom. This kind of woman is the center of the painter's attention, but physically, he lacks the capacity to overpower her. Therefore, his restlessness and frustration transform into sadism and masochism, and he simply cannot imagine such a woman without heaps of corpses and piles of wounds. If such an artist also takes an interest in politics, he immediately becomes an aficionado of revolutionary bloodshed. There is no doubt that because of this sexual complexity, the intensity of political destruction for the sake of destruction is diminished. Psychological issues enter the artist's creation, saving it from becoming non-literature or non-art. Consequently, this sexual entanglement has both good and bad aspects. Without it, Delacroix's paintings could never have been successful.

(2) The second meaning of revolution is much deeper. The sensible ones among revolutionaries are aware of this meaning from the very beginning. Others either get to the bottom of the matter after the revolution, or they become so engrossed in worldly affairs that they no longer care what a revolution is or isn't. The true meaning of revolution is not bloodshed and destruction, nor is just any kind of change actually called a revolution. These are the cheapest definitions of revolution. A true revolution can occur without shedding blood—although blood is usually shed. In reality, revolution means that an obsolete system of life is replaced by a new system that aligns with new circumstances. A true revolution is not merely political or economic; it is a revolution of values. In a revolution, it is not just the outward structure of society that changes, but hearts and minds change entirely. A true revolution is a psychological revolution. It gives birth to a new human being (obviously, I am using new in a very limited sense).

Literature is always an ally in this kind of revolution; in fact, it walks four steps ahead of it. It is literature that first awakens the realization that fundamental changes are needed. Literature shapes the psychological aspects of these changes. Without calling itself revolutionary, literature serves as the herald of every major, fundamental revolution. D.H. Lawrence went so far as to say that unless a writer reflects the fundamental changes in human consciousness, he cannot become a great writer... Even though Lawrence himself declared a distaste for politics, he conceded that Shakespeare achieved such greatness because he depicted certain changes in human political consciousness. Although I do not fully accept this statement regarding Shakespeare, Lawrence is fundamentally correct. Indeed, even in Joyce, we find traces of shifts in consciousness and new revolutions. In this respect, we can call Joyce a revolutionary writer as well.

Anyway, for now, let us not expand the definition of revolution; let us keep it confined to political and economic changes. Because these are the changes that often seem most essential to people, and they manifest in the most prominent forms. When the need for such changes arises, literature always supports them. If one or two, or even ten or twelve writers oppose these changes, it makes no difference... collectively, literature is in their favor. Since literature is an instrument in the hands of a nation to seek a new equilibrium, supporting change is inevitable for literature. This has always been the case, and it will always remain so.

There is no doubt that there is also a strong reactionary aspect to a writer's personality. The fact is that a writer can only write about things that have entered their sensory and mental experience. These are the things that exist at a specific point in time. A writer cannot write anything about things that will come into existence in the future, because they fall outside their experience. Consequently, they want to preserve existing things. This stance of theirs is non-revolutionary and, to a certain extent, permanent. But at the same time, when circumstances force humanity to change, literature also becomes the voice of those circumstances.

Literature that points toward change is of two kinds. One group consists of those writers who demonstrate, in various ways, why the old system and old values are inadequate and obsolete. Sometimes, such writers have a profound love for the old ways and do not want to change them, but the writer's truth-seeking spirit compels them to see the obsolescence of those old things. Such writers also serve the revolution; their literature is not destruction for the sake of destruction, but destruction for the sake of construction. The second group consists of people who consciously know which new values should replace the old ones. At the very least, they unconsciously point toward the new values. These are the true revolutionary writers, whether they possess violent tendencies or not. Even if you do not call them revolutionaries, a revolution—at least in a psychological sense—cannot come into existence without them.

Like all other literatures, Urdu literature has always supported such revolutionary changes—that is, changes in human consciousness. Sir Syed's movement also contained certain revolutionary elements, even if it outwardly appeared to be a hundred percent reformist. In any case, literature was an equal partner in the changes that this movement brought about in the consciousness of Muslims. In fact, those changes occurred largely through literature. After that, the need for our consciousness to change its course arose around 1936. Even then, our literature, in its collective capacity, remained ahead of politics in this psychological revolution. These psychological changes were not brought about solely with the help of writers who consciously favored creating a revolution of values; rather, writers who consciously wanted to keep literature free from revolutionary demands also played a major role in it. These latter writers carried the spirit of revolution beyond politics and economics, reaching into the smallest corners of life.

(3) While these are the two primary interpretations of revolution, its meaning is sometimes altered merely for the convenience of political parties. The French philosopher and writer Jean-Paul Sartre provided two recent examples of this while discussing the relationship between literature and revolution. During the German occupation of France, many politicians collaborated with the Germans. One such gentleman declared that, given the country's current situation, revolution meant maintaining the status quo exactly as it was. A second definition was offered by a communist, who claimed that revolution simply meant increasing production.

These two definitions completely turn the very concept of revolution upside down. It is understandable that a revolution is not always necessary. Once an old value system has been dismantled, it becomes essential to halt destructive activities and establish new values on solid foundations. However, while this process is necessary, it cannot be called a revolution. The reality is that revolution is a highly captivating word; hearing it inevitably stirs up a certain level of passion in anyone. Since political parties rally their supporters precisely through such fervor, how could they possibly abandon such a useful word? Yet, because a new party comes into power after a revolution, the true meaning of the word goes against its vested interests. At the same time, it remains essential for them to exploit the word for their own benefit. Consequently, the very meaning of the word is altered. Revolution no longer means to change, but rather to preserve. This is the miracle of our twentieth-century politics. Dishonesty has always existed, but people in the past did not know how to twist the meanings of words quite so effortlessly.

Literature only aligns itself with revolution when life itself demands one. Since the aforementioned type of revolution is an absurd term, literature simply cannot support it. If a writer is convinced that the need for revolution has passed, they will accept it. However, if a non-revolutionary process is labeled a revolution to solicit their support, their very sensibilities will refuse to accept this definition. It is, of course, a different matter if a country's writers have become absolute slaves to politicians, accepting everything without question. But accepting an interpretation of reality that contradicts their own sensory experience means they will be entirely incapable of producing literature of any real value. This is exactly what is happening in Russia today.

All these interpretations of revolution have been more or less political. Because the word revolution is most frequently applied to political and economic institutions, political parties have turned it into their plaything. They expect writers to blindly accept whatever concept of revolution they wish to popularize. But why should literature tolerate such a restriction? Revolution is not merely a political phenomenon; it is far more of a psychological one. So, when discussing literature, why shouldn't we keep the broadest possible meaning of revolution in mind?

If revolution means transforming oneself to adapt to new circumstances, then the need for such adaptation arises at every moment in the smallest spheres of life, and literature generally reflects these very moments. The process of harmonizing with the demands of reality is itself a continuous revolution, and literature is the primary mirror of this revolution. In fact, this is precisely why literature is essential for human survival. The revolutionary function of literature is to create harmony with reality, and it achieves this by appropriately altering the modes of life in tandem with the changing forms of reality. The dialectical process in life does not occur solely on political and economic levels; rather, there are countless arenas for this dialectical process. Literature encompasses every manifestation of this dialectical process, no matter how great or small. Consider this famous couplet by Mir:

Faqirana aaye sada kar chalay

Miyan khush raho hum dua kar chalay

[Like a beggar I came, called out, and departed

Be happy, my friend, I have said my prayer and departed]

Is there any less dialectics in this couplet...? In truth, the most genuine dialectics are found in everyday human relationships. Notice the profound revolution—a psychological and moral revolution—hidden in the following couplet by Mir:

Wajah-e-begangi nahi maloom

Tum jahan ke ho waan ke hum bhi hain

[The reason for this estrangement is unknown

I belong to the very same place that you do]

If people were to truly understand the dialectics of this couplet by Mir, the resulting revolution would be far greater than the revolution of Marx. Granted, the majority of humanity cannot comprehend this dialectic, which is why the revolution envisioned by Mir will never actually materialize. Nevertheless, the fundamental task of literature is to continually present humanity with ever-new forms of revolution, constantly broadening and deepening its meaning. A great writer is, ultimately, the greatest revolutionary.