Benefits of Non-Production: Part Two

by Theodore Dalrymple (January, 2018)

Golconda, Réne Magritte, 1953

 

 

hortly before he died in 2000, the Welsh poet, R. S. Thomas, wrote a poem, Went to Prague . . . , deploring ‘the nothing [that] they were doing with their freedom’. In other words, that after decades of suffering—first under the Nazis, then under the Communists—the Czechs gave themselves over wholly and gleefully to the trivial, vulgar and unattractive fatuities of our consumer society, so, at any rate, it seemed to Thomas, who had spent fifty years of his poetic career decrying the superficialities of modern life.

 

Naturally, this was a sweeping generalisation, and could not have been universally true. But to be universally true is not the function of sweeping generalisations, not does he who makes such generalisations expect to be taken literally. We object to sweeping generalisations on the grounds that they are not universally true only when A) we suspect that they are roughly true and B) when we find that truth that they express disconcerting or disagreeable. Of course, I generalize—sweepingly.

 

Thomas, like many others, must have hoped that the long experience of oppression would concentrate the mind of the population on higher things, as indeed it often appeared to visitors behind the Iron Curtain to have done before the Curtain was drawn aside. As Philip Roth remarked, in the west everything was permitted and nothing was important, while in the east nothing was permitted and everything was important. And I can personally vouch for the fact that human contacts between westerners and easterners that took place in the Eastern Bloc, truncated as they necessarily had to be, were of an intensity I have never known in other circumstances. Suffice it to say that when they took place, one did not discuss the weather or football results: one went straight to the deeper questions of human existence.

 

Perhaps I am unique in this (I have performed no survey to find out), but my first thought on reading the lyrics that I quoted in my previous article was that ‘This should not be permitted.’ And indeed, the world would be a slightly better place without such lyrics, even if they had no practical effect on anyone’s conduct, just as the world is a better place without a superfluous ugly building. In Somerset Maugham’s short story, Rain, the missionary’s wife, Mrs Davidson, tells Dr MacPherson, ‘Mr Davidson says that the native dancing is not only immoral in itself, but it distinctly leads to immorality.’ I hesitate to associate myself with so mean and unattractive a figure as Mr Davidson, even by means of an inversion of what he said: nevertheless, I would claim that even if the lyrics that I quoted did not distinctly lead to immorality, they are immoral in themselves.

 

In support of my visceral, that is to say initial, feeling that such lyrics should be censored, I could point out that the great majority of the world’s great art was produced under conditions of censorship—at any rate, censorship of the proscriptive rather than the prescriptive kind, but censorship nonetheless. The removal of all censorship has not resulted in an unprecedented florescence of the arts, and certainly not in literature, quite the reverse. The golden age of Russian literature was certainly not one of an absence of censorship, nor was Shakespeare entirely free to write what he liked (or rather, might have liked, since we don’t know what he would have liked). Anyone who wanted, in a disinterested fashion, to study the conditions under which great literature is produced would soon turn his mind to, among other things, the nature of the censorship that encourages it. Among other things, censorship makes necessary the implicit , which is always more powerful and moving than the explicit:

 

Tell all the truth, but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies . . .

 

In short, if we were obliged to disregard that part of the artistic heritage of Man that was produced under conditions of censorship, there would be practically nothing left and if, conversely, we were obliged to regard only that part of the heritage that was produced under conditions of complete freedom of expression, we should have but little artistic sustenance from the past.

 

These things are perfectly obvious and hardly require much demonstration. It does not follow, of course, from the fact that great art is generally produced under conditions of censorship that conditions of censorship generally produce great art. But I have found that even to mention any connection at all between censorship and great art results immediately in a question that is half-inquiry, half-accusation: ‘So you believe in censorship?’

 

No doubt I would believe in censorship if I believed first that censorship was a necessary condition of the production of great art and second if I believed that the production of such art were the highest or only goal of human society. I do not believe either of these propositions, however great the importance that I attach to art. But I do not believe that there is one great end of humanity to which all other ends must always and everywhere be subordinated, so that the desirability of censorship would not be for me established even if it were the sine qua not (the without-which-not, as my friend’s father used to call it) of the production of great art.

 

But what if, in any case, great art can be produced without the aid of external censorship? Under what conditions is it produced?

 

No doubt this is to a large degree a futile question. There are too many incalculables for a definitive answer. But one faculty seems to me to be essential or indispensable in the individuals who would produce great art: namely, the faculty of self-censorship, that is a sense not merely of what should be left out, but of what should not be said. Without self-censorship, complete freedom of expression is destined by a kind of inner logic an arms-race of vulgar sensationalism.

 

Self-censorship does not at the moment enjoy a very happy reputation. It is associated in our minds with an avoidance—a cowardly or dishonest avoidance—of difficult or dangerous subjects: the intellectual nullity of contemporary Islam, for example, or the nature of transsexualism. There are several subjects that I avoid myself because I do not care enough about them to subject myself to the abuse that I would be likely to receive if I expressed my real opinions on them. My life, after all, is more than the expression of the sum total of my opinions. The danger comes when everyone, or at any rate large numbers of people, avoid the same subjects for the same reasons. That is the way that untruth may become deeply ingrained in a society, by default.

 

Shortly after the February revolution in 1917, the Russian writer, Leonid Andreyev, wrote an article in which he said that self-censorship was worse, far worse, than any other kind:

 

Censorship of expression is not so terrible, it is not fatal: what is today forbidden can remain for years or even centuries hidden under the bushes, in archives, in notes taken by amateurs, in the basements of private or even princely libraries, and emerge into the daylight when a more liberal age arrives . . . but censorship of thought, the self-censorship which one exercises over that what one does not express—that, that is terrible.

 

This is true if the reason for the self-censorship is fear: fear, for example, that what one really thinks will inadvertently slip out and lead to trouble, so that one attempts to forestall the possibility by not even thinking the dangerous thought. One turns one’s mind away from the thought, and what originally takes conscious effort becomes, like all habits, second nature. One becomes what one perseveres to do.

 

 

 

Censor your thoughts, but with pusillanimity. 

 

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The Proper Procedure from New English Review Press.

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