Katherine Anne Porter (102 page)

Literature as a profession? It
is
a profession, and the professional literary man is on his own as any other professional man is.

If you mean, is there any place in our present economic system for the practice of literature as a source of steady income and economic security, I should say, no. There never has been, in any system, any guarantee of economic security for the artist, unless he took a job and worked under orders as other men do for a steady living. In the arts, you simply cannot secure your bread and your freedom of action too. You cannot be a hostile critic of society and expect society to feed you regularly. The artist of the present day is demanding (I think childishly) that he be given, free, a great many irreconcilable rights and privileges. He wants as a right freedoms which the great spirits of all time have had to fight and often to die for. If he wants freedom, let him fight and die for it too, if he must, and not expect it to be handed to him on a silver plate.

5.
Do you find, in retrospect, that your writing reveals any allegiance to any group, class, organization, region, religion, or system of thought, or do you conceive of it as mainly the expression of yourself as an individual?

I find my writing reveals all sorts of sympathies and interests which I had not formulated exactly to myself; “the expression
of myself as an individual” has never been my aim. My whole attempt has been to discover and understand human motives, human feelings, to make a distillation of what human relations and experiences my mind has been able to absorb. I have never known an uninteresting human being, and I have never known two alike; there are broad classifications and deep similarities, but I am interested in the thumbprint. I am passionately involved with these individuals who populate all these enormous migrations, calamities; who fight wars and furnish life for the future; these beings without which, one by one, all the “broad movements of history” could never take place. One by one—as they were born.

6.
How would you describe the political tendency of American writing as a whole since 1930? How do you feel about it yourself? Are you sympathetic to the current tendency toward what may be called “literary nationalism”—a renewed emphasis, largely uncritical, on the specifically “American” elements in our culture?

Political tendency since 1930 has been to the last degree a confused, struggling, drowning-man-and-straw sort of thing, stampede of panicked crowd, each man trying to save himself—one at a time trying to work out his horrible confusions. How do I feel about it? I suffer from it, and I try to work my way out to some firm ground of personal belief, as the others do. I have times of terror and doubt and indecision, I am confused in all the uproar of shouting maddened voices and the flourishing of death-giving weapons. . . . I should like to save myself, but I have no assurance that I can, for if the victory goes as it threatens, I am not on that side.
*
The third clause of this question I find biased. Let me not be led away by your phrase “largely uncritical” in regard to the “emphasis on specifically American” elements in our culture. If we become completely uncritical and nationalistic, it will be the most European state of mind we could have. I hope we may not. I hope we shall have balance enough to see ourselves plainly, and choose what we shall keep and what discard according to
our own needs; not be rushed into fanatic self-love and self-praise as a defensive measure against assaults from abroad. I think the “specifically American” things might not be the worst things for us to cultivate, since this is America, and we are Americans, and our history is not altogether disgraceful. The parent stock is European, but this climate has its own way with transplantations, and I see no cause for grievance in that.

7.
Have you considered the question of your attitude toward the possible entry of the United States into the next world war? What do you think the responsibilities of writers in general are when and if war comes?

I am a pacifist. I should like to say now, while there is still time and place to speak, without inviting immediate disaster (for I love life), to my mind the responsibility of the artist toward society is the plain and simple responsibility of any other human being, for I refuse to separate the artist from the human race: his prime responsibility “when and if war comes” is not to go mad. Madness takes many subtle forms, it is the old deceiver. I would say, don’t be betrayed into all the old outdated mistakes. If you are promised something new and blissful at the mere price of present violence under a new master, first examine these terms carefully. New ideas call for new methods, the old flaying, drawing, and quartering for the love of God and the King will not do. If the method is the same, trust yourself, the idea is old, too. If you are required to kill someone today, on the promise of a political leader that someone else shall live in peace tomorrow, believe me, you are not only a double murderer, you are a suicide, too.

1939

One of the most disquieting by-products of the world disorders of the past few years has been the displacement of the most influential writers. The ablest German authors and journalists, for example, are no longer in Berlin and Leipzig, but in London and New York. The most articulate of the Spanish intelligentsia are not in Madrid but in Mexico City and Buenos Aires. This paradoxical situation must have far-reaching consequences, not only for the intellectuals themselves but for Germany, England and the United States, Spain, Mexico, and the Argentine. What, in your opinion, may these consequences be, immediate and remote, desirable and unfortunate?

The deepest harm in forced flight lies in the incurable wound to human pride and self-respect, the complete dislocation of the spiritual center of gravity. To be beaten and driven out of one’s own place is the gravest disaster that can occur to a human being, for in such an act he finds his very humanity denied, his person dismissed with contempt, and this is a shock very few natures can bear and recover any measure of equilibrium.

Artists and writers, I think, do not suffer more than other people under such treatment, but they are apt to be more aware of the causes of their sufferings, they are better able to perceive what is happening, not only to them, but to all their fellow beings. I would not attempt to prophesy what the consequences of all this world displacement by violence of so many people might be; but I can only hope they will have learned something by it, and will leave in the grave of Europe their old quarrels and the old prejudices that have brought this catastrophe upon all of us. We have here enough of those things to fight without that added weight.

Americans are not going anywhere, and I am glad of it. Here we stay, for good or ill, for life or death; and my hope is that all those articulate intelligences who have been driven here will consent to stand with us, and help us put an end to this stampede of human beings driven like sheep over one frontier after another; I hope they will make an effort to understand what this place means in terms of the final battlefield.
For the present, they must live here or nowhere, and they must share the responsibility for helping to make this a place where man can live as man and not as victim, pawn, a lower order of animal driven out to die beside the road or to survive in stealth and cunning.

The force at work in the world now is the oldest evil with a new name and new mechanisms and more complicated strategies; if the intelligent do not help to clarify the issues, maintain at least internal order, understand themselves and help others to understand the nature of what is happening, they hardly deserve the name. I agree with Mr. E. M. Forster that there are only two possibilities for any real order: in art and in religion. All political history is a vile mess, varying only in degrees of vileness from one epoch to another, and only the work of saints and artists gives us any reason to believe that the human race is worth belonging to.

Let these scattered, uprooted men remember this, and remember that their one function is to labor at preserving the humanities and the dignity of the human spirit. Otherwise they are lost and we are lost with them and whether they stay here or go yonder will not much matter.

1940

1.
Is foreign experience valuable for the writer, or does it deprive him of his “roots”? Why not just send his written works?

A human being carries his “roots” in his blood, his nervous system, the brain cells; no man can get rid of them. Even his attempts to disguise them will betray his origins and true nature. I think foreign travel and experience are good for every-body—not just writers, but for writers they are an invaluable, irreplaceable education in life. Yes, I know; Dante never left Italy and Shakespeare never left England. We call to mind a few
house-bound women—geniuses too—Jane Austen, Emily Brontë, Emily Dickinson—but we are not talking now about geniuses, but writers. One thing fourteen years of travel and living in six foreign countries did for me besides giving me a wonderful time is, I am delighted to stay at home!

It is an absurd but rather touching little human weakness, but any number of people would rather see and hear a live author than read his works.

2.
Are more opportunities for exchange of writers needed?

Yes, I do think nations should exchange writers and all artists more than they do; but not officially, not with any political affiliations. Several years ago when I was in Washington there was some vague talk of sending me as “cultural attaché” to a Spanish-speaking American country. Our Ambassador or Minister to that country turned the entire idea down saying: “I don’t want any culture mixed with my politics.” This delighted me, and I sent him a message through the proper channels: “And I don’t want any politics mixed with my culture!” And I still don’t like the mixture.

3.
Should an attempt be made to lift the “iron curtain” through the exchange of writers?

This is a bear trap of a question. Within my memory, before World War I, we had in effect an open world; no passports needed anywhere in Europe, or in the Americas. Russia, then as now, was closed. It was considered a barbarous government (and it was barbarous in other ways too) because passports were required, and Russian subjects could not leave the country without permission; and the Tsar’s secret police and Siberian prison camps were the scandals of the world. (The world itself had quite a few horrors in every country, but Russia was then as now considered the worst.) Writers and artists came and went, even to Russia; they were free as birds at other international frontiers; their books were translated into all languages, and so far as peace, understanding, freedom, between nations is concerned, they might all as well never have left their own back yards. I daresay there is not at this moment a single government in this world which really trusts another government, and we know too well that last year’s enemy can be this
year’s friend, and the other way around; but we can’t blame this state of affairs on the writers, and we can’t quite expect them to remedy it, either.

4.
What role can or should the U.S. government play in sending writers abroad and bringing writers here?

The U.S. government might appoint good, well-proved poets and novelists to consular or other foreign posts as the French do, and certain Latin American countries: or appoint first-rate writers for a certain length of time—one, two, three years—as cultural attachés at a salary commensurate with the dignity of the place, to be awarded as an honor. Even the Consular or other foreign service jobs would not be any harder work or take more time than teaching, which is what so many of our best writers do to make a living.

But any political strings attached to any of this would quite simply be fatal, and no honest artist could survive in such a situation.

5.
What are the writer’s personal objectives in going abroad? Do these differ from the objectives of most sponsoring organizations?

I think most writers probably have the same motives as other people—for going abroad. They love to see the world, hear and maybe learn other languages; unfamiliar habits and customs, other peoples’ lives and ways of feeling, are so fascinating and exciting and, if one lives there long enough, as I did in Mexico and France, one loves the place and the people; I may never see them again, but I shall never outlive my tenderness and sympathy for those glorious beautiful countries. I suppose the “objective” of a writer is just to live and do his work as well as he can, in his own way and time—his lifetime—and most sponsoring organizations want “production” right now!

6.
What kinds of writers should be selected to go abroad? (Criteria) Who should do the selecting? (Mechanisms)

a) Good ones. The standard cannot be too high. The Library of Congress has a Chair of Poetry, and I don’t know exactly what method they have of choosing but they haven’t had a bad poet there yet! The National Institute of Arts and Letters has a pretty good system of choosing their Gold Medalists,
and their speakers at the annual wing-ding in May: I have seen an impressive row of talent sitting there waiting to be handed that thousand-dollar grant.

b) For judges, I should look over the committee lists of such organizations. Second-rate judges will not know how to pick first-rate writers.

7.
What should a writer do, if anything, to prepare for a sojourn abroad? Does the writer need assistance or can he do it for himself?

The only assistance any writer worth his salt needs is enough money to take him where he wants to go and keep him there for as long as he needs to stay. Sometimes he can save up money—if he teaches, for example—and go on a sabbatical year; sometimes he can support himself with free-lance writing, but it is very risky; almost the only hope is a grant or fellowship of some sort, though at this time there are very few that give enough for anyone to live on. Also the grants to what I believe are called “creative” writers, which I suppose means poets, novelists, as distinct from critics, essayists, and journalists, have been cut down to a mere token number in nearly all the foundations; yet I feel that our best poets and novelists are the ones we should send if we are going to send anybody to other countries.