Defining Literature
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One of the most succinct definitions of literature comes from the Oxford English Dictionary, which defines it as “written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit.” Literature is also an umbrella term used to cover the major genres of imaginative writing: poetry, short stories, novels and plays. At the undergraduate level, literature courses come in many forms: a survey class of American Literature might touch on works from each of these genres, whereas a class on early American poetry would focus solely on poetry as a single genre from a narrow timeframe. As the definition states, literature includes ‘superior’ works that epitomize an important author, time period, or culture, and their ‘lasting artistic merit’ suggests that there is something particularly meaningful and timeless about them that justifies the time and effort it takes readers to read them centuries and even millennia after their creation. A piece of the definition that is missing though is that literature is almost always synonymous with fiction, which differentiates it from nonfiction writing. Novels, short stories and poetry are commonly discussed in opposition to major categories of nonfiction writing, such as journalism, history and scientific writing, to name just a few. At face value, the differences between these two categories are significant. Fiction writing is judged more on artistic qualities rather than its adherence to verifiable information. Nonfiction writing, on the other hand, is judged by its argument, logic, use of evidence and conclusion, rather than on creative word choice or other unique elements of literature.
Though there are many good reasons to highlight the differences between fiction and nonfiction, these two forms of writing complement each other in important ways too. For example, someone interested in learning more about the attacks on 9/11 has a wide array of good sources available to them. The Eleventh Day: The Full Story of 9/11 by Anthony Summers and Robbyn Swan is a comprehensive, 600+ page history of the event, and readers interested in the quality of their research can wade through the nine-page selected bibliography at the end of their book. On the other end of the spectrum is Poetry after 9/11: An Anthology of New York Poets, edited by Dennis Loy Johnson and Valerie Merians, which collects 45 poets who reflect on 9/11 from personal and emotional perspectives through poetry. Similarly, Henry Singer’s documentary 9/11: The Falling Man explores the experiences of both first responders and those who jumped to their deaths from the World Trade Center, while Don Delillo’s novel Falling Man uses the image of the ‘falling man’ to explore trauma, grief and the possibility of healing in the lives of three main characters. Each of these works are valuable within each of their respective genres, but more importantly, both fiction and nonfiction add a unique perspective to our overall understanding of the events of September 11th. Both contribute to the cultural understanding of a topic and for readers to read one type of writing to the exclusion of the other is to miss something fundamental about the human experience.
Fiction and nonfiction aren’t just valuable separately, rather it’s the overlap between the two categories that can be particularly powerful. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote is a classic novel on its own but knowing that his novel is heavily based on the real-life murder of the Clutter family in Holcolm, Kansas makes the novel more chilling and, at the time of its publication in 1966, helped create the hybrid genre of the non-fiction novel. Similarly, while Toni Morrison’s novel Jazz is a definite work of fiction, Morrison conducted extensive research on Harlem in the 1920’s before writing her novel, which led to the novel being occasionally (and probably incorrectly) categorized as a historical novel. This borrowing works in reverse as well. In Steven Mithen’s After the Ice, an archeological history of humans from 30,000-5,000 BCE, the author is aware that raw archeological data is unintelligible to average readers. He writes, “the risk in having to rely upon such evidence is that the resulting history may become little more than a catalogue of artifacts, a compendium of archeological sites or a succession of spurious ‘cultures’. A more accessible and appealing history is one that provides a narrative about people’s lives.” Mithen then introduces his fictionalized version of 19th century English scientist John Lubbock as a time-traveling character who ‘visits’ archeological sites from pre-history. Mithen effectively uses creative, fictional writing to compliment the hard data of the rest of his work. He writes, “I can, however, use my imagination to squeeze John Lubbock through the gaps so he can see what is denied to my own eyes, and become what the travel writer Paul Theroux has described as a ‘stranger in a strange land’”. He ends by reflecting that “all I have is my imagination...John Lubbock fulfils my wish to become more than a mere spectator.” Clearly Capote and Morrison’s novels would still be powerful without their historical background, just as Mithen’s archeological writing would still be convincing without his use of creative writing, but it’s each author’s ability to take the best from each category to further enhance their work that is so compelling. Maybe fiction and nonfiction are less like two islands permanently separated from one another by an ocean and more like two streams that both contribute to a river of human understanding. What makes imaginative literature so unique among other genres of writing though is its mix of emotional, artistic and intellectual effect.
While understanding the formal elements of fiction is important, when many readers think of the defining feature of their favorite work of literature, they don’t immediately think of plot structure, but instead they think of the emotional effect good literature has on them. In an 1870 letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Emily Dickinson wrote, “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know this is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?” 145 years later, Dickinson’s emotional response to good literature is echoed by Ben Marcus in his short story anthology, New American Stories, when he writes, “a story is simply a sequence of language that produces a chemical reaction in our bodies. When it’s done well, it causes sorrow, elation, awe, fascination. It makes us believe in what’s not there, but it also pours color over what is, so that we can feel and see the world anew. It fashions people, makes us care for them, then ladles them with conflict and disappointment. It erects towns, then razes them. A story switches on some unfathomably sophisticated machine inside us and we see, gloriously, what is not possible”. Ideally, well-crafted literature of all genres creates a heightened reaction in readers that is unique compared to other artistic disciplines, though literature doesn’t have a monopoly on creating emotional reactions. The architecture of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. or the composition of Vincent Van Gogh’s Wheat Fields series could fit a Dickinson-inspired definition for architecture and painting. Nonfiction isn’t exempt from emotionally moving readers as well if attention is paid to compelling writing and not just to the transfer of information.
Defining literature by its emotional impact is a good start, but a more detailed description is in order. An often quoted and useful definition of poetry that can be applied to a variety of artistic forms comes from the Roman poet Horace in his 1st century BCE work of criticism, Ars Poetica. Horace is frequently paraphrased as saying that poetry should 'delight and instruct’, which is a great starting point for thinking about the dual aims of literature, but his original statement is more complex. He writes: “Poets wish either to profit or to delight; or to deliver at once both the pleasures and the necessaries of life...he who joins the instructive with the agreeable, carries off every vote, by delighting and at the same time admonishing the reader.” Whether you prefer the paraphrase or the longer quote, Horace introduces ideas about literature that are still insightful today. Good literature achieves the dual aims of being delightful and instructive, but how we define those two words matters too. Is ‘delight’ equivalent to entertain? Is literature that provokes and challenges still considered delightful? Does ‘instruct’ imply that all literature should have a positive and discernable meaning, or is it enough for a story to grapple with an idea but have an ambiguous ending? Clearly there is a bewildering variety of literary works that test Horace’s definition, and though it might be imperfect, it’s a useful concept to keep in mind. Writing that is entertaining and delightful but is missing any serious intellectual meaning might be fun to read, but it lacks the depth and staying power of better works. Similarly, writing that is full of meaning but is overly complex, difficult to read, poorly written or boring will attract and keep so few readers that its good ideas won’t reach a wide audience. Whether we’re reading journalism, evolutionary biology or lyric poetry, Horace has a point: truly great literature finds a way to simultaneously delight and instruct.