One may have a feeling, an urge to love or be loved, to know their self or an other, to be a part of something, to feel validated or at peace. And one may be inspired to tell a story by these general feelings alone, with no particular instance at hand. Thus, the objective of a literary creation in this situation is to bind a general feeling, which the writer must believe has the potential to resonate on some universal level, to a particular situation. The writer then draws from the world a collection of particular images and arranges them so as to [re]form a story in which the climate of the general feeling might be [re]experienced.

Likewise, a lucid observer may witness a particular event and sense something ineffable in the act, and so they set out, by way of exploring, shaping and polishing details of the event––by giving it form, in short––to illuminate the ineffable quality, a quality which emitted enough of the general so that the lucid observer, at least, was made aware of its potential universality. In both circumstances of this simple dichotomy, the general is reverberated by way of giving form to the particular, which allows for the potential of meaning. And it could be said that this binding of the general and the particular to illuminate ineffable truths is the aim of a literary work of art.

On the other hand, the historical and political works have less concern than the literary work with this binding of the general and the particular.

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Both the historical mind and the artist seek to remake the world. But the artist, through an obligation of his very nature, recognizes limits the historical mind ignores.

– Albert Camus, “Helen in Exile”

The historical work is primarily concerned (dare I say obsessed?) with the particular, amassing a coherent narrative of particular facts in an effort to illuminate a particular truth (it is essential that this truth be a discovery rather than a destination, otherwise the work becomes didactic, an innate and unsavory quality of the political work). This aim of arriving at a particular fact-based truth does not necessarily dismiss the value of the general and universal, but it does not depend on it the way a literary work does. The truth that the historical work seeks is a tangible one, unfamiliar at its best, but one that can be pointed to as an actuality. This approach to historical truth, when not carried out in a lucid and indifferent manner, has the potential to become subservient to policy (this is also true of the literary work).

The political work, the work written in the service of policy, certainly depends on the general, but it only pretends to honor its value, exploiting the universal as a rhetorical device of persuasion. Likewise, the political work does not pursue the particular with the same honesty and passion for truth as the historical work. Instead, it is formed by the calculated omission and presentation of particular facts with the aim of serving a pre-determined policy. This raises serious questions about truth in the political work, which, contrary to literary work, seeks to posit its conclusion as nothing less than The Truth.  This is not meant to be a negative criticism against the propaganda generated by the political work, for such propaganda has been instrumental in the liberty and freedom of many human lives, and it certainly has its place in our societies. Rather, this is an attempt to illustrate the potential importance of separating politics from art and the link which the historical mind plays between the two.

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History, necessary but not sufficient, is therefore only an occasional cause. It is not absence of values, not values themselves, nor even the source of values. It is one occasion, among others, for man to prove the still confused existence of a value that allows him to judge history.

– Albert Camus, The Rebel

Let us now look at a more nuanced relationship between fiction and history using some Nietzschean and Camusean points of departure. Our goal is to hone in on the dodgy point where history has the potential to be claimed as a Truth and enter into the servitude of policy.

At the end of part five of The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche refers to everything as an aesthetic phenomenon. “It is only as an aesthetic phenomenon that existence and the world are eternally justified.” In short, this reflects a concept that form does not exist inherently within nature: a realm of infinite chaos of which man is a part; but it is man’s consciousness that gives form to the otherwise arbitrary indifference of nature; thus: the potential for meaning can only exist within the form that man imposes on nature. Form is the result of an arbitrary set of boundaries placed on what is inherently infinite chaos, and as such, any meaning that is derived within the context of a given form is fictive (It’s worth considering at this point the etymology of the word fiction, which comes from the Latin word fingere, meaning to ‘form, contrive,’ and considering what is being implied and/or gained when the prefix “non” is added to the root word). Clearly, once this system of perception begins to germinate, history feeds the possibilities for old forms to become symbols that carry the mythological. But, history is in no way able to transcend the illusory nature of its own existence, since it, too, is merely an aesthetic phenomenon, an attempt to formulate meaning and gain knowledge within an arbitrary and indifferent universe.

On the other hand, fiction, whose lifeblood is the acknowledgment of it’s own illusoriness, contains an element of truth that the historical work ignores. The fictional literary work acknowledges history, incorporates history, seeks to understand it, celebrates it and condemns it, but is not chained to it. The passion of a fictional literary work burns in the attempt to bind the particular to the general, to bind diversity to unity. Fiction celebrates the limits that govern it and the mind that creates it.

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NOTES:

First, it should be noted, that the world is not divided up so neatly as this author’s mind would like. The fictional, the historical and the political do not exist in isolation, this is only an exploration of an idea, of concepts; it is not a postulate.

It is clear to the author that the next logical step of this inquiry would be to continue the exploration of form’s origins. It is also clear to the author that a closer look at form would introduce some of the paradoxical issues often found in philosophy.

It is also clear to the author that there is some vagueness in the relationship between the terms general and universal, and this is certainly something to be addressed as this exploration is taken further, and the writing is developed into something intended for publication. But, alas, this is a mere journal entry, even though it has been published here.

Another murky area in the above writing is the relationship between literary work and fiction. It should be somewhat evident that this author sees no distinguishing factors notable enough to the value of a literary art work to merit sub-classifications of literary art work. And that, due in part to the etymology given for the word fiction, and also due in part to the illusory nature of reality, the literary work is always fictive.  This certainly does not mean that the fictive work is always literary!

For a more in-depth reading on breeching the particular with language, specifically in terms of exploiting the mythology attached to words, read Leonard Schwartz’s essay: “Lorine Niedecker and the Obstinacy of the Particular.”