Nobel Lecture by Joseph Brodsky

Language and, presumably, literature are things that are more ancient and inevitable, more durable than any form of social organization. The revulsion, irony, or indifference often expressed by literature towards the state is essentially a reaction of the permanent - better yet, the infinite -against the temporary, against the finite.

The philosophy of the state, its ethics - not to mention its aesthetics - are always "yesterday". Language and literature are always "today", and often - particularly in the case where a political system is orthodox - they may even constitute "tomorrow". One of literature's merits is precisely that it helps a person to make the time of his existence more specific, to distinguish himself from the crowd of his predecessors as well as his like numbers, to avoid tautology - that is, the fate otherwise known by the honorific term, "victim of history". What makes art in general, and literature in particular, remarkable, what distinguishes them from life, is precisely that they abhor repetition. In everyday life you can tell the same joke thrice and, thrice getting a laugh, become the life of the party. In art, though, this sort of conduct is called "cliché".

Nowadays, there exists a rather widely held view, postulating that in his work a writer, in particular a poet, should make use of the language of the street, the language of the crowd. For all its democratic appearance, and its palpable advantages for a writer, this assertion is quite absurd and represents an attempt to subordinate art, in this case, literature, to history. It is only if we have resolved that it is time for Homo sapiens to come to a halt in his development that literature should speak the language of the people. Otherwise, it is the people who should speak the language of literature.

On the whole, every new aesthetic reality makes man's ethical reality more precise. For aesthetics is the mother of ethics. The tender babe who cries and rejects the stranger or who, on the contrary, reaches out to him, does so instinctively, making an aesthetic choice, not a moral one.

Aesthetic choice is a highly individual matter, and aesthetic experience is always a private one. Every new aesthetic reality makes one's experience even more private; and this kind of privacy, assuming at times the guise of literary (or some other) taste, can in itself turn out to be, if not a guarantee, then a form of defense against enslavement. For a man with taste, particularly literary taste, is less susceptible to the refrains and the rhythmical incantations peculiar to any version of political demagogy. The point is that evil, especially political evil, is always a bad stylist. The more substantial an individual's aesthetic experience is, the sounder his taste, the sharper his moral focus, the freer (though not necessarily the happier) he is.

It is precisely in this applied, rather than Platonic, sense that we should understand Dostoevsky's remark that beauty will save the world, or Matthew Arnold's belief that we shall be saved by poetry. It is probably too late for the world, but for the individual man there always remains a chance. An aesthetic instinct develops in man rather rapidly, for, even without fully realizing who he is and what he actually requires, a person instinctively knows what he doesn't like and what doesn't suit him. In an anthropological respect, let me reiterate, a human being is an aesthetic creature before he is an ethical one. Therefore, it is not that art, particularly literature, is a by-product of our species' development, but just the reverse. If what distinguishes us from other members of the animal kingdom is speech, then literature - and poetry in particular, being the highest form of locution - is, to put it bluntly, the goal of our species.

In the history of our species, in the history of Homo sapiens, the book is anthropological development, similar essentially to the invention of the wheel. Having emerged in order to give us some idea not so much of our origins as of what that sapiens is capable of, a book constitutes a means of transportation through the space of experience, at the speed of a turning page. This movement, like every movement, becomes a flight from the common denominator, from an attempt to elevate this denominator's line, previously never reaching higher than the groin, to our heart, to our consciousness, to our imagination. This flight is the flight in the direction of "uncommon visage", in the direction of the numerator, in the direction of autonomy, in the direction of privacy. Regardless of whose image we are created in, there are already five billion of us, and for a human being there is no other future save that outlined by art. Otherwise, what lies ahead is the past - the political one, first of all, with all its mass police entertainments.

December 8, 1987

(Extract)

From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1981 - 1990 (translated by Barry Rubin)

Chapter 2: Short Story

A short story is a genre of emotive prose that belongs to belles-lettres style. The term "emotive" originated by A. Marty in 1908 is used to define "everything that transcends referential". Emotive prose - as well as poetry and drama - concerns itself primarily with the communication of feeling and not with the communication of facts (as the language of science would). It does not mean, however, that a writer of fiction should ignore the factual side of life: he inevitably finds an objectively describable situation to represent his feelings, the carrier which Thomas S. Eliot has called the 'objective correlative', selected to invoke and organise appropriate feelings.

The emotional aspect of fiction can find manifestation in the mere composition of the story line, in the contextual arrangement of prose systems (or types of discourse), in the peculiar pattern of imagery, in specific diction and syntax, and, on the whole, in a wide range of expressive means and stylistic devices.

Looking at the works of fiction from the perspective of their story line, one can distinguish between those that have a clearly discernible plot - a sequence of coherent events, and those that have practically no "external" action.

Stories that heavily depend on the plot can be called suspense stories. They are charged with physical action that does not have to proceed chronologically. Many works of fiction begin in the middle of things (critics say "in medias res") or even at the end, and many show earlier events in flashbacks. Here belong all kinds of action stories - mysteries, for example. Comedies too can gain their effects by the twists and turns of an intricately plotted story line. Plot here is a means to the creation of suspense or the provocation of laughter.

A lot of stories, however, have almost no plot, in that there are no events, no occurrences, and no happenings of any consequence. We find the characters of such stories in a situation and attend not to what they do but to what they feel as a result of the situation. These can be called situation stories and they lead primarily to the revelation of a character's internal state, to the nuances of personality and mood

Apart from this classification, short stories exist in an infinite variety of form and content. And yet they all have a common set of features, which makes it possible to speak about genre and style distinctions of this form of literature.

It seems effective to analyse these features along the following lines: 1) semantic structure (composition), 2) discourse structure (arrangement of prose systems), 3) modes of characterisation (direct and indirect), 4) modes of narration (first- and third person narration), and 6) modes of communicating emotional appeal (imagery, diction and syntax).

A short story displays a collection of distinctive features, which taken together, produce a cumulative effect on the reader by creating a picture of a fictional world before his mind's eye and providing for a strong cognitive impact of a short story.

Text # 1

Up-Ladle at Three

William Glynne-Jones

Squint, the foreman moulder, stood with his arms folded on the wooden planks covering the heavy-castings' pit. He peered at the men as they bustled around in the casting bay, getting the moulds ready.

"Get a move on," he rasped. "It's up-ladle at three. You've got ten minutes left. Hey, you - Owen and Ritchie! Close that spindle." He pointed to a mould, its top and bottom half contained in two steel boxes, approximately seven feet long by three wide and three deep. "Make sure the joints match," he muttered. "We don't want any more complaints from the main office."

The young moulder named Owen eyed the foreman quizzically.

"You don't intend casting that spindle, do you?"

Squint frowned. "What d'you mean? What's wrong with it?"

"Have a decko* at this." Qwen drew a finger over a deep crack in the box. "This moulding-box isn't safe."

"You can't tell me what to damn well do!" Squint shouted. "That spindle's got to be cast today, so get it closed ... Ritchie Bevan!"

Ritchie, sandy-haired, with a candid face, looked at the foreman. "Yes?"

"Close that mould. The furnace's waiting."

"I tell you this box isn't safe," Owen insisted. "Ritchie and I won't be responsible if anything happens. So to hell with you!"

The foreman looked wildly around.

"Evan! Bill!"

Evan-Small-Coal and Bill Tailor hurried across.

"Yes, Mr Brewer?"

"Get that spindle ready. I want it for the afternoon's cast."

The two moulders jumped promptly to obey his orders, and Squint spun around to face Owen once more. "You'll answer for this, both of you." He raised his hand threateningly.

Owen pulled Ritchie aside. "Aw, come on. Let's get out of this," he snapped. "I'm fed up to the teeth."

They crossed the heavy-castings' pit and stood near a water bosh**. Squint shook his fist at them. "I'll see you'll suffer for this," he shouted. "You know damn well there's not the slightest risk."

He swung around to the two moulders who were closing the spindle mould. "Put a jerk into it, you fellers, " he bellowed.

Meanwhile, the furnace had been tapped. The ladle, with its fifty tons of molten steel, swung above the spindle mould. The crane-man, Dai Jones, shielded his eyes from the fierce glare as he peered over the edge of his steel cage and waited for his instructions.

"Swing her over an inch to furnace, Dai!" Squint called.

The crane's control levers clicked.

"Okay. Let her go!"

The teemer*** pulled downwards: the white-hot steel rushed in a circular stream from beneath the ladle and dropped into the spindle with a hollow thud. A red tongue of flame shot into the air, and the gurgling, boiling metal rose slowly to the brim of the mould. The cast was over, and the empty ladle was swung back to its bed beneath the furnace landing. Shoulders drooped, head bowed, the perspiring teemer walked to the water bosh where Owen stood. He glanced sideways at the young moulder. "What's eating Brewer?" he asked. "Had a bit of rumpus with him, didn't you?"

Owen did not reply.

"Okay, if that's how you feel." The teemer shuffled back towards the empty ladle. All at once he wheeled sharply around, his eyes wild with fear. He rushed to the bosh and grasped Owen's shoulder.

"Look, man ... the spindle. It's - it's running out! Ritchie's down there ... trapped, like a bloody rabbit."

A wild piercing scream cleaved the air. Bill Tailor leaped headlong from the wooden staging. "Help! For God's sake ... Help!" he shouted frantically. "Give us a hand, quickly... The spindle's burst!"

Owen pushed the agitated teemer violently aside and raced over the pit. He stumbled into the casting bay. Suddenly he stopped.

Before him, his eyes dilated with terror, stood Ritchie on one foot, precariously balanced on a single brick near the centre of a rapidly filling pull of white-hot metal. Momentarily his foot slipped from the brick, and he screamed.

"Mam! Oh! Jesus Christ, Christ! Mam! Mam!" Ritchie's agonising cries shrieked above the thunder of the cranes as they grated to a standstill on the quivering girders. A pungent smell of roasted flesh hung in the fetid air. The yellow flames bit into his hands and face. Paralysed with fear and pain he shrieked continuously, loudly and terrifyingly.

"Do something, one of you!" Qwen yelled to the horror-stricken moulders in the bay. He caught Bill Tailor by the arm. "Phone the doctor! Hurry, for God's sake!"

Without further hesitation he threw a board over the space, tore off his jacket and darted forward. Throwing it around the tortured Ritchie's body, he grasped him in his arms and dragged him to safety.

Gently, he laid him on the ground. The crowd of men, whispering and gesticulating, closed in around the prostrate figure.

"Give him air!" Owen cried. He threw out his arms and braced his shoulders against the crowd. He glanced apprehensively around. "Where's Bill? Has the doctor come?"

"Make way there, " someone called authoritatively. The crowd parted. The foundry's first-aid man, followed by two others carrying a stretcher, pushed his way to the front. From a small box he took out a bottle of greenish liquid, pads of cotton wool and rolls of bandage. He called the stretcher-bearers to his side.

"Easy now."

One of the men placed his hands under Ritchie's legs. A charred boot crumbled at his touch, pieces of brown, roasted flesh adhering to it. The man retched. His face turned a sickly green. His hands slipped down Ritchie's trousers and came in contact with the raw, shining heel bone.

Ritchie whimpered with pain. His fingers clawed wildly at Owen's shoulders. The skin of his closed eyelids was blistered, the eyelashes singed. His face, a dirty yellow, drawn and haggard, glistened with cold sweat. Now and again he shivered convulsively.

Owen tenderly raised his injured friend to a sitting position.

"Ritchie... Ritchie," he choked. He looked into the first-aid man's face. "It's too late, too late," he sobbed. "Nothing can be done."

Ritchie stared at him vacantly. His fingers and lips moved. He coughed weakly.

"A fag," he whispered. "A ... fag."

A cigarette was placed between his lips; it fell from his mouth and rolled to the ground.

Owen pillowed Ritchie's head on his knees and stared wild-eyed at the gaping crowd.

"He's dead! Dead - d'you hear me?" he shouted. "Ritchie's dead ... murdered by a butcher of a foreman ... D'you hear me, fellers? My pal Ritchie's been murdered!"

One of the men stooped down and pattered Owen's hand.

"Calm down, Owen. You don't realise what you're saying," he whispered nervously. "It was an accident, as you can see. All the men here can testify that it couldn't be helped, and..."

Owen rose slowly to his feet. His teeth were clenched. His eyes burned. He grasped the speaker by the shoulder and shook him fiercely.

"Accident!" he shouted. "Accident!"

The man spluttered. "Such things happen, don't they?" He pulled away, his eyes full of fear.

Presently Squint shouldered his way into the ring. "Get that box out into the scrap yard," he ordered. "Smash the damn thing!"

"Oh, no you don't." Owen wheeled round to face the foreman. "There's a hell of a lot of questions to be asked before this affair is cleared. And that box will answer all of them."

Squint pretended not to have heard.

"How - how's Ritchie?" he asked.

"He's dead!" The words were cold and harsh.

The foreman paled. "Dead? But I - I thought he was saved?"

"Saved?" Owen mocked. "Saved?" He stepped up to the foreman, his fists clenching and unclenching. "You damned murderer!" he raged. "You killed him!"

Squint edged back. "Keep him away," he appealed to the men. "He's out of his mind."

Owen leapt forward and clutched him by the throat. "I'll strangle you ... you swine," he hissed between his bared teeth. He glared at the men. "You saw what happened? You heard me warn him, didn't you?"

No one answered.

"God! Isn't there a man amongst you? Are you going to stand by and see your mate murdered, without a word in protest?"

Bill Taylor dashed into the casting bay. "The - the doctor... he'll be here any minute..." He paused. "Owen, for God's sake, man - what are you doing?"

He threw himself at Owen and caught him round the waist. "Let him go, man alive ... Let him go! D'you want to kill him?"

Two of the moulders sensed the danger. They tore Owen's hands away from the foreman's throat.

"Hey, man ... What's come over you?" Bill Taylor panted. Owen pointed to the body of his friend.

"Ritchie's a goner," he said slowly. "And that swine's responsible." He stared accusingly at the foreman.

Squint shuffled backwards into the safety of the crowd. "Be - be careful what you say," he stammered. He beckoned to the crane-man.

"Dai! Lower the chain," he called urgently. Then to Bill Taylor he shouted desperately: "Take that box out to the yard, Bill. Break it up. We don't want no more trouble here after this accident."

The crane rumbled forward. The chain was lowered and Bill Taylor and another moulder prepared to hitch the box.

"Just a minute, there!" Qwen jumped to the box. He stood poised in front of it, his fists clenched. "Take the crane away!" he shouted over his shoulder without glancing at the crane-man.

"But Owen," Bill Taylor protested.

"You'll not touch this box." Owen's face was grim. His eyes flashed and the knuckles of his hands showed white beneath the grime.

"Stand back!" he cried. "My pal's been murdered. This box is the only evidence we have, and I'll see that a full report is made to doctor and police."

Squint trembled like a man afflicted with ague,

"The police!" he gasped. "The police!"

He made an effort to regain his authority. "You heard me, Bill Taylor!" he cried. "Get that box out."

Bill looked at Owen. One of the moulders approached him. "I'll give you a hand, Bill."

"Stand back!" Owen grabbed a heavy steel cramp and raised it shoulder high. "I'll brain the first man that lays a hand on this box!"

The men glanced nervously at one another. Squint, desperate with fear, broke through to the front once more.

"Owen, for heaven's sake, be reasonable, man," he pleaded. "Think what this'll mean to me ... My job ... my livelihood! Hell, man - let's forget what I've said to you. Forget what I've said to Ritchie ... I'll do anything ... to compensate him."

His words were unheeded. Qwen stood guard between the smouldering box and the dead body of his friend. The men stood by as if transfixed.

And at that moment the doctor came.

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* have a decko: have a look. Dekko is a Hindi word brought back by British soldiers from India. There are many English words from this source

** bosh: an old term in iron making. It is a trough for cooling the hot steel

*** teemer: the man who empties the molten steel into the moulds