War and Literature

One peculiarity of the present war is sure to have struck many a literary observer viz., the absence of any considerable inspiration, direct or indirect, from the war situation for writers of poetry and fiction. In our study of the different literatures of the world, we have been accustomed to find, so regularly as to be almost tempted to prophesy, the flowering of fresh and vigorous literature under the incarnadine shower from Mars. Even the world war I of 1914-18 proved that we were not too civilized to be uninspired by battle-drums. The present war, however, has not only not given us new poets and writers but has even obscured the existing ones.

The situation is more than merely interesting if we bear in mind the issues involved in the present struggle between light and darkness–the light of Liberty and the darkness of Dictatorship. The first year or two of the war showed us the powers against liberty strong in the preparation for, and desperate in the conduct of, the onslaught on individual liberty and the right to happiness. That fact in itself should have sufficiently encouraged the wings of the Muse to soar with the song of liberty. It did not. Even when the war assumed a totalitarian aspect, its gruesome consequences failed to move the hearts of poets.

Can it be that we have out-grown our capacity to feel, and feel intensely? Perhaps not. The passion with which propaganda is on the air (though of short waves!) speaks against such an assumption. Our hearts hare taken as intensely to worship the Hero and to condemn the villain as any poetic heart would. Air-raid victims and evacuees move us to a pitch of horror, anger and sympathy that would do credit to any bird of fancy. And yet, there is no spontaneous out-flow of passion and feeling in words melodious or metrical. Nor could it be said that the human heart has found a medium other than poetry or belles letters to convey the sincerity and intensity of its feelings. It is true that every citizen of the warring nations is whole-heartedly identifying himself with the conduct of his nation’s war-machine. But to substitute war-effort for poetry is to deny (and also to insult) the divinity in man that makes him grow, through futurity, into eternity. It is true that man is more of a political animal (though now only an economic liability!); but politics has rarely ceased to be the instrument to turn living into an art. No. Rather, the causes which might explain the unusual situation set out above must be sought elsewhere.

Let us first go to those days in the past when war against nature, and neighbours, was the chief method used by man to make a living in this world. He had to be strong to live, and the longer he lived the stronger and better he was considered to be. A strong man was feared, admired and then worshipped. Even when man made a community of so many families, his strength, when it offered protection to his community, was worshipped as before. The art of fighting symbolised the art of protection and survival. Our earliest heroes were great protectors and great killers. As society developed, individual fights turned into group fights. Group fights did not, however, mean indiscriminate fighting but was as individual in character as ever before. Chivalry on the battlefield and the various codes of ‘fair fight’ are evidences of this supposition. Thus, in this stage, fighting was understood not merely as strength but strength with virtuous limitations. It is for this reason that wars, in the old days, inspired poets; they produced heroes, and heroes are the stuff of which poetry could naturally be made. Strength, chivalry, protection, prosperity–these attributes of hero-ship made the old wars a theme of admiration. The armies ranged on opposite sides represented two teams both equally trained for the particular purpose and the rest of the world watched from the galleries, so to say. The poet played the role of a modern broadcaster of sports-matches. Even if the old wars were costly, kings and noblemen paid for them and if, incidentally, the poor suffered,–well, they were born to suffer. So the poet did not need to feel conscience stricken if he felt inspired to sing in sublime glee of the great ones robed in glory.

In the twentieth century, things and their values have changed greatly. We tolerate the poor, but we dispute their right to continue so. With the advance of science, wars have become as costly and as cruel–and, as if to spite democracy, we insist on the equality of all in sharing the burdens of the war. It is no longer the case of two professional teams meeting each other in a combat. To be wounded was to be a hero in those days; now the highest reward for being wounded is a disability pension. To die on the battlefield was a point of glory then; now the glory is gone since the millions of non-combatants at home have equal chances of claiming it. There was a battle-field for wars in the old days, but in these days we can witness the war in our bye-lanes–with the result that war has lost the enchantment lent by distance and is seen in all its nearness and naked horror. The present war is the first totalitarian war that mankind has ever fought. Hence whole masses of human beings are in the grips of hunger and horror. To-day we are fighting not so much for an idealism as for the very right to exist. And this–after boastful centuries of improved culture and better civilization! That is why poets do not sing of the glories of war–they are simply ashamed of them, mores because wars are still inevitable.