New Writing Worlds: the dominance of English
Märt Väljataga
When writers from around the world get together for conversation, they need, as
anyone does, a shared medium and a common topic. The medium of conversation is
language, of course, and in this case (thanks to global trends and the location of the
meeting) it was the English language. But language – and the English language in
particular – also provided one of the principal topics.
It brought to my mind a well-known parable, sometimes said to be Jewish, sometimes
Oriental and sometimes Caribbean. In it a master sends his pupil to the market with
instructions to get the best thing he can find there, whereupon the pupil returns with
tongue. Later, he sends the pupil to the market to get the worst thing he could find
there. Again, the pupil returns with tongue. Asked how he could choose tongue as
both the best and worst thing, he replies, “There is nothing better than a tongue that
speaks good, and nothing worse than a tongue that speaks evil.”
The symposium seemed to reach a similar conclusion: there is nothing better than
language used in a responsible and imaginative way, as in the best literature, and there
is nothing worse than language used – even in literature – for deception, domination
or prattle. And, more specifically, the English language is a good thing, because it
provides a global idiom for international communication and the expression of
differences, while being a language with a rich poetic tradition and vibrant
contemporary fiction.
At the same time, though, there is nothing worse than a single, all-powerful language.
The dominance of one language can reduce the diversity of worldviews, seduce
writers into abandoning their native audiences, and tempt them to develop a
streamlined style that anticipates translation into English. In this sense, whether you
like it or not, contemporary world literature is a system of inequalities. But I suppose
that literary inequality is much easier to bear than material or political inequality.
Anyway, it is easier to share cultural than material wealth.
Every writer has his or her own relationship with the English language. For some it is
the mother tongue and an embodiment of a long literary tradition. For others it is a
learned second language, the mastering of which has involved a conscious effort for
survival in a new environment. For others again, English stirs up memories of
colonial domination. It emerged during the New Writing Worlds symposium that
language, far from being a neutral medium of communication, is sedimented with
collective hopes and suffering. These vary from culture to culture, but there is a lot of
overlap, too. And language can also be something of a minefield, when euphemisms
turn out to be offensive, and the best intentions are interpreted as patronising. But, for
me, English is not associated with any dark or painful experience, and its genius is
embodied in its poetry, especially in the light of nonsense verse – so there is nothing
traumatic about it (although self-expression in English is still quite an ordeal).
That’s just my point of view, however, and I was not the only person at the
symposium. Having spent lots of time with fellow writers, I know how fond we are of
the first person singular and how fluently we pass from “I” to “we” and then to
“everybody” and “the world”. If someone tells you, “I am sincerely convinced that
our duty is to show the world that...”, you may well be in the presence of a writer. But
this symposium succeeded in finding a middle way between the Scylla and Charybdis
of personal idiosyncracies and empty generalities – it offered a possibility to learn
about individual writers and today’s world literature.
In the Soviet era in Estonia, it was often repeated that life is richer than any book can
be. I found this idea strange then, since life under communism tended to be rather
dull. That was probably the reason why literature was loved so passionately. Now,
alas, life has become more interesting. But fortunately, literature has not lost its power
to captivate readers. And it was encouraging that not once during the symposium
sessions did I hear anybody mention the the death of the novel or the end of literature.
Even the authors seemed to be alive and well.
Estonian writer and critic Märt Väljataga is the author of two books of original
poetry and numerous poetry translations. He is also editor-in-chief of the cultural
journal, Vikerkaar.