Upon learning of his nomination as a candidate for the Nobel Prize in Literature, Jean-Paul Sartre wrote to the committee and requested they remove him from their list. "I suppose that by writing to the Academy," he wrote later in a statement made to the Swedish Press, "I could make matters clear and that there would be no further discussion." Instead, his letter incited a literary scandal: had Europe's most esteemed literary institution been stiffed, and by one of its recipients no less? Sartre's reasons for refusing the prize, while couched in the literary and political quarrels of his time, sparked a discussion on the authoritarian role of institutions in the literary world. The conversation simmered down, only to resurface with the Academy's recent decision to award the Prize in Literature to Bob Dylan.
While it no doubt strikes some as silly, late, or pointless to review this controversy now that the ribbons are tied and the medals awarded, the circumstances merit a view with healthy hindsight. Writers, when caught in the moment, tend to gloss over details for the purpose of hasty exposure. The coverage of Dylan receiving the prize was no exception. Taking these reports at face value reveals that the Academy's choice of Dylan was, generally, one of two things: either exciting and worthy of exoneration; or, generally, a disappointment.
Viabav Shamra of The Hindu, after criticizing the eurocentricism driving the Nobel Committee's past nominations, praised Dylan's award as "furthering the process" of removing itself from a "decidedly narrow prism." It was "in the space of two years, that the Nobel seems to have shed decades of conservatism, and twice redefined what it considers--and what we must consider--'literature.'" Steven Hayward made a similar claim in The Gazette, offering that "the Nobel folk" awarded Dylan "to remind us that song is literature--as life-changing and culturally defining as any book or poem--and to challenge us to return to a body of work we know so well we've forgotten it." Hayward, like Shamra, also cited the Academy's lack of support for women writers and writers of colour. Dylan's status as a champion of civil rights and 1960s counter-cultural movements provides a record that speaks to these concerns. Other publications like The New York Times and NPR commemorated his dedications to transforming poetry, recalling the impact of his legacy with headlines like "Bob Dylan Wins the Pize, Redefining Boundaries in Literature," and "A Nobel in Literature for Bob Dylan, Whose Words Transcend Form."
Other critics were less amused, for whom Dylan's musicianship posed a major problem. Hanson O'Haver of VICE remarks that "insisting Dylan (or Kendrick Lamar, or whomever) are actually poets kind of implies that their chosen artistic mediums lack validity. Is music literature? Sure, but the more important thing is that music is music." O'Haver's comments suggest a dilution of literature in the Nobel's choice of Dylan; for if music is literature, what else qualifies? After all, why bother with the poets and their experiments of language when the songs of musicians also count, and attract greater audiences? Alex Lo of South China Morning Post echoes this sentiment:
Blowin’ in the Wind, Mr Tambourine Man, The Times They are a-Changin’, Just like a Woman… Great songs, one and all. But their lyrics are poetry, and great poetry at that? Rather than wearing your meanings on your sleeve, some people might think great poetry should be somewhat non-obvious.The immediacy of music lacks literary qualities, and the fact that Dylan's magnetizing performances continue to draw massive crowds for decades speaks further to the claim for their simplicity. O'Haver also notes that "famous musicians already have the Grammys and capitalism," suggesting that granting a prestigious literary prizes to one of America's best-known songwriters insults the writers of "serious literature." Moreover, if a musician deserves a Nobel, couldn't one argue that "there are better songwriters who could have won the award," as Anuja Chauhan argues?
While the articles mentioned above may demand further analysis, two clear perspectives have already formed. The first, as we see, is pleased to see an old, revered musician finally receive the endowment he deserved, excited that the realm of literature has finally broadened its horizons. The literary work of art experienced something of a liberation, a crucial moment in history, a day in which musicians may finally enjoy the crystalline preservation of their art alongside their more serious, linguistic siblings. No longer do the barnacles of the literary canon impede the beast of literature's slow progression in the current of ideas.
On the other hand, the second view is disappointed to watch as a writing-focused establishment welcomes the accomplishments of a musician whose works seem irrelevant, if not outright unworthy, to the concerns of literature. They stand agape as the oldest wardens of their art form embrace a man they do not recognize as one of their own, dumbfounded that a polemicist makes off with their revered prize. A disturbing, consumerist wave seems to have flooded the literary work of art, upsetting what seemed like a wide expanse of hitherto unexplored terrain.
These contrasting views are not limited to this moment in time, and hardly the first time such a debate occurred in literary history. One can find them colouring the tones of critics as painters first braced the impact of photography, which likewise loomed above those who dedicated themselves to an art which now seemed obsolete. In Walter Benjamin's essay "The Work of Art and the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," one finds similar views commingling on the issue of whether reproduced replicas of the work of art depreciate the aura of the original work. Benjamin's essay weighs the validity of the two views carefully, remarking that before dismissing film as Duhamel does, "a closer look is needed." Before attaching ourselves so readily to either position, a more thorough examination of what questions really demand our attention is crucial.
Luckily, we already have a question to which we can return. To answer Chauhan's question, or at least the heart of it, we certainly can delineate who truly deserved to receive that prize. This is only the beginning of the problem. This debate as to whether or not Dylan deserves the prize displaces the conversation onto a filthy mire. Does Dylan deserve the luminous reputation of being a Nobel Literature laureate, or does his legacy fail to amount to this high calling? So the writers of literature must decide! Whether to glorify the shining edifice of a towering figure, or decry the pointlessness of further polishing a statue already glowing from its reputation. So it is that we--the writers of the world--must weigh the scales and measure our reverence of one, great, writer. To arms, and to battle we shall go, my friends--for the future of Literature is at stake!
But must we?
The issue in deciding upon a single writer for a lifetime achievement award lies in the resulting assimilation of this single writer into the established literary canon. The contention between the discussed articles only proves this point, for every time we have to decide on something so crucially exclusive to literature, our choice shall undoubtedly upset some portions of the literary world. The Nobel involves major award ceremonies that boost the reputation of those honoured with the medal. More importantly, the increased exposure increases sales of their work, drawing enviable attention to the lucky nominee. The inclusion of these factors only worsens the intense backlash inevitable to arise from choices that seem pandering, or unintelligent, or otherwise manipulated to arouse senses of legitimacy among younger writers--who, seeing the pitiful safety net awaiting their burgeoning careers, feel evermore disillusioned by literature's old vanguard. Therefore, a number of problems await the Nobel Academy that will only increase the resentment writers feel for the institution. In an attempt to diverge myself from the swarm of established opinions already out there, I instead seek to make this a list of proposed changes--both for the institution and the literary community in general--so as to avoid the ridiculous affairs of these dogshows going forward.
The Award Itself
The first change deals with the award itself. Healthy competition drives writers forward, and I believe this is necessary to see new, interesting texts emerge. However, when the results of said competitions lead to elitist, Hollywood affairs that congratulate writers as much as the selection committees (for their Literary Contributions), the process demands our revaluation. That the Academy felt denigrated by Dylan's initial silence proves the self-aggrandizement encrusting their ceremonies. Why else should they support the arts, if not to pat themselves on the back? This has to change. If the Nobel indeed possesses such gravitas in the literary world, its committee must understand the effects of its choices and assume the appropriate maturity. Writers can be testy individuals with fiery passions, and such reactions must be accounted for, and dealt with maturely and intelligently. Literature is too important to let it rot in the sewage of petty insults and sleights.
The award must also widen its reception. The Committee must look further and deeper at writers, and base their choices not on the most fanciful or well-known but those with the greatest promise to continue developing insightful works of writing. Their choices must present rich aesthetic reasoning to sway both literary scholars and the emerging literary body that will replace these scholars. The award should split its massive pot as well, so as to accentuate the multiplicity of writers that deserve such support, and devoting these funds not just to the nominee, but to writing programs and literary agencies that can propel new writers forward. If this requires the Committee to divest itself of being a "lifetime achievement," and thus lose its prestige, then so be it.
Liberating the Establishment
This change entails more fundamental changes within the institution. The critics applauding Dylan's choice are right to suggest the Nobel needed to expand what it considered literature, but simply does not go far enough. Their choice is neither insightful, nor experimental, nor convincing enough. If I told the world's greatest bakers I would reinvent the cake by making one without icing, they would not be impressed; nor should writers be impressed by the Nobel's "commitment" here, either. Dylan's critics should feel neither exonerated nor exorcised by the Nobel's choices, but encouraged by the endeavours of the awarded writer. Selecting Dylan failed to achieve this not because Dylan didn't deserve it, but because if he did deserve it, now was not the time. This is another consequence of the award being for "lifetime achievement," as it celebrates a writer's accomplishments long after their impact. The musicians that replaced Dylan as current, esteemed voices of counter-cultural trends were suspiciously missing from the Nobel's sights, despite Dylan receiving praise for "expanding the limits of literature."
This returns us to Chauhan's question, which poses a trick question. It's foolish, and possibly incorrect, to suggest Dylan lacked the skill or qualifications to earn such recognition. However, underlying the question's framework are legitimate concerns as to how Dylan aligns with prior recipients. Certainly his songs are not as intellectually (or, perhaps, textually) intriguing as Beckett's trilogy, Sartre's philosophy, Paz' commitments to poetry, or even Svetlana Alexievich's journalism. On the other hand, though, Dylan makes sense in the company of those like Winston Churchill, whose work hardly possesses the same aesthetic concerns as the others; yet nevertheless touched the hearts of millions. Perhaps these choices speak, then, to the Academy's occasional lapse in judgment. It's easy, and lazier, to feel this way. The intellectual dissonance between figures like Churchill and Sartre is only going to be resolved by more comprehensive reasoning regarding the nature of these awards, and exactly what literature is. For one to develop any real answer to Chauhan's question requires an intellectual engagement with the literary community that has, up to this point, appeared antithetical to the Nobel's particular brand of aloof commitment to the arts.
Liberating the establishment won't happen by inviting populism. Rather, liberation requires better answers to these questions: what kind of literary figure deserves exoneration for the Nobel; what literature deserves attention, and how does one determine this literature; to what effect should popular opinion, literary conviction, and our own institutional authority, quantify the strength of one writer over another? Concrete answers to these questions are necessary to avoid excluding writers unfairly, though ultimately, may also reveal a need for separate awards in any case.
Replenishing Faith
The trickiest of the changes. In the Nobel's case, this may be impossible to achieve. Commemorating artists for "lifetime achievement" necessitates granting the award to older writers with established prestige in their fields. I've already outlined some of the problems why this particular emphasis problematizes the award for emerging artists; but what I've danced around from so far is another issue facing young writers, that of trust. Concerns about elitism have never featured more prominently as an issue for emerging artists than today; and while many of Dylan's advocates claim his selection for the medal opens doors to new potentials, it struck a noticeably different tone with those of younger generations. While I wouldn't suggest divides in generations influenced the differences critics had when facing Dylan's award, I will argue that their concerns and hopes were divided as such.
Beyond the obvious insight--that a popular songwriter of the 60s could only be revolutionizing music for people of those times--the criticism directed at Dylan's award speaks to a greater dissonance between institutions and the literary establishment, and emerging writers finding their voices in this literary world. For these writers, the award signified not an attempt at expanding literature's borders, but instead of pandering to concerns that they were no longer relevant. Giving Dylan the Nobel did not acknowledge their concerns of elitism; nor did it speak to worries of privilege-related bias. Rather, the decision appeared to be a way the Nobel Academy could brand itself as vital to literature without stepping outside their own comforts to challenge literature in any meaningful way. This resulted in a response crafted to apply not to Dylan, but to any American songwriter, and make just as much sense. Thus it struck a nerve with emerging writers--for not only was it sloppy, it was barely even faithful. The Nobel's choice of nominee was just the elaborate frills decorating a cream pie as it smashed into their face.
Solutions here are all easier said than done. Mending the cracks in trust will never happen straight away; not with one person, most certainly not with thousands. Any efforts made will face resistance, no matter how authentic the gestures could be. Just as there is likely no politically correct response to governance, there likely isn't a way for the Academy to establish itself in the literary field without garnering ridicule. However, this does not justify indifference of the matter, nor lend credence to inaction. Never is there a time to throw one's arms in defeat and surrender from the world. We may be bitter Dylan won the prize, but with relative certainty, I can say we'd be more disappointed if the Nobel made this prize their final endowment of the arts.
Going forward, then, the Nobel should craft the rationale for their selection to address the concerns of emerging writers. Instead of sugarcoating nominees with polemics attesting to their greatness, address the effects of their impact. Yes, Dylan changed the world through his music; but how? Instead of offering shallow promises to address concerns of diversity and privilege, there could be arguments attesting to the nominee's personal history, and its influences on fostering writing from others of disenfranchised communities. Of course there should be awards for the white, heterosexual men who create luminous works of art; but they shouldn't overshadow the breakthroughs of those less privileged, especially within an institution financially capable of celebrating all parties. These are changes more easily implementable than the Academy realizes. While this won't resolve the issues plaguing their institution right away--and would demand not years, but decades of dedication before their critics change their minds--it would be a fair start.
Despite my optimism, I doubt these changes will come to pass. It seems all too frequent that the idealism of my friends and contemporaries is swept from the board by the literary agents who might realize their goals. The pragmatism of the latter demands a fair sense of discipline and conviction; but the dismissiveness of their gestures overshadows the value of their lessons. As for the former, literature won't advance through complacency. Fanciful claims demand scrutiny, especially when the suspect words come crafted by elite institutions. Neither idle hopes nor cynical take-downs will improve the relations between literary artists and the foundations supporting them. Literature will carry on, though only through connections writers make of their own accord, and on their own terms. If the Academy intends to catch up, they need to match the expertise and intellect of their nominees with real conviction and commitment.
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