"What is the purpose of
literature?
What makes it good? What makes it bad?"
P. J. Jackson
Literature is an art form; we can only appreciate and examine it as such. The question of literature's purpose immediately becomes a question of art's purpose, and the answers cannot be significantly different.
Art's purpose is an expression of its highest functions. To the patron, art illuminates an idea and reveals beauty. To the artist, art is a vehicle for fulfillment and self-discovery. In a crudely lineated sense, all true works of art reside within two spectrums: one ranging from base entertainment to pure inspiration, the other ranging from base education to pure enlightenment.
The purposes of literature necessarily fall under similar delineations, and the purposes of good literature reside at the pure ends of the spectrum: enlightenment and inspiration.
(These are somewhat post-modern descriptions, because entertainment, inspiration, education, and enlightenment exist entirely as operatives on a viewer or recipient of art. These things are not what art is: the parallel adjectives attached to my spectrums would be things like "amusing," "beautiful," "informative," and "wise." Those words are actually descriptive of art itself. That I find the former descriptions more helpful in answering the question at hand suggests a post-modern perspective lurking in either the question at hand or my own philosophical subconscious--which is worth considering.)
According to this reasoning, "good" literature is such because of its approaches to inspiration and enlightenment. Beauty, love, humility and grace are inspiring; wisdom, truth, insight and holiness are enlightening. These lines are sloppy, of course: beauty can be educational and grace can be entertaining. But these specific words suggest a specific mood I wish to convey: there is more truth, more beauty, at the purer ends of these spectrums--and thus, more truth and beauty in the higher purposes of art, and therefore literature.
That is the philosophy behind the mechanics of "good" literature.
Mechanically, "good" literature is such because it employs certain techniques that enable the approach to these philosophical ends. Appropriate use of grammar and syntax is one such technique. Employing appropriate subject matter (and, as a mirror image, also avoiding pornographic or uselessly violent matter) is another such technique.
These, however, are simple checkpoints on the way to measuring "good" literature. Beyond them, two intermediate elements judge the merits of a work, and a final penultimate measure tests the work's true value.
The first intermediate measure is story-world consistency, as viewed through character realism, plot logic, conversational aplomb, and other vehicles. A work of literature with inconsistencies is not actually complete: there are still other stories mixed in with the story at hand. Inconsistency is a flaw that rips a sucking hole in the imagined universe, even if the inconsistency is not fatal to the work. The mirror image of inconsistency--causing equivalent damage--is unnecessary or overlooked repetition. Again, repetition suggests that the story has not been finished, for the work's narrative boundaries occur and recur in too many places.
Second of the intermediate measures, "good" literature also fulfills its own obligations: it delivers on promises, answers questions, closes openings--or explains and excuses the failure to do any of these. In connection to this function, "good" literature often uses some form of mystery, myth, or curiosity as another technique for approaching truth and beauty: it increases the value of its promises-fulfilled by threatening all the while not to deliver. In the negative, a failure to fulfill an obligation again suggests that the work is not yet complete.
These two intermediate measures gauge the merits of a work. However, they are not fatal measures. Valuable works may find little merit by these two measures, yet still inspire and enlighten. Alternatively, no literature of any value whatsoever can fail this last measure of a work's true worth.
With ultimate and insurmountable value, "good" literature will always employ appropriate and well-considered creativity. Only through the substantial use of original thought can "good" literature carry any value whatsoever. Creativity can occur in many forms--even as the reinterpretation of old thoughts or the reopening of an old story. However, of all the mechanical elements used to produce and measure "good" literature, none is more important than the use of original thought. Creativity is, itself, the very cross-point between education and enlightenment, between entertainment and inspiration. Through the currency of creativity, literature finds every cent of value: without it, literature is a worthless void.
Now philosophy must return to the conversation. Valuable as it is, every currency is only worth its backing: and so, behind the currency of creativity, there must be enlightenment and inspiration.
This is why "good" literature is not necessarily interesting. The ability to interest an audience is evidence of appropriate storytelling, and this requires a certain level of creativity (along with audience familiarity and similar elements). However, storytelling quality alone is merely a singular measure of entertainment.
This motivates my distaste for many authors who appeal to massive audiences: while entertaining, there is nothing inspiring or enlightening about their work. They are superb storytellers--the work is very interesting, very entertaining--but it is not valuable to me. Rather, "good" literature really can be pretty boring--because boredom is a function of the patron's mood, interests, and opinions. Consider that many of the greatest novels written will not interest a five-year-old. If an audience finds a truly great work of literature boring, the comment made is upon the audience, not the work.
These comments have described a vague, shadowy outline by which to describe good literature. The same approach is impossible for "bad" literature, because there is so much more "bad" literature than "good" literature.
Actually, it even seems fair to say that all literature is "bad" literature, and a very tiny subset of "bad" literature is "good" literature. The reason is this: language is a very difficult, unwieldy body for truth and beauty. I am of course addicted to it, but I also consider a mediocre symphony much closer to holiness than a great novel. Language is an imperfect form of communication because it necessarily divides pure thought into entirely inadequate chunks; "good" literature is only that subset of "bad" literature that begins to overcome the inadequacy of words themselves.
In sum, then: literature's purpose is to enlighten and inspire; to do so, it must employ consistency, it must fulfill its promises, and--crucially--it must be creative.
P. J. Jackson
Literature is an art form; we can only appreciate and examine it as such. The question of literature's purpose immediately becomes a question of art's purpose, and the answers cannot be significantly different.
Art's purpose is an expression of its highest functions. To the patron, art illuminates an idea and reveals beauty. To the artist, art is a vehicle for fulfillment and self-discovery. In a crudely lineated sense, all true works of art reside within two spectrums: one ranging from base entertainment to pure inspiration, the other ranging from base education to pure enlightenment.
The purposes of literature necessarily fall under similar delineations, and the purposes of good literature reside at the pure ends of the spectrum: enlightenment and inspiration.
(These are somewhat post-modern descriptions, because entertainment, inspiration, education, and enlightenment exist entirely as operatives on a viewer or recipient of art. These things are not what art is: the parallel adjectives attached to my spectrums would be things like "amusing," "beautiful," "informative," and "wise." Those words are actually descriptive of art itself. That I find the former descriptions more helpful in answering the question at hand suggests a post-modern perspective lurking in either the question at hand or my own philosophical subconscious--which is worth considering.)
According to this reasoning, "good" literature is such because of its approaches to inspiration and enlightenment. Beauty, love, humility and grace are inspiring; wisdom, truth, insight and holiness are enlightening. These lines are sloppy, of course: beauty can be educational and grace can be entertaining. But these specific words suggest a specific mood I wish to convey: there is more truth, more beauty, at the purer ends of these spectrums--and thus, more truth and beauty in the higher purposes of art, and therefore literature.
That is the philosophy behind the mechanics of "good" literature.
Mechanically, "good" literature is such because it employs certain techniques that enable the approach to these philosophical ends. Appropriate use of grammar and syntax is one such technique. Employing appropriate subject matter (and, as a mirror image, also avoiding pornographic or uselessly violent matter) is another such technique.
These, however, are simple checkpoints on the way to measuring "good" literature. Beyond them, two intermediate elements judge the merits of a work, and a final penultimate measure tests the work's true value.
The first intermediate measure is story-world consistency, as viewed through character realism, plot logic, conversational aplomb, and other vehicles. A work of literature with inconsistencies is not actually complete: there are still other stories mixed in with the story at hand. Inconsistency is a flaw that rips a sucking hole in the imagined universe, even if the inconsistency is not fatal to the work. The mirror image of inconsistency--causing equivalent damage--is unnecessary or overlooked repetition. Again, repetition suggests that the story has not been finished, for the work's narrative boundaries occur and recur in too many places.
Second of the intermediate measures, "good" literature also fulfills its own obligations: it delivers on promises, answers questions, closes openings--or explains and excuses the failure to do any of these. In connection to this function, "good" literature often uses some form of mystery, myth, or curiosity as another technique for approaching truth and beauty: it increases the value of its promises-fulfilled by threatening all the while not to deliver. In the negative, a failure to fulfill an obligation again suggests that the work is not yet complete.
These two intermediate measures gauge the merits of a work. However, they are not fatal measures. Valuable works may find little merit by these two measures, yet still inspire and enlighten. Alternatively, no literature of any value whatsoever can fail this last measure of a work's true worth.
With ultimate and insurmountable value, "good" literature will always employ appropriate and well-considered creativity. Only through the substantial use of original thought can "good" literature carry any value whatsoever. Creativity can occur in many forms--even as the reinterpretation of old thoughts or the reopening of an old story. However, of all the mechanical elements used to produce and measure "good" literature, none is more important than the use of original thought. Creativity is, itself, the very cross-point between education and enlightenment, between entertainment and inspiration. Through the currency of creativity, literature finds every cent of value: without it, literature is a worthless void.
Now philosophy must return to the conversation. Valuable as it is, every currency is only worth its backing: and so, behind the currency of creativity, there must be enlightenment and inspiration.
This is why "good" literature is not necessarily interesting. The ability to interest an audience is evidence of appropriate storytelling, and this requires a certain level of creativity (along with audience familiarity and similar elements). However, storytelling quality alone is merely a singular measure of entertainment.
This motivates my distaste for many authors who appeal to massive audiences: while entertaining, there is nothing inspiring or enlightening about their work. They are superb storytellers--the work is very interesting, very entertaining--but it is not valuable to me. Rather, "good" literature really can be pretty boring--because boredom is a function of the patron's mood, interests, and opinions. Consider that many of the greatest novels written will not interest a five-year-old. If an audience finds a truly great work of literature boring, the comment made is upon the audience, not the work.
These comments have described a vague, shadowy outline by which to describe good literature. The same approach is impossible for "bad" literature, because there is so much more "bad" literature than "good" literature.
Actually, it even seems fair to say that all literature is "bad" literature, and a very tiny subset of "bad" literature is "good" literature. The reason is this: language is a very difficult, unwieldy body for truth and beauty. I am of course addicted to it, but I also consider a mediocre symphony much closer to holiness than a great novel. Language is an imperfect form of communication because it necessarily divides pure thought into entirely inadequate chunks; "good" literature is only that subset of "bad" literature that begins to overcome the inadequacy of words themselves.
In sum, then: literature's purpose is to enlighten and inspire; to do so, it must employ consistency, it must fulfill its promises, and--crucially--it must be creative.
