PARTISAN REVIEVv
may be. But from this point on we may conclude that the writer has
chosen to reveal the world and particularly to reveal man to other men
so that the latter may assume their full responsibility before the object
which has been thus laid bare. It is assumed that no one is ignorant
of the law because there is a code and because the law is written
down; thereafter, you are free to violate it, but you know the risks
you run. Similarly, the function of the writer is to act in such a way
that nobody can be ignorant of the world and that nobody might
say that he is innocent of what it's all about. And since he has once
engaged himself in the universe of language, he can never again pre–
tend that he cannot speak. Once you enter the universe of signifi–
cations, there is nothing you can do to get out of it. Let words
organize themselves freely and they will make sentences, and each
sentence contains language
in
its entirety and refers back to the
whole universe. Silence itself is defined in relationship to words, as
the pause in music receives its meaning from the groups of notes
around it. This silence is a moment of language; being silent is not
being dumb; it is to refuse to speak, and therefore to keep on speak–
ing. Thus, if a writer has chosen to remain silent on any aspect what–
ever of the world, or, according to an expression which says just what
it means, to
pass over
it in silence, one has the right to ask him a
third question: "Why have you spoken of this rather than that,
and-since you speak in order to bring about change--why do
you want to change this rather than that?"
All this does not prevent there being a manner of writing. One
is not a writer for having chosen to say certain things, but for having
chosen to say them in a certain way. And, to be sure, the style makes
the value of the prose. But it should pass unnoticed. Since words are
transparent and since the gaze looks through them, it would be absurd
to slip in among them some panes of rough glass. Beauty is in this
case only a gentle and imperceptible force. In a painting it shines
forth at the very first sight; in a book it hides itself; it acts by per–
suasion like the charm of a voice or a face. It does not coerce; it
inclines a person without his suspecting it, and he thinks that he is
yielding to arguments when he is really being solicited by a charm
that he does not see. The ceremonial of the mass is not faith; it
disposes the harmony of words; their beauty, the balance of the
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