MURTI-BING
547
jective conditions for such poetry have disappeared; and the intel–
lectual of whom I speak is not one who believes in writing for the
bureau drawer. He curses and despairs over the censorship and de–
mands of the publishing commissions. Yet at the same time, he
distrusts profoundly the values of unlicensed literature. The pub–
lishing license he himself receives does not mean that the editor
appreciates the artistic merits of his book, nor that he expects it to
be popular with the public. That license is simply a sign that the
author reflects the transformation of reality with scientific exact–
ness. Dialectical materialism in the Stalinist version both reflects
and directs this transformation.
It
creates social and political con–
ditions in which a man ceases to think and write otherwise than
as is necessary. He accepts this "must" because nothing worth–
while can exist outside its limits. Herein lie the claws of dialectics.
The writer does not surrender to this "must" merely because he
fears for his own skin. He fears for something much more precious
-the significance of his work. He believes that the by-ways of
"philosophizing" lead to a greater or lesser degree of graphomania.
Anyone gripped in the claws of dialectics is forced to admit that
the thinking of private philosophers, unsupported by citations
from authorities, is sheer nonsense.
If
this
is so, then one's total
effort must be directed toward following the line, and there is 'no
point at which one can stop. A, which inevitably leads to B, is the
first and unnoticed Murti-Bing pill.
It
is easily swallowed because
it comes concealed in the various dishes that constitute the diet of
the contemporary intellectual. No untrained mind or barren spirit
could ever notice this first, disguised pill. Since I am no philosopher,
it is my ambition not to analyze its ingredients, but merely to study
its distribution.
The pressure of the state machine is nothing compared with
the pressure of a convincing argument. I attended the artists' con–
gresses in Poland in which the theories of Socialist realism were first
discussed. The attitude of the audience toward the speakers deliver–
ing the required reports was decidedly hostile. Everyone considered
Socialist realism to be an officially imposed theory that would have,
as Russian
art
demonstrates, deplorable results. Attempts to pro–
voke discussion failed. The hall remained silent. Usually, however,
one daring
artist
would launch an attack, full of restrained sarcasm,
