What Is “Literature”?

I claim that this year I’m going to make a serious study of literature, so what exactly do I mean? What is literature? Although I understand that I’ll have more of a say on this question only after I’ve read more literary books, if I have no idea what “literature” is, then what exactly am I planning to read?

Of course, the simplest method is to follow the categories already made by others and look for books on the literature shelf in a bookstore; that would count as reading literature. But as someone who does philosophy, I really shouldn’t be too lazy. Besides, this topic has come up recently anyway, so I might as well write something about it. Then next year I can look back and compare, to see how much my thinking has changed.

That said, because I’ve read so little literature, and because my authority is being questioned on that basis, this prejudice is one I want to resist. Just as I haven’t done scientific research, yet I still intend to offer opinions on science, so too do I believe that my perspective, though one-sided, is by no means devoid of value. If we are talking about prejudice, then perhaps those who have read more literature hold it more deeply and unconsciously, whereas I, precisely because I know my own viewpoint is one-sided and superficial, speak with awe and caution; the degree to which I cling to prejudice may therefore not be excessively domineering.

How much literature have I actually read? The answer to that question also depends on what literature is. Are classical Chinese novels such as Three Kingdoms, Water Margin, Romances of Tang, Romances of Yue, Journey to the West, and Ji Gong literature? Are martial-arts novels by Jin Yong and Gu Long literature? If these are also literature (and that seems obvious), then the literary books I’ve read probably long ago stacked up higher than I am tall.

So if I’ve read “so much” literature, why do I still lack such confidence? Clearly, it is because the so-called literary books I’ve read are too single in type and far from sufficient to serve as a “representation” of literature. Moreover, compared with certain other literary works, these books have a special quality of their own, which I’ll come back to later.

Of course, if one adopts another, broader definition, then nearly all the books I’ve read are literary books. In fact, the Chinese word “文学” was of course translated from a Western term (literature), and in the usage of Wang Guowei, Lu Xun, and others who first adopted this term, the freedom, non-utilitarianism, or rather the “art for art’s sake” aspect of literature, as well as its aesthetic elements, were all emphasized (see http://www.historychina.net/cns/WSZL/XLXH/SSWH/wxys/12/14/2004/12083.html).

Not only is the Chinese term “文学” extremely young, but the modern meaning of the Western word “literature” also emerged quite late. For a long time, the word “literature” referred to all written works and to learning and knowledge that had been put into writing; even today, literature as a general term for all writings and documents is still very much alive. In the Oxford English Dictionary, as late as the end of the 19th century, the entry still said: “The body of written work; the production of the mind of a particular nation, period, or world. It is also used now in a more narrowed sense, to denote writings or books upon a particular subject, especially if these occupy not so much the attention of the reader on account of their facts and their teaching as of the beauty of their form, or the emotional and imaginative effects.” The Oxford English Dictionary points out that this narrowed meaning appeared quite late. (See *Has Literature Died?*, p. 8)

Obviously, in modern everyday usage, the extension of “literature” has been greatly reduced: it refers only to works such as poetry, prose, fiction, and drama, and no longer includes history, philosophy, and certainly not science.

So the first question is: why has the meaning of literature contracted so much? The main reason should be that the various activities originally included under “literature” have increasingly become distinct and differentiated, leading to semantic contraction. For example, originally both “birds” and “beasts” could be used collectively as a general term for birds and beasts; later their division of labor gradually became clearer. Similar to “literature” are the words “philosophy” (of Greek origin) and “science” (of Latin origin), which also originally could refer to all learning, only gradually differentiating into their own specific meanings.

An examination of etymology can at least show one thing: although literature and other branches of learning have indeed come to differ greatly, they are still ultimately of the same root and the same origin.

Still, perhaps from an etymological point of view, the scope of “literature” is much broader than that of “science” and “philosophy.” For science and philosophy both refer to some kind of “learning,” to certain forms of thinking, research, and discussion. But literature—“the use of writing”—is not limited to discussing problems; it also includes activities involving the use of language and the expression of feeling, activities that have nothing to do with learning. And precisely this meaning, which cannot be encompassed by words like science or philosophy, has become the modern meaning of literature.

In other words, like many terms, the historical development of the word has determined the current meaning of “literature”—that is, in its original broad sense, one gradually subtracts the contents that have already established themselves as independent domains—philosophy, history, science, and so on—and what remains is what “literature” now denotes.

Why are philosophy, history, and science excluded from literature? This is similar to the way “science” was excluded from “philosophy.” Because these activities gradually became independent and autonomous; from a sociological perspective, they gradually formed separate communities; from the perspective of method of thought, they gradually found specific directions and methods. Of course, these differences existed to a greater or lesser extent from the beginning, but only after people fully recognized them did they use different names to distinguish between them.

Today, philosophy, history, and especially science all have their distinctive features, so what, then, are the characteristics of this “remaining” literature? One simple way is to say: literature is non-scholarly writing, that is, any writing that cannot be subsumed under any branch of learning belongs to literature.

From this starting point, let us further examine the traits of literature.

First of all, it should be noted that “literariness” must be distinguished from “literature.” “Literariness” is a property concerning style and diction; we can say that a philosophical work, a historical monograph, or even a scientific paper may all be described as having “literariness,” meaning roughly that the writing is fluent and highly readable. Likewise, many literary works, such as Dostoevsky’s novels, are also said to be highly “philosophical,” and are even treated by philosophers as objects of study. In short, if one starts from stylistic features of writing such as “literariness,” “philosophicality,” or “scientificity,” there is no way to distinguish literary from non-literary creation.

I have to make this declaration first because I intend it as preparation for putting forward my definition of literature. What I want to say is that my distinction concerning “literature” below does not begin from stylistic features of writing, but from “literature” as a form of human activity standing alongside “philosophy,” “history,” and “science,” and is defined on that basis.

My view is this: literature is a mode of creation that is “absolutely free.”

We can first exclude biographies, reportage literature, and the like from literature; perhaps they may belong to history, though of course they can still be placed under literature, but they are not typical of literature.

“As Derrida clearly pointed out, literature in the Western sense depends not only on the right to say everything, but also on the right not to be held responsible for one’s own statements.” (*Has Literature Died?*, p. 12) What does this mean? Literature brings forth an imagined world, or even if it alludes to the real world, it can still openly fly the banner “any resemblance is purely coincidental.” More importantly, literature need not be responsible for anything at all—science needs to be responsible to experience and to scientific method, and must uphold objectivity and follow norms; history (and natural history) needs to be responsible to facts, and must not fabricate something from nothing or call a stag a horse; philosophy may perhaps be the freest of the disciplines, but it still needs to be responsible to reason and logic, and to its own position. Philosophical works must avoid self-contradiction and strive for consistency and coherence of thought. But literature is bound by none of these constraints. It can transcend experience, transcend reality, and even transcend logic, deliberately presenting paradox and absurdity. In this sense, poetry is the freest form of literature; it does not even have to be bound by grammar.

What has been said above is the essence of literature as an “activity” — complete freedom. Of course, this does not mean that whatever anyone writes down is automatically a literary work. I have already stated that I am distinguishing literary activity, not literary works. This is like how a person may, even without engaging in any scientific activity at all (for example, while engaged in sorcery or in play), accidentally make a significant “scientific discovery,” but that does not mean his activity is scientific activity; similarly, a person who spends all day engaged in scientific activity is not necessarily always able to produce scientific results. As for scientific achievements or literary attainments, these are both, in a sense, social things. Which works count as poetry, and which are merely piles of incoherent words—these judgments are social. But as for the “activity” of literature, “freedom” is an indispensable element.

Literary works always contain aesthetic or emotional elements, and this naturally follows from their free nature. For aesthetic feeling and emotion are weapons for breaking free of restraint. Because there are no constraints, there is also no definite standard of judgment—for example, whether a philosophical work succeeds can be judged according to its ability to stand on its own and be internally consistent, that is, by its systematicity; whether scientific research succeeds can be judged by the degree to which it accords with experience. But literature, precisely because it is not subject to any constraints to begin with, has no definite standard of measurement to be found. Therefore literature will introduce certain indeterminate ways of measuring things, and that will inevitably rely on the human capacities for aesthetics and emotion.

The above is my own definition of “literature”: literature is completely free written creation. As for whether literature has further characteristics and missions—for instance, whether literature always takes “human beings” as its central concern and so on—I’ll discuss that next time. But it should be noted that one must not confuse its characteristics with its nature. “What is literature?” and “What does literature mean?” and “What can literature bring?” are different questions.

October 8, 2007

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Translated from the Chinese original with AI assistance. The original text is authoritative.