Skip to main content

Life is imitation


Jim Jarmusch

In his book, The Seven Basic Plots, Christopher Booker says that most works of literature are repetitions of one of seven basic plots. Those seven plots are: 1. Overcoming the Monster, 2. Rags to Riches, 3. The Quest, 4. Voyage and Return, 5. Rebirth, 6. Comedy and 7. Tragedy. Thus David Copperfield is an imitation of The Ugly Duckling and Steven Spielberg’s Jaws has more in common with the ancient Beowulf than you might imagine.

Nothing is really original. Can’t be. Long ago, Plato said that art is an imitation of life. The philosopher was not quite happy about that either. The imitation takes you away from the ideal reality, he thought. You become like a cave dweller who mistakes a moving shadow for the reality. Plato’s disciple, Aristotle, was kinder towards writers and story tellers. Imitation is an essential aspect of human nature, he accepted. We can’t help being story tellers. We are all story tellers. And we take our stories from out there. We copy from the life around us.

Copy makers, that’s what we are. My fellow blogger, Anita, seems to be worried about this quintessential human nature. She raises the question at Indispire this week: How do you react when you come to realize that your idea has been copied? What would you like to say to the copycat?  Obviously she doesn’t mean the kind of copying that people from Plato to Booker meant. She means lifting of your lines by someone who then claims them as her/his own.

You can copy ideas. Every artist does that. Plato would say that God is the only original creator. We all just make copies of the ideals created by God. Well, if you think like me that God is only an idea created by us human beings, you will nevertheless agree that there’s a lot of copying of ideas in the world of writing. Most of my ideas come from great writers of the past. I owe much to Albert Camus and Dostoevsky and many others.

You shouldn’t copy words, however. You copy ideas. There aren’t too many ideas out there anyway. Whatever there are have already been taken. What do you do then as a writer? Steal the same things, wrap them in new clothes and present them as your own to the world. What else? That’s how it goes from the epic Mahabharata to Steinbeck’s East of Eden.

Steinbeck didn’t copy words from the epic, however, as, say, Melania Trump did at the Republican National Convention in 2016 when she allegedly plagiarised Michelle Obama’s 2008 speech. Melania stole ideas rather than words, I think. Maybe, that wasn’t stealing even. Because she spoke about the values of hard work and respect for others which were taught by her parents. Michelle said the same thing. Now, can’t two parents teach the same things to their children? Well, Melania could have dressed the words in her own clothes. Maybe, she’s not much concerned about clothes, you see.

British author Adrian Jacobs claimed that J K Rowling stole many of her ideas for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire from the book, The Adventures of Willy the Wizard. Even J R R Tolkien was accused of stealing from Ring of the Nibelung, a Wagnerian opera. There are infinite such allegations. The world moves ahead in spite of them. People continue to read Tolkien and watch Harry Potter or vice-versa.

Now, to answer my friend Anita. If I see someone copying me, my first reaction would be: “Wow! Did I deserve this?” Imitation is a form of admiration, isn’t it, Anita? The person who copies you or from you is telling you indirectly that you are worth it. I’m still waiting for such a noble person to come along and make me feel so worthwhile.


Comments

  1. Such noble thoughts :)
    Yes, there's a saying- "Imitation is the finest form of flattery".
    But, the original thinker does deserve credit, doesn't she/he?
    I feel a lot as I have faced this many many times :(
    If anyone likes our style or idea or words, they can simply quote us or at least mention our name and give us credit. Sadly, many intellectual thieves don't care about this and thus there's plagiarism :(

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. There's plagiarism, of course. I looked at it lightly.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Pranita a perverted genius

Bulldozer begins its work at Sawan Pranita was a perverted genius. She had Machiavelli’s brain, Octavian’s relentlessness, and Levin’s intellectual calibre. She could have worked wonders if she wanted. She could have created a beautiful world around her. She had the potential. Yet she chose to be a ruthless exterminator. She came to Sawan Public School just to kill it. A religious cult called Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB] had taken over the school from its owner who had never visited the school for over 20 years. This owner, a prominent entrepreneur with a gargantuan ego, had come to the conclusion that the morality of the school’s staff was deviating from the wavelengths determined by him. Moreover, his one foot was inching towards the grave. I was also told that there were some domestic noises which were grating against his patriarchal sensibilities. One holy solution for all these was to hand over the school and its enormous campus (nearly 20 acres of land on the outskirts

Machiavelli the Reverend

Let us go today , you and I, through certain miasmic streets. Nothing will be quite clear along our way because this journey is through some delusions and illusions. You will meet people wearing holy robes and talking about morality and virtues. Some of them will claim to be god’s men and some will make taller claims. Some of them are just amorphous. Invisible. But omnipotent. You can feel their power around you. On you. Oppressing you. Stifling you. Reverend Machiavelli is one such oppressive power. You will meet Franz Kafka somewhere along the way. Joseph K’s ghost will pass by. Remember Joseph K who was arrested one fine morning for a crime that nobody knew anything about? Neither Joseph nor the men who arrest him know why Joseph K is arrested. The power that keeps Joseph K under arrest is invisible. He cannot get answers to his valid questions from the visible agents of that power. He cannot explain himself to that power. Finally, he is taken to a quarry outside the town wher

Levin the good shepherd

AI-generated image The lost sheep and its redeemer form a pet motif in Christianity. Jesus portrayed himself as a good shepherd many times. He said that the good shepherd will leave his 99 sheep in order to bring the lost sheep back to the fold. When he finds the lost sheep, the shepherd is happier about that one sheep than about the 99, Jesus claimed. He was speaking metaphorically. The lost sheep is the sinner in Jesus’ parable. Sin is a departure from the ‘right’ way. Angels raise a toast in heaven whenever a sinner returns to the ‘right’ path [Luke 15:10]. A lot of Catholic priests I know carry some sort of a Redeemer complex in their souls. They love the sinner so much that they cannot rest until they make the angels of God run for their cups of joy. I have also been fortunate to have one such priest-friend whom I shall call Levin in this post. He has befriended me right from the year 1976 when I was a blundering adolescent and he was just one year older than me. He possesse

Kailasnath the Paradox

AI-generated illustration It wasn’t easy to discern whether he was a friend or merely an amused onlooker. He was my colleague at the college, though from another department. When my life had entered a slippery slope because of certain unresolved psychological problems, he didn’t choose to shun me as most others did. However, when he did condescend to join me in the college canteen sipping tea and smoking a cigarette, I wasn’t ever sure whether he was befriending me or mocking me. Kailasnath was a bundle of paradoxes. He appeared to be an alpha male, so self-assured and lord of all that he surveyed. Yet if you cared to observe deeply, you would find too many chinks in his armour. Beneath all those domineering words and gestures lay ample signs of frailty. The tall, elegantly slim and precisely erect stature would draw anyone’s attention quickly. Kailasnath was always attractively dressed though never unduly stylish. Everything about him exuded an air of chic confidence. But the wa

Nakulan the Outcast

Nakulan was one of the many tenants of Hevendrea . A professor in the botany department of the North Eastern Hill University, he was a very lovable person. Some sense of inferiority complex that came from his caste status made him scoff the very idea of his lovability. He lived with his wife and three children in one of Heavendrea’s many cottages. When he wanted to have a drink, he would walk over to my hut. We sipped our whiskies and discussed Shillong’s intriguing politics or something of the sort while my cassette player crooned gently in the background. Nakulan was more than ten years my senior by age. He taught a subject which had never aroused my interest at any stage of my life. It made no difference to me whether a leaf was pinnately compound or palmately compound. You don’t need to know about anther and stigma in order to understand a flower. My friend Levin would have ascribed my lack of interest in Nakulan’s subject to my egomania. I always thought that Nakulan lived