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Death of the Author


The tragedy of modern human, according to Vaclav Havel, is not that we know less and less about the meaning of life but that it bothers us less and less. Perhaps we have no time for such things now. We are too busy with the business of getting on in life. When writers begin to brush aside vital issues for the sake of avoiding troubles with the authorities, a country is sure to be on a path to degeneration.

What good is writing devoid of integrity?

German writer Bertolt Brecht wrote a poem about the writer’s agony. The government ordered that all books with dangerous teachings should be publicly burnt. A lot of good books were dispatched forthwith to their funeral pyres. One poet who was in exile was chagrined to see that his books were not there on the list of those to be burnt. He was sad, shocked, furious and distressed. He wrote a letter to the ruler: “Burn me, burn me!... Have I not / Always spoken the truth in my books? And no / You treat me like a liar! I order you: / Burn me!”

The most painful realisation for an honest writer will be being ignored.

Those who face the fire today are those who become inconvenient for those in power.

Those who tower like great masters today are those who behave like the old court poets. Maybe because there aren’t too many of those writers that we have authorless books now.

Have you read a book titled Igniting Collective Goodness: Mann ki Baat @100? It has no author. It ignites our minds with such information as: “Through Mann Ki Baat, the prime minister focused on strengthening communication with those who had been marginalised for many years. In almost every episode of the programme, the focus has been on speaking to listeners about different things happening across the country, irrespective of region, culture or tradition.”

The book has no author. Perhaps that’s how the future is going to be. No authors. Only books, published by the ruler, for the ruler, about the ruler.

In the meanwhile, insignificant writers like me will go on writing with our signature on what we write. As long as we can do that, of course. Will we wake up one day and cry with Brecht’s poet: “Burn me, burn me!” And nobody will even hear your cry. Because they are busy reading authorless books.


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