Fanni Takhleeq Aur Dard

Ezra Pound once remarked that a critic should raise certain questions that have no answers. Some of these questions should be such that they offer no practical benefit to either writers or literature. I raised a similar question in my previous piece: how much personal satisfaction can a writer truly derive from the act of creation? In truth, the only person who has the right to speak on this matter is someone who has created a great work of art, and in the world of Urdu literature today, Firaq Sahib is the only such figure. However, since the mental processes of a great writer are not so entirely different from those of ordinary people that the rest of us cannot even contemplate them, we can attempt to understand this issue with the help of psychology.

Based on my own limited knowledge of psychology, I might not have dared to say anything, but as chance would have it, I had the opportunity to discuss this topic with Dr. Muhammad Ajmal. There is never a shortage of the kind of people from whom Socrates learned wisdom. But our dilemma here is that if a matter arises requiring consultation with an expert in philosophy, psychology, or sociology, it is impossible to find a single person whose opinion can be trusted. Ultimately, Dr. Ajmal is the only one who helps me and whose knowledge I actually trust. Perhaps even his erudition would have been of no use to me had his literary sensibilities not been so mature, and had he not read the same kind of literature that I have. That is precisely why I consider him my teacher.

In short, after discussing the issue of literary creation and the artist's personal satisfaction for three or four days, we both concluded that even from a psychological standpoint, a definitive verdict on this matter is impossible. This is because writers provide us with all sorts of examples and every kind of evidence. If we wished, we could easily use psychology to prove that literary creation is a cure for the writer's pain, and that the writer's personality actually evolves and develops through the act of creation. At one time, several English critics became obsessed with demonstrating the connection between these two things, though their approach was mystical rather than psychological—critics like Middleton Murry and Hugh I'Anson Fausset, for instance. Later, as Jungian psychology gained popularity among writers, this trend became even more pronounced in literary criticism. Elizabeth Drew, for example, has mapped out a complete outline of T. S. Eliot's personal development.

Such critics believe that creative work integrates the artist's personality. Besides, a century and a quarter ago, Shelley had already declared that the poet is the wisest, the best, and the happiest of men, and—if one considers his inner life—the most fortunate as well. I. A. Richards has also endorsed this idea. In fact, he has established it as a permanent standard by which he measures everything: whether or not one's instincts have been ordered and organized. I could parrot many arguments in favor of this theory. However, when one examines the creations of artists alongside their personal lives, defending this idea is no longer so easy. Therefore, for now, I will present the arguments that contradict this theory. Although the concept of sublimation originated with Freud himself, the overall impression left by his later ideas is somewhat akin to this:

Gham-e-hasti ka Asad kis se ho juz marg ilaaj

Shama har rang mein jalti hai sahar hone tak

[O Asad, what can cure the sorrow of existence except death?

The candle must burn in every state until the dawn.]

The beauty of this verse lies in how death and dawn have become synonymous, thereby perfectly capturing Freud's theory of ambivalence. In his later years, Freud began to argue that complete satisfaction is simply unattainable in life. Everything is merely a substitute—some more satisfying, some less so. In fact, under certain circumstances, self-deception becomes essential just to survive. This is why some great civilizations have counted the consumption of opium among the necessities of life, a fact that points to their underlying realism. According to this theory, we could easily categorize literature and art as a form of opium. In other words, literary creation is not a cure for pain, but rather an attempt to forget it.

However, one should not interpret Freud's ideas with such absolute certainty. His mind was so expansive that one can sometimes find contradictory thoughts within his work. The idea that instincts are sublimated through art, and that the satisfaction unattainable in real life can be found through literature, was popularized less by Freud himself and more by his followers. Reich raised an objection to this theory: if hunger is also considered an instinct, how can it be sublimated? If a hungry person does not eat, they will die. There can be no substitute for food. Hunger is not merely an instinct; it is a biological imperative. Its gratification must be direct. Without it, the biological system cannot function properly. Similarly, the sublimation of sex is meaningless. The only instincts capable of sublimation are those whose manifestations Freud termed polymorphous sexuality. Even then, the capacity for this sublimation only emerges once the direct gratification of sex, as a biological function, has been achieved. There is no substitute for this gratification. The sublimation of instincts begins on the foundation of this very gratification. Without it, whatever a person does will not take the form of sublimation, but rather of reaction formation.

The stasis anxiety caused by the suppression of biological functions cannot be alleviated by activities that are merely reactionary. In a state of sublimation, a person enjoys their work. In a state of reaction formation, however, the work is either done with great difficulty, or the person continues to work out of a sense of sheer compulsion, deriving no pleasure from the act of working itself.

Based on Reich's clarification, we can say that there are two types of literature: one born of sublimation, and the other born of reaction formation. However, we do not possess the kind of intimate details about the personal lives of writers that would allow us to determine whether a particular poet is experiencing sublimation or reaction formation. As an example of sublimation, one might, at best, point to Goethe, because he frequently speaks of tranquility and the joy derived from artistic creation. But the question remains: how much self-deception and spiritual charlatanism existed within Goethe's own personality? Trumpeting one's own spiritual peace is not a sign of sublimation; rather, it is itself a state of reaction formation.

Among the great poets, Baudelaire is one who explained in detail exactly how he wrote his poems. For him, the creative process was sheer agony. He would take an advance from his publisher before writing a single poem and spend all the money. He would lock himself in his room day and night. Finally, when he had no other choice, he would write. Edgar Allan Poe’s situation was quite similar. A third example is Marcel Proust, who would either lie around doing nothing or write continuously for forty-eight hours straight without sleeping. The creative work of such individuals is essentially a form of reaction. This raises a literary question: Is the poetry of sublimation necessarily superior in value to the poetry of reaction? If Baudelaire had achieved complete sublimation, could he have made such profound observations about his society—observations that elevated his poetry to a prophetic status?

Reich argues that even such psychologically afflicted individuals possess social value; they have a profound awareness of social reality that seemingly healthy people lack. As Ajmal Sahib remarks, reading Reich’s book makes one wish they were schizophrenic too. The point is that even if poetry is born of reaction rather than sublimation, it makes no difference to the readers. It is the poet who must bear all the suffering. But my question is directed at those who consider poetry a means of gratification or a tool for personal development. What place would they assign to the poetry of reaction in literature?

So, one theory of literature is that artistic creation is a means of sublimating instincts, making literature a substitute for life. A second theory equates literature with dreams. The question then arises: what is a dream? One popular theory suggests that dreams serve to compensate for our deprivations. In other words, even in dreams, there is an attempt at sublimation, even if this attempt is not as successful as it is in artistic creation. I have already discussed the theory of sublimation. Another theory regarding dreams is that they are a means of acquiring self-knowledge. However, we do not gain this knowledge directly, but rather through symbols. That is, dreams are born out of a compromise between the conflicting tendencies of the unconscious. On one hand, there is the desire to know oneself; on the other, the desire to remain ignorant. Furthermore, within both of these desires lie two contradictory tendencies: there is both pleasure and pain in knowing. Similarly, one encounters these same two elements in not knowing. Therefore, whether it is a dream or literature, both are born from the clash and conflict between pleasure and pain.

If the desire to remain ignorant is dominant within a writer, they will undoubtedly experience greater pain during the creative process. However, since the urge to confess is simultaneously at work within them, they will also be compelled to write, as I mentioned in my previous essay. Wordsworth assessed this correctly: during the act of creation, a pain emerges that had never been felt before. Through literature, the writer does gain self-knowledge, but a price must be paid for it. Arnold once said that the gods exact a terrible price for a song. That price is this very pain.

There is yet another theory regarding dreams (or literature): that a dream is born from the desire to confess. The question now is, why does a person want to confess? One answer is that they wish to humiliate or punish themselves. This is a manifestation of masochism. In other words, the pleasure one derives from the act of creation is of a rather terrifying nature. At this point, the argument becomes somewhat absurd. Let us leave it aside. Theodor Reik has interpreted the desire to confess in a different way. Through confession, a person seeks to derive pleasure by mentally reliving a real or imagined event. To this extent, one could argue that creating literature brings a person gratification. However, becoming so emotionally fixated on one or more events that their real or imagined repetition yields intense pleasure is, in itself, a sickness. The very essence of personal development is that a person overcomes their real or imagined past and achieves freedom. If literature is a confession, and confession means reliving the past, then to what extent is personal development possible through artistic creation?

At this point, you might draw attention to the distinction between minor and major poetry. A minor poet is satisfied with a fleeting experience; momentary gratification is enough for them. A major poet, however, organizes their experiences. Therefore, through major poetry, the poet’s personality is also organized and nurtured. Richards has placed great emphasis on this point. In his view, the more poetry organizes our instincts, and the better this organization is, the greater the poetry will be. Reich has also noted that even the mentally ill can achieve fleeting moments of self-awareness. However, the mere presence or intensity of this awareness is not as important as the organization of these fragmented moments of self-awareness. This very organization is what we call consciousness. Thus, if we observe the organization of experiences in someone's poetry, we would be justified, according to this perspective, in assuming that their personality has also achieved a corresponding level of organization and growth.

Following Shelley, Richards has also cautioned that we should look not at the external, but at the internal lives of such individuals; there, you will find complete organization. In other words, even if this internal organization does not reflect upon their external life, its inherent value remains undiminished. In fact, Richards has subtly suggested that a truly good organization is one that does not incite external action. Thus, all instincts are internally arranged into a cohesive pattern. In contrast, Reich has focused all his emphasis on the argument that internal organization cannot be complete until it achieves harmony with external reality. The difficulty in achieving this harmony is that modern society is built upon the foundations of exploitation and suppression. It tolerates no other form of organization beyond the specific framework of character and behavior it has already established. Therefore, even if a person manages to cultivate internal organization, it begins to shatter the moment it collides with the external world. Richards does concede that the world fiercely opposes such individuals, but he believes that this internal organization can sustain itself despite the opposition.

Reich points out that sustaining it is an incredibly difficult task. This is especially true for great writers, because they seek to accept and integrate into their internal system the very tendencies that society fears. Since great writers acutely feel the collision between these two forces, there is a constant danger of disintegration within their personalities. Here, Reich presents the examples of great artists like Wagner, Ibsen, Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche, who ultimately fell victim to their own creations.

The conclusion of this discussion is that while a work of art will certainly possess organization, this organization does not necessarily become a permanent part of the artist's personality. In fact, it is far more likely that after undergoing such a profound experience of internal organization during the creative process, the artist's personality may shatter even further. Those who view artistic creation as a means of personal evolution fail to separate the art from the artist, or they mistakenly attribute the virtues of the artwork to the creator. Another flaw in such individuals is that while they respect art, they treat it merely as a means to achieve some other end. They do not look at the art itself, but rather at its utility. They could argue, much like Reich, that self-awareness is not a means to an end, but rather a biological function of our physical system. In other words, we do not create literature for any external benefit; rather, the creation of literature is a biological compulsion.

Richards has pointed out another benefit of literature. On one hand, instincts are organized through literature; on the other hand, the writer's personality does not fear any instinct. It does not attempt to suppress it. Instead, it embraces every new instinct and alters its internal system to accommodate it. Because this process of organization continuously takes place within the writer, nervous tension is constantly relieved, resulting in a state of relaxation. This is the biological benefit of literary creation, which affects not only the writer's personality but also their physical body. Reich, however, based his psychology not on the functioning of the nerves, but on a physical force he called Orgone. According to him, a healthy individual is one who does not obstruct the flow of Orgone waves within themselves, while a sick person is one in whom the circulation of these waves diminishes. Artistic creation is a sign that a person is, to some extent, allowing these waves the freedom to circulate. Up to this point, even Reich would agree with Richards's view. However, going a step further, he also noted that a person can only withstand a specific amount of Orgone. If this quantity exceeds that limit, it disrupts their mental and physical systems.

Because great artists embrace Orgone with absolute courage, they are also at a greater risk of being harmed by their own daring. Here again, Reich presents the examples of figures like Ibsen and Nietzsche, who were driven to madness by the sheer intensity of their experience of Orgone. In short, even from a purely biological standpoint, artistic creation cannot be considered soothing in every situation and at all times. Here, the distinction between a great writer and a minor writer becomes meaningless. The potential benefits or harms of artistic creation are just as significant for a minor writer as they are for a great one.

Richards had to prove the importance of literature in today's utilitarian age. Therefore, he enticed both writers and readers with the promise that literature offers immense psychological and biological benefits. However, from the perspective of biology and potential harm, one can extract as many terrifying aspects from the creative process as one wishes. My objection to those who treat artistic creation as a mere health tonic is that they only find the process valuable when it yields some other kind of external benefit. This perspective has corrupted much of modern Western civilization. In this regard, Jung's influence on literary criticism has not proven to be positive. Although these critics claim to have moved far beyond nineteenth-century utilitarianism, their fundamental attitude remains the same: justifying the existence of one thing through the lens of another. For example, the justification for the sexual instinct is reproduction. The justification for reproduction is the survival of the human race. Reich asks: why should the human race survive? What is the justification for that? Here, the argument hits a dead end. This is the exact same mess these people have made in literary criticism. They argue that the justification for literature lies in the specific benefits it provides us. A far better approach was that of St. Thomas Aquinas in the Middle Ages. According to him, the capacity for artistic creation is a divine faculty. The creative attribute of God operates within the artist. Therefore, art is its own justification.

A definitive conclusion regarding the benefits a person derives from art can only be reached once we settle two questions. First, what is the relationship between artistic creation and human consciousness? Second, at what stage of human evolution did consciousness emerge, and what is its biological necessity? I am no expert in biology, but I have read in the works of both Reich and Herbert Read that scientists have yet to provide an answer to this question. However, Reich has certainly stated that, human consciousness aside, self-awareness is a natural function of the organic body. The question of harm or benefit does not even arise here; it is a biological function much like eating and drinking. This means that even if we were to rationally conclude that artistic creation is entirely harmful, we would still continue to create art out of a biological compulsion. A person who composes poetry with the intention of finding peace possesses the mentality of a black marketeer. True literature cannot be created by fleeing from the responsibility of enduring pain. Did Shakespeare write his plays out of the greedy hope that if he continued doing so for ten or twenty years, his personality would become highly organized and integrated? Critics and scientists may say whatever they please, but the artist has no idea whether they are finding peace or experiencing pain. They do not consciously create literature; rather, literature simply seeps out from within them. Firaq has summed it all up perfectly in a single couplet:

Miyan ro-peet kar baithay hain sau baar in faraibon ko

Yeh hum se poochne aaye ho gham kya tha khushi kya thi

[My friend, I have wept and mourned over these illusions a hundred times,

And now you come to ask me what was sorrow and what was joy?]

Ezra Pound once remarked that a critic should raise certain questions that have no answers. Some of these questions should be such that they offer no practical benefit to either writers or literature. I raised a similar question in my previous piece: how much personal satisfaction can a writer truly derive from the act of creation? In truth, the only person who has the right to speak on this matter is someone who has created a great work of art, and in the world of Urdu literature today, Firaq Sahib is the only such figure. However, since the mental processes of a great writer are not so entirely different from those of ordinary people that the rest of us cannot even contemplate them, we can attempt to understand this issue with the help of psychology.

Based on my own limited knowledge of psychology, I might not have dared to say anything, but as chance would have it, I had the opportunity to discuss this topic with Dr. Muhammad Ajmal. There is never a shortage of the kind of people from whom Socrates learned wisdom. But our dilemma here is that if a matter arises requiring consultation with an expert in philosophy, psychology, or sociology, it is impossible to find a single person whose opinion can be trusted. Ultimately, Dr. Ajmal is the only one who helps me and whose knowledge I actually trust. Perhaps even his erudition would have been of no use to me had his literary sensibilities not been so mature, and had he not read the same kind of literature that I have. That is precisely why I consider him my teacher.

In short, after discussing the issue of literary creation and the artist's personal satisfaction for three or four days, we both concluded that even from a psychological standpoint, a definitive verdict on this matter is impossible. This is because writers provide us with all sorts of examples and every kind of evidence. If we wished, we could easily use psychology to prove that literary creation is a cure for the writer's pain, and that the writer's personality actually evolves and develops through the act of creation. At one time, several English critics became obsessed with demonstrating the connection between these two things, though their approach was mystical rather than psychological—critics like Middleton Murry and Hugh I'Anson Fausset, for instance. Later, as Jungian psychology gained popularity among writers, this trend became even more pronounced in literary criticism. Elizabeth Drew, for example, has mapped out a complete outline of T. S. Eliot's personal development.

Such critics believe that creative work integrates the artist's personality. Besides, a century and a quarter ago, Shelley had already declared that the poet is the wisest, the best, and the happiest of men, and—if one considers his inner life—the most fortunate as well. I. A. Richards has also endorsed this idea. In fact, he has established it as a permanent standard by which he measures everything: whether or not one's instincts have been ordered and organized. I could parrot many arguments in favor of this theory. However, when one examines the creations of artists alongside their personal lives, defending this idea is no longer so easy. Therefore, for now, I will present the arguments that contradict this theory. Although the concept of sublimation originated with Freud himself, the overall impression left by his later ideas is somewhat akin to this:

Gham-e-hasti ka Asad kis se ho juz marg ilaaj

Shama har rang mein jalti hai sahar hone tak

[O Asad, what can cure the sorrow of existence except death?

The candle must burn in every state until the dawn.]

The beauty of this verse lies in how death and dawn have become synonymous, thereby perfectly capturing Freud's theory of ambivalence. In his later years, Freud began to argue that complete satisfaction is simply unattainable in life. Everything is merely a substitute—some more satisfying, some less so. In fact, under certain circumstances, self-deception becomes essential just to survive. This is why some great civilizations have counted the consumption of opium among the necessities of life, a fact that points to their underlying realism. According to this theory, we could easily categorize literature and art as a form of opium. In other words, literary creation is not a cure for pain, but rather an attempt to forget it.

However, one should not interpret Freud's ideas with such absolute certainty. His mind was so expansive that one can sometimes find contradictory thoughts within his work. The idea that instincts are sublimated through art, and that the satisfaction unattainable in real life can be found through literature, was popularized less by Freud himself and more by his followers. Reich raised an objection to this theory: if hunger is also considered an instinct, how can it be sublimated? If a hungry person does not eat, they will die. There can be no substitute for food. Hunger is not merely an instinct; it is a biological imperative. Its gratification must be direct. Without it, the biological system cannot function properly. Similarly, the sublimation of sex is meaningless. The only instincts capable of sublimation are those whose manifestations Freud termed polymorphous sexuality. Even then, the capacity for this sublimation only emerges once the direct gratification of sex, as a biological function, has been achieved. There is no substitute for this gratification. The sublimation of instincts begins on the foundation of this very gratification. Without it, whatever a person does will not take the form of sublimation, but rather of reaction formation.

The stasis anxiety caused by the suppression of biological functions cannot be alleviated by activities that are merely reactionary. In a state of sublimation, a person enjoys their work. In a state of reaction formation, however, the work is either done with great difficulty, or the person continues to work out of a sense of sheer compulsion, deriving no pleasure from the act of working itself.

Based on Reich's clarification, we can say that there are two types of literature: one born of sublimation, and the other born of reaction formation. However, we do not possess the kind of intimate details about the personal lives of writers that would allow us to determine whether a particular poet is experiencing sublimation or reaction formation. As an example of sublimation, one might, at best, point to Goethe, because he frequently speaks of tranquility and the joy derived from artistic creation. But the question remains: how much self-deception and spiritual charlatanism existed within Goethe's own personality? Trumpeting one's own spiritual peace is not a sign of sublimation; rather, it is itself a state of reaction formation.

Among the great poets, Baudelaire is one who explained in detail exactly how he wrote his poems. For him, the creative process was sheer agony. He would take an advance from his publisher before writing a single poem and spend all the money. He would lock himself in his room day and night. Finally, when he had no other choice, he would write. Edgar Allan Poe’s situation was quite similar. A third example is Marcel Proust, who would either lie around doing nothing or write continuously for forty-eight hours straight without sleeping. The creative work of such individuals is essentially a form of reaction. This raises a literary question: Is the poetry of sublimation necessarily superior in value to the poetry of reaction? If Baudelaire had achieved complete sublimation, could he have made such profound observations about his society—observations that elevated his poetry to a prophetic status?

Reich argues that even such psychologically afflicted individuals possess social value; they have a profound awareness of social reality that seemingly healthy people lack. As Ajmal Sahib remarks, reading Reich’s book makes one wish they were schizophrenic too. The point is that even if poetry is born of reaction rather than sublimation, it makes no difference to the readers. It is the poet who must bear all the suffering. But my question is directed at those who consider poetry a means of gratification or a tool for personal development. What place would they assign to the poetry of reaction in literature?

So, one theory of literature is that artistic creation is a means of sublimating instincts, making literature a substitute for life. A second theory equates literature with dreams. The question then arises: what is a dream? One popular theory suggests that dreams serve to compensate for our deprivations. In other words, even in dreams, there is an attempt at sublimation, even if this attempt is not as successful as it is in artistic creation. I have already discussed the theory of sublimation. Another theory regarding dreams is that they are a means of acquiring self-knowledge. However, we do not gain this knowledge directly, but rather through symbols. That is, dreams are born out of a compromise between the conflicting tendencies of the unconscious. On one hand, there is the desire to know oneself; on the other, the desire to remain ignorant. Furthermore, within both of these desires lie two contradictory tendencies: there is both pleasure and pain in knowing. Similarly, one encounters these same two elements in not knowing. Therefore, whether it is a dream or literature, both are born from the clash and conflict between pleasure and pain.

If the desire to remain ignorant is dominant within a writer, they will undoubtedly experience greater pain during the creative process. However, since the urge to confess is simultaneously at work within them, they will also be compelled to write, as I mentioned in my previous essay. Wordsworth assessed this correctly: during the act of creation, a pain emerges that had never been felt before. Through literature, the writer does gain self-knowledge, but a price must be paid for it. Arnold once said that the gods exact a terrible price for a song. That price is this very pain.

There is yet another theory regarding dreams (or literature): that a dream is born from the desire to confess. The question now is, why does a person want to confess? One answer is that they wish to humiliate or punish themselves. This is a manifestation of masochism. In other words, the pleasure one derives from the act of creation is of a rather terrifying nature. At this point, the argument becomes somewhat absurd. Let us leave it aside. Theodor Reik has interpreted the desire to confess in a different way. Through confession, a person seeks to derive pleasure by mentally reliving a real or imagined event. To this extent, one could argue that creating literature brings a person gratification. However, becoming so emotionally fixated on one or more events that their real or imagined repetition yields intense pleasure is, in itself, a sickness. The very essence of personal development is that a person overcomes their real or imagined past and achieves freedom. If literature is a confession, and confession means reliving the past, then to what extent is personal development possible through artistic creation?

At this point, you might draw attention to the distinction between minor and major poetry. A minor poet is satisfied with a fleeting experience; momentary gratification is enough for them. A major poet, however, organizes their experiences. Therefore, through major poetry, the poet’s personality is also organized and nurtured. Richards has placed great emphasis on this point. In his view, the more poetry organizes our instincts, and the better this organization is, the greater the poetry will be. Reich has also noted that even the mentally ill can achieve fleeting moments of self-awareness. However, the mere presence or intensity of this awareness is not as important as the organization of these fragmented moments of self-awareness. This very organization is what we call consciousness. Thus, if we observe the organization of experiences in someone's poetry, we would be justified, according to this perspective, in assuming that their personality has also achieved a corresponding level of organization and growth.

Following Shelley, Richards has also cautioned that we should look not at the external, but at the internal lives of such individuals; there, you will find complete organization. In other words, even if this internal organization does not reflect upon their external life, its inherent value remains undiminished. In fact, Richards has subtly suggested that a truly good organization is one that does not incite external action. Thus, all instincts are internally arranged into a cohesive pattern. In contrast, Reich has focused all his emphasis on the argument that internal organization cannot be complete until it achieves harmony with external reality. The difficulty in achieving this harmony is that modern society is built upon the foundations of exploitation and suppression. It tolerates no other form of organization beyond the specific framework of character and behavior it has already established. Therefore, even if a person manages to cultivate internal organization, it begins to shatter the moment it collides with the external world. Richards does concede that the world fiercely opposes such individuals, but he believes that this internal organization can sustain itself despite the opposition.

Reich points out that sustaining it is an incredibly difficult task. This is especially true for great writers, because they seek to accept and integrate into their internal system the very tendencies that society fears. Since great writers acutely feel the collision between these two forces, there is a constant danger of disintegration within their personalities. Here, Reich presents the examples of great artists like Wagner, Ibsen, Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche, who ultimately fell victim to their own creations.

The conclusion of this discussion is that while a work of art will certainly possess organization, this organization does not necessarily become a permanent part of the artist's personality. In fact, it is far more likely that after undergoing such a profound experience of internal organization during the creative process, the artist's personality may shatter even further. Those who view artistic creation as a means of personal evolution fail to separate the art from the artist, or they mistakenly attribute the virtues of the artwork to the creator. Another flaw in such individuals is that while they respect art, they treat it merely as a means to achieve some other end. They do not look at the art itself, but rather at its utility. They could argue, much like Reich, that self-awareness is not a means to an end, but rather a biological function of our physical system. In other words, we do not create literature for any external benefit; rather, the creation of literature is a biological compulsion.

Richards has pointed out another benefit of literature. On one hand, instincts are organized through literature; on the other hand, the writer's personality does not fear any instinct. It does not attempt to suppress it. Instead, it embraces every new instinct and alters its internal system to accommodate it. Because this process of organization continuously takes place within the writer, nervous tension is constantly relieved, resulting in a state of relaxation. This is the biological benefit of literary creation, which affects not only the writer's personality but also their physical body. Reich, however, based his psychology not on the functioning of the nerves, but on a physical force he called Orgone. According to him, a healthy individual is one who does not obstruct the flow of Orgone waves within themselves, while a sick person is one in whom the circulation of these waves diminishes. Artistic creation is a sign that a person is, to some extent, allowing these waves the freedom to circulate. Up to this point, even Reich would agree with Richards's view. However, going a step further, he also noted that a person can only withstand a specific amount of Orgone. If this quantity exceeds that limit, it disrupts their mental and physical systems.

Because great artists embrace Orgone with absolute courage, they are also at a greater risk of being harmed by their own daring. Here again, Reich presents the examples of figures like Ibsen and Nietzsche, who were driven to madness by the sheer intensity of their experience of Orgone. In short, even from a purely biological standpoint, artistic creation cannot be considered soothing in every situation and at all times. Here, the distinction between a great writer and a minor writer becomes meaningless. The potential benefits or harms of artistic creation are just as significant for a minor writer as they are for a great one.

Richards had to prove the importance of literature in today's utilitarian age. Therefore, he enticed both writers and readers with the promise that literature offers immense psychological and biological benefits. However, from the perspective of biology and potential harm, one can extract as many terrifying aspects from the creative process as one wishes. My objection to those who treat artistic creation as a mere health tonic is that they only find the process valuable when it yields some other kind of external benefit. This perspective has corrupted much of modern Western civilization. In this regard, Jung's influence on literary criticism has not proven to be positive. Although these critics claim to have moved far beyond nineteenth-century utilitarianism, their fundamental attitude remains the same: justifying the existence of one thing through the lens of another. For example, the justification for the sexual instinct is reproduction. The justification for reproduction is the survival of the human race. Reich asks: why should the human race survive? What is the justification for that? Here, the argument hits a dead end. This is the exact same mess these people have made in literary criticism. They argue that the justification for literature lies in the specific benefits it provides us. A far better approach was that of St. Thomas Aquinas in the Middle Ages. According to him, the capacity for artistic creation is a divine faculty. The creative attribute of God operates within the artist. Therefore, art is its own justification.

A definitive conclusion regarding the benefits a person derives from art can only be reached once we settle two questions. First, what is the relationship between artistic creation and human consciousness? Second, at what stage of human evolution did consciousness emerge, and what is its biological necessity? I am no expert in biology, but I have read in the works of both Reich and Herbert Read that scientists have yet to provide an answer to this question. However, Reich has certainly stated that, human consciousness aside, self-awareness is a natural function of the organic body. The question of harm or benefit does not even arise here; it is a biological function much like eating and drinking. This means that even if we were to rationally conclude that artistic creation is entirely harmful, we would still continue to create art out of a biological compulsion. A person who composes poetry with the intention of finding peace possesses the mentality of a black marketeer. True literature cannot be created by fleeing from the responsibility of enduring pain. Did Shakespeare write his plays out of the greedy hope that if he continued doing so for ten or twenty years, his personality would become highly organized and integrated? Critics and scientists may say whatever they please, but the artist has no idea whether they are finding peace or experiencing pain. They do not consciously create literature; rather, literature simply seeps out from within them. Firaq has summed it all up perfectly in a single couplet:

Miyan ro-peet kar baithay hain sau baar in faraibon ko

Yeh hum se poochne aaye ho gham kya tha khushi kya thi

[My friend, I have wept and mourned over these illusions a hundred times,

And now you come to ask me what was sorrow and what was joy?]