Fun Baraaye Fun

Some people complain that I take a perfectly good academic subject and cheapen it by writing in the language of the working class. Heaven knows why these gentlemen have not yet noticed an even more alarming and fundamental vulgarity in my approach. When examining major theories and schools of thought, I have generally focused on their most popular interpretations rather than their most accurate ones. Back in the days when religious debates were at their peak, some Muslims would be overjoyed to hear that an American researcher had proven Jesus Christ never existed. However, the image of Christ presented in the Gospels is so deeply satisfying that even if Jesus were standing right before our eyes, he would be exactly as described. If his existence is indeed fictional, we should marvel at the human imagination for creating myths that are more vibrant than reality itself. We should also take pride in the intellectual depth of ordinary humanity; unlike rigid, free-thinking researchers and scholars, the common man is capable of grasping the truth hidden within myths.

Similarly, when discussing Marxist criticism, I have always given more weight to the actual practices of Marxist critics than to the original doctrines of Marx and Lenin. By the same token, I have never tried to familiarize myself with the moderate and balanced Rousseau. Instead, I have spent my time critiquing Jean-Jacques, the radical idol and spiritual guide of the Romantic poets. I realize that, from a research perspective, these are grave errors. But I cannot help it; I am only interested in ideas that have stirred the hearts and minds of living people—for better or for worse. These ideas may have circulated in a distorted form, but they are the ones that have influenced generation after generation.

I am far more fascinated by myths than by reality. This is because reality remains lifeless until the human imagination acts upon it. Reality only acquires meaning when it transforms into a myth. While the glass cabinets of museums should certainly be kept clean, my true passion lies in studying the actions and reactions of the human mind.

Therefore, in discussing Art for Art's Sake, I will not attempt to uncover who coined the phrase, what year it was, or what the weather was like that day. Nor will I dwell on what the originator of this theory actually meant, how strictly he adhered to it, who his followers were, or what modifications and additions they made to the original theory and why. Whether these questions are difficult or easy, I will not entertain the thought of solving them. I will solely focus my discussion on the popular illusions and misconceptions that have grown around the theory of Art for Art's Sake. I do this because these are the very ideas that have actually shaped the intellectual lives of ordinary people.

Today, in every country, there exists a school of literary criticism whose opinions are based not on a direct, personal engagement with literature, but on political expediency. To this school of thought, the differences in individual literary temperaments are entirely meaningless. The moment they spot someone with a profound passion for literature and art, they immediately herd them into the flock of aesthetes and proponents of Art for Art's Sake. To these critics, sheep, goats, donkeys, and horses are all the same simply because they all have four legs. However, I do not really mind this; in fact, it works slightly to my advantage. If a fox can be captured on the suspicion of being a young camel, then the old proverb mocking the camel's crookedness loses its sting. Under such absurd logic, one could easily prove that a camel possesses the flexible spine, sleek white fur, cunning, and agility of a fox. Therefore, no matter how Art for Art's Sake is defined, or who is lumped in among its devotees, I am perfectly fine with it.

That being said, whenever I hear the phrase Art for Art's Sake, three distinct concepts come to mind.

(1) A potter knows that the pitcher he is making will be used to store water. This fact is so deeply ingrained in his consciousness that he no longer even thinks about it, nor does he ever feel the desire to create a pitcher that cannot hold water. Just as the use of clay is a prerequisite for his craft, so too is the utility of the pitcher. He accepts these conditions almost instinctively. His entire focus is now devoted to making the pitcher as beautiful as his skills allow. He does not deny the utility of his art, for the very idea of making a pitcher stemmed from a material need. However, the center of his attention remains the aesthetic element. A writer or a poet can adopt this exact same attitude; in fact, to some extent, every successful artist must possess it. Otherwise, true art cannot be created without a fundamental respect for the art form itself. Therefore, to this extent at least, every artist is a believer in Art for Art's Sake.

If a society possesses harmony, focus, and a strong center, then even if art is theoretically assigned a specific utilitarian purpose, the kind of devotion to art mentioned above becomes inevitable. If a pure and harmonious communist civilization is ever fully realized in Russia, even the Russians of that era will not be able to escape this devotion to art.

(2) In an internally harmonious society, every physical and mental action has a defined purpose, methodology, duty, procedure, and designated place within the system of life. One activity can neither usurp the attributes and functions of another, nor can it surrender its own attributes in favor of another. Consequently, the place of art is so clearly defined that people engage with it purely as art, not as a substitute for some other activity. T.S. Eliot once remarked that the true meaning of Art for Art's Sake was understood only by the people of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. What he meant was that in those times, people did not try to make art a substitute for religion like Arnold, nor a substitute for all of life like Oscar Wilde, nor a substitute for politics like the communists. This perspective does not exclude utility from the realm of art. It is entirely up to each individual civilization to decide whether it desires utility in art, and if so, what kind of utility that should be.

People living in an unbalanced society cannot fully comprehend the nature of this mindset, nor the concept of art it produces. It is also important to note that assigning distinct places to different intellectual faculties does not mean these distinctions are codified in a political constitution or a penal code. Some of these boundaries are intuitively respected by the people of a balanced society, even if they cannot explicitly articulate their nature. The need to embody them in words only arises once that balance is disrupted, so that they can be either defended or opposed. In any case, the ability to distinguish between art and life is an essential manifestation of a balanced society's equilibrium.

(3) The most popular conception of art for art's sake is that the artist should remain indifferent to all of life's interests and pursue nothing but aesthetic gratification. This idea is absurd, if only because a perfect specimen of pure art is impossible to find, at least in literature. It is, however, entirely possible for an artist, obsessed with aestheticism, to limit their experiences and thereby damage their own creations. Just as many people today are busy trying to turn art into life, some sixty or seventy years ago, a few individuals in the West wanted to turn all of life into art. They wanted to squeeze life so tightly that nothing but art remained—and that too, art in its most superficial sense. Their efforts were in vain, as they rightly should have been. In such a crude form, this theory was hardly ever embraced by any artist of real stature.

What did happen, however, was that when people became concerned with distinguishing art from other intellectual pursuits, they concluded that the soul of art is aesthetic gratification. Consequently, artists began striving to provide maximum aesthetic pleasure in their works. Yet, in practice, I cannot think of a single artist of any merit who, after adopting this theory, ignored the most important aspects of life, lost interest in them, or became a mere addict of aesthetic pleasure. At most, I might harbor such suspicions about Goethe. But God knows why, I have never felt any affinity for Goethe, which is why I have read very little of his work. How can I condemn him without truly knowing him?

Furthermore, when Ezra Pound compiled his curriculum of the world's best literature, he excluded Baudelaire and included Goethe; there must be some reason for that. Even though the truly harmful version of art for art's sake was almost never put into practice—I am not talking about minor, insignificant writers—people generally still interpret the concept in that negative light, and it is on those grounds that the theory is opposed. Over the past century, artists have worshipped art like monks and made all kinds of sacrifices for it. Perhaps this devotion is what leaves room for such a misunderstanding. However, it has also been the habit of a certain political faction to hurl the insult of aesthete at any artist who does not reflect their particular brand of politics.

Well, so be it. I am willing to accept this definition of art for art's sake, along with the entire roster of aesthetes, which includes Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Valéry, and Gide. In fact, I will even throw the Surrealists into the mix. This is despite the fact that the Surrealists, let alone believing in art for art's sake, were not even devotees of art; rather, they wanted to abolish art entirely. One justification for including them is that they, too, are treated as outcasts and pariahs. Secondly, the leader of this group, André Breton, stated as recently as 1949 that they still believe in that great tradition of the modern era which began with Baudelaire. Whatever the ideological differences among the figures associated with this tradition, at first glance, one assumes that they all consider art an end in itself and seek nothing from it but aesthetic pleasure.

Let us assume this assumption to be a fact. We will no longer debate theories, nor will we remember that Rimbaud could never have accepted the theory of art for art's sake, or that Valéry dismissed the concept of pure poetry as absurd. We will treat them all as birds of a feather. Setting theories aside, we will now examine the actual practice of these individuals. We will consider what they actually did when they engaged in the act of creation. Did they merely wander in pursuit of beauty, or did their curiosity lead them into other realms as well? After becoming devotees of aesthetics, did their lives shrink into shallow streams, or did they take on the turbulent vastness of an ocean? Did they completely abandon the concepts of goodness and truth? Are there no traces of moral struggle to be found in them? Is it true that if they incline toward anything other than aesthetic gratification, it is only toward corrupt emotions and moral decay? Are they turning their backs on life and marching toward death? We will now seek the answers to all these questions—not in their theories, but in their creative works.

For the first fifty years of the nineteenth century, the general and dominant trend in literary criticism was that the purpose of literature included both utility and pleasure. After that, the condition of utility was either discarded entirely or mentioned only in hushed tones. The concept of pleasure in the minds of the theoreticians may have been highly exalted, but that is a different matter. The common man understands this word to mean a very ordinary kind of hedonism or intoxication. Critics with a specific political leaning emphasize this very interpretation, aiming to reinforce the public's belief that certain writers spent their days and nights in a stupor, merely sipping on aesthetic gratification. It is certainly true that the poets of this group devoted all their energies to perfecting aesthetic form. But as for the overall pleasure they derived from their creations and their creative struggles, let us look at a few examples.

This great tradition begins with Baudelaire. Rimbaud called him the king of poets, even a god. This god constructed a mental paradise for his own aesthetic gratification. When he arrives there to enjoy this paradise, observe the essence of what he actually sees:

> O Venus! On your island, I found nothing but a symbolic cross upon which my own image hung... O Lord! Grant me the strength and courage to contemplate my heart and my body without disgust!

And when Baudelaire turns his attention to the world created by God, this is the kind of pleasure he derives:

> Great forests, you frighten me like ancient cathedrals; you roar like storms, and our cursed, outcast hearts—the cradles of eternal mourning and the eternal groans of death—echo in response to your laments...

>

> In the terrifying laughter of the sea, I hear the bitter laughter of a vanquished, broken man, filled with sighs and curses!

When he sets out to express his love to his beloved, he instructs her thus:

> You cannot be my equal until you are terrified to open the door for anyone, until you see disaster lurking everywhere, until you tremble at the striking of the clock.

Now look at Rimbaud, the grand master of the modern era, and see the true nature of his stupor:

> I have swallowed a massive draught of poison... My intestines are burning. The violence of the venom twists my limbs and deforms my face. I have completely collapsed; I am dying of thirst, I am suffocating. I cannot even scream. This is hell, eternal torment! Look how the flames flare up! I am burning alive.

Leave them sleeping in their nest of flames, move forward, and observe the kind of pleasure-seeking in which the second high priest, Lautréamont, is engrossed.

Maldoror, Lautréamont's fictional protagonist, has descended deep into the ocean. There, he encounters a female shark. Their eyes seem to say to each other, This one is even more wicked than I am. Finally, he kisses the shark and embraces her. Two strong thighs wrap around the slimy skin of this terrifying fish like leeches; arms and gills lovingly embrace the beloved's body. Their throats and chests press together, and the strong stench of seaweed begins to emanate from them both... The two engage in a long, chaste, and horrifying embrace.

At last, I had found a being who resembled me. From now on, I will not feel lonely in life! Her thoughts were exactly like mine! My first love was before me!

I did not want to frighten you right at the beginning of the essay, but to demonstrate the spectacle of aesthetic gratification, I had to present this scene as well. But do not turn up your nose just yet. There is plenty of time for anger and condemnation. First, observe what kind of ecstasy the new high priests of the modern era's great tradition—namely, André Breton and Philippe Soupault—have attained:

Our mouths are drier than lost beaches. Our eyes wander without any expectation, without any goal or destination... Even magnificent stations offer us no refuge... Everything is in its place, and now no man can speak. Every sense has died, and even the blind are better off than us... The great smile of the entire earth has not proven sufficient for us... This blessing would be relished at any dining table. But alas, we have lost our appetite!

These are just two or three examples. In this era, one finds the expression of such intense romantic pain and anguish at every step in everyone's work. In the presence of this element, it is unjustified to limit their creative endeavors purely and simply to pleasure-seeking or aesthetic enjoyment. If they accepted this spiritual torment for the sake of a little pleasure, then their courage is truly commendable. One explanation for this spiritual anguish could be that masochism was ingrained in their nature, and they fulfilled this urge by writing poems. This cannot be denied, but psychology cannot explain why their masochism takes this specific form. These people ask profound metaphysical questions: What is man? What is man's place in the universe? Why does evil exist in the universe? And so on. When they do not find answers to these questions, or at least comforting answers, it breeds within them the sorrow, anger, and anguish of which I just gave examples.

If these people felt embarrassed while mentioning sexual matters, we could perhaps say that their masochism had found this outlet, and that they had stirred up the dispute of unsolvable metaphysical problems merely to inflict pain upon themselves. But as you have observed, these people have cast aside all modesty; in expressing sexual deviance, they have no regard for us, let alone for the sensibilities of respectable women. Therefore, psychological pretexts will not suffice here either. If these people harbor so much pain within themselves, it means they are concerned with something far greater than aesthetic gratification, pleasure-seeking, or masochism—something that feels so burdensome that even after enduring such anguish, their spiritual endeavor remains undiminished, and their struggle continues unabated.

Now a new question arises. If the purpose of their creative endeavors was something more than aesthetic gratification, then what was the need to champion Art for Art's Sake? If their creations contain moral dilemmas, universal questions, and a soul-consuming eternal devotion, then what was the wisdom in theoretically limiting art merely to the manifestations of the aesthetic sense? It is well known about these people that, for them, the greatest thing in life is art. They cannot tolerate religious, moral, or political standards being imposed upon their art.

As you know, no piece of literature can be created without some sort of moral preferences, however slight. Having abandoned all prevailing standards, it became necessary for them to create values alongside the literary work itself. If they were purely and simply in search of gratification, they committed sheer folly by abandoning prevailing standards and taking on double the work. The easiest path for them would have been to accept whatever values were available and build their aesthetic edifice upon that foundation. But why did these aesthetes bother to show such hostility toward non-aesthetic elements and trouble themselves with freeing their art from all prevailing concepts?

By the mid-nineteenth century, many educated people had lost their faith in religion. Those who were more sensitive began to view other things with suspicion as well. This process, along with its causes and consequences, is no secret. Therefore, I will be brief. According to a certain circle, all of this is a sign of the middle class's decline. This opinion is valid in its own right, but it is not enough to satisfy a student of literature. In Marlowe's time, and even a hundred years prior in Villon's time, let alone the decline of the middle class, its rise had not even fully begun. However, some signs had certainly started to appear. Yet, the personal lives and creations of both these poets are similar in many important respects to the lives and creations of the poets we are currently examining. In Villon, especially, one finds the exact same kind of pain and anguish that exists in Verlaine and Rimbaud. Consequently, while studying the process of universal skepticism in literature, we will have to begin our investigation from the Renaissance period, when, under various influences, a chain of dissatisfaction with the Church—and indeed, with religion itself—began.

Whether or not you believe in the truth or necessity of religion, one must admit that it shields the common man from a few deeply agonizing problems. For instance, there is the question of the existence of evil in the universe; second, the question of individual survival after death; and third, the status of humanity within the cosmos. I do not claim that religion solves these problems as neatly as two plus two equals four, nor that a person is entirely free from such anxieties once they embrace faith. However, religion does require you to accept a few fundamental tenets without question. Once these basic assumptions are accepted, a logical system emerges that satisfactorily resolves the spiritual dilemmas of the average person. But if these foundational assumptions are discarded, these problems assume such a terrifying magnitude that the human mind has yet to resolve them. The only solution it has managed to devise is to simply evade such questions altogether.

The tragedy for the artist, however, is that they cannot turn a blind eye to experience. Consequently, they are forced to endure the intensity of constant pain and anguish. Villon and Marlowe realized early on the dark depths into which this loss of faith would plunge us. Even Marlowe’s Satan confesses that separation from God is a torment far worse than the punishments of Hell. Villon sensed something else as well: the miserable fate that awaited humanity under a capitalist system. Thus, the seeds of uncertainty regarding society had also been sown. Various forms of skepticism manifest in their most horrifying shapes in the works of modernist poets. Society has now become socially, economically, and politically unbalanced. Its systems no longer possess the vitality to bind all individuals together or to command their loyalty.

Science had evicted God from the universe, yet it failed to provide answers to the questions that the concept of God had somehow managed to resolve. As a result, artists lost faith in science as well. The nineteenth century had a new god: Progress. But if progress merely means moving blindly in any direction, then, as Rimbaud pointed out, it is entirely possible that the world might just wander in circles and end up exactly where it started. In short, the artist grew increasingly disillusioned with religion, science, the nation-state, the family, and moral paradigms. This was because their world no longer possessed a central, unifying concept that could hold all these elements together.

However, since these concepts still held sway over the general public, and various people were exploiting this devotion for their own gain in different ways, the artist became even more vigilant. Consequently, we see that beyond merely seeking and providing aesthetic pleasure, the artist is actively engaged in another task: the rejection of every prevailing ideology. At the very least, they exhibit a clear determination not to be deceived, and a refusal to allow any impurity to taint their art. Their stance is: if a non-aesthetic concept is ever needed, I will discover it myself; I will not simply take others at their word.

In the artist's world, their aesthetic sensibility or sensory experience was the last remaining thing they could truly believe in. Though it was not long before they began to doubt even that. It was this intense desire to remain sincere to oneself and free from external contamination that gave birth to the doctrine of Art for Art's Sake. The artist was not running away from life or moral dilemmas; rather, they simply refused to accept the solutions handed down by others. The theory of Art for Art's Sake was not a refuge, but a battlefield. By rejecting all values other than the artistic sensibility, the artist was deliberately placing themselves in the crucible. Before the modern era, artists could easily claim that the purpose of their art was both utility and pleasure, because they possessed a clear conception of what utility meant. The modern artist, however, had no ready-made standard for utility or harm. They had to discover through their own experience what was beneficial and what was detrimental. If they abandoned the idea of utility altogether, it was out of sheer necessity.

Refusing to impose any external standards on art practically means that the artist is unwilling to accept the aid of any institution or prevailing ideology. Instead, they wish to search for truth entirely on their own terms—even if, in the end, they end up finding that truth within those very institutions. Art for Art's Sake is simply the desire to discover the fundamental truths of human life while remaining immune to all forms of convenience, temptation, and vested interest. On the surface, it certainly seems objectionable that this theory elevates a single individual's personal impressions to the status of the ultimate standard. However, this objection overlooks the fact that we are not dealing with just any individual, but with the artist. The artist is not merely a person; the artist is a direct instrument of life itself. They are a laboratory where life conducts its experiments.

As Rimbaud put it, we should not say I think, but rather, I am thought. Therefore, an artist's creations cannot be reduced to the mere opinions of a single individual. It is, of course, another matter that we occasionally encounter false artists. But then again, the world has no shortage of false prophets either. Even Mr. Qashq Chapel Ghaznagh of Bihar claimed to have descended with a direct title from the Almighty, yet no one considered him a Kalimullah (one who speaks directly to God).

Following these clarifications, it would be appropriate to examine a few statements by modern poets that, on the surface, appear quite dangerous. Baudelaire once remarked that to blame someone, to oppose someone, or even to demand justice, is a sign of bad taste. Ostensibly, this seems to imply that the artist should have nothing to do with the struggle for justice and freedom. But this statement belongs to Baudelaire, not Oscar Wilde. Baudelaire was confronting a monumental problem: the prevailing concept of reality was no longer viable. It had become imperative for the artist to comprehend reality anew. When the very concept of reality remains undetermined, the meaning of justice also becomes ambiguous. Under such circumstances, what kind of justice can even be demanded? In truth, this kind of skepticism does not weaken the fight for justice; rather, it helps untangle the very problem of justice. If the powers that be in Russia, America, and England had occasionally allowed this kind of doubt into their hearts, the UN would not have been reduced to a mere guild of shroud-makers.

Similarly, when Rimbaud calls morality a weakness of the brain, it only means that people who accept prevailing moral laws without question, regardless of circumstances, lack the power to think. Whether Rimbaud himself possessed the ability to establish new moral values can only be determined by reading his poetry. Now consider André Gide’s infamous statement: Good intentions can only produce bad literature. It would be wrong to conclude from this statement that Gide is advising the artist to become completely indifferent to virtue. Rather, his point is that if society's internal equilibrium has shattered, yet it clings to the same concepts of good and evil that existed during a time of perfect harmony and balance, then such concepts cannot aid the artist in authentic creation. After all, the artist's task also involves the discovery of new realities. It is in this exact sense that Baudelaire referred to Satan as the staff of exiles and the lamp of inventors. If one wishes to discover new moral standards, one cannot simply accept the prevailing ones as they are. To do so, one must sometimes experiment by treating good as evil and evil as good, just to uncover the underlying reality.

This is why these artists have insisted on keeping their art free from all conventional ideas. Gide, in fact, took a very uncompromising stance on this matter. He argued that if you join a group, the group will imprison you. The original French sentence cannot be perfectly translated into Urdu. However, one of its implications is that if you make a definitive choice, you will become a prisoner of that choice. In other words, Gide wants you to never remain complacent with your experiences; rather, whatever conclusion you reach, you must re-examine it under the microscope of doubt. Similarly, in the spiritual journey, he does not believe in a predetermined destination. He believes that most creative ideas are born simply out of a sense of play.

Recently, a movement for responsible literature has emerged in France. Regarding this, Gide remarked that today you are demanding literature be responsible, and tomorrow you will demand that thought itself be responsible. That is, if thinking outside of prescribed methods is restricted, the very seed of creative thought will be destroyed. According to Gide, the ideas that have most benefited humanity have generally emerged from spiritual or intellectual play. The concept of Art for Art's Sake should also be understood as this kind of play. Those who believed in the supremacy of art in one form or another did not fundamentally desire to withdraw from life. Just as artists have played the game of creating new ideas, concepts, and emotions since the dawn of time, these individuals were playing the exact same game. The only difference was that the rules of their game were slightly different. Their game was played like this: first, shatter the universe into pieces, and then construct a new universe—one that is more beautiful, harmonious, balanced, and meaningful than the last. Whether they won or lost this game, the fact remains that they certainly played it...

It is entirely possible that the theory of Art for Art's Sake is highly destructive. But I have done my fair share of whitewashing to defend it. In any case, do not just take my word for it. Look at the works of those who are associated with this theory. Everything the modern tradition has thought, understood, and felt; everything it has endured; its deprivations and its triumphs—in short, the essence of it all is distilled in Rimbaud’s poem *A Season in Hell*, written in 1873. This poem will show you how quickly any illusions about aestheticism were shattered, and how every artist individually came to realize that if the concept of beauty is not grounded in certain non-aesthetic, universal values and moral considerations, the aesthetic sense itself becomes a curse. Rimbaud’s poem begins thus:

Agar mujhe theek yaad hai toh ek zamane mein meri zindagi ek ziyafat thi, jahan har dil ka kanwal khil jata tha, jahan har tarah ki sharab ka daur chalta tha.

Ek shaam main ne husn ko apne ghutnon par bitha liya... aur mujhe is ka maza karwa laga... aur main ne isay gaaliyan dein.

[If I remember correctly, there was a time when my life was a feast where every heart opened like a lotus, where every kind of wine flowed.

One evening, I sat Beauty on my knees... and I found her bitter... and I cursed her.]

In truth, the entire matter is encapsulated in these three short sentences. This is the inevitable consequence of seating Beauty on one's knees without first marrying her through the sanction of morality, religion, or a balanced and universal way of life. But let us hear from Rimbaud himself what happened next:

Main ne qanoon ke khilaf hathiyar utha liye.

Main bhaag khara hua. Ae jadugarniyo, ae iflaas, ae nafrat, main ne apna khazana tumhare supurd kar diya!

Aakhir yeh haal hua ke har tarah ki insani umeed meri rooh se ghaib ho gayi. Har musarrat ka gala ghontne ke liye main behra ban ke wehshi darinday ki tarah is par jhapat para.

Main ne jalladon ko bulaya taake dum torte hue un ki banduqon ke kunday danton se chaba sakun. Main ne wabaon ko pukara ke rait se, khoon se mera gala ghont dein. Main ne museebat ko apna mabood bana liya. Main keechar mein lota. Main ne jurm ki hawa se apne aap ko sukhaya aur main ne deewangi se dillagi ki.

Aur mausam-e-bahar mere liye az-khud rafta majzoobon ka sa khaufnaak qehqaha le kar aaya.

[I took up arms against the law.

I fled. O witches, O poverty, O hatred, I entrusted my treasure to you!

Eventually, it came to pass that every trace of human hope vanished from my soul. To strangle every joy, I pounced upon it like a deaf, wild beast.

I summoned the executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called upon plagues to choke me with sand and blood. I made misfortune my god. I wallowed in the mud. I dried myself in the air of crime, and I played the fool with madness.

And spring brought me the terrifying laughter of the entranced madman.]

This fate did not befall Rimbaud alone; other poets of this tradition, in their attempt to abandon all other ideals and worship beauty exclusively, were forced to endure similar experiences. They now faced two paths. Either they could surrender their treasure to witches, poverty, and hatred, and sit back passively, letting whatever happens happen. Or they could rebuild their lives on new moral foundations, so that aestheticism would not yield such horrifying results. These poets did both. Sometimes they lost heart and gave up; at other times, they gathered their courage and stood tall. I have already presented examples of their despair, and even if I had not, others have left no stone unturned in vilifying them. I will merely demonstrate how intense their yearning for reconstruction truly was.

In the aforementioned poem, Rimbaud puts these words into the mouth of Verlaine regarding himself: When he seemed disheartened, I would carefully observe his every strange and complex action, whether that action was good or bad. I was certain that I could never gain entry into his world. Night after night, I have lain awake for hours beside his dear sleeping body, trying to understand why he so desperately wished to escape reality. Surely, such a desire has never before been born in the heart of any man. I feared nothing for myself from him, but I felt that he could become a grave threat to society... Perhaps he knows the hidden secrets of changing life? Then I would answer myself: no, he is merely searching for those secrets.

This phrase, changing life, deserves to be considered the title of all modern literature. The reality that Rimbaud or other poets are trying to escape is merely the prevailing concept of reality, which encompasses everything from morality to political and economic systems. These individuals are attempting to detach themselves from the current reality in order to create a new one. Furthermore, even in Gide—against whom it is vehemently argued nowadays that he cares for nothing but personal gratification—one repeatedly finds the idea that man should stand firm against nature, attempt to control it, and thereby change his life. The myth of Prometheus is very dear to them, for he stole fire from the heavens for the benefit of mankind, which profoundly changed the landscape of life.

Rimbaud had such a fervent desire to discover all natural and supernatural mysteries that a fire constantly burned in his heart. In two of his letters, he presented a formal theory that the poet must also be a seer. He should possess the ability to see to the very bottom of everything and also envision the future. A special duty of this seer is to tear away the veil of external reality with the help of the supra-rational powers within him, and reach the eternal light that lies behind that veil. In his opinion, the first seer was Baudelaire. Rimbaud states that from now on, poetry will not walk alongside action, but will stay ahead of it. Staying ahead does not mean the poet will become indifferent to action and drown in absolute thought. Rimbaud describes the poet as the one who steals fire from the heavens. Meaning, the realities the poet uncovers will not merely serve aesthetic gratification, but will change human life and give it a better form.

The idea of recreating life did not remain limited to mere desire. These individuals certainly made their best effort, whether they succeeded or failed, or whether this effort was entirely absurd. At this moment, the focus is solely on the effort, not its nature. Rimbaud says, I have tried to invent new flowers, new stars, new flesh, new languages. I felt as if I had acquired supernatural powers. Look at an excerpt from a poem by Apollinaire:

*Hum aap ko nihayat ajeeb aur wasee-o-areez sarzameenein dena chahte hain jahan jo bhi chahe usay phoolon se laday hue asraar-o-ramooz haasil ho sakte hain. Wahan tarah tarah ki nayi aag hai. Jis ke rang aaj tak kisi ne dekhe bhi na honge. Hazaron nayi nayi shaklein hain jin tak wehm-o-gumaan ka bhi guzar nahi hua. Humein in sab ko haqeeqat bakhshni hai.*

[We want to give you incredibly strange and vast lands where anyone who wishes can attain mysteries laden with flowers. There are various kinds of new fires there, the colors of which no one has ever seen before. There are thousands of new forms that defy all imagination. We must give reality to all of them.]

Saint-Pol-Roux expressed this same desire thus: We must go to the world that is still unknown and establish human colonies there.

As is evident from these excerpts, the new art is not obsessed with the present or stagnant. Its eyes are constantly fixed on the future. These artists have explicitly stated that the poet must develop the capacity for foresight within himself. In fact, some have even opined that the artist should completely expel memories of the past from his mind so that he can view the future directly. Consequently, in this context, a new and seemingly absurd term came into existence: the memory of the future. Now look at a few examples of these artists' devotion to the future.

Saint-Pol-Roux has said, Art is not merely seeing and feeling the present moment; rather, the special task of art is to go beyond the boundaries of the present to foresee and feel those ideas that have not yet been acted upon. Charles Cros's desire is that One should have only one creed, one deity... the future! In Apollinaire's opinion, The new spirit demands that we take on prophetic duties. In reality, Apollinaire's perspective was the most optimistic of all these poets, and he expressed great expectations for the future... and that too right in the middle of the war. Please observe an excerpt from his poem as well:

*Shao'or ki gehraiyo! Kal tumhein khangala jaye ga aur kaun jaane is taht-us-sara mein se kaisi kaisi jaandaar hastiyan, balkay poori poori kainaatein niklein gi... Insaan ko pata chale ga ke main dar asal bohat zyada paak, taqatwar aur danishmand hoon.*

[Depths of consciousness! Tomorrow you will be explored, and who knows what living beings, indeed entire universes, will emerge from this abyss... Man will discover that he is, in fact, much more pure, powerful, and wise.]

Not only this, but Rimbaud himself—who calls happiness a curse because it distracts us from spiritual struggle and the search for truth, and who describes his mental life as a hell—is waiting for the time when life will manifest in a new form. When will that day come when we will go beyond the shores and mountains to welcome the fall of tyrants and demons, the end of superstition, the birth of new struggles and new wisdom, and be the first to arrive with our tribute of devotion at the time of Christ's manifestation on earth? He is not merely waiting, but is certain that the night of hell will end and at dawn, armed with the strength of intense patience, we shall enter the magnificent cities.

Alongside the desire to change life, the most important question arises: what should be the means to change life? In the nineteenth century, the idea of changing life through religion was generally considered ridiculous. However, there was certainly this hope from science. In this environment, the artist asked himself: if man gains complete mastery over his external environment, acquires knowledge of everything, and attains every possible skill, will life change? Thus, Rimbaud assumed that all these things had come into his possession: I know how to unveil all kinds of mysteries, be they religious or natural: death, birth, the future, the past, the cosmic order, the void. I am a master at creating ever-new phantasms... I possess all skills... Do you want the songs of Africans or the dance of houris? Do you want me to disappear, dive deep, and retrieve the ring? Tell me, what do you want? I will make gold, I will make great elixirs.

First of all, the man speaking is in hell, and despite this knowledge and skill, he finds no deliverance. Then, as you saw, Rimbaud has portrayed the feats of knowledge and skill as mere jugglery. Since knowledge and art could not change life, their value in his eyes is no more than this. In the final part of his poem, Rimbaud reaches this conclusion:

*Main samajhta tha ke mujhe mafoq-ul-fitrat taqatein haasil ho gayi hain. Khair, ab mujhe chahiye ke apne takhayyul aur apni yaadon ko dafan kar doon.*

[I thought I had acquired supernatural powers. Well, now I must bury my imagination and my memories.]

Now he has also realized why knowledge and skill were of no use to him.

*Main ikhlaqiyat se bilkul kinara kash ho gaya tha. Main apne aap ko farishta ya danishmand samajhta tha. Magar main toh phir zameen par wapas aa gaya hoon.*

[I had completely detached myself from morality. I considered myself an angel or a sage. But I have been brought back to earth.]

Angel implies a perfect human being. A person who considers himself perfect cannot change his life. Similarly, mere intellect cannot yield the principle needed to give life an organized and harmonious form. Mere knowledge cannot regulate and organize human instincts; rather, knowledge possesses a tremendous capacity to become a tool of those instincts. In fact, Rimbaud considered the unbridling of instincts to be hell itself. Therefore, relying solely on knowledge and art offers no prospect of salvation or of transforming life.

Since the artist has despaired of both these things, yet the desire to transform life still remains, his most crucial duty becomes searching everywhere for the formula to change life. If this cannot be achieved through reason, then it must be sought through forces beyond reason. Consequently, the passion for this blind quest dominates the entire modern tradition. The metaphor for this quest is the journey. True, Romantic poets like Chateaubriand and Byron were also avid travelers, but their journeys were meant to drown their sorrows or to revel in new sensations, not to search for truth. The prerequisites of this new kind of journey were first outlined by Baudelaire. Baudelaire’s traveler is consumed by an extraordinary obsession; he does not even know where he is going or why, yet he keeps moving. A unique feature of this journey is that it requires neither sails nor steam. The only condition is that one must discover and bring back something entirely new and unknown. As this modern tradition progresses, the element of physical immobility within it also grows.

André Salmon has said, I dream of stations from which trains never depart... Immobility, too, is a wonderful journey. One simply needs to sit patiently on one's luggage. One might conclude from these lines that the poet is advocating complete stagnation, but this interpretation is incorrect. The poet wishes to detach the quest for an unknown, new reality from physical movement. In the words of Paul Claudel, the point is not to travel, but to find. Just as this new journey is independent of physical motion, the nature of its outcome is also not predetermined. It is true that the ultimate goal is to transform life, but when the formula remains unknown, the only option left for the seeker is to test whatever comes to hand. This quest has taken such a hold on the artist's soul that he fears nothing. Baudelaire captured the essence of this pursuit in two lines: Plunge into the bottom of the abyss, be it heaven or hell... into the depths of the Unknown to find something new!

And what is this abyss? It is the artist's own existence. This tendency is often maligned as narcissism and egoism. However, the need for these individuals to dive into themselves arose because they had realized, through personal experience, that organizing and regulating external life does not eliminate spiritual chaos, imbalance, and anguish; rather, it perhaps only deepens the despair. Therefore, by plunging inward, they sought to discover the root cause of the disorder within their internal lives. They wanted to see if this inner life could be organized, and if so, under what principle. This inward turn did not mean they had exhausted the pleasures of the external world and were now merely entertaining themselves with their own existence. On the contrary, their objective was to conduct an objective study of their inner lives.

Jules Laforgue defined this journey as descending into oneself, while Saint-Pol-Roux described it as walking with one's eyes turned inward. Such phrases certainly raise the suspicion that these individuals were merely seeking escapism or hedonism. In reality, however, the modern artist is trying to discover the true nature of his inner life. There is a famous biblical parable about a son who ran away from home and returned after enduring great hardships. André Gide has imbued this story with new meaning. When the son returns home, his mother asks him why he had left. The son replies that he was trying to find out who he truly was. For Gide, this self-investigation is not merely an artistic indulgence; it is essential even for good rulers.