मा'नी और तनाज़ुर

The distinguishing feature of art is the arc, while that of non-art is the straight line. This very distinction between the arc and the line is what separates poetry from prose. You might ask: is every poem truly a poem, and must every piece of prose be inherently excluded from the realm of art? The answer is that any piece of poetry or prose can only be considered a manifestation of art to the extent that it embodies the spirit of art—that is, the essence of the arc.

The trajectory of a line is straight; therefore, one never knows where it might lead, or if it will lead anywhere at all. An arc, however, possesses a curve, a bend, a tendency to return to its origin. Its destination lies within itself, as it is perpetually curving back toward its own center.

Art is the practice of returning to oneself. It is an endeavor to give form to the unseen inner world. I say unseen because only the tangible can be seen. When a thing is invisible, existing merely as a formless feeling or experience, how can it possibly be mapped through the senses? Despite this impossibility, art remains a captivating attempt to give shape to this delicate, elusive essence. The more successful art is in this endeavor, the more sublime it is considered to be.

By mentioning this formless inner feeling, I am not pitting the internal and the external against each other as rivals; that is, I am not separating the hidden from the manifest. The external is, in fact, just another shade of the internal. Rather, the external is simply the internal that has taken physical form. In other words, the manifest is not the opposite of the hidden, but its extension and embodiment. On the other hand, humanity was punished by being deprived of the arc and condemned to the straight line. Consequently, human destiny was bound to the obedience of a single, fixed meaning. Yet, even while enduring this restriction, humanity occasionally struggled to break free. This struggle manifested as the arc and materialized as art. Had humanity not escaped the grip of the straight line to embrace the arc, it would never have been able to initiate a secondary creative process parallel to the creative process of the universe, and thus, would never have entered the orbit of art.

Even across the canvas of the universe, one sees nothing but arcs. Every galaxy appears to rotate on its axis—revolving around a core that is an imperceptible black hole. Furthermore, as part of a cluster of galaxies, it can be seen revolving around yet another center. And this center, along with its accompanying galaxies, appears to orbit still another focal point. The entire universe is a never-ending circumambulation, revolving around some boundless, unseen center.

The universe is certainly expanding outward, but this journey, too, takes the form of arcs or spirals rather than a straight line. If we look at our own solar system, we see all the planets orbiting the sun. The fascinating part, however, is that while they draw near to the sun in their orbits, they merely graze its luminous halo before retreating. Were they to ever pierce that halo and enter within, they would be reduced to ashes by the sun's intense heat. The Sufi is deeply enamored with this process of burning to ashes, which is why the metaphor of the moth is so dear to him. The artist, however, is a lover of the orbit. He wishes to touch the flame, illuminate himself, and retreat, only to return again and again. To him, the love play is more precious than ultimate union.

But there is another distinction between the two. The Sufi believes that the ultimate goal is for the drop to be absorbed into the river. The artist, on the other hand, is Talmeez-ur-Rahman (a pupil of the Divine Creator). He initiates his own creative process parallel to the creative process of the universe. Whatever he sees and feels as he draws near the center, he attempts to mold into forms and allegories. This is exactly how, on a cosmic scale, the Ultimate Being (Wujud), through its magnificent creative process, shaped a diverse, multifaceted universe of existents (Mawjud) into forms, images, and metaphors.

Every form and image that appears on the canvas of art is a signature. This signature is a symbolic expression of the inner self, but unlike an ordinary signature, its meaning is not fixed. A standard commercial signature is essentially a mark with a single, definitive meaning. If it were to abandon this singular meaning and exhibit polysemy, its commercial value would be reduced to zero. The authenticity of a commercial signature lies in its transparency; the face of the individual behind the signature must be clearly visible. If the entity behind it is faceless, how can an ordinary commercial signature—such as one on a contract or a check—claim to represent them? However, the moment a signature enters the orbit of literature, it undergoes a transformation. On the surface, it signifies the author's ownership of the work, but on a deeper level, it becomes a declaration of the author's style of expression—and indeed, the style of their very being. It expands its single-meaning existence and acquires a symbolic significance. Therefore, it would not be wrong to say that every literary work is, in itself, the signature of its author.

Now, the entity standing behind this signature is not merely the physical persona of the author, but also their impersonal existence—an amalgamation of various codes and conventions where countless cultural dimensions have intertwined. Human memory and dreams, collective desires, and archetypal images—in short, the entirety of humanity's cultural and ancestral heritage—are encapsulated within this signature. Furthermore, it contains realms that humans can only rarely access. It is a mysterious continent on whose shores many a Columbus and Vasco da Gama stand mesmerized, contemplating how to venture into its inner world.

Therefore, the first point is that an author not only avoids traveling on well-trodden paths, but occasionally ventures into territories previously untouched by human footsteps. The second point is that while an author certainly adds to the writings of their predecessors, they do not simply place their own brick atop an under-construction wall. Instead, they blend the original with the addition, putting both through a process of metamorphosis. The author first demolishes the entire wall, and then, using all its raw material (which represents a state of anarchy or chaos), constructs the wall anew. If an author fails to do this, their status is merely that of a mason, and certainly not that of an artist.

The truth is that a new work of art cannot come into existence without transformation. This transformation is only possible if the author accesses not only the universal grammar of language inherent within themselves but also the cultural and racial material that constitutes the shared heritage of humanity. A great artist reaches even further back into a realm that is, in itself, a formless world. Just as the diversity of parole is visible in a text while the langue that drives its weaving remains unseen, the author, too, cannot see the underlying structure that drives their creative process. However, they certainly sense it intuitively. It is essential for the author not only to accept this structure—which encompasses poetics—in its broadest dimensions, but also to go beyond merely drawing from it. They must immerse themselves in it and make it their own lived experience. Only then can they truly create.

Those who subtract the author from the text and assign all importance to the text or the reader are only looking at one side of the picture. The reality is that the author is present within their text in the same way that grammar operates as a system within sentences. This author is not merely a flesh-and-blood entity with a name and a profession; rather, they are a multi-layered construct. When we say that the author is woven into the fabric of the text, it means they are present not only in their personal capacity but also in their linguistic and universal capacities. This is precisely why a text is never limited to a single meaning but is inherently polysemic.

The meaning derived from the reflection of an author’s personal life upon a text is generally one-dimensional and flat. Sometimes, when an author is bound by a specific ideology, theory, or creed, this meaning imposes itself on the text and becomes a mere sign—much like how a name is attached to a person and comes to signify only one specific thing. However, within the author's self lies a veiled, multi-layered universe. Therefore, they are not confined to the surface-level meaning of their text; by navigating through these internal depths, they render the text multi-layered and polysemic as well. This does not mean that a secondary meaning, sprouting from the apparent one, erases the original meaning. It simply means that a change in context expands the meaning. As Jacques Derrida is often quoted as saying:

Meaning is context bound but context is boundless.

This implies that no meaning can be established without a context, yet no context is confined by absolute boundaries. From within it, an unseen dimension always reveals itself, bringing a new context into existence and thereby expanding the meaning. Consider the field of physics: until the end of the nineteenth century, Newton's concept of gravity encompassed everything. However, in the twentieth century, when scientists peered inside the atom, they discovered nuclear force instead of gravitational force. Today, the situation is such that in the macrocosm, the Newtonian concept of the universe holds true, whereas in the microcosm, quantum physics prevails!

A similar phenomenon occurs in the universe of meaning when the context shifts. The meaning derived from the context of the author's personal identity is valid within that specific context. However, when viewed through the lens of the author's broader human identity, this meaning changes, and it will continue to shift across different contextual spheres. Yet, it would be incorrect to conclude that a meaning generated within one context is entirely invalidated, as it continues to exist perfectly well within its own original framework. Therefore, it depends entirely on the reader: do they limit themselves to a single context and grasp only one specific meaning, or do they transcend that context to discover entirely new chains of meaning?

Meaning, as mentioned above, is contingent upon context. If the context changes, the meaning will inevitably expand. In a way, this process of generating meaning is simultaneously a test for both the text and the reader! It is a test for the text in the sense of whether its context is one-dimensional and its meaning fixed, or whether there exists a rupture within that context that allows access to the text's other dimensions. A great literary work contains ruptures within ruptures, and therefore, contexts within contexts. Consequently, it does not possess a single, solitary meaning, but rather a continuous chain of meanings. Every meaning conceals a relatively deeper one beneath it. When the context shifts, the weight of the fixed meaning is lifted, allowing another meaning to emerge from beneath it.

On the other hand, this process of generating meaning is also a test for the reader. If the reader lacks the creative capacity to locate these ruptures and pass through them into a new context, they will remain confined to a single meaning, seemingly satisfied with the text's one-dimensionality. However, if the reader is creatively active and inquisitive, they will have the opportunity to journey deep into a polysemic landscape, actively engaging with the universe of the text.

When an author engages in the creative process, they gather the raw material of the text—which lies scattered in fragments across the external world—concentrate it into a single point, and then transform it. This point is the center of gravity of their desire. In reality, desire is a boundless universe in itself. Buddhists referred to this as Sunyata, meaning empty from within, and the Chinese called it Tao, which also meant empty from within. However, this internal emptiness did not imply a mere void. Rather, it meant that this internal emptiness exists as a tremendous force, one that engages in a process of spasmodic contractions, absorbing the outside world into itself drop by drop.

When an author is immersed in the act of creation, the desire within them—which is a layered, profound emptiness—continuously draws external material toward itself. The emergence of one context from within another in a text is driven precisely by this magnetic pull of desire. Since desire extends even to the demands of the physical body, the contexts that arise from its workings set multiple chains of meaning into motion. However, one thing is clear: if this desire is purely conscious and physical, the resulting context and its meaning will be one-dimensional. But if the desire is unconscious, there will be no limit to the landscapes and chains of meaning that emerge from it.

The distinguishing feature of art is the arc, while that of non-art is the straight line. This very distinction between the arc and the line is what separates poetry from prose. You might ask: is every poem truly a poem, and must every piece of prose be inherently excluded from the realm of art? The answer is that any piece of poetry or prose can only be considered a manifestation of art to the extent that it embodies the spirit of art—that is, the essence of the arc.

The trajectory of a line is straight; therefore, one never knows where it might lead, or if it will lead anywhere at all. An arc, however, possesses a curve, a bend, a tendency to return to its origin. Its destination lies within itself, as it is perpetually curving back toward its own center.

Art is the practice of returning to oneself. It is an endeavor to give form to the unseen inner world. I say unseen because only the tangible can be seen. When a thing is invisible, existing merely as a formless feeling or experience, how can it possibly be mapped through the senses? Despite this impossibility, art remains a captivating attempt to give shape to this delicate, elusive essence. The more successful art is in this endeavor, the more sublime it is considered to be.

By mentioning this formless inner feeling, I am not pitting the internal and the external against each other as rivals; that is, I am not separating the hidden from the manifest. The external is, in fact, just another shade of the internal. Rather, the external is simply the internal that has taken physical form. In other words, the manifest is not the opposite of the hidden, but its extension and embodiment. On the other hand, humanity was punished by being deprived of the arc and condemned to the straight line. Consequently, human destiny was bound to the obedience of a single, fixed meaning. Yet, even while enduring this restriction, humanity occasionally struggled to break free. This struggle manifested as the arc and materialized as art. Had humanity not escaped the grip of the straight line to embrace the arc, it would never have been able to initiate a secondary creative process parallel to the creative process of the universe, and thus, would never have entered the orbit of art.

Even across the canvas of the universe, one sees nothing but arcs. Every galaxy appears to rotate on its axis—revolving around a core that is an imperceptible black hole. Furthermore, as part of a cluster of galaxies, it can be seen revolving around yet another center. And this center, along with its accompanying galaxies, appears to orbit still another focal point. The entire universe is a never-ending circumambulation, revolving around some boundless, unseen center.

The universe is certainly expanding outward, but this journey, too, takes the form of arcs or spirals rather than a straight line. If we look at our own solar system, we see all the planets orbiting the sun. The fascinating part, however, is that while they draw near to the sun in their orbits, they merely graze its luminous halo before retreating. Were they to ever pierce that halo and enter within, they would be reduced to ashes by the sun's intense heat. The Sufi is deeply enamored with this process of burning to ashes, which is why the metaphor of the moth is so dear to him. The artist, however, is a lover of the orbit. He wishes to touch the flame, illuminate himself, and retreat, only to return again and again. To him, the love play is more precious than ultimate union.

But there is another distinction between the two. The Sufi believes that the ultimate goal is for the drop to be absorbed into the river. The artist, on the other hand, is Talmeez-ur-Rahman (a pupil of the Divine Creator). He initiates his own creative process parallel to the creative process of the universe. Whatever he sees and feels as he draws near the center, he attempts to mold into forms and allegories. This is exactly how, on a cosmic scale, the Ultimate Being (Wujud), through its magnificent creative process, shaped a diverse, multifaceted universe of existents (Mawjud) into forms, images, and metaphors.

Every form and image that appears on the canvas of art is a signature. This signature is a symbolic expression of the inner self, but unlike an ordinary signature, its meaning is not fixed. A standard commercial signature is essentially a mark with a single, definitive meaning. If it were to abandon this singular meaning and exhibit polysemy, its commercial value would be reduced to zero. The authenticity of a commercial signature lies in its transparency; the face of the individual behind the signature must be clearly visible. If the entity behind it is faceless, how can an ordinary commercial signature—such as one on a contract or a check—claim to represent them? However, the moment a signature enters the orbit of literature, it undergoes a transformation. On the surface, it signifies the author's ownership of the work, but on a deeper level, it becomes a declaration of the author's style of expression—and indeed, the style of their very being. It expands its single-meaning existence and acquires a symbolic significance. Therefore, it would not be wrong to say that every literary work is, in itself, the signature of its author.

Now, the entity standing behind this signature is not merely the physical persona of the author, but also their impersonal existence—an amalgamation of various codes and conventions where countless cultural dimensions have intertwined. Human memory and dreams, collective desires, and archetypal images—in short, the entirety of humanity's cultural and ancestral heritage—are encapsulated within this signature. Furthermore, it contains realms that humans can only rarely access. It is a mysterious continent on whose shores many a Columbus and Vasco da Gama stand mesmerized, contemplating how to venture into its inner world.

Therefore, the first point is that an author not only avoids traveling on well-trodden paths, but occasionally ventures into territories previously untouched by human footsteps. The second point is that while an author certainly adds to the writings of their predecessors, they do not simply place their own brick atop an under-construction wall. Instead, they blend the original with the addition, putting both through a process of metamorphosis. The author first demolishes the entire wall, and then, using all its raw material (which represents a state of anarchy or chaos), constructs the wall anew. If an author fails to do this, their status is merely that of a mason, and certainly not that of an artist.

The truth is that a new work of art cannot come into existence without transformation. This transformation is only possible if the author accesses not only the universal grammar of language inherent within themselves but also the cultural and racial material that constitutes the shared heritage of humanity. A great artist reaches even further back into a realm that is, in itself, a formless world. Just as the diversity of parole is visible in a text while the langue that drives its weaving remains unseen, the author, too, cannot see the underlying structure that drives their creative process. However, they certainly sense it intuitively. It is essential for the author not only to accept this structure—which encompasses poetics—in its broadest dimensions, but also to go beyond merely drawing from it. They must immerse themselves in it and make it their own lived experience. Only then can they truly create.

Those who subtract the author from the text and assign all importance to the text or the reader are only looking at one side of the picture. The reality is that the author is present within their text in the same way that grammar operates as a system within sentences. This author is not merely a flesh-and-blood entity with a name and a profession; rather, they are a multi-layered construct. When we say that the author is woven into the fabric of the text, it means they are present not only in their personal capacity but also in their linguistic and universal capacities. This is precisely why a text is never limited to a single meaning but is inherently polysemic.

The meaning derived from the reflection of an author’s personal life upon a text is generally one-dimensional and flat. Sometimes, when an author is bound by a specific ideology, theory, or creed, this meaning imposes itself on the text and becomes a mere sign—much like how a name is attached to a person and comes to signify only one specific thing. However, within the author's self lies a veiled, multi-layered universe. Therefore, they are not confined to the surface-level meaning of their text; by navigating through these internal depths, they render the text multi-layered and polysemic as well. This does not mean that a secondary meaning, sprouting from the apparent one, erases the original meaning. It simply means that a change in context expands the meaning. As Jacques Derrida is often quoted as saying:

Meaning is context bound but context is boundless.

This implies that no meaning can be established without a context, yet no context is confined by absolute boundaries. From within it, an unseen dimension always reveals itself, bringing a new context into existence and thereby expanding the meaning. Consider the field of physics: until the end of the nineteenth century, Newton's concept of gravity encompassed everything. However, in the twentieth century, when scientists peered inside the atom, they discovered nuclear force instead of gravitational force. Today, the situation is such that in the macrocosm, the Newtonian concept of the universe holds true, whereas in the microcosm, quantum physics prevails!

A similar phenomenon occurs in the universe of meaning when the context shifts. The meaning derived from the context of the author's personal identity is valid within that specific context. However, when viewed through the lens of the author's broader human identity, this meaning changes, and it will continue to shift across different contextual spheres. Yet, it would be incorrect to conclude that a meaning generated within one context is entirely invalidated, as it continues to exist perfectly well within its own original framework. Therefore, it depends entirely on the reader: do they limit themselves to a single context and grasp only one specific meaning, or do they transcend that context to discover entirely new chains of meaning?

Meaning, as mentioned above, is contingent upon context. If the context changes, the meaning will inevitably expand. In a way, this process of generating meaning is simultaneously a test for both the text and the reader! It is a test for the text in the sense of whether its context is one-dimensional and its meaning fixed, or whether there exists a rupture within that context that allows access to the text's other dimensions. A great literary work contains ruptures within ruptures, and therefore, contexts within contexts. Consequently, it does not possess a single, solitary meaning, but rather a continuous chain of meanings. Every meaning conceals a relatively deeper one beneath it. When the context shifts, the weight of the fixed meaning is lifted, allowing another meaning to emerge from beneath it.

On the other hand, this process of generating meaning is also a test for the reader. If the reader lacks the creative capacity to locate these ruptures and pass through them into a new context, they will remain confined to a single meaning, seemingly satisfied with the text's one-dimensionality. However, if the reader is creatively active and inquisitive, they will have the opportunity to journey deep into a polysemic landscape, actively engaging with the universe of the text.

When an author engages in the creative process, they gather the raw material of the text—which lies scattered in fragments across the external world—concentrate it into a single point, and then transform it. This point is the center of gravity of their desire. In reality, desire is a boundless universe in itself. Buddhists referred to this as Sunyata, meaning empty from within, and the Chinese called it Tao, which also meant empty from within. However, this internal emptiness did not imply a mere void. Rather, it meant that this internal emptiness exists as a tremendous force, one that engages in a process of spasmodic contractions, absorbing the outside world into itself drop by drop.

When an author is immersed in the act of creation, the desire within them—which is a layered, profound emptiness—continuously draws external material toward itself. The emergence of one context from within another in a text is driven precisely by this magnetic pull of desire. Since desire extends even to the demands of the physical body, the contexts that arise from its workings set multiple chains of meaning into motion. However, one thing is clear: if this desire is purely conscious and physical, the resulting context and its meaning will be one-dimensional. But if the desire is unconscious, there will be no limit to the landscapes and chains of meaning that emerge from it.