On happiness and writing

Some conversation about writing, the answers I got on my previous post, and some friends reading The Sorrows of Young Werther have brought me back to a subject I visit sporadically but recurringly. Happiness and literary works.

If we are to believe romantic literature - especially old(ish), Mid-Europian romantic literature - true creativity is spawned from misery. If one were to look at movies made, books written or stories told of great writers of old, a common theme could be found: all of them seem to have been definitely unhappy. Of course, common happiness is rather dull, and therefore not very noteworthy, but still it seems that every literary genius until the twentieth century (and somewhat through it) had to have some great misdeed, unhappiness or malady to spur their writing.

I discussed writing with a friend, and mentioned my "write something every day" promise I made to myself. We began to discuss what it was I wrote. When we got to the fact that poems - or something very much poemlike, but where and how does one draw the line - made up most of what I wrote (my prose comes in spews and gusts: I did finish the muse piece though) he mentioned that he had not written almost anything for ages. It was interesting, as before he was one of the industrious striving desk drawer poets I knew. He had a theory of it, which, summed up, would be along the lines of "I'm too content with my life, and therefore have no great feelings to base any great lyric works on." I had no argument to counter him: it was what he felt, and there was no way of proving him wrong. There was a question this provoked in me, however, that gestated for quite a while before solidifying.

Is it truly only misery that spawns creativity? Foes writing reflects the writee (yes, it's writee on purpose), or the setting of the writing in some detail or undercurrent? Certainly, when browsing through most of what is listed as the great literary works of the world, one stumbles upon bad setting, bad luck or just generic bad something quite a deal, but surely there must be happy feelings down there? I have yet to take a plunge through the literary works of our forebearers, but I did do a routine check of world literature classics in the book sets that are laid out for literature studies in our university. Finnish literature shall hold steadfast to everything sucking for atleast someone (it is Finnish literature, after all) so I discounted it from my search.

For basic studies I found three arguably "happy" pieces: Decamerone, Don Quixote and Gulliver's Travels. As Don Quixote's focus in on mistravels, mishaps and, well, mis-everything, we shall discount that. The whole setting of Decamerone is rather morbid and most of the stories end rather sadly as well, it shall be discounted as well. Well, atleast Gulliver is jolly as can be, is it not? Let us consider what it was when it came out: a piece on corruption and faults of a nation, dressed and veiled in satire. Quite unappealing for the jolly folk. Alas, we are left with no happy books for basic studies. To have a few examples of other pieces on the list, there are E. A. Poe's The Raven (and other works), Goethe's Young Werther, Sofokles' King Oedipus, Tolstoi's Anna Karenina and Kafka's The Trial. For later studies, the list has few brighter spots.

Actually, I must digress myself: I just remembered atleast one piece that is happy, or atleast truly claims to be. Given, it is of mid-nineteenth century, but still. Walt Whitman's Song of Myself, fist published in 1855, is a first-person narrated poetic epic of the miracle of life in all it's forms. I suggest it to everyone (in it's original language: I'll perhaps write about this later).

Well, no matter how we look at this, it seems most of the great literary works of the western world are sombre, sad things. Perhaps great inner turmoil does create better art. Personally, I find sombre subjects in my writing more often than not, but maybe it's just my Finnish blood. You can't help what you're made. Either or, I still write something each day. My cellphone is slowly filling with saved messages after I wake up in the middle of the night only to realise the day's writing remains undone, tap something in the phone and just slam the cover. Thankfully, the automatic settings save whatever's on screen when I do this.

For today, my writing is done and it's time to skip to bed. Perhaps one of these days I'll actually get around to sorting through all of the photos I've taken in the last six months, and come up with some pictures up here. It's been a bit, shall we say, texty up here lately. And yes, I know my puns suck.