In the middle of the 20th century William Faulkner recieved the Nobel Prize for literature. In his speach upon recieving the reward he said the following:I think Faulkner, here, is saying something significant which is in constant jeopardy in our time . I very much agree with him that there are elements of our Humanness which are significant and lasting, somethings that cannot die. The history of our courage against the odds, for example, is something unique to humankind. Yet will we prevail, merely out of the power of this soul, this spirit within us? I acknowledge that we each contain this immortal thing, this power of life, this soul and spirit, but will it prevail? I think not.
It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure; that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his own puny inexhaustible voice. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he along among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilage to help man endure by lifting up his heart, by reminding him of the courage and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
And if it is there, where did it come from? Is it another habit of chance, a game of randomness? Who will account for it's presence in us? Why do we have it? There must be answers to these questions. In the airport in Bangkok a few thoughts came to me. Why haven't ants developed their system of Monarchy into democracy? Why don't monkey's build cities? Why don't dogs launch organized attacks against the kingdom of cats?
Faulkner is right. There is something powerful in us, something everlasting. But will it last? The dichotomy of good and evil is definitive, so if we are to account for our actions, what will become of our souls? Will all our good deeds (courage and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice) make up for our bad deeds (violence, hatred, lust, impurity)? I think not.
In Faulkner's reference to a writer's & poet's responsibility, I agree that there is something that needs to be held up, to be remembered in this age. How long is it since I heard someone use the word courage in a casual conversation, or the word purity, chastity, honour, compassion. I believe when we as a society forget these ideals, we are in danger of forgetting/loosing our souls. And the soul is dangerously forgotten.
