This year, there’s been debate over editing works by authors like Roald Dahl, Enid Blyton, Ian Fleming, and Agatha Christie to remove content considered potentially offensive. Some publishers have also added warnings to books by authors like Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf. Critics from all sides have largely outnumbered those supporting these edits and disclaimers. This topic has been a frequent subject in conversations beyond the literary world, a rare occurrence. It’s both encouraging to see people passionate about books’ value, yet concerning to see them used in cultural arguments.
Conservative media has often labeled these actions as “wokeness,” while other critiques argue for preserving history accurately. Some suggest that adults should guide children through such literature. The debate’s prominence raises questions about literature’s role in culture today and why this issue reaches mainstream discussions.
Media often picks up literary stories with moral implications, turning books into battlegrounds of ethical discussion, similar to how public figures are scrutinized. Literary festivals reflect that our discourse often connects books to moral issues. This tendency assimilates literature into the commercialized cultural space of society.
Two main questions arise: What really constitutes literary censorship? Is rewriting an offensive sentence editing or akin to translation? And, is there a link between a work’s literary and moral value? Do we seek moral lessons from books? These are valid inquiries but not the only ones to consider. Literature is unique because it transcends simple questions like these. Moral debates are attractive as they allow clear judgments in an increasingly consumer-driven world. Moral decisions often provide clear-cut approvals or condemnations, thus bypassing what John Keats called “negative capability,” where individuals remain open to uncertainties without rushing for facts.
There might be valid reasons to remove offensive terms, but we should be cautious of tailoring literature to modern sensibilities or sanitizing works to make them more acceptable. Treating books as modifiable to fit market preferences risks stripping them of their literary essence. The desire to keep authors like Dahl agreeable stems from commercial interests in maintaining the value of their brands. For instance, the Roald Dahl Story Company, acquired by Netflix, aims to maximize Dahl’s marketability, involvement in smoothing out controversial edges.
Dahl’s problematic aspects, such as his antisemitism or initial depiction of Oompa Loompas in “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” complicate his legacy. Such factors may dissuade readers or encourage detaching the work from the author’s views. Changing a few sentences doesn’t fully redeem or discredit a text. Literature, influenced by commerce, maintains its significance by resisting these commercial pressures and avoiding simplistic moralism.
Unlike other commodities, books don’t promise a specific function, and their true value is revealed through the reading experience, full of unpredictability. The best literature can be complex, unpleasant, or challenging, and it’s not its job to always ease a reader’s life. Reading might involve unsettling or distressing experiences, offering no obligation for utility or lesson.
Thus, how should one respond to offensive literature? How are moral boundaries determined? Social norms generally dictate what’s acceptable, and some books undeniably need edits to stay relevant. For instance, returning Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None” to its original title would make it unsellable. However, decisions on modifying content should be scrutinized, particularly if driven by marketability ambitions like maintaining a brand’s appeal.
Defending literature solely on moral grounds surrenders crucial aspects. While literature can morally influence, it’s more likely to offer multiple, complex responses. Treating literature as merely therapeutic risks oversimplifying it to self-help. Literature’s value isn’t tied to enhancing readers’ character but to allowing diverse human experiences. Books challenge and enrich us not by guaranteeing moral development but by inviting unpredictable individual interpretations.
So, how can we defend literature beyond moral contexts? We might compare it to conversation. Conversations can be uplifting or discouraging, neither inherently good nor bad. Yet, we cannot cease engaging in them, much like our interaction with books.