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p Great writers leave us more than their works. Every one of them expresses in some form or another his conception of the nature of art, the psychology of creative writing, of genres and so on—in other words, touches on the sphere known as art theory.

p It is not always possible to reconstruct an integral system of aesthetic conceptions out of these utterances, but they almost invariably widen our knowledge of the writer’s works, and our understanding of his talent. Moreover, they enrich our general concept of the nature of art.

p Sholokhov rarely, and then only reluctantly, makes mention of the actual process of creative writing. For him this is a highly personal experience, and he is loath to hold forth on it. But in his remarks and public utterances which are often of a highly polemical nature, we find a number of propositions that insistently recurring touch on fundamental aesthetic questions.

p One of the important questions that Sholokhov feels strongly about is the relationship between literature and life.

p In a message of greetings on the appearance of the first number of the newspaper Literatura i zhizn (Literature and Life), in 1958, Sholokhov wrote: “The name of the newspaper contains its plan of action. Check literature with life.”

p For Sholokhov life is the inexhaustible source of literary creation. He cannot conceive of his life or his work without constant contact with the people who will later step onto the pages of his novels. I should like to point out that there is nothing forced about this for Sholokhov: it is not imposed upon him by his sense of social duty, but is an inner need.

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p Sholokhov is constantly involved in the life of the people, when he is writing, when he travels out to a field camp and sits chatting with the tractor-drivers by their bonfire of an evening, or when he meets an old acquaintance in the street. Out fishing or hunting, receiving people in his capacity as deputy, wherever he may be, he is among the people who interest him not because he may one day write about them, but for their actual life, their hopes, dreams and sorrows.

p This is what gives Sholokhov’s works their characteristic tone which combines sincere filial love with paternal wisdom—a feeling that has stood the test of the years. Hence Sholokhov’s insistence that a writer cannot possibly produce significant, moving works without constant day-to-day contact with people.

p Once Sholokhov said to some visiting writers from Denmark and Georgia that were guests in his house at Veshenskaya: “My guests might think that I have no time left for my basic work, what with so many people here all the time and my duties as a deputy to see to. Well, this naturally does take up a lot of time, but if I led a secluded life, under a bell-glass, then the heroes of my books would also be glass or plastic figures, and not real men and women.”  [364•* 

p The link between literature and life as Sholokhov sees it is first and foremost a matter of the link between the writer and life.

p To live the life of the people, and live among the people— this is one of the fundamental aesthetic principles Sholokhov is continually stressing the importance of.

p The writer cannot be the guest of the people he is writing about or intends to write about. Knowledge, authentic knowledge of life without which art is unthinkable arises from shared experience. As Sholokhov said at the Second USSR Writers’ Congress, a book is a thing born in travail.

p A writer’s biography is never a personal matter: in art it becomes one of the factors of social experience. I think this is the general point Sholokhov is making in many of his remarks.

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p In numerous conversations Sholokhov gave concrete examples of friendly, fruitful,” frank criticism from readers.

p At the same time, Sholokhov is not inclined to let any reader speak on behalf of the whole people. In his speech in connection with his Lenin Prize for Virgin Soil Upturned, Sholokhov said humorously of the rather “limited” readers who make absurd demands on the writer:

p “I must say, I and my readers get on pretty well on the whole. A permanent link with one’s readers bolsters the writer’s confidence in his ability, and helps his work. But with some of them my relations, if not exactly strained, are rather cool to put it, bluntly. Some readers make quite impossible demands on a writer. After the appearance of Book Two, for example, one reader seriously objected to the fact that while in Yuri Miloslavski the author spared his heroes, Sholokhov killed Nagulnov and Davidov. ’What has this got to do with socialist realism?’ he asks. But one just has to ignore advice of this sort. I shall continue to write as I feel fit.... I cannot please everyone.”  [365•* 

p What does he mean by writing “as he feels fit"? Sholokhov’s number one criterion in judging any work of art has always been the criterion of truth to life.

p There is passionate conviction in his words: “... he would be a bad writer who coloured reality to the direct prejudice of truth or spared the reader’s feelings from the mistaken desire to suit him.”

p Sholokhov had repeatedly insisted that a writer must be able to tell the truth “however bitter”, and that a work of literature must be judged first and foremost from the standpoint of historical truth. We have already discussed this in the sections on And Quiet Flows the Don and Virgin Soil Upturned. This is Sholokhov’s artistic credo which he strictly adheres to in his writing.

p While expressing a favourable opinion on the literary qualities of a novel about an important hero of the Civil War, Sholokhov was sharply critical of the author for not knowing the subject sufficiently well. “From various material and the reminiscences of eye-witnesses Sholokhov had got an impression of the hero, a great partisan leader 366 quite different from the way he was drawn in the novel. The author had let his imagination run away with him too far, and he had deviated from historical truth.”  [366•* 

p A writer must be able to defend the truth into which he has put his all. No compromises are admissible here. Referring to the “pieces of advice" he was offered while working on And Quiet Flows the Don, Sholokhov said: “... if a writer has decided to tell the truth at all costs, then he must stick to this decision and not be swayed by any sort of advice.”   [366•** 

p This courageous confidence that everything you have written is authentic arises from real knowledge of all the circumstances, from personal experience and feeling, from the ability to relate the particular and the universal in a single conception of reality.

p Poor knowledge of one’s material is an unforgivable sin for a writer. It is this more than anything else that leads to distortion of the truth and artistic inferiority.

p The writer Anatoly Kalinin described a conversation with Sholokhov in the 1930s, when the latter was working on And Quiet Flows the Don. “Sholokhov says that every writer absolutely must know a particular milieu: the Cossacks, or the intelligentsia, the young people or what have you. He speaks with great irony of those shallow writers who know a little about everything, but have no sound knowledge of anything.”  [366•*** 

p There is no greater sin for a writer than having a poor knowledge of his material properly. “For all us writers—beginners and old hands alike—the main task is mastering the material,” Sholokhov said in 1934. “There can be no real work of literature without a profound and thorough apprehension of the material.”

p It takes more than study to master the material. The writer must live among the people he is writing about. This means living with the worries, joys and sorrows of the people who hold the present and future of mankind in their working hands. Thus Sholokhov 367 understands the true relationship between the writer and the people, between literature and life.

p But this affirmation of the most fruitful relationship between literature and life is only one of many questions about which Sholokhov feels deeply.

p Another equally important question, judging by his frequent mention of it, is what we usually call the writer’s craft.

p “The time has come to speak of literature in truly courageous language and to give things their proper names,” Sholokhov declared at the famous literary discussion on language that took place in 1934. Significantly, his article was entitled “For Honest Work by the Writer and the Critic”. This uncompromising article represents an important stage in the development of Sholokhov’s ideas about writing.

p Literature can develop in conditions of friendly interest and support and also where high aesthetic demands are being made on it.

p Sholokhov considered one of the reasons for the growth of “literary rejects" to be group sympathies and unprincipled criticism. Where group sympathies and partiality come into play no works worthy of the great labours of the people can be produced.

p A false image, the careless use of a word, testifying to the writer’s “blindness” and lack of conscientiousness, are bad not only in themselves. If the writer is not truthful in small things, the reader will cease to believe him when it comes to more important things.

p Inferior craftsmanship is more than a technical flaw: it is at the same time an ideological flaw. Sholokhov’s ideas on this subject are very close to the views expressed by Maxim Gorky and Alexei Tolstoi in the 1934^ discussion.

p In an “Open Letter to A. S. Serafimovich" Maxim Gorky wrote: “In the sphere of creative writing, linguistic—lexical—semi-literacy always’ indicates lack of culture and is always connected with political semiliteracy. It’s about time this was understood!"  [367•* 

p Language is more than the essential “element” of literature for Sholokhov: it contains the historical 368 experience, wit and creative daring of the people. He wrote in his foreword to a collection of Russian proverbs: “The people’s greatest wealth is their language. For thousands of years countless treasures of human thought and experience have been collected and preserved for all time in words.” A careless attitude to words, disregard for the experience and wisdom of the people inevitably lead to falseness and literary rejects. Thus the writer’s most important and most difficult task is to seek the mot juste.

p Sholokhov addressed the following to his fellow Don writers: “The word the writer extracts from the depths of the mighty Russian language must every time be the one word that will find its way straight to the reader’s heart.”  [368•* 

p Sholokhov repeatedly stresses that the writer’s number one task is to work on the language. Poverty of language comes from poverty of ideas. It produces levelling, a grey featureless stream of literary output, where the writer’s individuality does not make itself felt at all.

p In a talk to students of the Literature Institute in 1958 Sholokhov had this to say: “One must struggle for the purity and expressiveness of the language, discovering one’s own distinctive images. The most fatal thing writers can possibly do is repeat one another. We may as well admit it, the language in some of our books is pretty poor, and in the struggle to make our language rich and beautiful all our hope lies in you, young writers.”  [368•** 

p Sholokhov supported Gorky in the discussion on language, sharply criticising verbal acrobatics and pseudoinnovation. He pointed out that the only real way to success lies through an unceasing struggle for quality, and uncompromising exigence towards oneself.

p “We need genuinely new words created by the Revolution too, also innovation in literary form, and new books portraying this, the greatest age in human history. But we writers shall only succeed in creating works worthy of the age when we have learned to write books and also to draw new words into literature so that 95 per cent of the words are excellent and the other 5 per cent good.”

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p Sholokhov returns again and again to the relationship between the Soviet writer and his readers. He does so when speaking on literature and life, and when reflecting on language and the elements of literary quality.

p In the 1930s when he was working on And Quiet Flows the Don, Sholokhov declared: “A writer mustn’t be in a hurry ... nothing can be more harmful or dangerous for a writer than haste.”  [369•* 

p Speaking at a seminar of young writers at Rostov-onDon in 1955, he gave them the following piece of friendly advice: “Here’s what I have to say to you, my young friends: things aren’t always easy for a young writer, indeed I’ll give it to you straight, things are often difficult, but all the same don’t be in a hurry to express what hasn’t yet had time to mature inside you. It is necessary to produce a book that will make a mark and live for a long time.”

p It takes time and a lot of polishing and improving to produce a work that will stand the test of time. Sholokhov is prepared to put up with all sorts of reproaches for being a slowcoach. As he openly declared at the celebrations held to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of his activity as a writer: “I insist on the right to work slower than readers would like, as long as the slowness is justified by quality.... Bad books can be written quickly, good ones take time.”

p A few years later, in 1952, he said over the radio: “I may be mistaken, but when you think of the difficult art of writing, you tend to think: let the job drag on as long as what your brain and hand create is reliable, safe, firm, and strong, and serves those you created it for as long as possible.”

p Sholokhov makes very high demands on himself, and applies very strict criteria to the work of his fellow-writers too. He has felt it necessary to adopt this same tough attitude towards the young writers.

p Bitter experience convinced Sholokhov that a young writer needs friendly support and approval. But support does not mean praising the writer to the skies or protecting him Jrom just criticism. The best kind of support is open, 370 unrestrained criticism based on high artistic demands which is the only way to help the young writer “get off the ground".

p In his speech at the Kazakhstan Writers’ Congress Sholokhov showed with an extremely poetic parallel how young writers should be trained in his opinion:

p “As for the criticism of the young writers, they must be shown fatherly exigence and concern. I was once told how the golden eagle teaches his young when they are learning to fly. He lifts them up on his wing and flies up, not letting them drop but forcing them to gain height and chasing them higher and higher until they are completely exhausted. Only after this kind of training does the golden eagle learn to soar in the heavens... . We must train our young writers in the same way, making them fly higher and higher so that they may become real golden eagles in literature, and not bedraggled crows or domestic hens.”

p Sholokhov sees the young writers as “hope for the future, a guarantee that literature will never age”. That is why no effort must be spared to teach and support them.

p His correspondence with numerous other writers will no doubt be published in due course. Here is just one letter written in answer to one from Sholokhov which shows how the toughest criticism can encourage a writer:

p “Dear Mikhail Alexandrovich,

p “Many thanks indeed for your letter. The whole family has read it and reread it. It made us all very happy. I shall certainly follow your advice and shall work on the manuscript and try and make something really worth while of it. I feel twice as strong now...."

p Sholokhov had this to say: “You mustn’t think I always give critiques that produce answers like that. There are still any number of scribblers around, and their manuscripts naturally come in for some harsh criticism.”  [370•* 

p All these questions on which the very life of art depends—applying strict criteria, striving for better craftsmanship, combating partial criticism, training young writers, and so on arid so forth—can only be solved on condition that literary criticism is on a high level of aesthetic 371 appreciation, is firmly-rooted in reality, and is highly principled.

p Sholokhov has reason enough to show little respect for some of the critics. Many a time he has met with biased, unfounded, and even aesthetically illiterate and primitive judgments of his works. But he has remained firmly convinced that literature cannot develop properly without intelligent criticism.

p These are some of Sholokhov’s essential views on literature. They help us understand his own practical approach to writing and his aesthetic credo. They are also most relevant to current literary developments.

p Sholokhov’s lessons are the lessons of truly great art. They teach inspired humanism; they give a synthesis of intense thought struggling for what is good and just, and craftsmanship where a perfect finish is given to every single image, every single phrase.

Indeed, this is the difficult path of literature that constantly keeps the people’s interests in sight.