Good writers.
Good writers are like political leaders—their goal is honor, that is, they depend on those who honor them in order to know that they are good.
Most would say this appears superficial, since generally speaking the author who depends on fans for verification is prone to failure, whether it is the failure of a loss of honor or the failure of letting fame and public sanction displace his good nature.
But if we think of goodness as Aristotle did, as something each of us finds in himself, then we also see *true* goodness as something that would be hard for someone to take from us. And *true* goodness becomes something that exists outside the good writer's writing.
The writer’s work does not belong to him. Words cannot be owned, as such. Words are the materials of the writer, his tools. Does a janitor claim to own shit and vomit and floor mops? Are all these things belonging to him, just because they are necessary to his job?
It can never be true that a writer makes words uniquely “good.” The goodness of words depends only on the honor they receive, since words without honor are meaningless.
But the author has not given these words their meaning, which is why he cannot give them their honor by himself, nor can he claim to own them. The words’ meanings comes from their honor as others--the readers, I guess-- provide it.
The sick, sad writer is the one who writes without any concern for honor, who claims words as his own and feels personally harassed when someone does not honor his work. I find this type of writer repugnant. He has neglected to realize that, despite his writing, he is just a man.
Most would say this appears superficial, since generally speaking the author who depends on fans for verification is prone to failure, whether it is the failure of a loss of honor or the failure of letting fame and public sanction displace his good nature.
But if we think of goodness as Aristotle did, as something each of us finds in himself, then we also see *true* goodness as something that would be hard for someone to take from us. And *true* goodness becomes something that exists outside the good writer's writing.
The writer’s work does not belong to him. Words cannot be owned, as such. Words are the materials of the writer, his tools. Does a janitor claim to own shit and vomit and floor mops? Are all these things belonging to him, just because they are necessary to his job?
It can never be true that a writer makes words uniquely “good.” The goodness of words depends only on the honor they receive, since words without honor are meaningless.
But the author has not given these words their meaning, which is why he cannot give them their honor by himself, nor can he claim to own them. The words’ meanings comes from their honor as others--the readers, I guess-- provide it.
The sick, sad writer is the one who writes without any concern for honor, who claims words as his own and feels personally harassed when someone does not honor his work. I find this type of writer repugnant. He has neglected to realize that, despite his writing, he is just a man.
