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| | | Kafka and Emily Dickinson - The Right to Destroy as the Absence of Compulsion | |
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< | In American law, we often recognize a right to destroy goods which would be valuable to society as a whole. Human beings are allowed to retain healthy, functioning organs in a lifeless and decaying corpse. But some people contend that this right should not extend posthumously to authors and their unpublished material. However, to forbid the right to destroy is essentially to compel publication. This may actually work to discourage creation. If a creator is worried that some misstep, something he considers a creative failure, will be made permanent, he will likely be even more hesitant to make that initial step. As I watched the wiki over the course of the week, I noticed few students, myself included, putting up their rough sketches and outlines. Even fewer had their brainstorming sessions made public. In all creation, there is a fear, perhaps unfounded, that others will judge our unfinished work and find us wanting. Until the idea is fully crystallized, it may not be committed to paper. And since few of us have eidetic memory, this will lead to degradation of the work and many lost moments of brilliance. | >
> | In American law, we often recognize a right to destroy goods which would be valuable to society as a whole. Human beings are allowed to retain healthy, functioning organs in a lifeless and decaying corpse. But some people contend that this right should not extend posthumously to authors and their unpublished material. However, to forbid the right to destroy is essentially to compel publication. | | | | |
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< | We recognize the right for a living author to destroy or overwrite his work, and it may be harmful to not extend this posthumously. By forcing a reticent author to destroy his works in his lifetime, we would encourage premature destruction. A sickly author might not wish his unfinished work to be "completed" as Tolkien's Silmarillion was. Fearing his sickness may be unto death, and knowing that his wishes will be ignored, this author may feel compelled to destroy the work while he still has the power. This would prevent any chance of him later modifying the work until it is sufficiently improved to be published. | >
> | It isn't wise to build an entire essay around a straw man. "Some people say" means that you don't have anyone who was actually willing to take the other side of this in a principled argument to which you could have responded in kind. This is a clue, of course, that the other side is impossibly weak, and that your efforts to slaw this straw man will be largely if not utterly wasted.
This may actually work to discourage creation. If a creator is worried that some misstep, something he considers a creative failure, will be made permanent, he will likely be even more hesitant to make that initial step.
Only if you really
believe that there is (a) some power, (b) some willingness, and (c)
some method to prevent people from erasing files or tearing up
drafts. And that's ludicrous.
As I watched the wiki over the course of the week, I noticed few students, myself included, putting up their rough sketches and outlines. Even fewer had their brainstorming sessions made public. In all creation, there is a fear, perhaps unfounded, that others will judge our unfinished work and find us wanting. Until the idea is fully crystallized, it may not be committed to paper. And since few of us have eidetic memory, this will lead to degradation of the work and many lost moments of brilliance.
Writers and composers
keep notebooks. They don't show them to people. Often they burn
them when work is complete. The digital workflow makes that even
more trivial. But keeping your notebook in public, as this wiki, is
a very different matter. You are right that people are by and large
shy about it, and that shyness has nothing to do with the degree of
talent or the extent of mastery. I don't therefore require anything
of people, I merely make more options possible than were possible
before.
We recognize the right for a living author to destroy or overwrite his work, and it may be harmful to not extend this posthumously. By forcing a reticent author to destroy his works in his lifetime, we would encourage premature destruction. A sickly author might not wish his unfinished work to be "completed" as Tolkien's Silmarillion was.
If so, given the long
posthumous extension of copyright and the strength of copyright on
unpublished works, he can long prevent it.
Fearing his sickness may be unto death, and knowing that his wishes will be ignored, this author may feel compelled to destroy the work while he still has the power.
You seem to have
forgotten the existence of family, friends, and literary executors.
Getting people to destroy things for you after your death is
comparatively easy, if you know whom to trust. Surely literary
history is replete primarily with the opposite problem: destruction
of letters, journals, drafts by family members,
This would prevent any chance of him later modifying the work until it is sufficiently improved to be published. | | | Vergil and Nabokov - The 'Need' for Greater Understanding | |
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< | When dealing with previously established authors, the argument in support of compelled publication is stronger. The work must no longer be published just for any individual (potential) literary merit, but because it will aid our understanding of the author's published works of known literary value. But this very reason increases the likelihood that a work will be prematurely destroyed. An author usually wishes his work to be destroyed because he feels it is not "good enough" to warrant publication, and that its release will temper his current status. A known commodity will be even more keen to protect his image, lest his past brilliance be deemed a fluke. | >
> | When dealing with previously established authors, the argument in support of compelled publication is stronger. The work must no longer be published just for any individual (potential) literary merit, but because it will aid our understanding of the author's published works of known literary value. But this very reason increases the likelihood that a work will be prematurely destroyed. An author usually wishes his work to be destroyed because he feels it is not "good enough" to warrant publication, and that its release will temper his current status.
This is a peculiar
generalization, failing to account, for example, for "Across the
River and Into the Trees."
A known commodity will be even more keen to protect his image, lest his past brilliance be deemed a fluke.
As I say, not a very
strong inference from an imagined single version of the creative
ego. | | | Also, how far would this shield extend? Would we compel publication of personal letters and private diaries? These works, arguably more than an unfinished novel, would give us tremendous insight into the author; but few would support such an intrusion. | |
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> | And you don't have any legal basis or power for such a move. Straw man alert. | | | By compelling publication of a work, we would also discourage collaboration. The more people that know of a work, the harder it will be to destroy. Beyond a single person whom the author trusts to destroy his work, he would keep the manuscript a total secret. This novel, even if completed, may lack a true sense of discourse and would certainly have benefited from the input and help of other eyes.
Dr. Seuss - Information Distribution when the Cat is Out of the Hat | |
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< | The right to destroy, however, is essentially extinguished once the work is published. No longer is it comparable to a compulsion to publish, and any "right to destroy" is rendered practically meaningless. The author does not wish to destroy a single manuscript, but instead wants to erase every copy of the work. It would be impossible to place the cat back in the bag, and until all media is under the control of Kindle, copies of the work would be forever disseminated. | >
> | The right to destroy, however, is essentially extinguished once the work is published. No longer is it comparable to a compulsion to publish, and any "right to destroy" is rendered practically meaningless. The author does not wish to destroy a single manuscript, but instead wants to erase every copy of the work. It would be impossible to place the he cat back in the bag, and until all media is under the control of Kindle, copies of the work would be forever disseminated.
You should have
discussed Spelvinizing. The issue isn't whether the work exists: the
issue is whether the attribution exists. The right of deattribution
would have been a more suitable subject for an
essay. | | | Further, the right to destroy his own work cannot be extended to destroy the works of others. Since our culture is built by accretion, this would require surgical precision - removing the grain of his own work without damaging the nacre added by others. Would he be allowed to destroy all translations? Isn't translating a creative and not merely a determinate process? | |
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> | So? | | | The Extension to Tangible Art
The dichotomy of published and unpublished works does not extend to more visual and tangible forms of art where the expression is almost inseparable from the physical instantiation. In the case of sculptures and paintings, the work is inherently unique and cannot be perfectly copied. This means that the destruction is now practically possible, and can easily be done without destroying the work of others.
Some destruction is of course accepted as a necessary part of the creative process. A traditional marble sculpture is created by repeatedly destroying its predecessors each time hammer meets chisel. Denying the creator the right to destroy his art denies him the ability to determine what is outmoded and what needs to be altered - would we stop a sculptor when we feel the work is complete? The expressive urge which drove him to create is integral to his desire for destruction. His initial creation was a way of stating "This should be expressed", and the destruction should be seen in the same light - similar to performance art. | |
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> | Possibly, depending on
context. You're going too far too fast without actually thinking
about the history here. Consider the dedication of Beethoven's Third
Symphony, for example.
| | | Also, unlike in a published work, the destruction is not an attempt to Herostratize* the work. (The mere creation of this verb speaks to the impossibility of that goal, particularly in the age of digital storage and dissemination.) Instead, the destroyer only wishes to eliminate this single instance of the work. All photos, descriptions, and other echoes of the work (the works created by others) will remain untouched.
Unfortunate Results
To be certain, there are unpleasant repercussions. We would be without much of the work of Kafka and Dickinson. We would be without Vergil's masterwork. But we should not build our artistic culture by conscription. | |
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> | A fine conclusion,
easily earned by victory over the scarecrow. In my view, the route
to revision is to find a position someone actually takes and argue
with it, if you must, or find a position you actually take and
explain it, which would be better. A desire for culture built by
willing artists is easy to have: look around. It's a desire to make
problematic the obvious that's more difficult of satisfaction, and I
wonder whether it is worth the effort.
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* In verbing this name, I mean to refer to the Ephesean response, and not to Herostratus' plan. |
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