Lofty Ideals in the Nobel Prize for Literature by Chris Meyer

Prudhomme was the very first in 1901, to be awarded literature’s greatest prize; ‘in special recognition of his … lofty ideals’. Lagerlöf eight years later; ‘in appreciation of the lofty idealism. Rolland, 1913; ‘lofty idealism…’ and Gjellerup in 1917 for ‘his rich poetry … inspired by lofty ideals.’ Clearly the Swedish Academy didn’t share the same wordsmithery of some of its early prize-winners. Nor does it share the appeal of ‘lofty idealism’. Well, maybe not since 1917 at least.

100 years later and no further mention of loftiness or idealism, combinations or cocktails thereof, the Academy found itself swamped in scandal from which it needed draining. Rape and further sexual assault, corruption, deceit, misappropriation of monies and myriad misdemeanours, another aging institute was rocked by an emboldened and woke generation, and rightly so. #MeToo. Sounding more like a series ending cliff-hanger on Netflix, the Swedish Academy decided it no longer had the trust of the public, nor quite frankly, after a run on resignations, did it have enough judges to select a winner for the 2018 award.

Lucky us then - that we get two winners of the (formerly known as) prestigious Nobel Prize in Literature; two artists to further explore and admire, two purveyors of prose pleasuring us all over again, immersed in their imaginations, poets, playwrights, authors or essayists at the top-end of their game. But I am bothered to wondering whether I’d feel just a little bit peeved if I was the 2018 winner, still to be announced.

“Congratulations to so-and-so for thingamabob, the 2018 winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature…for their inspired … blah, blah, blah … lofty ideals.”

Applause. Applause. Applause.

Applause dies down.

Host retakes centre stage - lights up.

“And now onto the 2019 winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Not since Prudhomme have we seen such idealistic loftiness…”

And that’s it.

In an instant - in the moment of an audience gleefully letting the pins-and-needles in their hands dissipate after a sycophantically long round of applause (as if they’ve read anything by the 2018 winner anyway). It’s all - kind of - over. Yes, the press will pay you lip-service, on the evening, but already you’re just a line in a Wiki-page, or even worse still; the answer to a pub quiz tie-break question. No ‘this year’s Nobel Prize winner…” for you. No mainstage appearance at literary festivals filled with the great and good. No Oxford Union addresses. No…let’s be honest here; adulation.

Perhaps the purists among you don’t write for the adulation. Not that you’d admit it aloud. But recognition without adulation is being promoted to the bronze medal position in the discus eleven years after you’ve retired, from being a P.E. teacher, part-time, because somebody you’ve hated for a lifetime cheated. I’m just suggesting that it helps.

For what’s the point of writing if you don’t want to be heard?

And in a world in which everyone and anyone can be published at the click of a button (clearly), it can be difficult to rise above the cacophony of opinion and hackneyed nonsense, but write you must, and for adulation. Whether it be poems or essays, write. Whether it be philosophy, biography or drama, write. Write your truths and write them well, as literature can still transcend societal norms and cultural differences, the pen is mightier than the sword, as our most recent winner knows only too well.

Japanese born; Kazuo Ishiguro is Britain’s (to some contention in Japan) eleventh recipient of the Nobel prize in Literature. Awarded to him in 2017 his canon of writing he always conveys differing points of view, an ability to see things in an alternate light - probably born out of his experiencing two very different cultures, needless to remind ourselves, two warring cultures. How sublime then, given the current cultural temperature, that it takes an immigrant to pose the question of what it is to be English, in his 1989 novel; The Remains of the Day. In it he is able to fuse the servitude of the British and Japanese working class through Stevens; the novel’s unreliable narrator, but unflinchingly devoted butler to Lord Darlington. Stevens ignores his master’s cosiness to the pre-war Germans, he follows the command to fire Jewish staff members though he later regrets it, yet still disregarding his master’s political motives, in order to devote himself to a class system he could never enter. And to such cost, the cost of his own decency and in Stevens himself finding love. A message perhaps worth reminding ourselves of today. As we witness once again Britain’s penchant for far-right politics, it is worth reiterating how those with the pen fought this rhetoric of nationalism and hate.

From Orwell via Brecht, it is time again that we write for adulation for we need to be heard. Time to follow the correct masters, not out of loyalty and faith to their wealth and status but to their inspiration and education.

In accepting his Nobel Prize, Ishiguro said; ‘Can I, as a tired author, from an intellectually tired generation, now find the energy to look at this unfamiliar place?’ Perhaps he can no longer, but nor should we expect him to, as it is the turn of others to now write the truths of their time, to write again with lofty idealism and fight the right to write.

And don’t forget, please, when the 2019 winner is announced later this year, mid-October, to just rewind the tape and check out the winner from 2018 and share their lofty ideals too.