Canon

At some point, roughly in the fifth grade of middle school, we were tasked with writing an essay on the topic of "Books, Our Friends and Companions." My deskmate concluded her report with the statement, "Through books, we embark on a captivating journey into another world."

Life unfolded in such a way that many years later, I found myself leading an educational project about Russian literary classics. We aimed to explain, using contemporary language, how to approach reading the "great novels" that were part of the school curriculum. During this time, I realized just how right my classmate had been. The most common complaint about these books is that they seem disconnected from modern life. If you are, for example, a resident of a modern metropolis who starts your day with a visit to the gym, works in market research during the day, and heads out to art exhibitions or bars with friends in the evening, what relevance do melancholic tales of serfs or hunters in the wilderness, with their endless descriptions of nature, hold for you? How can you relate to them? The very idea of classics or a literary canon, a list of required books that everyone should know, immediately evokes memories of school schedules and essays that we copied from one another - in other words, it feels monotonous. It all seems completely outdated. Most definitely - a world apart.

Harold Bloom's book "The Western Canon," written in the early 1990s, comes into play when American universities were grappling with their own struggle against the canon. This was motivated by even more significant factors. Progressive faculty members discovered that all the so-called "great books" included in the world literature curriculum were authored by "dead white men." They viewed this as a profound injustice or even a conspiracy by dominant social and gender groups. According to this perspective, the canon needed to be expanded (or perhaps entirely replaced) with works by authors whose voices had historically been silenced - women, people of color, and other ethnic and gender groups that did not belong to the dominant mainstream. The concept of "greatness" itself is called into question – what culture has long regarded as a unique creation of genius, in light of Foucault's and Barthes' theories, is exposed as a product historically shaped by the surrounding environment. It's important to recognize in the text that through the author, no matter how talented they may be, time is writing with all its limitations while the powerful hierarchy weighs in with its own interests. In Bloom's book, we find an attempt to halt this iconoclastic movement, a desperate yet noble endeavor characteristic of all that is ultimately doomed.

The concept of the literary canon is indeed a product of European (often referred to as "dead white") culture, and it emerged relatively recently. During the Renaissance, scholars sought the canon in antiquity. The notion that there are specific relatively recent secular texts that can serve as a gold standard only developed around the 18th century. The canon is national; in every culture and language, there are revered authors whose greatness is often challenging to explain to foreigners. For Russia, it's Pushkin, who has been considered "ours" for over a century and yet doesn't quite resonate in other languages. However, there is also the idea of a stable set of books universally significant for all of civilization (or at least its Western part). This list was ultimately defined in the early decades of the 20th century - in American university courses and the catalog of books published by the Soviet Academia publishing house - both here and there. This arguably supports the suspicions of left-wing critics: superpowers are trying to impose their hegemony through "lists of required books" and the accompanying social practices. No matter how challenging it may be to read Pushkin in translation, monuments to Pushkin and Pushkin's texts in the school curriculum are a distinctive feature of all countries that fell within the sphere of influence of the USSR. But from Bloom's perspective, all of this is unimportant; no matter what tasks the canon may fulfill, it contains a great truth that surpasses any socio-historical circumstances.

Bloom recalls the ancient concept of "agon" - a struggle, competition, or, in general, competitiveness. All of these attributes are inherently present in literature. Some authors are better, and some are worse: the canon, as it exists today, results from an invisible competition that has continued for many centuries. According to Bloom, this is actually the key question of literature: who is stronger - the elephant or the whale? The author of "The Western Canon" meticulously, sometimes excessively so, records the results. Dante is more powerful than Petrarch in certain respects but yields to Shakespeare in others. In general, Shakespeare is the absolute champion in this “tournament table,” and Bloom openly states the criteria used to assign ratings: "command of figurative language, originality, cognitive power, erudition, and a sense of aesthetic beauty." Bloom often uses the terms "strength" and "power"; indeed texts possess a certain energy that captivates and convinces the reader (or not). This is where talent manifests itself, and contrary to the humanistic notion that every person is equally important, at least in the context of literature, people are not equal.

The canon always demands a leap of faith: schools, families, and other authoritative institutions explain that some authors hold more significance than others. You can either unquestioningly revere this "reading list" or attempt to challenge it, much like you might question other unquestionable facts. According to Bloom, both approaches are misguided. To grasp why something attains canonical status, one must perceive its inherent peculiarity. Texts now upheld as "traditional values," passed down from ancestors, were once remarkably unconventional, evoking awe and wonder rather than mere respectful indifference. Works like "The Divine Comedy" or "Don Quixote" were considered audacious in their time, breaking free from the established canon and transcending into a "post-post-meta-meta" realm, eventually earning reverence from future generations.

Another notable work by Bloom is titled "The Anxiety of Influence." According to this concept, every exceptional writer seeks to break free from the influence of their predecessors, consciously distorting the norms of their era. This imbues their texts with anxiety, akin to a pole vaulter raising the bar to six meters. Today's classics were once yesterday's heresies and the appropriate approach to them isn't blind adoration or unyielding denial but an attempt to sense the concealed unease within the texts, akin to experiencing the fear of heights.

Attempting to justify a universal and meaningful canon for everyone based on the extraordinary qualities of the texts it encompasses, as we discussed earlier, is a futile endeavor. Anything associated with "universal human values" is not highly esteemed today. Furthermore, it's not just a matter of the idea that great authors in Kazakhstan, Russia, Norway, and Chile cannot be the same; each country has its distinct flag, anthem, and a unique collection of literary figures. The increasingly fragmented world is defined by complex identities, with individuals increasingly defining themselves through a set of unique characteristics—social, gender-related, and racial. Each such identity has its own "list of important books." We can observe the formation of "top shelves" dedicated to feminist and post-colonial literature. Even from the perspective of "why should I read Tolstoy, he has nothing to do with my life," it's unlikely that any meaningful intervention can be made. Regardless of the stance of the state or the school education system on this matter, everyone today has the opportunity to compile their own reading bucket list of esteemed authors based on their personal notions of excellence.

The desire to "change the game" also exists within more conventional literary studies. For instance, in Russia, mid-19th-century realism (with some assistance from Communist Party ideologues) clearly overshadowed the recognition of early 20th-century modernism, and it may be necessary to rectify this imbalance. And, in general, it's intriguing to explore the so-called "lesser" literature of the past: wouldn't it be revealed that today's classics have not only, as per Bloom, overcome the influence of their predecessors but also suppressed the authority of their competitors? In essence, if a writer has been turned into a monument — they can also be removed from the pedestal.

But here, Bloom presents his most compelling argument. Where did the idea of a comprehensive list of "important books" that everyone should read even originate? Perhaps during the Renaissance, this wasn't so evident, but now, in an era where "The Divine Comedy" competes for mere seconds of attention amidst trillions of publications, streams, and Telegram channels, it becomes as clear as day. The canon arises because humans are mortal, and there isn't enough time to read everything in the world. Travel guides through the world of books often declare on their covers, "100 Books To Read Before You Die." The world is structured in such a way that if you pick up an unnecessary book from the wrong shelf, it's all over; time is irretrievable. Hence, culture has taken care in advance to ensure that people don't scatter their efforts and have a chance to read all the essential works created by humanity. This is discouraging news for contemporary authors (and with each passing year, as new books are published, the situation doesn't improve), but in general, the time allocated to us is limited, and it won't be enough for everyone.

However, if we follow Bloom's line of thought, the matter isn't solely about strict time management: any book considered great doesn't merely reflect the biases of its time; it teaches the reader to confront their own mortality. It's a voice that allows us to understand something about life, to become ourselves, to stand tall in the face of the realization that one day we won't exist. Great books are great because they can share their depth and resilience—before the eternal night, as it were, a night common to all. Books do help us embark on a journey into another world, as was once said.