was a gift, that it was bestowed on me by fate.rnPlease forgive me if I speak an unfashionable language, onernill-adjusted to the analytieal epoch in whieh we live. Yet I thinkrnthat literature should not yield to the temptation of “keepingrnup with the times” and genuflecting before the advances of scientificrnresearch. Literature is ruled b) its own laws, and it disciplinesrnitself according to its own rules; it addresses itself to thernregions of the soul untouched b scholarly analysis. Words suchrnas “progress” and “advance,” so ardently worshiped today, dornnot provide a key to literature. Such is my conviction, and alsornthe justification for in work.rnI much admire the men of learning, but I doubt that theyrncould contribute to the restoration of order in the human soul.rnI doubt that even the most advanced research could bring arnbreakthrough in curing spiritual illnesses. At the same time,rnone should not fall in for the worship of the alleged perfectionrnof the premodern age. Some say that our ancestors, whosern\oddicw vas built on a solid foundation of faith and a stablernsocial order, were better anchored in reality, and happier thanrnwe; that the were able to reach spiritual harmony more easilyrnthan we. There exists, of course, a cornucopia of edifyingrnexamples that support such views.rnHere is Cicero’s story about the oung Roman tribunernnamed Scipio who visited paradise in his sleep. The paradisernturned out not to be otherworldly at all. It looked rather likernthe capital of the Empire, and was inhabited by the spirits ofrnthe great Roman statesmen. With ostentation, they urged thern^oung Scipio to work incessantly for the good of the Republic,rnsubmit himself to its laws, and be always ready to die for it.rnThus the netherworld extended a helpful hand to the earthkrnreality of the Roman Empire.rnSimilarly, William Wordsworth once described Sir IsaacrnNewton readying himself for sleep. Lying on his pillow, SirrnIsaac serenely watched the moon and the stars of whosernassigned course he was so sure. And during his daily walks, thernsickl}’ Immanuel Kant liked to imbibe both the smell ofrnhorseradish and the aroma of the harmonious universe.rnBut we could not possibly ascertain whether these and otherrnancestors of ours were less prone to metaph) sical disorders thanrnwe, even though the world that surrounded them seemed relativelyrnharmonious and comprehensible. We should not engagernin comparing the state of their souls and ours. The most astoundingrnscholarly discoveries of today cannot help us in solvingrnthese problems of human identity.rnLiterature, however, is relevant to these problems. Literaturernand its only subject matter, the only game it pursues:rnthe human person. Literature has pursued this game for millennia.rnIt keeps pulling out of the anonymous human mass anrnindividual (always in the singular, never in the plural) to whomrnit gi’es the bodv and soul, face and character, and whom itrnleads through a certain course of events toward, perhaps, an immortality.rnIt pursues that person’s earthly fate. It lights up thernbrief moment between two dark unknowns: before and after. Itrninsists that the indiidual whose life it illuminates is unrepeatable,rnthat he is a person, and thus different from anything elsernin the universe. It diligently researches that person’s virtues andrntrespasses, dreams and crimes. Sometimes it offers forgiveness,rnat other times it is unyielding and austere as if it itself had tornanswer for its judgments to a higher authority.rnLiterature is down-to-earth, but it yields a smpathetie ear torndreams. It understands solitude and human solidarity. It holdsrnsovereign power over time. T.S. Eliot expressed it best as herndiscoxered the undercurrent of poetr under the pedestrianrnrules of grammar:rnTime present and time pastrnAre both periiaps present in time future.rnAnd time future contained in time past.rnEvery year, 1 undertake an imaginar’ journey to Greece,rnin order to experience pure joy and to drink from the sources ofrnour civilization. The Acropolis and the Greek temples inrnSicily, lonesome columns, and the Epidaurus theater: these arernperhaps the greatest concentrations of beaut}’ in the worid. Irnrepeat to mvself that beauty is a ehicle for passion and virtue,rnand this thought offers peace. Yet an e’ening spent in one’srnlibrary over the volumes detailing Greek histor’ may fill onernwith horror and demolish the comfortable thought of past perfection.rnSophocles, Socrates, and Plato witnessed events thatrnseem carbon copies of present-day tribal wars, so deftly servedrnup in newspapers.rnLiterature shares with man his solitude and the urge to opposernevil. My philosophy professor, Henryk Elzcnberg, used tornsay, “One has to undertake, with all the courage one canrnmuster, a struggle to bring into being areas of order and meaningrnin this transitory world of chaos and cruelty, fatuity andrnuncertainty.”rnI think, indeed I know, that in this struggle we are assistedrnby Thomas Stearns Eliot. Though invisible, he is presentrnamong us. crnLIBERAL ARTSrnFM OK, YOU’RE OKrnThe April 16 edition of the Rockford Register Star reportedrnthat John Bisbee, the lawyer for Bruce Black, a man in L’rbana,rnIllinois, facing federal charges for collecting child pornography,rnhas demanded that the charges be dropped on therngrounds that pedophiles are unable to control their desires,rnand that punishing them would therefore be “cruel and unusual.”rnProsecuting Black, he insists, would he akin to “prosecutingrnan epileptic for having a seizure.”rnSEPTEMBER 1996/13rnrnrn