and which shapes the reader’s intuitive and rahonal understandingnof a literary work. The theme influences the widthnand the depth of an artistic message and, by its generalnsocial, ethical, or philosophical meanings, deepens thenartistic value of a work of art. It is on the theme, therefore,nthat the verisimilitude and truthfulness of the artisticnpicture of history largely depend. Hence, so-called taboonthemes must not exist—artistic freedom must be fullynguaranteed.nIn societies where that is not so, literature and art inngeneral have a slightly different function, and artists arenconfronted with a multitude of problems not necessarily ofnan artistic nature. Any critical reference to a taboo themenprovokes an unpleasant reaction. This is easy to understand.nBut the greatest challenge, still, is the one concerning thennature of art. An author’s critical approach, implicit ornexplicit, also contains a more distinct artistic message,nwhich, by its nature, lends itself to association with this ornthat idea. Therefore, from a sermon to the end of art, thenroad is neither long nor tortuous.nThough social engagement in literature has valid humanitariannand moral excuses, the doubt that such creativitynis not fully integral is well-founded. The assertion, on thenother hand, that an artist does not want to say anything, thatnhe does not appeal for anything, and that the purpose of artnlies only in its enjoyment is equally untenable.nContemporary literature tries to overcome this theoreticalndiscordance. Avoiding the sensitive question of engagement,nit refrains from simple messages and assumes the rolenof a witness and accomplice. Its testimony endeavors tonserve its highest principle—the truth.nArtistic truth differs from the historic; it is broader andnmultilayered, closer to the original Greek concept ofn”aletheia,” which denotes that which is not a mistake or anlie, as well as the habit of speaking truthfully, that is,nsincerely, openly, particularly, and publicly. While historicntruth quite often depends on the point of view and can benlimited by ideological, religious, or moral barriers, artisticntruth may be referred to as “righteousness.” This highern”righteousness” is very often established by deviation fromnhistoric truth. Let us remember, for example, the characternof Napoleon in ^ar and Peace; Tolstoy’s depiction isnartistically justified and “righteous,” though it is not historic.nTrue literature does not compete with history, nor does itnreproduce the exact image of reality, but its illusion. Evennliterary chronicles based on historical facts, such as thengreat novels of Ivo Andric, are apocryphal flashes of history.nLiterature, respecting history, writes a story of its own time.nTo make this story more convincing, writers use diflFerentntechniques and different mirrors. The flat mirror, fornexample, reflects an object exactiy but does not see far; itncannot bring closer what is distant, nor can it peek behind anhill; it cannot inflame a piece of paper nor cause anconflagration, as its myth-shaping brothers, convex, concave,nor conic mirrors, can. They “revise” the image of annobject according to their kind and capacity, without makingnit unrecognizable—what looms large they diminish; thensmall they expand—the distant and unseen they bring near;nregular features they twist into masks; monsters they transfigureninto graceful imps. These odd mirrors are the favoriteninstruments of modern literature. In a similar way, accord­ning to its laws, literature transforms the picture of historicalnevents, uncovering their less visible or less known characteristics.nIf all this is not a matter of controversy, let us ask how ourntime is reflected in contemporary poetry. The answer is notneasy to give; there are so many poets, poetics, and traditions.nEvery master has his own master script. But, putting allndifferences aside, they all have something in common—nthe creation of verses and the pursuit of the poetic act itselfnFor a century now, poetry has been looking obsessively intonits own image; it has been dealing with its own language andnwith its own artistic temptations; it has been taking thennature of poetry and the lot of the author as its principalnproblem. Caught in its own hermetic circle, it views thenworld from the inside, as something external, foreign, andnthreatening. The world is no longer a poet’s home but hisnquarantine.nPoetry became lost in the endless lyrical space whichnMallarme opened to it. More and more, poets resemblenalchemists or conspirators who communicate in an arcanentongue. Poetic teachings attract only the initiated, thenspecialists and fellow sufferers who spend their days innlibraries and institutes or gather only for symposiums andncongresses. The discreet but firm bond between poets andnreaders is almost cut off. Poetry’s esoteric formulas andn”healing” spells do not disturb the world; they put it to sleepninstead. This lost communication cannot be explained onlynby the unintelligibility of poetic language. The misunderstandingnis much deeper and relates, most of all, to whatnmodern poetry is saying. Or, to put it better, to what it isnnot saying.nIt has been assumed that the poetry speaks of somethingnexceptional, something of crucial importance to every man.nBut for that to be true, poetic speech has to correspond withnhistory and to discuss, in its own poetic way, the essentialnquestions of its time. Modern poetry has been neglectingnthis task for too long and has been wandering in a circleninstead—like the uroboros passionately biting its own tail.nIn today’s world there are famous poets still—embodimentsnof the watchful conscience of contemporary society;nbut if the nonliterary echo engendered by their humanitarian,nlibertarian, or propaganda actions were taken away,ntheir number would be greatiy reduced.nIt is, of course, difficult to prove such an assertion; poetrynnever speaks with a single voice. A multitude of works of artnstrives to convince us of the opposite. Questioning itself,npoetry at the same time poses questions about the destiny ofnthe world.nOne has also to keep in mind that “the hand of a writer isnneither completely in his own power nor in the power ofnsome blind passion; another Hand supports it and leads itnacross the paper so that, consciously or unconsciously, hisnwork, merely by the way words in a sentence are strungntogether, serves as a testimony of time and space.” Accordingnto this statement by Czeslaw Milosz, the text is a kind ofna cardiogram; the poet is inexorably committed to a role ofnthe witness of history. Literature, therefore, cannot be onlyna mere game of words. Such a conviction, beyond anyndoubt, reinforces the poetry of Milosz himself But, were itnonly reduced to the hand’s trace, to rhythm, to syntax, toncontextual layer of meaning, and to the role of thennnOCTOBER 1987 115n