taken up by the lower two strata. This isnnot to make a qualitative distinctionnoverall, for it is true that techniques fromnthe lowest stratum (in areas of agriculturenand medicine, for example) havenproven themselves to be most valuable.nBasically, then, what exists is a statenwherein there are producers and facilitatorsnon the top, consumers in thenmiddle, and those more concerned withnsustenance than anything else on thenbottom.nWorks of art emerge from the topnlevel. Even if a housewife in Iowa pens annovel, it must go up to the top before itncan descend. Still, said housewife is annexception. Writers who want to becomenbona fide writers on the macroscopicnscale (i.e., as opposed to writing a columnnfor a weekly newspaper or even a romanticnsupermarket novel) put themselvesn—or attempt to put themselves—intonthe elite category through some kind ofnsacrifice. This is one of the reasons behindnthe stereotype of the starving artist.nIt also helps account for the fact that annotable number of authors who havenput themselves on top—Hemingway is anprime example—^have such difiicult livesnin general. Clearly, this stratification isn’tn”fair” if by that word one means “equal.”nBut as is well known but ignored, allnaren’t produced equally; the making isnthe same, but the results differ. Postnatalnfactors such as the environment and thenopportunities afforded to the individualnare also influential. Material differencesncan be ameliorated. Art is a differentnstory. That is, since the start of the IndustrialnRevolution, the plight of the proletariatnin capitalist countries has beennimproved, at least inasmuch as machinerynhas been designed and constructednto do a number of jobs that are, in ansense, inhumane. One of the objectivesnof many industrialists is to build totallynautomatic factories (this just isn’t a ploynby greedy capitalists who wish to improventhefr profits by getting rid of thenworker; even the manufacmring engineersnin the “worker’s paradise” are attemptingnto create the required systems).nToday, automatic machines are producingnthings from wristwatches to bombsnwith minimal human intervention. Thosenmachines are improvements. What aboutnart? According to J. Dudley Andrew, innan essay entitled “The Structuralist Studynof Narrative: Its History, Use, and Limits,”*nmachines can become authors. That is,nin a discussion of Propp’s Morphologynof the Folktale, Andrew notes, “Givennthe morphological rules he discovered,na computer could generate a tale whichnwould be at least formally correct.” Thenwords at least are key. There is an ineffablendifference between what a humanncreates and what a machine generates.nVyonsider Michelangelo. In his day,nthings were out in the open. The Medicisnwanted something, so they commissionednit. They had the capital, Michelangelonhad the means of production. He painted,ndesigned, and sculpted. If the Medicisnhad something else in mind, it was madenclear. They paid the bill. Certainly thennonelites—even to this day—didn’tnmind the gracious fruits of Michelangelo’snwork, but they weren’t his primary concern;nthey didn’t pay his bills. Thingsnseemed to change in the 18th century,nmarked most famously by Pope andnmost precisely by Johnson. The middlenclass didn’t exactly supplant the patron;nto a certain extent it became the patronn(i.e., foundations, corporations, and universitiesncontinue to underwrite art).nSometimes, a work of art is both elitistnand popular: Charles Dickens certainlynhad a popular following and merits criticalnacclaim; Saul Bellow has producednbooks that are marketed through booknclubs yet which will endure long afternbook clubs are considered to be as quaintnas Victorian lending libraries. For thenmost part, however, there isn’t thisnhappy confluence. That is, in this century,none of die most “deliberate” artists wasnJames Joyce. Clearly, his books aren’t fornthe masses (they must even be assignednin universities and most professors aren*In The Horizon of Literature; University ofnNebraska Press, 1982.nnnStill skittish aboutPinnegans Wake) andnJoyce knew it. He also regularly complainednabout monetary problemsnthroughout his letters. Another, morenextreme, example is Ezra Pound, whonwas driven to bizarre rantings aboutnfinanciers. Even today, when Pound’s—ndare I say—stock is high in the literarynmarketplace, his Cantos are publishednby New Directions, not a giant house.nFrom a purely financial standpoint, Joycenand Pound would have undoubtedlyndone better by opening up an ad agency.nCertainly, they knew that. But they tooknrisks for art. All of these writers—^Dickens,nBellow, Joyce, Pound—^were (or are)nfree men. Writers and other artists livingnin free societies can make choices. Butnfreedom, as cannot be overstressed, isnnot license to do one’s own thing. Therenare boundaries, rules, and conventionsnin the realm of art just as there are inncivilized societies as a whole. That is, anwriter could put crazed scrawlings allnover sheets and perhaps even get somensmall press to publish them in quartonform. Chances are, both the writer andnpublisher would go hungry if they sustainednthat sort of activity for any lengthnof time.nArtists are elitists but they still mustnearn their livelihoods. Artists, then, arenemployees. In any working relationshipnthe employer must determine if the prospectivenemployee will provide a suitablenreturn on investment. For example,nan established liberal publisher wouldnbe unlikely to print and promote thenworks of a Polish Catholic philosopher.nHowever, if that philosopher was oncenknown only by the name Karol Wojtylanand is now Pope John Paul II, then therenis sales potential and the presses roll.nThe publisher (an elite) must answer tonthe market (the middle). But, as statednearlier, as an elite he helps mold thatnmarket. That is, publishers tend to benthose who have amassed or who controlncapital sufficiently substantial to permitntaking a financial beating when moneylosersnare printed. Generally, moneylosersnare those books geared to elites,nthe smallest segment of the market (ofnJulyl98Sn