There is nothing then that standspr should stand between his sensibility and life, neither ideologies nor books, nor the social needs or the demands of the book — neither the market, nor the temptations of 'modernity', nothing. The moment extraneous considerations come in, of putting across a message, or of accommodating an editor, or of steering clear of the censor, etc. etc., the writer loses his spontaneity and becomes self-conscious. Retaining one's spontaneity is being sincere to one's art, and also to life which is the fountainhead of all art. If the conviction for social change is not within me, if my sensibility is not imbued with it, if my whole creative being does not pulsate with this passion, then no amount of hairsplitting discussions on theory and patronising guidelines by critics will help. me write a satisfying piece. For a writer, this dichotomy can be best resolved by remaining true to his sensibility and convictions, and by moving ever closer to life. A writer's sensibility may have its own peculiar limitations also.' This sensibility is not something unique, it is subject to all kinds of pressures and influences, rules and norms and taboos, etc. of the society in which the writer is living. While extraneous considerations can make him self-conscious, internal pressures too can make his pen falter. A writer may flinch from describing cold-blooded murders or rape-scenes as much from the influences of the taboos in which he was brought up as from the social perspective which he has evolved as a writer. It is ultimately his perspective that shows him the way, which again, is an integral part of his sensibility. The influence of the environment in which he was brought up, the value-system which he has inherited, the traditions of the society to which he belongs, his own sense of belonging to his milieu and to his people, all these and many other factors operate, even while he is trying to be true to himself. Within him too, there is a struggle going on all the time. But even while engaging in that struggle, the writer retains his freedom of choice as an artist, and there is little danger of his becoming mechanical or stereotyped. It is one thing to be one's severe critic and quite another to submit to extraneous considerations. A writer has a hundred battles to contend with within himself, but they are his battles. He may struggle endlessly with matters of style and form - for every short story, is in a way, the first short story that he is writing. He may imitate, emulate, lose his confidence, regain his confidence, he may innovate and experiment, or follow the dotted line or fall into grooves; he is his own master, and life his best teacher. The whole business is between life and the writer's sensibility. All else falls into place once this is accepted. R. L. Stevenson was perfectly correct in pointing out that 'books are good enough in their own way, but they are a mighty bloodless substitute for life' There is no debate on the question of what should or should not form the subject matter for literature. It is ridiculous for some to think that social questions fall beyond the pale of literature, and if they are tackled by any writer he or she is indulging in propaganda and not creative writing, as though social questions did not form a part of life. To may mind, new knowledge, particularly the scientific, Marxist understanding of social phenomena has added a new dimension to January-March 1984 41