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Elliot Ziwira @ The Book Store
Imagine the exuberance of meeting your idol in the flesh for the first time; in your excitement you pose a question to him and he blows your bubble in the presence of all and sundry, reminding you of the futility and vanity of it all – Just like “grasping the wind”, as embraced by the Preacher in Ecclesiastes.

That is the feeling that I had when I met Charles Mungoshi for the first time when I was in Form Two and Chenjerai Hove when I was doing my A-Levels.

Having read his books “Coming of the Dry Season” (1972), “Waiting for the Rain” (1975),”Makunun’unu Maodza Moyo” (1970),”Inongova Njakenjake” (1980) and “Kunyarara Hakusi Kutaura?” (1983), my chance of meeting Charles Mungoshi was availed when our headmaster invited a group of luminous writers, including Mungoshi, to appraise us on the art of writing.

Having been accorded the chance, I told him about my feelings on the portrayal of Lucifer in “Waiting for the Rain” (1975) and how I thought the conclusion of the story leaves him as alienated from his society as he was introduced.

Having not yet started studying Literature as a body of knowledge, I was unaware of the concept of ideology, but I felt that something was wrong in his portrayal.

To my utter disbelief and chagrin, he told me something to the effect that I should write my own book and end it my way.

Ironically, “Coming of the Dry Season” (1972) was one of my set books when I started studying Literature in English at Form Three and “Waiting for the Rain” was one of the texts I looked at in further studies.

Although my understanding of Literature has since developed, the ideas I raised then still hold water and Mungoshi has not lost an admirer as a writer of repute.

He still remains my idol.

About four years later when I was doing A-Level at another school, my Literature in English teacher, Mrs Mangoye, invited Chenjerai Hove to discuss “Red Hills of Home” (1985), his collection of poetry, which was one of our set books.

The inquisitive reader that I was, I questioned him on his idiosyncratic use of imagery and symbolism which has the effect of blocking out “the man in the street”, as I put it then.

To my astonishment and dismay and much to the puzzlement of my teacher and fellow mates, he blurted out that he did not write for the man in the street and so was not worried whether he understood or not.

We had a heated argument on the essence and relevance of the writer if he does not write for the common man, whose voice is gagged due to circumstances beyond his control, yet at the same time pretending to champion his cause.

We also disagreed on quite a number of issues concerning the anthropology.

I later discussed the incident with the late writer, Ruzvidzo Stanley Mupfudza, who was a budding writer then, and a teacher at our school and we laughed it off.

The arrogance of these two writers, using my own encounters with them, notwithstanding their mettle as artistes, prompted me to conclude that writers should never be involved in discussions involving their books because of artistic self-justification and their know-it-all attitude.

It is my humble belief that both the writer and the critic are two components of Literature as a body of study, and therefore should complement each other, instead of pulling from either side of the rope.

Inasmuch as the writer plays his role among others as a teacher, the voice of the voiceless and an entertainer as outlined on this platform on December 16, 2013, he should also not come in the way of the critic as this may be detrimental to the overall study of Literature.

On the other hand, the critic also should guard against personal attacks on the writer, but should remain within the confines of constructive criticism based on the said works of art.

The writer needs the critic inasmuch as the critic needs the writer.

It is true that subjectivity will always take the better of objectivity, because writing or critiquing is always premised on a particular standpoint as informed by experiences, cultural and social standing.

However, striking a balance based on texts may not be a myth after all, if the critic also guards against arrogance.

According to Heese and Lawton in “The New Owl Critic” (1988:12): “The professional critic reinforces our appreciation of well-known works by providing fresh insights; he may open doors to lesser known works and he should guide us through the constantly expanding numbers of new works to discover those most likely to reward study.”

Hence the critic is a conduit that links the writer to his readers.

Because literary works are constantly expanding in numbers and insights changing from time to time as writers incessantly shift their ideologies to capture issues prevailing in their communities, research should always be done to examine these dynamic trends.

As the critic provides new insights into new or old texts, he will not only benefit those pursuing Literature for academic purposes, but also those whose purpose of reading may not be critical.

This rationale is inspired by the fact that the role of the critic is “to elucidate works of art so that readers can understand and enjoy them”, (Ngara, 1990:3).

Writers, as gifted individuals, like rhapsodies are able to write and do exceptional deeds, not from knowledge or expertise, but from some kind of divine inspiration.

And those with expert knowledge on a given subject do not err in their judgments on that particular subject and can be relied upon to teach extensively on the subject (Plato 427-347BC in “Euthyphro”).

It is because of this that the gifted writer and the learned critic should see eye to eye.

As maintained by Heese and Lawton (1988), even though the writer may have had an intention prior to writing a piece of art he or she may not have achieved that intention.

It is also possible that more may have been achieved than what was initially intended, because: “The answer lies in the acceptance for the completed literary work as an independent entity which does not belong to the writer after it has been completed . . . the writer is a commentator who comments as a witness and not as a judge”, (ibid:12).

Works of art, therefore, can only be judged by the critic whose argument if properly executed is considered valid no matter what the writer’s intention could have been.

However, the critic’s folly lies in his categorisation of literature based on race, place and time.

Good literature defies categorisation as it transcends boundaries.

Classifying literature as African, Zimbabwean, Caribbean, American or British robs it of credence and depth.

If the quest for literature is to find the real truth which in itself is always in a state of flux, as Man struggles against himself, against his fellow men and against his natural world, then it should escape the narrow traps of race and place.

Inherent in man are follies, vices and virtues, none of which has to do with race.

In his attack on Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” (1899), Chinua Achebe lost his cool as an African critic in “Image of Africa” (1975) when he called it “an offensive and totally deplorable book”; and labelled the writer “a bloody racist”.

He ought to have looked at the book without the prejudice of colour and he would have realised that Man is a complex body of ambience and axioms. He should have been “sensitised to how peoples of other nations perceive Africa”, (Rino Zhuwarara).

Because of his portrayal of Man’s follies and vices like vengeance, avarice, jealous and laziness, Shakespeare did not only bring fresh conventions on drama but he transcended geographical and political boundaries and therefore, refuses to be categorised.

Such is the power of art which Dambudzo Marechera alludes to in his 1979 London speech when he “insist(s) on his right not to be labelled”.

Writers as moral policemen and “truth’s defence” should be wary of imposing their own individual ideas on society by using the autobiographical mode which follows their own experiences ignoring the aspirations and real issues that affect the downtrodden; the scum of the earth; the marginalised, who are in the majority, because the writer: “Speaks not for himself only but his fellow men. His cry is their cry, which he alone can utter . . . He must suffer with them, rejoice with them, work with them, fight with them.

“Otherwise what he says will not appeal to them and so will lack significance”, (Thomson, 1975:60); and in the end he might not escape the critic’s censure as a hypocrite.