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Those who write know they have to devote as many hours and years to their craft as other artisans
to theirs, and that they will not manage to achieve anything of value without that dedication. Yet
they also know that commitment —in and of itself— does not guarantee the quality of the result,
because experience and dedication can lead to stagnant mannerisms and self-parody. They also
know that the “best” is sometimes recognized immediately and at other times ignored, and that
what sometimes seemed “better” falls apart after a very short time and that, long after, a strange
form of deferred justice shines the spotlight —with no possibility of compensation— on real talent
which did not itself shine in their lifetime.
Disheartenment in the face of the uncertainties of the craft is further accentuated in times
of uncertainty as bitter as these. It is difficult to speak of perseverance and the pleasure of
working in a country where so many millions of people despairingly are without work. It is almost
frivolous to ramble on about the lack of correspondence between merit and success in literature
in a world where those with a job see their wages dwindle, while the better-off see their profits
increase obscenely, in a country ravaged by a crisis in which those responsible go unpunished,
while their victims receive no justice, where rectitude and a job well done are so often afforded less
value than cheating or clientelism; in a country where the latest forms of demagoguery have given
new life to the ancient contempt for intellectual work and knowledge.
Even so —and leaving civic responsibilities in their due place— the only acceptable remedy
against the disheartenment of this craft lies in the craft itself. Writing, crafting all five senses into
each word. Writing without succumbing to the slightest form of indulgence. Writing, accepting
and enjoying the solitude and giving thanks for the network of other fundamental crafts that make
it one of the least solitary and most communal crafts in the world, just as the craft of the musician
and scientist is solitary and communal; giving thanks to the craftsmanship of the publisher, the
proof-reader, the translator, the bookseller, the critic, that of other writers, one learns to admire, the
craftsmanship of those who teach others to read and of those who transmit their love for literature
in the classroom; giving thanks for the most pleasurable craft of all, that of the reader. Writing with
the fear of not having readers and with the fear of losing them, surmounting praise and injuries
equally. Writing, because, like any other craft, writing is primarily an act of affirmation, despite all
the abnegation and impossibilities it involves. Writing, just because.
Antonio Muñoz Molina
—
Prince of Asturias Award
for Literature
2013
Excerpt from the speech given on
the occasion of receiving the Prince
of Asturias Award for Literature
on 25/10/2013.
25
th
O
ctober
2013
