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So in this cruel dynamic—explosive world on the brink of a dozen destructions—what are the place and role of the writer? Of course, we writers have no rockets to blast off, we possess not even one single support truck to bring up the rear. Of course, we enjoy nothing but contempt from those who respect only material power. Would it not be natural if we too were to retreat, to lose our faith in the unshakeability of goodness, and the indivisibility of truth?

We could then content ourselves with reading the world our bitter observations from the sidelines, on how the human race is hopelessly corrupted, on how superficial people have become, and on how hard it is for us ‘lonely, beautiful, sensitive’ souls to live among them.. But we do not have even this escape. Once we have taken up the word, there is no getting away from it.

The writer is not some detached judge of his fellow countrymen and contemporaries, he is an accomplice in all the evil that is committed in his country or by his people. If the tanks of his country’s army have blooded the asphalt of another country’s capital, then those brown stains spatter the writer’s face forever. If one deadly night, some trusting friend is strangled while he sleeps, then the writer’s hands bear the bruises from the rope — and if his young fellow countrymen happily declare that decadence is better than honest work, if they give in to drugs or seize hostages, then the stink of it all mingles with the writer’s breath.

Can we dare to say that we bear no responsibility for the running sores of today’s world?
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn