On the Subject of Uncreative Intellectuals

I speak with humility, and with some trepidation.

Those blessed with both talent and intellect must create something—anything. There are two benefits to this:

First: We ordinary people receive wonderful gifts from them. Enriching oneself is, after all, the primary purpose of living!
Second: Deep in their hearts, not even in their subconscious will there arise the regret—I could have created something truly marvelous, if only I had tried!

I have had the good fortune of knowing one such person. Among all those I know, no one comes even close to his knowledge and understanding of Bengali. Needless to say, by knowledge and understanding of Bengali, I mean profound scholarship in the language's etymology, application, and literature. He commands my deepest reverence. In terms of erudition, many gray-haired professors of Bengali lack the qualification even to approach his vicinity. He is the kind of person at whose feet one can sit in the dust and learn Bengali.

Truly, in this life, among those who have made me feel that one could learn by sitting in the dust at their feet, he is foremost.

But one aspect of his character often pains me. I have seen him speak of his contemporary writers—creative people in the literary arena—without much respect, without even giving them their due. Samaresh, Shirshendu, Buddhadeb (Guha), the late Sunil and others, even revered figures like Shankha Ghosh receive no real acknowledgment from him!

To our misfortune, he has written nothing—I mean, none of his creations exist in printed letters. Without judging what might or might not have happened had he written, I will say this much: he is so disillusioned with writers that it seems he suffers from some form of inferiority complex or wounded pride.

I feel compelled to say something. Knowing a great deal through reading books, or acquiring scholarship, and being able to write—these two are not the same thing. I have seen many learned scholars who know and understand much, but lack the ability to write. The ability to write is something like magic. Those who lack this magic, no matter how erudite they may be, simply cannot write. Yes, at best they can become critics of others' writing, but they will find no one to critique their criticism.

My assessment of this dear person may well be wrong. But this is how I have seen him behave—constantly! He is tremendously proud, and I have nothing to say about that, because pride truly suits him. Pride destroys only those who cannot properly carry it. I love him for his incredible knowledge and scholarship, I revere him blindly. Even being able to speak with him humbly fills me with a kind of satisfaction. At the same time, his contemptuous attitude toward writers truly pains me deeply.

When someone speaks ill of or disrespects those who can create, those to whom God has given that power, I simply cannot digest it. I have tried—I cannot. Grief and anger boil up inside my chest. In this living of life, those whose work has given me pure joy at various times and seasons, who have kept me company like friends—I prefer to live by overlooking their limitations or shortcomings. It seems to me that as human beings, they are bound to have some flaws. Yet, looking toward the light they have spread and continue to spread, everything else can be accepted without argument or hesitation. This is my entirely personal philosophy.

When my beloved and revered person tells me, "Shirshendu is completely ordinary, does he have any talent at all? That man who walks through your neighborhood with a market bag around eleven in the morning—there's no difference between him and Shirshendu, you understand? People have elevated him to the skies for no reason! Oh yes, you people even stick the label of 'literary' on that commercial writer Humayun Ahmed! What more can I say to you!"

...then I truly feel pain. I have learned much sitting at his feet, I love him and consider him my teacher, so when I see him speak like this, I keep thinking, ah, if only this person had scattered some creations among us, perhaps this anger of his would diminish somewhat.

A creative person can tolerate another creative person much more easily than a scholarly but uncreative person can tolerate a relatively unscholarly but creative person. Many scholars, too, while attempting criticism, end up in condemnation. Criticism of work is palatable; condemnation of the worker is not.

Not everyone can be like Professor Abdur Razzak, who despite his extraordinary knowledge and scholarship, and being 'uncreative' (barring a few essays), could spend an entire life in such detachment, nose buried in chess boards, without uttering a word of criticism about those with far less wisdom but creative power! Ah, from whose breast pocket so many writers emerged, yet his own pocket contains no writing!