"The final purpose of art is to intensify, even, if necessary, to exacerbate, the moral consciousness of people"
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Mailer treats art as a catalyst, not a sedative. The highest task is to jolt people out of moral sleep, to sharpen their sense of right and wrong until it aches. Intensify suggests raising the voltage of awareness; exacerbate admits that sometimes the conscience needs friction, even pain. Comfort breeds inertia. A work that stirs shame, anger, or doubt can pry open the locked room where a society stores its hypocrisies.
That stance fits Mailers public life and style. Midcentury America was flush with prosperity but riven by war, racism, and anxieties about power. Mailer refused the neutral pose. In books like The Armies of the Night and The Executioners Song, he pressed on the tender spots of national life, blending reportage and novelistic insight to force readers into the moral thicket of war, crime, punishment, and public spectacle. He was wary of art-for-arts-sake and of entertainment that soothes. Art, to matter, must risk being abrasive.
Moral consciousness here is not the same as moralism. Preaching hands down answers; art that intensifies conscience heightens perception. It exposes contradictions and ambivalence, expanding the field of what must be considered. Goya’s Disasters of War, Picasso’s Guernica, James Baldwin’s essays, Toni Morrison’s novels all work this way: they make it harder to look away. They do not dictate a vote; they complicate the soul.
There are hazards. Work that exacerbates can polarize, offend, or seem cruel. But Mailer implies that moral anesthesia is the greater danger. A culture that never feels the sting of its own failures will not change. Art becomes a stress test for the heart, a controlled burn that clears the underbrush of denial. To choose this purpose is to accept turbulence as the price of clarity. The audience may leave unsettled, but their conscience leaves awake, and that is the point.
That stance fits Mailers public life and style. Midcentury America was flush with prosperity but riven by war, racism, and anxieties about power. Mailer refused the neutral pose. In books like The Armies of the Night and The Executioners Song, he pressed on the tender spots of national life, blending reportage and novelistic insight to force readers into the moral thicket of war, crime, punishment, and public spectacle. He was wary of art-for-arts-sake and of entertainment that soothes. Art, to matter, must risk being abrasive.
Moral consciousness here is not the same as moralism. Preaching hands down answers; art that intensifies conscience heightens perception. It exposes contradictions and ambivalence, expanding the field of what must be considered. Goya’s Disasters of War, Picasso’s Guernica, James Baldwin’s essays, Toni Morrison’s novels all work this way: they make it harder to look away. They do not dictate a vote; they complicate the soul.
There are hazards. Work that exacerbates can polarize, offend, or seem cruel. But Mailer implies that moral anesthesia is the greater danger. A culture that never feels the sting of its own failures will not change. Art becomes a stress test for the heart, a controlled burn that clears the underbrush of denial. To choose this purpose is to accept turbulence as the price of clarity. The audience may leave unsettled, but their conscience leaves awake, and that is the point.
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| Topic | Art |
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