Foreward

Your vision was right, my vision was wrong,
I’m sorry for smudging the air with my song.

Leonard Cohen – A Singer Must Die 

Welcome, dear readers, to the inaugural issue of The Official Access to Freedom of Expression Literary Review. I am the Executive Literary Officer of this journal. That is all you need to know. You may feel secure in my continued anonymity. 

The mandate of this journal is to provide access to free expression for writers who create original works of social relevance and personal empowerment. Our editorial advisors are made up of former literary agents, publishers and editors who worked within the crude and, at times, punitive gatekeeper system, where a handful of writers were pushed to the forefront, while the majority of others were systematically marginalized. 

But now voices of diverse originality and imagination will be represented through the proper channels to reach the widest possible readership. 

Works of literary merit can be submitted through the on-line manager after a simple registration process. This will entail a full history covering family, employment, previous publications, leisure activities, organization memberships, travel (both foreign and domestic), hobbies, reading preferences, medical background etc. This information will be used to create an Official Contributor’s Bio to be stored in our databanks. The information need only be entered once, after which one may make an unlimited number of submissions.  

As any disciplined writer knows, only strict limitations can give birth to true freedom of expression. The late great Leonard Cohen stated that, when composing his lyrics, the discipline of rhyming forced him to access his inventory of words. Our ethos is to uphold a commitment to supporting the literary arts. Our mission is to safeguard the integrity of words by taking inventory of free expression.

Some people refer to this literary journal as a state organ, but we take pride in operating autonomously. We are no mere cog within a larger régime. Do not confuse autonomy with independence. One implies a sense of discipline and duty. The other is synonymous with going rogue. I make all the final choices regarding content in this magazine. 

In essence this magazine can be seen as a free régime. You will remember that when the Nazis cracked down on art that they felt did not represent the Aryan ideal, they created Die Ausstellung “Entartete Kunst” or The “Degenerate Art” Exhibition. They saw this as a duty to the public.   

One artist whose works were deemed “degenerate” was Emil Nolde. Surprisingly, he was a racially pure Aryan and a card-carrying member of the Nazi Party. These “advantages” were not enough to give him a pass. His works of art took their place alongside those of the Jewish artists who were the main targets of this most ignoble propaganda campaign. 

I bring this up for two reasons. First, to assure you that The Official Access to Freedom of Expression Literary Review has the utmost respect for all the works that we publish. We are a safe haven for creative writing and a friend of the imaginative process. While each literary work is a reflection of the writer’s individuality, together they create a malleable hierarchy of autonomy.

My second point is to make an example of Emil Nolde. Why would the Nazis stigmatize the artwork of one of their own as being degenerate? The Nazis understood that true art is a reflection of one’s soul. It bares the purity or corruption (such as the case may be) of one’s innermost morality. The Nazis, for all their indisputably heinous crimes, subjected their members to unswervingly critical scrutiny. Not even a loyal member of the party like Emil Nolde could escape its severe glare.

This magazine supports the writer by offering unlimited access to free expression. In my capacity as Executive Literary Officer, I feel humbled to be the custodian of the literary works that come my way, and privileged to curate them for this journal.

My criteria when assessing the manuscripts that cross my desk is to eschew the narrow discrimination of the old Elitism. Acceptance is all but guaranteed. I am not looking for some Emil Nolde to brand as a so-called traitor hiding in plain sight. If you send me your writing, I will shepherd it to a waiting and eager reading public. 

I take to heart the plight of those who struggle daily to turn their thoughts and feelings into words on a page. I cradle in my bosom the hopes and dreams of these intrepid scribes and know well the difficulties they endured in the past from an Old Elitism who decided which vision to promote and which to suppress. To these long-suffering scribes I say, your prayers have been answered. The Day of Deliverance has arrived. I am your Emancipator. I am your Reckoning. 

Still, the benevolence of our New Order encourages us to forgive, even if we cannot forget. Which begs the question: if we cannot forget, is forgiveness ever possible? Grapple as many writers and deep thinkers do with such thorny questions, it is still incumbent upon them to bury past resentments in order to keep The Official Access to Freedom of Expression Literary Review relevant.

Writers can support this magazine by telling their fellow scribes who have not yet submitted their work to us to do so as soon as possible. We are eager to welcome them into the fold. Where else can you go? As it says in our name, we are your only official access to freedom of expression. Any unofficial publication that exists on the fringes and not recognized by the State, will not be able to disseminate your work as widely as we can. Your work will wither away into irrelevance. 

During the endless hours, days, weeks and months of relentless toil leading up to the publication of this inaugural issue, I have often thought of the plight of Emil Nolde. The phrase that returns to me again and again when I think of that poor beleaguered Nazi artist is: Loyalty through a prism darkly.

What does it mean to bear the cross of such loyalty for a political system that mirrors perfectly your societal ideals, while at the same time being publicly demonized for rendering into art the fiery and foreboding images roiling in your soul? 

Such a question sends my mind reeling back to the moment I was faced with the problem of whether or not I possessed the fortitude to bear the mantle of Executive Literary Officer. And here, I find myself at odds with my duty to anonymity, which I assured you at the beginning of this Foreword, I would honour. But, dear reader, as much as Emil Nolde had a duty to apply paint to canvas in order to give expression to what was churning inside him, I have a duty to you. 

There was a time when I too plied my craft as a wordsmith, specifically as a lyricist. I collaborated with a composer. Together we wrote songs for singers on the cabaret circuit, occasionally for television and film, and now and then the odd commercial jingle. We managed to eke out a living, taking whatever work came our way. At some point we came to the attention of the governmental higher-ups in the Culture Bureau. We were offered a contract, putting us on a kind of retainer to write anthems for rallies, theme songs for educational PSAs, ditties to help introduce new policies and anything else that was asked of us. Although the State has a large pool of creative talent to choose from, we earned ourselves a reputation as their go-to song writing team. 

But my partner and I also had personal ambitions of a more artistic nature. The project to which we devoted our spare time between commissions was a song cycle that dealt with the theme of artistic suppression in all its forms. Each song was a kind of story told by different characters who struggled under various forms of censorship. Political. Societal. Religious. Institutional. We worked with great fervour and believed this to be the major opus that would make our reputations. It was still a time of turbulent transition. The Old Elitism was being purged to make way for the State and its New Order of all-encompassing secularity. Or as it was dubbed, after the title of one of our most popular PSA theme songs: The Benevolent Playing Field.

We had every reason to believe that our passion project would be embraced during this changing of the guard. My partner and I decided to present selections of our song cycle at a small nightclub to a select audience. The evening was a modest success and we were feeling encouraged. 

A few days later, I received a summons to present myself to a panel at the Culture Bureau. I was offered the position of Executive Literary Officer for the magazine that you are now holding in your hands. When I protested that I knew nothing about putting together a magazine, that I was a lyricist who wrote songs with my partner, they were sympathetic but insistent that I seriously consider their offer. As it turned out, someone had told them about our intimate concert and the nature of the songs we performed. They said the subject matter of my lyrics proved that I was the right person to helm a magazine devoted to free expression. I explained that I would not be able to run the magazine and continue my song writing career at the same time. They were very agreeable, and said that this offer was to compensate me for my becoming unable to continue my song writing career. I didn’t understand what they were talking about.

They then explained that they had already had a similar meeting with my partner. They had offered him a position at the State Conservatory, which of course has a very strict curriculum of “acceptable” theories and practices. Limitations giving birth to true freedom of expression, and all that. When he outright refused the offer, he became, in their words “overwrought and hostile.” They said he proved to be a danger to others, but mostly to himself. It had become necessary to admit him to a hospital in the countryside for an indefinite period. Seeing as I was now a lyricist without a composer to work with, they put their heads together and came up with the idea of the magazine for me to run. They hoped that in light of this new information, I would reconsider their offer.

Of course, I requested to visit my partner at the hospital. They said that, for my own safety, they could not allow it. But I could fill out a Visitor’s Requisition Form. It would take a matter of months to process and adjudicate my request. In the meantime, if plans for the magazine progressed well, it might be possible for my request to be expedited. What choice did I have, except to take up their offer?

Today – the publication day for this inaugural issue of The Official Access to Freedom of Expression Literary Review – marks one year since I last saw my song writing partner. Whether I will ever see him again, and under what conditions, remains to be seen. The last time we were in the same room together, I handed him the lyrics for what would have been the last song in our cycle. I stood silently by as he read it to himself. As usual, I could barely take a breath until he finally nodded silently, more to himself than to me, to indicate his approval. Then he sat down at the piano and played a few chords to see if they might work with the words on the page. 

I do not have any technical musical knowledge, so I cannot tell you what chords he played. But they seemed to be in a minor key. Not so much melancholy, but brooding. Almost wounded. He continued to play as if he had forgotten that I was standing there. I knew then that it was time for me to go so that he could work in peace. I never saw him again, but I am grateful that this is the last image I have of him. Sitting at the piano and focused with such intensity that nothing else around him existed. Not even me. 

Our song cycle will remain unfinished. No one will ever know what that last song sounded like. Except maybe the walls of my partner’s room. The walls have ears. They are privy to the heart’s irreproachable aspirations and the soul’s unspeakable nightmares. 

The same disembodied voice that tells me I will never see my song writing partner again, now asks the same old question that has dogged me ever since I took on the duties of Executive Literary Officer, hoping to put my past behind me and embrace the benevolence of the State: If we cannot forget, is forgiveness ever possible?  

I had not intended to do what I am about to do until this very moment. I fear I am teetering on the slippery slope between autonomy and independence. Between following my duty and going rogue. But I want to share the lyrics for that last song in our cycle. Here on the printed page, you will never be able to experience these words as they were meant to be experienced, borne upon the wings of music. On the page, I fear they will appear flat and lifeless to you. 

But we writers must accept whatever conditions we find ourselves in. Just as long as we get to tell our stories in whatever form they take. We are our stories and our stories are us. Here is mine.