What of it? say the documented liberals; ours is a rich and generous nation, we have room for all, let them come. And let them stay, say the conserpoems, essays and novels—in the long run—make a difference. If they do not, then in the words of my exemplar Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, the writer’s work is of no more importance than the barking of village dogs at night. The hack writer, the temporizer, the toady and the sycophant, the journalistic courtier (and what is a courtier but a male courtesan?), all those in the word trade who simply go with the flow, who never oppose the rich and powerful, are no better in my view than Solzhenitsyn’s village dogs. The dogs bark; the caravan moves on.

From One Life at a Time, Please (1988)

Why do I lay this special responsibility of speaking out upon the freelance writer alone—notoriously a timid, reclusive, craven type? For several reasons. First, because the independent writer, his income derived from his readers and not from a newspaper chain or TV system or other industrial employer, has the freedom to speak the truth together with access—great or small—to some portion of the means of public communication. Freedom of speech means little to most citizens because for most there is no way by which they can reach more than a few of their fellow citizens. When TV, radio, newspapers, magazines are controlled by a few giant corporations, with editorial policies largely determined by the power of advertisers, then free speech—if not meaningless—becomes nearly powerless. In the United States we have thousands of newspapers, TV and radio stations, magazines and newsletters, but when nearly all say about the same thing on any issue almost all the time, what becomes of the value of the First Amendment to our Constitution? The guarantee of freedom of speech is one thing; the means and ability to exercise that right is another. Herein lies the function and the duty of those foolish enough to call themselves writers: to make full use of whatever means of free communication are available. The writer with an audience has that privilege, that power, that freedom—and therefore the moral responsibility to use it. Not to preach to his audience or to lecture them—who needs another sermon? another lecture?—but to speak for them, to let himself be used as the voice for those who share his view of earthly affairs, his emotions and discoveries, aspirations and hopes.

The writer, I’m saying, must be of use—must be useful to his people, to his community. Otherwise, who needs him? or her? If literary art, like so much of our poetry, music and painting, is merely decorative, merely play and no more, then we can get by with wallpaper, polyurethane abstract sculpture, Bloomingdale’s catalog, Vanity Fair, rock music (music to hammer out fenders by) and Andy Warhol. If literature, on the other hand, is to be more than Muzak, then it must be involved, responsible, committed (O dread clichés!). The independent writer is in a privileged position; therefore he works under special obligations. To do otherwise is to dishonor our profession.