In 1839, the English author Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote Richelieu; Or the Conspiracy, a historical play about the famed 17th-century French clergyman and statesman, Cardinal Richelieu. In his play, Bulwer penned a line that was, according to the literary critic Edward Sherman Gould, “likely to live for ages.” Uttered by the titular character, the passage bearing the line reads:
“Beneath the rule of men entirely great
The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold
The arch-enchanters wand!— itself a nothing!—
But taking sorcery from the master-hand
To paralyze the Cæsars—and to strike
The loud earth breathless!”
“The pen is mightier than the sword” has indeed become one of the most widely known phrases in the English language. It is often invoked in moments when literature and words are thought to have a power greater than violence—greater than war—because they have the power to change hearts and minds and to help shape the course of history. As a writer, this notion has always been deeply reassuring to me, a reminder that stories have the ability to effect great change in the world. After all, literature has played a vital role in some of history’s most momentous moments. Books were at the center of the Civil Rights Movement in the United States, with writers like James Baldwin and Toni Morrison using their words to shine a light on the injustices faced by black citizens. In South Africa, literature played a role in bringing about an end to apartheid, and many would cite the Constitution of the United States as another example of the power of words to effect change. The power of the pen to transform humanity for the better is clear, and that fact has become a point of ideological pride for those of us in the business. Literature, we claim, isn’t just a potent force for good, it’s morally superior to the alternative, which is violence.
But is it really accurate to think in such dichotomies? Is the pen truly mightier—or even that much different—than the sword?
In recent years, there has been an increased focus on the power of words to do harm. This is sometimes referred to as “verbal violence.” The idea is that words can be used to hurt people just as effectively as physical violence. Others claim that “silence is violence.” By this logic, the absence of words can be equivalent to perpetrating bodily harm. But if we are to believe in the violence of words or in the violence of their absence, then we must also accept we are constantly inflicting violence on one another. And if we truly believe words hold such violent potential—that our rhetorical blades and bombs cause as much bloodshed as substantive ones—then we might do well to speak of them in more appropriate terms: in terms of war.
The 19th-century military theorist Carl von Clausewitz wrote that war is “an act of violence intended to compel our opponent to fulfill our will.” He also wrote, “war is a mere continuation of policy by other means.” That is, war is a means to an end, and the end is always political. von Clausewitz also understood that when it comes to policy, things are never so straightforward. “One and the same political object may produce totally different effects upon different people, or even upon the same people at different times… It is quite possible for such a state of feeling to exist between two States that a very trifling political motive for War may produce an effect quite disproportionate—in fact, a perfect explosion.” Therefore, in von Clausewitz’s mind, due to its unpredictable nature and the very real cost to human life, war should never be treated as a “pastime.” It is serious business.
What is remarkable about von Clausewitz’s characterization of war is its inextricable link to politics—activities associated with the distribution of power and decision-making. The same could be said of literature. It is a means to an end, and what is that end but political? From its earliest days, literature has been used as a tool of persuasion. It has been used to stir up emotions and mobilize people to action. It has been used to shape culture. It “elevates and transforms experience beyond “mere” pleasure,” according to the Encyclopedia Britannica, and so like war, is much more than a “pastime.” It is also serious business.
But what is also important to note is that in war, the means are subordinate to the end. The “political object,” according to von Clausewitz, is what motivates action. It is what matters most. If we truly believe literature is comparable to the art of war, then we must believe the same—that the “political object” is the most significant factor in the perpetuation of violence. In other words, intent matters. Most reasonable people would agree. I cannot sharpen a word and use it to slit someone’s throat. But with intentional wordplay, I can induce someone to cut the throat of another. The significant factor is the intent, the “political object.” The words I use to induce such violence will vary depending on when and where I use them and with whom. When we understand this, words suddenly lose their violent luster. They become inert units, like screws or ball bearings, meaningless without context. But in the wrong hands, wielded with ill-intent, they could become molten fragments tearing through a crowd of victims—a “perfect explosion.” The significant factor, again, is intent.
It is, of course, a mistake to believe that words cannot lead to harm, but more so to believe that the words themselves cause said harm. Instead, it is the object in the mind of those wielding the words that drive the action resulting in harm—it is the intent that is to blame. Even in cases where the intention was not to cause harm but where someone claims to have been harmed, this still holds true because, more often than not, the intent was transferred to the alleged perpetrator by the person claiming to injured. In these cases, the intent, the “political object,” was projected, but still, it played the most significant factor in the cause of harm. Words were not to blame.
Let us be clear, the wounds caused by words and by weapons are not equivalent. Psychopaths do not run through the halls of schools yelling insults when their objective is to inflict violence. They take up arms to produce bloodshed. And if it were true that words inflicted violence, then how could we possibly believe in literature’s moral superiority? Given the complexity, diversity, and natural transformation of language and communication, we might therefore expect to inflict violence on others at a near-constant rate. It should also follow that we would be wreaking havoc at a scale and speed unheard of in human history due to the hyper-connected reality of the world in which we live now. In such a world, the pen would not have supplanted the sword. It would have become yet another weapon of mass destruction in our arsenal.
I cannot say whether the pen is truly mightier than the sword. But what seems clear is that both are subordinate to the intent or “political objectives” of those who wield them. They are both means by which an end is sought. Hence, any claim to the moral superiority of literature seems misplaced. It is a tool like any another. It can be employed for better or for worse. The true measure of the pen—and any other tool—is the character of those who brandish it because, in Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s words, “the arch-enchanters wand…[is] itself a nothing!” The power to “paralyze the Cæsars—and to strike the loud earth breathless” comes from the “master-hand.” It comes from within.