Dear reader,
In 1981, during a speech to the Ohio Arts Council, American novelist Toni Morrison said, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” Quite interestingly and inadvertently, she was making a manifesto or motto for writers like herself, who came from vulnerable, marginalised, oppressed sections of society whose stories nobody had told earlier and who were the only ones capable of telling their own stories. Morrison’s debut novel, The Bluest Eye (1970), was rejected by several publishers before finally finding a home at Holt, Rinehart and Winston. The book has since become a classic of American literature and is taught in schools and universities across the globe.
Morrison became the first African American woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. But her journey for representation in the literary world was not an easy one. Born into a working-class family in Ohio during the Great Depression, she faced a world where stories like hers—the stories of Black Americans, especially Black women—were seldom told in mainstream literature. And getting her voice heard was a struggle.
Morrison, who faced challenges from getting published to gaining recognition, shared an experience similar to that of countless writers from marginalised communities around the world. Her perseverance and eventual success serve as both inspiration and a reminder of the systemic barriers that prevent diverse voices from being heard in the literary world.
If you know the history of publishing, dear reader, you will know that literature has been long dominated by privileged voices–typically white, male, upper-class or dominant-caste (in India’s case).
These groups have wielded power through various means. First, control of publishing houses. As André Schiffrin observes in his work The Business of Books: How the International Conglomerates Took Over Publishing and Changed the Way We Read, major publishing houses have historically been owned and operated by people from rich and privileged backgrounds. This has led to a natural bias towards stories and perspectives that align with their own experiences and worldviews.
Next, literary critics and reviewers, often from similar privileged backgrounds, have played a giant role in determining which works receive critical acclaim and attention. The literary canon taught in schools and universities has also traditionally favoured works by white, male authors from Western countries.
Publishers have also been driven by the profit motive, favouring books they believed would appeal to the buyer, who was often someone like them. Another important factor was the spread of English, powered by colonialism. As a global language, it systematically disadvantaged writers working in other languages, including those from formerly colonised countries.
This systemic suppression was not just a passive neglect but often an active exclusion. Publishers and editors have historically rejected works that didn’t conform to their narrow view of what constituted “good” literature. In the West, early pioneers like Christine de Pizan (1364-1430) in France and Julian of Norwich (1342-1416) in England paved the way for future generations of women writers. But it wasn’t until the 18th and 19th centuries that women began to make significant inroads into the literary establishment.
Jane Austen (1775-1817) in England and Louisa May Alcott (1832-88) in the US often published anonymously or under male pseudonyms to be taken seriously. The famous George Eliot of Middlemarch fame was Mary Ann Evans. The Brontë sisters—Charlotte, Emily, and Anne—initially published under the male names of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, respectively. It took until the 20th century for writers like Virginia Woolf, Simone de Beauvoir, and Morrison herself to challenge the status quo and pave the way for women’s voices to be heard loudly, clearly, and radically.
Black writers and writers from developing countries faced similar barriers. The Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s and 1930s was a turning point, with writers like Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Claude McKay bringing Black literature to the forefront of American culture. But it wasn’t until the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s that Black writers began to gain wider recognition with authors like James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, and Maya Angelou.
It is no surprise, therefore, that African literature faced unique challenges in gaining global recognition. Early pioneers like Chinua Achebe, with his groundbreaking novel Things Fall Apart (1958) and the 1986 Nobel Prize winner Wole Soyinka were pioneers who carved space for the African voice on the world stage. Since then, authors like Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and Teju Cole have continued in their powerful wake.
Alternative platforms and institutions; independent presses like Feminist Press, Grove Press, and Black Classic Press; and literary magazines (Fire!! in the 1920s and Callaloo in the modern era) have provided platforms for marginalised writers. As have awards like the Orange Prize (now Women’s Prize for Fiction) and the Lambda Literary Award; and the development of programmes in Women’s Studies, African American Studies, and Postcolonial Literature that have helped legitimise and promote the study of diverse writings.
This brings us to Dalit writers in India, who form a poignant microcosm of the larger global battle for recognition, as literary scholar Rajiv Thind elaborates in his insightful essay here. He shows how Dalit authors are forced to deal with a publishing landscape that is overwhelmingly dominated by privileged caste gatekeepers; how they face systemic exclusion that comes with millennia-old caste prejudices; and how even after being published fame often eludes them. In a country where caste often still determines access to education, economic opportunities, and social networks, and where publishing continues to be a tightly guarded and self-perpetuating circuit of the English-speaking urban elite, Dalit voices remain largely unheard.
And when heard, the voices tend to be limited to those few who manage to first catch the Western ear.
Write and tell us which Dalit writer you have read recently. And when you think this particular glass ceiling will be broken.
Wishing you a lovely week ahead,
For Frontline,
Jinoy Jose P.
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