In a quiet provincial town in France during the late 19th century, a local bookseller noticed an unusual pattern. Every week, a group of factory workers would come to his shop, not to purchase newspapers or political pamphlets, but to borrow and discuss the novels of Émile Zola. These men were not scholars, nor had they received formal education in literature. But they read Zola’s Germinal with such intensity that it altered their understanding of their own labour and suffering. The novel did not shout revolutionary slogans; it simply told the story of miners with humanity and precision. Yet it stirred something political within them—an awareness that their silence was being broken, their lives rendered visible. It was literature acting as “mute speech”: not loud, but deeply resonant, unsettling the way these men had previously seen themselves and the system that confined them.
In Comedy: A Very Short Introduction (2013, Oxford University Press), Matthew Bevis explores comedy not merely as a form of entertainment, but as a powerful cultural and political tool that has, throughout history, served to mock, critique, and at times even challenge authority. Bevis highlights how comedy has consistently offered a space for speaking truth to power—whether through subtle irony, sharp satire, or open ridicule—enabling individuals and societies to question norms, confront hypocrisy, and reflect on their collective conscience.
From the playful yet pointed jests in Shakespeare’s plays to the fearless monologues of contemporary stand-up comedians, comedy has always had a double edge: it entertains while it unsettles. In Shakespearean works such as Twelfth Night or King Lear, jesters and fools are more than comic relief; they often articulate the deepest truths, cleverly disguised in riddles and rhymes. These characters wield humour as a form of subversion, exposing the absurdities of the ruling class, the flaws of the court, and the follies of human nature itself.
Bevis notes that, far from being mere clowns, comedians occupy a vital role in public discourse. They act as cultural critics—guardians of public conscience—who are granted a unique licence to transgress boundaries that others dare not cross. In the modern era, comedians such as George Carlin, Hannah Gadsby, and Trevor Noah use their platforms not just to make audiences laugh, but to provoke thought, generate dialogue, and hold systems of power accountable. Their humour pierces through political correctness and institutional façades, illuminating uncomfortable truths that are often cloaked in euphemism or bureaucracy.
In Bevis’s view, the enduring appeal of comedy lies in its capacity to bring people together in laughter while simultaneously offering a mirror to society’s contradictions and injustices. Comedy becomes, then, not a distraction from serious issues, but a compelling means of engaging with them—transforming tension into insight and mockery into moral inquiry.
Thus, this work invites readers to recognise comedians not just as entertainers, but as essential voices in the democratic conversation—those who keep us honest by making us laugh at the very things we are often afraid to confront.
So, when considering the cultural forces that sustain a nation—alongside artists, writers, and thinkers—we must not forget the comedians. They may not wear robes or titles, but they carry the weight of truth on their shoulders, disguised as a joke.
Literature, too, holds an extraordinary place within national life. The written word, especially in the form of novels, poetry, and essays, allows a society to reflect deeply on its own humanity. Through literature, individuals are invited into the interior lives of others—into struggles, joys, and moral dilemmas that may be far removed from their own. This cultivation of empathy is not sentimental but political; it underpins the ability to see the ‘other’ as worthy of dignity. Moreover, literature often carries the capacity to offer veiled critiques of prevailing powers. Writers, through metaphor and allegory, can voice resistance to injustice even under the watchful gaze of censorship. In so doing, they become the guardians of collective memory, the chroniclers of forgotten pain and unrealised hope.
In The Uses of Literature by Italo Calvino (1986, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich), literature is not merely presented as a source of entertainment, but rather as a subtle and indispensable instrument for cultivating critical thought, questioning established systems, and preserving the essence of our humanity amidst the encroachments of modern life. Calvino perceives literature as a space of freedom—one in which ambiguity is not feared but embraced, and where language is not reduced to mere functionality, as often demanded by bureaucratic or technocratic systems.
Through his essays, Calvino suggests that literature encourages a kind of mental agility and imaginative openness that rigid ideological structures seek to suppress. In a world increasingly dominated by standardisation and the flattening of discourse, literature remains one of the few realms where complexity, contradiction, and nuance are not only permitted but necessary. This, in turn, fosters a population that is less likely to succumb passively to propaganda, dogma, or authoritarian control.
Moreover, Calvino argues that literature resists the instrumentalisation of language, which is central to maintaining human dignity in a society where language is frequently co-opted for manipulation or control. By engaging with literary texts, readers practise the art of interpretation, negotiation, and doubt—skills that are vital in a democratic society where the ability to question and to think independently should be protected and nurtured.
In this way, literature functions as a quiet form of civil resistance. It does not confront power through slogans or violence, but through the persistent assertion of individual perception, moral complexity, and emotional truth. Calvino thus frames literature as a ‘gentle weapon’—a cultural tool that sustains the intellectual and emotional capacities necessary for citizenship and for resisting the erosion of democratic values.
The Uses of Literature positions literary engagement as an act of preserving civilisation itself: a means by which human beings remain alert, imaginative, and morally attuned in an increasingly mechanised and homogenised world. Hence, to understand literature as merely decorative or escapist is to miss its profound role as a subtle form of statecraft—one that defends the very principles of thought, freedom, and shared humanity.
In Mute Speech: Literature, Critical Theory, and Politics by Jacques Rancière (2011, Columbia University Press, translated by James Swenson, edited with an introduction by Gabriel Rockhill), Jacques Rancière examines how literature underwent a profound transformation from a structured, hierarchical system of genres into a democratic space of expressive freedom. He argues that what we now consider “literature” did not exist in its modern form until the late 18th and early 19th centuries, particularly following the French Revolution and the rise of Romanticism. It was during this period that literature began to detach itself from the old order of poetic and rhetorical rules, emerging instead as a space where any subject, style, or voice could be deemed valid. Rancière introduces the concept of “mute speech” to describe the way literature communicates not necessarily through direct, didactic content, but through form, rhythm, tone, and structure—what is said between the lines, or what remains unsaid but deeply felt. This “mute” dimension allows literature to become politically potent without resorting to overt political declarations. Through silence, ambiguity, and fragmentation, literature reveals and reorders the way society sees itself, often giving presence to voices and experiences that dominant discourses ignore or suppress.
Through close readings of authors such as Victor Hugo, Balzac, and Zola, Rancière illustrates how literature becomes a mode of social expression—one that anticipates and shapes the development of disciplines like history, sociology, and political theory. He contends that literature’s real political power lies in its ability to redistribute what is visible, sayable, and thinkable, disrupting taken-for-granted perceptions and hierarchies.
Ultimately, Mute Speech presents literature as a quiet but radical force—one that does not necessarily shout slogans or make manifestos, but subtly and continuously reshapes the ways we perceive reality. It is not literature’s job to give us answers or to instruct; rather, it offers a different arrangement of experience, a new texture of perception. In this way, literature becomes a key player in the broader negotiation of meaning, identity, and authority in modern democratic life.
Equally vital is the role of public discourse—the everyday conversations, debates, and exchanges of ideas that take place in town halls, campuses, independent media, and increasingly, on digital platforms. These discussions form the pulse of a healthy democracy. When citizens engage in open dialogue, they are not merely expressing opinions; they are participating in the construction of national meaning. Such discourse fosters rational deliberation and guards against the excesses of populism and authoritarianism. In societies where public speech is curtailed, fear replaces thought and conformity smothers imagination. But where discussion thrives, innovation, accountability, and pluralism flourish.
According to "Why We Argue (And How We Should): A Guide to Political Disagreement" by Scott F. Aikin and Robert B. Talisse (Routledge, 2019), public discourse serves as a cornerstone of democratic life, offering a space where citizens deliberate, contest, and refine their collective decisions. However, the authors argue that when such discourse is not grounded in the principles of critical thinking—such as fairness, intellectual humility, and a shared commitment to reason—it can become a vehicle for polarisation, manipulation, and the erosion of mutual trust.
Aikin and Talisse emphasise that in a functioning democracy, disagreement is not merely inevitable but essential. Yet, this disagreement must be structured around reasoned argumentation rather than rhetorical force or tribal loyalty. When citizens fail to engage one another through respectful and rational deliberation, public discourse risks devolving into what they call “cognitive insulation,” where people engage only with those who affirm their views, leading to echo chambers and the radicalisation of belief systems.
The work stresses that poor-quality arguments, fallacies, and ideological dogmatism can corrode the very norms of civility and truth-seeking that underpin democratic institutions. In this way, public discourse that lacks critical reasoning does not merely reflect societal divisions—it actively deepens them. Conversely, when argumentation is conducted with intellectual integrity, it functions as a means of civic education, helping individuals recognise complexity, appreciate opposing viewpoints, and refine their own beliefs in the light of new evidence or sound reasoning.
"Why We Argue (And How We Should)" presents a compelling case that critical thinking is not a luxury but a democratic necessity. Without it, public discourse may cease to be a mechanism for shared understanding and become instead a weapon of division. The health of democratic society, therefore, hinges not only on free speech but on how responsibly and thoughtfully that speech is exercised.
Collectively, then, art, literature, and public dialogue do more than entertain or inform—they preserve the soul of the nation. They give voice to the voiceless, dignity to the marginalised, and caution to the powerful. A nation that neglects its artists, silences its writers, or represses its thinkers may temporarily project order, but it will do so at the cost of its own moral and intellectual vitality. Conversely, a nation that invests in its cultural life fosters resilience—not only in its political institutions, but in the hearts and minds of its people.
To live in a country where creativity is celebrated, storytelling is honoured, and truth can be spoken aloud without fear, is to inhabit a space where citizenship is not merely a legal status but a shared human journey. In such a space, culture is not an accessory to national life—it is its conscience.
