The Case for Humanistic Literature

What Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain Teaches Us About Literature’s Moral Function

It’s gone out of fashion to stand for Western Civilization, but good literature sure does.

In Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, the Italian intellectual Ludovico Settembrini advocates for the ideals of humanism, the Renaissance, and the Enlightenment—in a word, the glorious tenets of Western Civilization. Settembrini is one of two mentors who guides our protagonist Hans Castorp through his seven-year stay at a prominent sanatorium in the Alps as he battles a so-called "moist spot" on his lungs and leaves behind his life “down there.” Though we never learn whether Hans Castorp is really sick, we certainly come to empathize with many of his intellectual explorations.

The Magic Mountain belongs to a defunct genre called “the novel of ideas” that privileges philosophical reflection over action. As one Reddit user humorously remarks about Mann’s magnum opus, “It’s the most boring novel I’ve ever read… That being said, I really liked it.” Indeed, one might argue that absolutely nothing happens in The Magic Mountain, yet its dense prose, spanning almost 800 pages, is rife with ideas.

I will certainly write a defense of the novel of ideas in the future and argue for its reinstatement in our cultural Zeitgeist, but today, I want to focus on a specific idea that makes a brief appearance in Mann’s work—the purpose of literature.

I quote here from the 1995 John E. Woods translation:

“[Literature] awakened our appreciation for all things human… and led to the civilizing ennoblement and improvement of humankind. And it did so by creating highly refined morals and sensitivities…”

If you’ve been reading Pens and Poison for a while, you’ll know that I am adamant about understanding literature as it relates to the humanistic tradition—that is, how literature informs human self-actualization and what it can tell us about the things that make us fundamentally human. In this particular passage from The Magic Mountain, Herr Settembrini argues with his intellectual rival Leo Naphta, a Jewish-born Jesuit convert loosely based on the Hungarian Marxist philosopher György Lukács. Naphta tells Settembrini that his “classical tradition of the Mediterranean” is not suitable for “all humanity”—that is, that the humanistic tradition of the West does not apply to the rest of the world and that “the literary tradition of European education” only “serve[s] the interests of bourgeois class domination and ha[s] since become an object of ridicule among the masses.” In other words, according to Naphta, literature is a paternalistic and eurocentric exercise of the bourgeois class that does not hold relevance to the rest of the world.

This is the same argument, of course, that is being made today in a number of prominent English departments across the country and that has inspired many of my essays on the importance of preserving the same humanistic tradition that Settembrini defends in his monologue. In Mann, Naphta presents the age-old Marxist argument that literature serves only the interests of the European bourgeois class. Settembrini—ever the vigilant humanist—insists that, no—literature is universal.

The genius of Thomas Mann is that he does not take sides—at least not in the pages of his novel. When reading The Magic Mountain, we are asked to consider the merits and drawbacks of each argument for ourselves and draw our own conclusions (though by the time he had completed the novel, Mann more closely aligned with Settembrini, whose views were modeled loosely on those of Mann’s brother and fellow novelist Heinrich Mann). If you are anything like me, you will take the side of Settembrini because great literature is, indeed, universal—though Mann aptly demonstrates that an argument can be made for the Marxist side of the aisle as well.

But I’d like to buttress the argument in favor of understanding literature through the humanistic lens by drawing our attention to the particular framework that Settembrini lays out for us. Literature, he says, awakens our appreciation for all things human—that is, it helps us comprehend that which may lie dormant in our understanding of human nature. It allows us to feel exactly how special it is to be human through the realization that each human experience is at once unique and universal. Literature, claims Settembrini, inspires us to always become better versions of ourselves—it inspires us towards self-actualization and becomes the driving force behind our aspirations towards the infinite. Literature allows us to walk in other people’s shoes and develop empathy for a diverse range of human experiences as we learn to see ourselves in other people. Literature is the very cornerstone of advanced civilization: through literature, we learn to always reach higher and to strive for more exalted experiences. Literature embodies progress—but not in the radical progressive sense. For literature, says Settembrini, is uniquely bound up with morals.

Indeed, it is this very idea of morality that is often omitted from conversations about literature, especially in English departments today. Because the dominant worldview that pervades literary discussion is postmodernism, students of literature are asked to consider literature through the lens of relative morality—these students are taught that literature carries no set message and that the purpose of literature is not to help us become better versions of ourselves but to incite us to change the world by appealing to the proletariat and destroying the bourgeois class, as Herr Naphta would have it. But speaking through the voice of Settembrini, Mann touches on the forgotten purpose of literature. Literature inspires us to become the best versions of ourselves by teaching us what is right and what is wrong, prompting us to consider the idea of objective morality. And while there are, of course, a plethora of different morality systems that abound in our universe, each work of literature presents its own system of ethics and morals that incite us to consider our place in the world and the values that resonate with us most deeply. As the great literary critic Irving Babbitt tells us, literature is instrumental in the development of moral character, helping us to become better people by informing us that there is, indeed, an interplay of good and bad—and that not all actions, beliefs, and people are created equal.

In painting a fuller portrait of our universe, literature inspires us to think critically about our decisions and helps us cultivate the sort of moral imagination that lends purpose to our lives. Settembrini’s defense of literature is therefore not merely a “bourgeois” worldview but also a blueprint for personal growth.

In a world increasingly skeptical of universal values, literature reminds us that there is always meaning to be found in the human struggle towards the Good, the Beautiful, and the True. Literature awakens not only our sensitivity to beauty but also our capacity to discern what is right. And while certain literary works do critique more traditional morality systems, these works, too, can inspire critical thought, for literature never preaches or affirms a single moral code—rather, great literature presents us with competing visions of “the good life” and asks us to draw conclusions for ourselves.

The genius of Thomas Mann lies in his very refusal to resolve the conflict between Settembrini and Naphta, for in allowing these ideas to collide, Mann grants literature its most sacred function: to hold a mirror up to human nature and demand that we confront the sort of life we want to lead. And that is why, for all its philosophical meandering, The Magic Mountain remains one of the most vital novels of the twentieth century, insisting that we think not only about ourselves but also about our interactions with the universe.

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