What Is the Role of Literature in an Age of Crisis?
In every era of human conflict, upheaval, or uncertainty, there has been literature. Whether scrawled in margins, broadcast on radio waves, or streamed into our earbuds, writing has accompanied crisis like a faithful shadow. But what exactly is literature for in these moments? Is it solace? A weapon? A mirror? A map?
We are, undeniably, in an age of crisis. From climate catastrophe and economic inequality to social unrest, political disillusionment, and psychological burnout, today’s reader is not just a consumer of stories — they are often struggling to survive their own. So what happens when you pair that struggle with the written word? What can literature do — and what should it do — when the world feels on fire?
Literature as Witness
One of literature’s oldest and most enduring roles is that of witness. Homer’s Iliad is not merely a story of gods and warriors; it is a poetic account of a people grappling with the violence, glory, and futility of war. Similarly, Toni Morrison's Beloved is not simply fiction — it is an excavation of American history's buried traumas. Writers have long stood at the edge of horror and said, in so many words, “This happened. This matters.”
In this function, literature resists erasure. In an era where information is easily manipulated or buried under noise, the permanence of literary witness — the emotional precision, the human voice — cuts through. In her Nobel lecture, Morrison said: “We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.”
Literature as Resistance
In times of political or cultural crisis, literature can become a quiet form of rebellion — or a loud one. Think of James Baldwin’s searing essays in The Fire Next Time. Think of Audre Lorde declaring that “poetry is not a luxury.” Think of Solzhenitsyn smuggling his words out of Soviet Russia, or the clandestine publications of writers under fascist regimes.
In the face of censorship, authoritarianism, and violence, literature refuses silence. It names the unnamed. It connects the dots others would rather leave unjoined. It tells stories that institutions would rather be forgotten. To write under such conditions is not just an act of expression — it is an act of resistance. A word becomes a flare in the dark.
Literature as Healing
Not all crisis is political. Some of it is deeply personal — the quiet ache of loss, the disorientation of illness, the collapse of a relationship or belief system. Literature meets us here too, not with solutions, but with solidarity. A line of poetry can feel like a hand on your shoulder. A novel can offer refuge. A memoir can reflect back your experience with uncanny accuracy.
Healing, in this context, is not about fixing — it’s about witnessing, understanding, metabolizing. As Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist, wrote in Man’s Search for Meaning, “Those who have a ‘why’ to live, can bear almost any ‘how.’” Literature often gives us that why. It allows us to feel accompanied in our pain, not abandoned by it.
Literature as Connection
In an era defined by polarization and disconnection — political, digital, generational — literature still offers one of the most powerful tools we have: empathy. Reading another person’s story is, neurologically and emotionally, an act of mirroring. The more deeply we read, the more deeply we inhabit the mind of another. In doing so, we extend our capacity to care.
This doesn’t mean literature is a cure-all. Empathy alone doesn’t solve systemic problems. But in a world where echo chambers and algorithmic silos grow stronger by the day, stories that bridge identity, class, and geography become acts of quiet defiance. They help us remember that beneath every category is a person. And literature, at its best, is profoundly personal.
Literature as Question
One of literature’s most underrated roles in a time of crisis is that it doesn’t always answer — it asks. While politics shouts slogans and media demands takes, literature often whispers: What if? What if things were different? What if this pain had meaning? What if there’s another way to live?
Fiction and poetry operate on ambiguity, complexity, contradiction — precisely the things that crisis flattens. In a world that rushes to judgment, literature slows us down. It allows us to dwell in uncertainty, to sit with discomfort, to make room for the unresolvable. Sometimes, that’s the most radical act of all.
Literature as Archive
As institutions collapse and memory becomes digitized (and deletable), literature becomes a form of cultural preservation. It is an archive — not just of events, but of feelings, voices, moods, and truths that might otherwise disappear.
When future generations look back at this time — this strange, uncertain, chaotic moment — what will they find? Will they see only data, headlines, and hashtags? Or will they find the poems, the essays, the letters, the autofiction, the fragments? Literature doesn’t just record history. It records how it felt to live it.
Literature as Meaning-Maker
In crisis, we often ask: “What does this mean?” It’s a question that literature has always grappled with. Not with tidy moral answers, but with exploration. The writer becomes a kind of archaeologist of experience, brushing away layers to discover pattern, resonance, symbol.
When the world feels senseless, storytelling restores a sense of coherence. It helps us locate ourselves in time, in narrative, in the arc of something larger. That’s not to say literature lies to us — only that it gives shape to what might otherwise remain formless. It helps us make sense, even when we cannot make peace.
What Writers Can Do Now
For writers, the age of crisis can feel paralyzing. What’s the point? Who has time to read? Shouldn’t we be doing something more urgent?
But literature is urgent. As the world changes, we need not just reporters and analysts — we need rememberers, reflectors, imaginers. Whether you’re writing poetry about climate grief, essays about injustice, or autofiction about mental health, your voice has a place in the ecosystem of meaning-making.
Write the messy, the unmarketable, the unresolved. Publish the small and the strange. Submit to journals. Start your own. Build communities of writers and readers. Support independent presses. Teach. Listen. Risk clarity. Risk honesty.
Conclusion: The Flame That Endures
Literature is not a luxury. It’s not an escape. It’s not a relic. In an age of crisis, literature is a fire — sometimes warming, sometimes burning, always illuminating. It helps us endure not by distracting us from the world, but by helping us see it more clearly. And perhaps, see ourselves more clearly within it.
At Westbrae Literary Group, we believe that every voice matters — especially in times like these. Our pages are open to those who witness, resist, connect, heal, and question. Because in the end, literature might not save the world. But it can help us imagine how we might live in it — with more courage, more clarity, and more care.
