To write is to be vulnerable. It is to carefully place one word after another, stringing sentences unique to you that reflect thoughts and considerations like a shattered mirror reflects light; no one can get the full picture, but they can catch sight of an idea here, an insecurity there.
It is to open up your soul, laid bare, for the world to glimpse inside, to poke and probe, inspect and scrutinise, and perhaps, criticise. Even with the finite number of alphabets and the shackles of grammar that impose limitations, writers still weave their own distinctive tapestries of words. It is, thus, an extremely personal endeavour. The work is then edited and revised; something is added here, another is taken out from there, and something else is concealed with vague words to offer a flimsy layer of protection over the raw emotion poured out over the papers. Writers edit their work to hide some parts of themselves and perhaps reveal others a little more. Their autonomy over their work allows them not to share their work with the world unless they are satisfied with the product and until they have tweaked the unbridled emotion and painted over the paragraphs with a layer of sophistication and vagueness. They form mazes around their hearts that need to be traversed before anyone can guess at their contemplations.
But what happens when the author is not given the opportunity to construct these mazes? Authors like Tolkien and Nabokov have left behind unfinished works, their mazes incomplete, their mirrors still whole. Should we just let their works stay hidden? In a vault, somewhere safe, where no one can discern the sentiments poured thick onto the paper? Or should we let someone construct the mazes for them?
Ghost writing is the practise of creating written content representing another person who would then be credited as the author. Ghost writing for deceased authors is generally used to finish their incomplete works for publishing. Authors have had their works published posthumously for decades, including Kafka, Tolkien, and Plath. This presents an ethical dilemma. Should writers’ unfinished works be completed by ghostwriters and published? Or should they be destroyed? Or, perhaps, should the unfinished work be published as is, with all its imperfections and defects?
The responsibility of deciding the fate of these works usually falls upon the heirs of the authors, who may or may not abide by the will, if there is one, of the author. Kafka had instructed his friend Max Brod to destroy all his writings, which was obviously not what was done. Tolkien’s work was curated by his son Cristopher after his death. The heirs of many other authors have, similarly, published the writings and/or had them completed and edited. Some specialists argue that the works should be published as a form of public service since the admirers of the beloved author would love to read more of their compositions, and surely, the authors wouldn’t have minded it if it were for their enthusiasts. It is also often brought up that the content is a piece of art and has cultural value and, thus, should be printed. For instance, Anne Frank’s Diary, which was edited by her father, was published as it was believed to have irreplaceable insights into the life of Jews during World War 2.
But is this fair to the authors themselves? To have their art altered as such, usually without their instruction? As mentioned above, writing is a highly personal form of art and reflects the inner workings of the writer. Writers have their own style and preferences on how they wish for their art to be curated and published; they have their own way to play with words and their own unique methods to express a story. They carefully pick and choose the bricks and cement that go into building their walls. They are the architects of their own mazes. So, is it not in poor taste to let someone else take the reins? An unknown, unnamed ghost writer comes in and models pathways of their own making, and then it is presented to the world as if written by the writer themself. You could argue that this is a defilement of the author’s work. It was not created by them, and there is no way to find out whether they would’ve constructed a similar, if not the same, maze for themselves. It is art mixed with impurity. It is a lie, maybe a betrayal of the original text. A stain on the carefully woven fabric of the author’s tapestry.
Nietzsche, an illustrious philosopher from the 19th century, wrote many books on topics of existentialism and on the basis of good and evil. Much of his work was in accordance with the Nazi ideology; Hitler himself had acknowledged him. Thus, Nietzsche went on to remain a very despised philosopher for siding with such extreme oppression. Except, he didn’t. Nietzsche wasn’t a Nazi and didn’t write affirming anything to any of Hitler’s principles. It was later discovered that Nietzsche’s sister Elizabeth, had rewritten, edited, and curated his work to fit her ideologies and admiration of Nazism. She even met Hitler and expressed her support. She had revised her brother’s work to fit her narrative (at least to some extent) and had it published under Nietzsche’s name. Is this not the tainting of Nietzsche’s manuscripts?
So what shall be the fate of these incomplete documents? It is a general consensus among people that the author’s final wishes should be respected. If they wish for their work to be destroyed, so be it. If they had agreed in their lives to have their work ghostwritten, then there is no protest against that. But what of the authors who left no will behind? Death does not knock before entering a room. In cases of sudden demise, what should happen to the manuscripts?
I was going to write this essay and conclude it with my own opinion, except that I don’t have one. At least not a solid stance. Part of me wishes to respect the author’s wishes entirely and be against posthumous writing and publication. However, another part of me craves the artistry that these writers spill onto their notebooks. For if Brod had never published Kafka’s books, we would not have access to his distinguished works. People say that Kafka didn’t want it published, but he was a deeply depressed and lonely man who had no confidence in his writing. Would he not at least smile in heaven to realise that he isn’t so lonely anymore?
The ethics of ghost writing and posthumous publications, I presume, will continue to be a raging debate amongst generations to come. We can’t ask a dead man for answers, so we will continue to look for them in the realm of the living. We may get it right sometimes and heinously wrong at others, but since there is no way to confirm it, we will go on and on and continue this cycle in hopes that we are on the right side of the coin.