Narrative art, the novel, from Murasaki to Proust, has produced

Hear the luminous words of Eugenio Montale: “Narrative art, the novel, from Murasaki to Proust, has produced great works of poetry.” In this declaration, Montale speaks to the deep kinship between story and song, between the telling of human lives and the exaltation of language. He reminds us that poetry is not confined to lines broken on a page, nor to verse recited in solemn cadence. It may dwell in the very heart of narrative art, in the rhythms of memory, in the pulse of human experience as unfolded by the novelist’s hand.

Consider Lady Murasaki Shikibu, writing in 11th-century Japan. Her Tale of Genji is not written as verse, yet its pages shimmer with the delicate attention of a poet. The landscapes breathe with subtle color; the silences between gestures are charged with unspoken emotion. Her novel transcends mere narrative—it becomes a song of fleeting beauty, an elegy for the impermanence of love and life. Here Montale sees poetry hidden in prose, a flame burning not in the stanza but in the soul of the story.

And then, centuries later, Marcel Proust, who in In Search of Lost Time turned memory into music. His sentences flow like rivers, circling back, shimmering with detail, evoking the taste of a madeleine or the sound of footsteps in a garden. He does not versify, yet the cadence of his prose is unmistakably poetic. He transforms the act of remembering into an epic of consciousness, elevating the ordinary into the eternal. Thus Montale names him alongside Murasaki, as one who proves that narrative art can rival poetry in its power to enchant and reveal.

The ancients themselves knew that boundaries between forms are porous. Homer’s epics are poems, but they are also narratives; they tell stories as vast as oceans, yet each wave of verse is rich in rhythm and imagery. In India, the Mahabharata weaves together philosophy, myth, and history, prose and verse blending seamlessly. What Montale declares is an ancient truth renewed: that wherever language is lifted beyond the common, wherever it seeks beauty and depth, there lies poetry, whether in poem or novel.

This vision challenges us. Too often, readers confine poetry to verse and deny it in prose. They forget that the spirit of poetry is not in form alone but in intensity, in the elevation of word and thought. A novel that speaks with music, that pierces the soul with beauty or sorrow, may be more poetic than many thin verses pretending at art. Montale’s words free us to find poetry in unexpected places—in the winding sentences of a novelist, in the stillness of description, in the unfolding of a life told with reverence.

The lesson is clear: seek poetry not only in poems, but in all that is written with beauty and depth. When you read a novel, listen for its hidden rhythms, its secret music. Do not dismiss it as mere story; look for the lines where prose transcends itself and enters eternity. And if you write, whether verse or narrative, remember that what matters is not the form but the spirit—the striving for truth, beauty, and resonance.

Practical actions follow. Read Murasaki and Proust not only as novelists but as poets in disguise. Approach great works of narrative with the ear of a listener to music, not merely the mind of a consumer of plot. Write your own stories with the care of a poet, attentive to every word’s weight and every silence’s meaning. Share passages aloud, for even prose may sing when spoken with reverence. In doing so, you will discover what Montale saw: that narrative art, too, is a vessel of poetry.

Thus Montale speaks with timeless insight: from the elegance of Murasaki to the labyrinths of Proust, the novel has shown itself capable of producing works as enduring and exalted as any verse. Let us then honor story and song alike, recognizing that wherever the human spirit strives to shape beauty from language, there we find the flame of poetry burning bright.