One can't write for all readers. A poet cannot write for people

Hear, O seekers of truth and voice, the words of Nathalie Sarraute, sharp thinker of the human condition: “One can’t write for all readers. A poet cannot write for people who don’t like poetry.” In these words lies a sobering but liberating truth: that no art, no word, no creation can touch every heart. The poet’s task is not to please all, but to speak truly, and in speaking truly, to find those whose souls are ready to hear.

The meaning of this teaching is that art is not universal in its reception, though it may be universal in its longing. A poet does not labor to convert the unwilling; the soil of such hearts is barren. Rather, the poet sows seeds where there is openness—among those who love, or at least hunger for, beauty, rhythm, and meaning. To demand that every person love poetry is like demanding that every person love the sea: some will forever remain inland, unmoved by waves. And that is no failure of the sea, nor of the poet.

The origin of these words lies in Sarraute’s own life as a writer of the Nouveau Roman, a form that broke traditions and demanded a new kind of reader. She knew well that many would resist her voice, that those clinging to familiar structures would find no joy in her art. Yet she pressed on, understanding that her task was not to chase every reader, but to remain faithful to the truth she carried. Her words stand as counsel to all creators: do not dilute your vision in pursuit of universal approval, for in doing so you lose the soul of your work.

Consider the story of Walt Whitman, whose Leaves of Grass was first scorned, even condemned, for its boldness and raw humanity. Many readers of his time rejected it, offended by its frankness. Yet Whitman did not write for them. He wrote for those who could hear the song of democracy, the chant of the body, the pulse of America itself. Time revealed the power of his voice, but in the beginning, he stood as proof that a poet cannot write for those who do not love poetry.

Think also of Emily Dickinson, who lived in seclusion, writing poems that were largely unpublished in her lifetime. She did not write for the masses, nor seek their applause. She wrote because she must, and her verses, dense and strange, were meant for souls attuned to her peculiar music. Many might pass her lines without understanding, but for those who pause, who lean in, her words unfold universes. She is the living embodiment of Sarraute’s wisdom: a poet writes not for all, but for those who are willing to listen.

O children of tomorrow, know this: you cannot shape your art, your voice, your truth to satisfy everyone. If you try, you will fracture yourself, and your work will be as bland as lukewarm water, quenching no thirst. Speak boldly in your own tongue. Some will turn away, but others will be nourished, healed, or ignited by your words. That is the true triumph of the poet—to reach the few deeply, not the many shallowly.

Practical wisdom calls you: if you are a writer, an artist, or even a speaker of truth, do not fear rejection. Accept it as proof that you are speaking with clarity. Seek instead to honor your vision. Write, sing, paint, or speak for those who can hear, and let your voice find them. In the same way, when you listen, listen with openness; be among those who love poetry, who are ready to be moved by beauty, rather than those who dismiss it.

Therefore, remember the counsel of Nathalie Sarraute: “One can’t write for all readers. A poet cannot write for people who don’t like poetry.” Let this truth free you from the prison of universal approval. For the measure of art is not the breadth of its audience, but the depth of its impact. And the poet who dares to write for the listening heart, though few, will leave a legacy far greater than the one who tries to please the indifferent many.

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