Poetry, fiction as novels or short stories - these are

F. Sionil José, the great Filipino novelist and chronicler of his people’s struggles, once declared: “Poetry, fiction as novels or short stories—these are autonomous as created by their authors. They should stand on their own, like pieces of furniture that should be judged as to their usefulness, elegance.” In these words, he places literature in its rightful dignity, reminding us that the work of the writer is not an appendage to politics, nor a mere shadow of the author’s life, but a creation that must breathe and endure by its own strength. Like a crafted chair or table, a poem or novel is a work shaped by human hands, judged by how it serves, how it uplifts, how it adorns the life of those who encounter it.

The origin of this saying lies in José’s vision of art as both grounded and universal. Writing in a nation marked by colonialism, corruption, and inequality, he bore witness to injustice. Yet he refused to reduce literature to propaganda or transient rhetoric. For him, poetry and fiction carried weight not only because of the ideas they contained, but because of the artistry with which they were formed. A book must stand like a crafted piece of furniture—not leaning on its maker, not propped up by external justification—but enduring through its beauty, its strength, and its use to the generations who inherit it.

History shows us the truth of this. Consider Leo Tolstoy, whose War and Peace and Anna Karenina stand like monumental cathedrals of prose. Though Tolstoy’s life was filled with turbulence, though he preached moral and religious reforms, his novels endure not because of his biography, but because they stand on their own. The reader does not need Tolstoy’s presence to feel their power. They are autonomous, living creations, useful in their wisdom, elegant in their form, forever able to move hearts long after their maker has turned to dust. This is precisely what José means: literature must be judged like a crafted thing, not by who made it, but by what it is.

There is also within José’s words a challenge to writers themselves. To create is not merely to spill out feelings or to chase applause. It is to craft with discipline, to shape sentences with care, to build stories as one builds houses—solid, enduring, beautiful. Usefulness and elegance are his measures: usefulness, in that literature must speak to human need, whether it is comfort, reflection, or awakening; elegance, in that literature must embody form and grace, so that its truth enters the soul not as noise, but as music. A book that fails in both may wither; a book that succeeds in one may endure for a time; but a book that embodies both will stand for centuries.

The deeper meaning here is that literature is an offering to the world, not a possession of the writer. Once the work leaves the author’s hands, it must walk by itself. Just as a chair must carry the weight of those who sit upon it, so must a poem carry the weight of truth, beauty, and feeling for those who read it. The author’s name may be forgotten, but the work remains, serving generation after generation. To live in this way is the highest calling of art: to outlast the life of its creator by the strength of its own being.

The lesson we must take is this: let your creations, whether in writing, craft, or daily labor, be built to stand alone. Do not depend on excuses, on your own reputation, or on external praise. Build carefully, with elegance and with purpose, so that your work speaks when you are silent, so that it serves even when you are gone. Ask of every word you write, of every deed you do: is it useful? Is it elegant? If it is both, then you have created something worthy.

Practically, this means cultivating discipline in your art. Do not rush your work into the world half-formed. Revise, refine, polish, until it is strong enough to stand without you. Study the masters not merely for their ideas, but for the architecture of their writing, their patience in craft. And in life, let your actions mirror this teaching: do not act in ways that require explanation or excuse—act in ways that are self-evidently good, useful, and beautiful.

Thus F. Sionil José’s words echo with timeless force: “Poetry, fiction as novels or short stories… should stand on their own.” To future generations, they remind us that art is not fragile, nor dependent, but autonomous—like a chair that holds, like a table that serves, like a lamp that shines. Let us then live and create so that our works stand firmly, judged not by our names, but by their usefulness and their elegance—monuments of truth and beauty that endure when we are gone.