Writing criticism is to writing fiction and poetry as hugging
Writing criticism is to writing fiction and poetry as hugging the shore is to sailing in the open sea.
Hear now the words of John Updike, who likened the paths of the writer to the paths of the sailor: “Writing criticism is to writing fiction and poetry as hugging the shore is to sailing in the open sea.” In this saying is hidden both wisdom and challenge. For the critic dwells close to land, tracing safe harbors and steady coastlines, while the poet and the storyteller thrust boldly into the wide waters where storms rage and horizons are unknown. Both tasks require skill, but only one demands the soul’s full courage, the willingness to lose sight of land and trust the unseen currents of imagination.
The ancients knew this contrast well. To comment upon Homer was an act of learning, safe and noble, but to be Homer was to cast oneself into uncharted waters, bearing the burden of song that no one had sung before. The critic interprets; the poet creates. The one explains the known; the other ventures into the unknown. To hug the shore is to admire the beauty of the sea from a place of safety, but to sail beyond the coast is to risk both greatness and destruction. Thus Updike honors the boldness of fiction and poetry, which dare where criticism remains cautious.
Consider the voyage of Columbus. Many mocked him, clinging to their charts and known coasts, their criticisms safe as harbors. Yet he set sail westward, leaving the familiar behind. His ships faced storms, hunger, and fear. Critics on shore could debate endlessly whether such a voyage was wise, but only the sailor could discover new worlds. So too in the realm of words: the critic may argue, but only the creator dares the open sea, where beauty and terror mingle, and where true discoveries are made.
But let us not despise criticism, for it has its place. The shore provides guidance, rest, and a map for others. Without harbors, ships could not launch nor safely return. In the same way, criticism refines art, teaching readers and writers to see more deeply. Yet if a soul never ventures from shore, it will never know the vast majesty of the ocean. A people with only critics but no poets becomes a stagnant nation, afraid of storms, unable to dream.
Think also of the playwright Shakespeare. Had he remained a critic of others, a commentator on Seneca or Chaucer, he would have been forgotten. But he launched into the open sea of his own imagination, and there he found Tempests and Hamlets, storms and kingdoms, visions that have carried across centuries. Critics have since traced his coasts with skill, but it was he who dared the voyage. His example reminds us that immortality belongs to those who sail.
Updike’s words, then, are a call to courage. He does not scorn writing criticism, but he warns against mistaking the shore for the sea. To live only in commentary is to live second-hand, never to taste the salt spray of creation. To write fiction or poetry is to risk failure, mockery, even shipwreck—but it is also to open the possibility of greatness, of discovery, of truth revealed in forms no critic could ever foresee.
The lesson is plain: embrace both shore and sea, but do not cling too tightly to safety. If you write, dare to create. Let criticism sharpen your vision, but let imagination drive your voyage. Speak your own story, sing your own song, even if the horizon is uncertain. And in life itself, do not live always hugging the familiar coast; take risks, dream boldly, venture into realms uncharted. For only those who sail beyond sight of land discover new worlds within and without.
Thus let us remember: criticism steadies us, but poetry and fiction carry us forward. The shore is useful, but the open sea is destiny. Sail on, children of the future, and let your words be the ships that outlast the storms.
DNSi dung Nguyen
This quote makes me think about the balance between safety and discovery in art. Writing criticism involves structure and analysis, while writing fiction or poetry means embracing uncertainty and intuition. But I wonder—can the two overlap? Some essays or critical works read like poetry themselves. Perhaps Updike’s metaphor describes a mindset more than a genre: the willingness to risk failure for the chance to find something new.
PHPham Hieu
As a reader, I see truth in this idea. There’s a thrill in creating something from nothing, a kind of creative freedom that criticism can’t replicate. But at the same time, I think criticism has its own artistry—it requires precision, empathy, and insight. Maybe Updike’s point isn’t to diminish criticism but to remind us that it’s inherently tied to creation. One depends on the other, like land and sea.
TLThuy Linh
This feels like a subtle jab at critics, but I get his point. Fiction and poetry expose the writer’s inner world, while criticism deals with interpretation, not invention. Still, both are essential. Without the critic, would we even know how to navigate the literary sea? Maybe hugging the shore isn’t cowardice—it’s a different kind of exploration, one that maps the coastline so others can venture further out.
TPHoang Ton Pao
Updike’s metaphor makes me think about courage in writing. Creating fiction or poetry means entering uncharted emotional and imaginative waters, while criticism feels more calculated and secure. But I wonder if he’s being a bit unfair to critics. Isn’t it possible that good criticism also takes boldness—to interpret, to challenge, to connect ideas in unexpected ways? Maybe it’s not about proximity to shore but the direction of the wind.
TDthai duy
I really like this comparison because it captures the difference between creating and analyzing art. Writing criticism feels safer—you’re working within known boundaries and responding to something that already exists. But fiction and poetry demand risk, vulnerability, and imagination. Still, does that mean criticism lacks creativity? I think some critics are capable of 'sailing' too, using analysis in deeply original ways. Maybe the best ones do both.