The first book ever written in Latvian ― transcripts of sermons by Protestant ministers ― was burnt in 1525 and never reached its readers among the common folk; that year  was later declared the beginning of Latvian publishing.

Ever since each and every Latvian author has been gauged by the same measure ― unless they speak of Eternity and Death, none will be considered a genius or even worthy of note. Since we are a small nation, our thinking has to be ever more expansive. We just cannot settle for anything less. Love stories or thrillers are not for us. Writing crime fiction is considered degrading even though the so-called common reader seems to like such literature. So all Latvian authors want to write for eternity, even those who haven’t really started writing. Whenever a book is published, the Latvian critics will invariably point out the commonplace thinking it exposes. Yes, well, try and reach Eternity every time...

Sadly, the readers of Latvian literature are also ageing. That most diligent of readers, the middle-aged woman, is no longer thrilled by what the young ones have to say. The Methuselah syndrome has also left its stamp on the authors: to placate their readers, they tend to get immersed in the past, producing epic family histories.

Another peculiarity of our literature is the sparring  between the local and exile writers. Now that the Iron Curtain has been lifted, we seem to be finding more of a common ground but for more than fifty years the men and women of letters who had fled the Soviet occupation and found home elsewhere tended to think that all those who had stayed behind had succumbed to the occupation regime and were serving it with their pens. The Latvia-based ones reciprocated by deriding the exiles for their moaning for Paradise Lost (i.e. Latvia) with its birch groves and the patriarchal farmstead brought to ruin during the Soviet reign. The trend of sentimental nationalism was a prominent feature of Latvian literature for quite some time.

What is typical of Latvian authors? It's the ambition, common since at least the beginning of the previous century when our greatest poet Rainis and the decadents wrote, to transform Latvian literature. Have we contracted a sort of cabin fever during the Soviet occupation? Only time will tell. For the fifty years we spent in isolation we made do with what was available; writers had to learn to either tell outright lies or half-truths or keep silent .

Yet a typical Latvian is like a radish ― red on the outside and white inside. We retained our “white” essence by and large untouched by the Communist red; literature was our refuge. While the Soviet regime attempted to force upon us anything that was Russian/Communist, the Latvian writers quietly, yet persistently and stubbornly kept to what was our own. Censorship thrived, however, and there was also a  lot of self-censoring prompted by the instinct of self-preservation. And yet during the time we might call The Gag Period there were things written which, when measured against Eternity, will not put us to shame.

We have two annual events that certainly signify public interest in the vitality of Latvian literature: the Poetry Days held in September and Prose Readings in December. We can be satisfied that Latvian literature is still alive ― during these celebrations of poetry and prose, the auditoriums are always packed.