In general, conceptually and in practice, when we think about literature, we take it as a state of awareness or a contrary word arousing disquiet, as an ultimate field with the closest connection to truth. Recognising and identifying literature in this way also makes our life easier. Then, does literature think for itself? Or, does literature doubt and mistrust itself, and if so, when? Does an aesthetic, a word distilled from delirium or pain, spring from the resilient heart of literature? Or, does this derive from a collaborative nature clinging on to humanity? When literature starts to question itself, does the writer become the preacher (saviour) or the murderer of that doubt? Is literature really the most sincere side of the reader and the writer? Let us ask these questions.