It is troubling to recognize that one is so mediocre as to have never taken a bold step, as remarkable men have customarily done, trusting entirely either in providence or in their own intuition. For such steps are the truly decisive ones, and those that, once taken, produce the fondest memories. And when they fail, well, when they fail, they do so in the same way that indecision and fear do; when they fail, they still leave open the possibility of correction.
Biographies, and Especially Autobiographies…
Biographies, and especially autobiographies, of great men hold a fascination that is hard to match. This is particularly true of those in which the impossible becomes a fait accompli, convincing us that it happens and can happen. That is why it takes a great deal of effort for them to become tedious. More often than not, they convey that perfect and fundamental notion that there is meaning in the whole, something that, if not grasped, is what brands a biography as mediocre. Fortunately, such biographies do not make for good stories, and we rarely have to endure them. On other occasions, we find ourselves facing pages we cannot bear to put down.
A Mere Bacteria, a Viral Infection, a Muscle Strain…
A mere bacteria, a viral infection, a muscle strain are enough to completely disrupt the routine, to leave even the healthiest person lying in bed, groaning. For that reason alone, it is clear that we are nothing, and that gratitude must necessarily follow the good days. When struck down by some ailment, we cannot think of anything else but when recovery will come. Time stands still, the discomfort does not subside, and comfort often comes only from the thought that it could be worse. And, certainly, it could be…
Cioran Rightly Recommended That…
Cioran rightly recommended that anyone experiencing a fit of rage toward someone simply take a piece of paper and a pen and write down a few dozen insults: “He’s a pig, a scoundrel, a criminal, an animal….” The rage passes. If it does not pass, it diminishes dramatically, and putting it down in writing brings about a kind of release. Now, what happens with anger also happens with anguish. But the processes are different. Anger dissipates with the frantic, dizzying outpouring; it dissipates through the way one writes. Anguish, on the other hand, dissipates, at least in part, through rationalization. It is always the same: evoking it seems to intensify it, plunging the mind into a painful process; yet, little by little, as one describes how it operates, it loses its strength, as if understanding were neutralizing it. In the end, one is left with a text: there it is, laid bare, perhaps very unpleasantly; but it has indeed diminished.