Some philosopher has noted that philosophical work is the repercussion of a single, decisive flash, from which a before and after can easily be delineated. Such a flash is certainly observable; but the curious thing is that, as is customary before thirty, it only points the way, the unavoidable path, but does not ensure where it will lead. By thirty, there is no denying it, philosophy is done more or less as literature is done: recording and discussing impressions. These, although true, although decisive, seem to require time to crystallize. In other words: the admirable, impressive confidence with which some white-headed philosophers express themselves is almost never matched by younger philosophers, which seems to suggest that the great philosopher is discovered early on, but is only realized after a long time of maturation.
Category: Notes
The Bohemian Artist Is a Falsification
By Pío Baroja:
Los pintores —añadió Larrañaga con aire agresivo— serían los menos inteligentes de los artistas si no existieran los escultores, los músicos y los cómicos, que son la quintaesencia de lo cerril. La mayoría de ellos son unos patanes llenos de suficiencia. Nada tan aburrido como un artista. Es más ameno hablar con la portera o con un tendero de comestibles. El pintor y el bohemio, como tipos amenos, ingeniosos y espirituales, son falsificaciones de nuestra época.
There is no denying it: bohemianism has given the world half a dozen geniuses and, for every one of them, the world has produced a good few thousand imbeciles. These circles, everyone knows, are always made up of would-be artists, and sporadically welcome one or two worthy of the name. But as naturally as they visit out of curiosity, they soon leave out of disappointment. A waste of time, sterility and presumption. In these circles, art is nothing more than a pretext, just like soccer, other people’s lives or politics. The bohemian artist is a falsification.
A Lot of Interesting Things Can Be Learned…
A lot of interesting things can be learned from these modern linguistic studies, on which much of today’s philosophy is based. The problem is that, after a few dozen pages we feel strangely like we’re sailing far, far away from reality, already at a point where we cannot establish any connection with it. And so, if we take on board the argument under consideration, we get ourselves into an awful mess. The mistake is all too obvious: these authors, consciously or not, have swapped experience for language, as if the two were interchangeable, as if the former were dispensable. It is a simple mistake, but once it is made, it is very difficult to get around.
Above All, This Criticism That Cannot Analyze…
Above all, this criticism that cannot analyze a verse without associating it with a “movement” is sterile, as if the author, when composing it, was only thinking of adapting it to a “current”, of supporting it with a pile of buzzwords that distinguish a “ lineage”. How many great poets have done this? Is symptomatic this refusal to see the individual, or rather, this insistence on wanting to see an artificial collective mentality, in most cases not only non-existent, but impossible. Sometimes, to avoid such ridicule, it seems that it would be best never to resort to such classifications…