I think of these organized literary movements, these attempts to innovate conjointly, these collusions that resulted in magazines and the like, these personal relationships founded on a supposed artistic affinity… I cannot help but conclude that the greatest blessing that can befall an artist is to never meet a single person inclined toward his art. It is the independence that is at stake; full, inviolable independence. It is to create as if no one could ever discover creation, it is to open oneself without embarrassment, without the possibility of others conjecturing unpleasant correlations, it is to never have to hear a friendly compliment and then have to reciprocate it. God, how ungrateful I have always been! Thank you, thank you very much!
Category: Notes
Modern Psychiatry, Invading the Terrain of Philosophy…
Modern psychiatry, invading the terrain of philosophy, is already a kind of doctrine in which eminent Simões Bacamartes are taking great strides toward the end that the original one had. There is a model of normality, and this model is that of the jester. Anyone who does not fit into it is unquestionably sick and should seek professional help. There are judgments about life, about the environment, about others, there are deliberate behaviors that only spring up in an unhealthy mind. All of them, of course, must be treated. A Seneca, a Schopenhauer, fatally suffers from a disorder. So do all saints, all monks, hermits of any kind, poets, dreamers, adventurers, and many others. A Fernando Pessoa, then, is a raving madman, a lunatic to be tied at the foot of a table. And for all these, the most enlightened modern psychiatry has already attributed a mental illness. All this would be funny, if we were not in an age where freedoms are gradually stifled and individuals are increasingly forced to follow a behavioral primer. It would not be long before the State, based on Science, proposes to correct the disturbed, justifying itself by Marketing. And then the mentally ill, those harmful to the common good, are interned. It is possible to perfectly imagine the Ministry of Health that Orwell did not create, operated by today’s very powerful sociopaths, whose taste for control exceeds all limits ever recorded by history. What a catastrophe!
My Disease
It is obvious that I would eventually find my own illness in psychology books. I had already foreseen this myself. But it was not without surprise that I came across it, precise and undeniable, as if smiling enthusiastically at the first formal contact. I analyze its symptoms and conclude: I am sick. The shrewd psychiatrist convinces me: I am suffering from a rare disease, I need help, I must overcome my resistance, accept it, and run to the doctor’s office. If I have humility, if I make a sincere effort, I can be converted into a normal human being. What a thing… I have identified so much with the disease that I would gladly provide a smiling photo of myself to enrich with an illustration the encyclopedia of mental disorders. But how ugly is the name of my disease! how repulsive! I admit that I suffer, that I am very, very sad, but why this nominal insult? Surely, because the term of terrible taste or the terrible taste of the term accurately defines an animal of my species to the specialist.
A Whisper
I am, concentrated, composing some verses. I feel my mind boiling. I jump from a dictionary to my draft, alter words, conjure up images, and idealize the ideal rhythm. I find a word, fit it into a verse; but I hit the brakes. “Avanças“: this verb lacks rhyme. I want brilliance, I condense the efforts, I energetically stimulate the thought. Then I hear a whisper: “Esquivanças, esquivanças!” Ah, Camões… what a surprise! I automatically smile: I have won the day! An excellent rhyme, excellent, but… what to say? how to disguise my rudeness? I keep smiling. I cannot simply say that times have changed; it is my verses, Mr. Camões, specifically my verses, that have this innate aridity that is refractory to your brilliance and your sensitivity. I do not know how to make this kind of rhyme. Even if I wanted to, even if I force, my fingers will not type this word inside a verse. But I thank you, I thank you very much. I will spend the rest of the day, like a madman, laughing to myself.