The positive effects of routine and planning in the execution of difficult and time-consuming work cannot be overstated. One could say that both are mandatory, if there were not, as always, exceptions that invalidate the rule. Planning transforms the immensity of the work into small tasks; thanks to it, there is no thinking when one should simply execute; it facilitates, directs the effort, illuminates the path to be taken, prevents from beforehand unjustified frustrations—and the list could be endless. Of routine, needless to say of the force of habit: routine represents the anticipated victory over all psychological barriers; it is the certainty of advancement and the conversion of the effectiveness of planning into a matter of time. In short: routine and planning are weapons that sweep away difficulties and ensure focus on the final goal.
Category: Notes
It Seems Necessary to Sketch Answers
Immersing oneself in problems, there comes a time when it seems necessary to sketch answers. To do otherwise is to give up or, at least, to stop moving forward. Much can be said about the answers that, for example, Dostoevsky’s work culminated in; what cannot be said is that it did not embody a complete cycle. In it, multiple problems are represented in various manifestations, and for all of them, Dostoevsky points to the solution—whether it is accepted or not. There is no escape: although it is possible to postpone the ultimate confrontation, this veiled need always seems to lurk asking, “So what?”—and it seems a matter of honor to present a conclusion to it.
Literature, to Be Enjoyable…
Literature, to be enjoyable, must eschew judgment and the expression of torment. In this way, it pleases the reader, instead of hurting him. But we should ask: what kind of artist would opt for such an attitude? or rather: how can we justify the artistic impulse by writing pleasantly? It seems that pleasant literature is also literature that is disguised, that lacks sincerity and verve, that is boring because of its futility—despite its “lightness”. From this it follows that the sincere artist is unlikely not to arouse discomfort and, therefore, not to attract a strong rejection.
A Reading Destroyed by a Translator
I am still impressed by the feat of a translator who ruined my experience with the Yoga Sutra. I could not contain myself and researched about the man: I found, on the site of a British university, a photo where I could see him, bald and smiling, above a long text detailing everything he had studied from the cradle and all his venerable academic degrees—and to see how appearances can be deceiving: I was almost saying that the fellow reminds me of Buddha! My impulse was to look for a way to contact him, a phone number, e-mail address, or something else. I soon gave up the idea, but my spirit urged me to tell him: “Sir Master Doctor, your comments are simply unbearable! Reading your translation of the Yoga Sutra is like trying to watch a movie with someone pausing at each scene to explain all the details, the cast’s filmography, the cultural context of the story, the exact phase of the director’s wife’s menstrual cycle at the time of shooting… all this while we simply wish for the movie to happen, for one scene to follow in sequence to the other, so that we can connect them, understand them, and have direct contact with the movie! But you, no, you do not allow it at all! You pause the movie at every speech, for every sentence, you want to immediately explain the semantics of the words, the subliminal meaning of the inflections, the symbolic connotations of the dialogue… Sir, do the world a favor: stop commenting on books! Stop, please, stop immediately! Exonerate the readers from your comments!”