The professional writer is obliged to have a pen and a notepad at hand at all times,—whether awake or asleep,—physical or virtual. Otherwise, he will lose most of his ideas, his work will suffer, and he will not be worthy of the professional epithet. Stories takes shape, solutions are found when conscious reasoning rests and the brain works quietly. Unexpectedly, although predictably, it manifests itself, so the professional must immediately register the manifestation, otherwise he tends to lose it. Cherishing his own work, the writer will never allow himself the luxury of wasting his moments of inspiration.
Category: Notes
The History of Great Men Who Stood Out From the Crowd
It has been said—by Carlyle?—that the history of mankind is the history of great men who have risen from the null crowd that composes it. From this, the modern tragedy: the democratic social structure simply restrains the rise of great men, putting in their place abject demagogues, slaves to the popular will. To rise and achieve recognition, a modern man must become a spokesman for the stupid majority, setting aside his individuality to become a circus entertainer, a crowd-shaker. It is precisely the distinguished who cannot rise, this possibility being exclusive to those who resemble as many individuals as possible. The failure!
It Is Curious How Kierkegaard, a Prolix Writer…
It is curious how Kierkegaard, a prolix writer,—who sins by being prolix,—hardly irritates me. Although there are passages in his work that cause me great boredom, still they do not irritate me. Some others… Oh, God! The name of the moment is Jean-Paul Sartre. How is it possible that Sartre, a remarkable writer, can make me want to unlearn how to read, when I endure many, many pages of Kierkegaard’s prose? It seems that I can tolerate prolixity when I notice the author’s emotional state, when I notice that the topic is close to his heart, and, above all, when I notice his sincerity. On the other hand, if the author spends words on nothing, if he runs away from the proposed theme, losing himself in futile and vain reasoning, wasting my sight, then an uncontrollable impulse points out to me the exasperating character of what I am reading. I close the work, slam it against the shelf, and verbalize an insult. Sometimes I regret… This is not the case. Indescribable joy at abandoning Sartre to pull out a volume of Helena Blavatsky. Holy irritation!
Nostalgia of the Dueling Days
Today, an imbecile feels his vanity scratched and, in revenge, sneaks in to harm another by waging a hate campaign against him—that is, by inciting others to hate him; by rallying a cowardly majority. A few centuries ago, the offended, the truly offended, could resort to defiance, refining it if he left the choice of weapon up to the challenged. If the offended refused, he assumed to be a coward, and the honor of the offended was automatically redeemed. The duel was an instrument that put offenders in a very bad situation: the offended had only to win. If he lost the duel, he emerged as a brave man; if he won, he had his moral damage repaid. How everything has changed! In this age of cowards, dueling on equal terms has become literature: there is no one who challenges, and no one that has the courage to accept a challenge. In those days, when the possibility of a duel was evident, people respected each other more.