Mysteries of the Human Psyche

Why does the mind always boil when we lie down? Why just in need of rest the mind insist in thinking about the last truths, planning everything, wanting to pass the ruler over life? Why does deeper rumination always occur in the absence of the sun? Why does consciousness always, like a bat, choose the night to wake up? Mysteries… Mysteries that accredit insomnia as driver of intellectual life —and, of course, accredit the bad mood in the mornings…

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Faust, by Goethe

I had the pleasure of reading Faust, by Goethe, in the translation of one of the masters of Portuguese language: António Feliciano de Castilho. First, on translation: historically, my almost unique criterion for choosing translations has been to seek them directly from the original, judging that, thus, the new work garners greater fidelity to the basis-work. Today I see that, undoubtedly, I have always neglected the determining factor of a translation: the quality of the translator as a poet. Petty habit of looking for the cheapest books… Translations are distinct works, almost separate from the original ones, so the translator, if he risks the difficult work of putting in his language the verses of great foreign poets, must also be a great poet. And Castilho, repeating, is one of the masters of the Portuguese language. It was surprising to me to know that in his Portuguese version of Faust, Castilho did not derive from the original German, but mediating three Portuguese and four French versions. The result was a beautiful poem. In fact, if we see the expressive resources, the melody of languages as irreplicable, — and they are, — derive or not from the original loses preponderance over the quality of the translator poet. Now on Faust: the work, composed over sixty years by Goethe, dates from almost two centuries ago. How not to empathize, or: how not to take on Dr. Faust’s problem like ours? At first, the obsessive search for knowledge: to some extent, it is impossible for us not to judge it as fruitless and vain. Then the perhaps natural consequence: the loss of pleasure, satisfaction, charm for the earthly life. After: the absence of fear, insubmission, the revolt of the spirit and, of course, helplessness. What to expect from this life? Does it make sense to act? Is the earthly life somehow virtuous? Is there, at last, redemption for this sick species who has become known as a modern man? Goethe, in Faust, makes music while risking admirable answers.

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Short Clauses and Pace

I flip through some writing manuals, read articles by scholars of letters, and perceive a certain obsession with short clauses as style formers. I do not deny: short clauses, in fact, add dynamism to any text. But style is a mixture between expressiveness, concision and rhythm, and if we can say that short clauses dynamize, the long ones, in turn, deepen. Let’s see: Nelson Rodrigues. This master, especially in his fictional narratives, made use of the short clauses with extreme expertise. Meanwhile, we have to think: how are Rodriguian novels? Soon we will see that Nelson purposely imprinted dynamism to the narratives, since the plots are developed in accelerated progression, generating apprehension and expectation. It is a technique, instigates the reader. But Nelson knew, like few, to print rhythm to his texts, and the clauses in which the master wanders, extends, diluting the germinated tension in previous clauses are not rare. Now let’s look at the other side: I think of Dostoevsky, Thomas Mann, Hermann Broch. What would these authors be without their long clauses? Or rather: how to print depth in the narrative without using robust paragraphs and long constructions? Is it possible? Evident… but it is undeniable that this is an accurate technique. It is all a question of asking ourselves: what do we want to write? An objective narration? Describe the sequence of an action? Or sink a character in a reflection? Evoke reverie in the reader? They are different goals. And if, as I have read more than once, long clauses may suggest affectation, provoke boredom, stir up futile details, no doubt a narrative developed exclusively in short clauses will sound like shallow, broken and banal.

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The World as Will and Representation, by Schopenhauer

The World as Will and Representation… I think of this work always in dismay, because it violently attacked my already weak human dimension. The history is long… I remember that as soon as I started to study philosophy, the name Schopenhauer became recurrent. At first, I tried to study the history of philosophy, from a comprehensive perspective, to make it possible for me to structure a long-term study plan in order to initiate direct contact with the works. Whatever the source, there was the author directing bitter words to Schopenhauer, associating him with a radical pessimism, pointing the harmful bias of his work. Shortly thereafter, I read one or two books by Schopenhauer: I saw intelligence, but nothing so calamitous; I put it aside and carried on my studies. So I continued to listen to Schopenhauer, always Schopenhauer, and I remember reading an excellent essay by Thomas Mann, an author I hold in high esteem. Mann, in the essay, explores Schopenhauer’s influence on his own work, thanking for having read the philosopher early in his career. However, he classifies Schopenhauer’s work (whose heart is The World as Will and Representation) as a philosophy for “young people”, saying Schopenhauer then worked until the end of his days to justify, with “sinister fidelity”, a youthful philosophy. After that passage I completely lost interest in Schopenhauer, I ignored everything that Thomas Mann himself had said about the deep marks that Schopenhauer left on him for the rest of his life. I mean, I, in my early twenties, found myself immune to any kind of “philosophy for young people”, immune and disinterested. Then time ran. Further on, Nietzsche, who so often spelled the name of his illustrious countryman. Before Nietzsche, and even before studying philosophy, Machado de Assis, whose work held me and charmed me for years and years. When I study Machado de Assis by the critics, the scare: Schopenhauer’s notorious influence. Then I decide: I will read this The World as Will and Representation. Well… It is difficult to find words to describe this book and its reflections in my life. I recall Thomas Mann associating Schopenhauer with the search for death in life: perhaps it is a good definition for the work. What I can say is, for me, it was reading without return. There is evident wisdom in the book, which is but an extensive meditation. But this work, if read as one should read any work, with sincerity and giving credit to the author, is an authentic poison, and perhaps the most potent. There it is: I read The World as Will and Representation and I have esteem, admiration for Schopenhauer; but Schopenhauer, quite frankly, is no author to me, a born indifferent, incurable misanthrope, often accused of insensitive and with skepticism running through veins. Schopenhauer took care to atrophy my human dimension even more, exterminated my illusions, contaminated me forever. Nowadays it is fashionable to have “opinions”, “convictions”, read a book and say “I agree” or “I do not agree”. How easy it would be for my life if my mind were adept at such simplification… I would read The World as Will and Representation and say, with a finger up: I do not agree! After reading, however, I judged nothing had occurred. I continued my studies, I went ahead. I was immersed in some French authors. The months passed, and apparently, I felt immune to the philosophy exposed in the book. How naïve… It took me a year for me to notice echoing in my mind, every day, the words of this harmful book: “happiness is not to suffer”, “desire is an inexhaustible source of suffering”, “deny desire”, “deny life”… And I realized myself impregnated to the nail of indifference, oblivious to everything I once valued. I judged my acts and saw that there was nothing else that was dear to me as before, I became a tomb, distant from everyone, including the closest. I, who have never been a fan of myself, who have always judged myself harmful, pernicious, less human than the others; I, who have always been against my own instincts, having me in terrible esteem, measuring words all the time not to frustrate people, have seen the darkest and most unpleasant side of my personality strengthen and solidify in me, perhaps forever. All against my own will, imposed, driven by this damned The World as Will and Representation that, even if I try to deny, perhaps was the most impactful reading of my entire life.

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