When Nabokov talks about his butterflies, they become interesting even to those who despise them. This is because Nabokov, in addition to being a masterful writer, when he talks about butterflies, he talks about something that captivates him; he speaks enthusiastically, causing at least some of this great enthusiasm to radiate to the reader. With this example, it becomes easy to see that literature makes possible unlikely, unexpected, even impossible readings, provided the author is authentic and deals with subjects that truly interest him—acting as a host who, in an act of good faith, shows the visitor what he considers to be his most valuable possession. Perhaps the most evident effect of a great writer is precisely this: he stimulates, even if by force, the reader’s interest.
Category: Notes
It Is as Liberating as It Is Unpopular…
It is as liberating as it is unpopular to reject all labels, to cling to nothing, to allow oneself to always say what one wants. To philosophize without the title of philosopher, to write poetry without the title of poet, to write without ever earning the title of writer. In this way, it is possible to do all of this authentically, that is, by employing authentic means of expression in an attempt to address the problems that experience has presented. No title will provide gratification comparable to this, to know oneself, to feel oneself spending time on matters of personal importance. And if nothing comes of the effort, at least the comforting sensation will remain that one’s attention was directed toward the questions that life has prescribed.
“I Am a Philosopher; I Do Philosophy”
“I am a philosopher; I do philosophy”—says the builder of imaginary castles, just as the one who plays at creating, arranging, and tampering with words says: “I am a writer; I do literature.” And although both, perhaps, feel justified by the status their craft confers upon them, the truth is that nothing they produce has any existential meaning. Pointing this out seems silly, but the years pass and life presses for a true justification. The philosopher, the writer, cannot find it in the past, having dedicated it to external motivations, detached from themselves. So they repent; perhaps still with time to redeem it, but having already left behind the harmful influence and example.
Some Ideas Must First Be Conceived…
Some ideas must first be conceived before they can be understood; lived before their origins can finally be grasped. Therefore, if one’s first encounter with them is through the written word, misunderstanding is inevitable. When, however, the opposite occurs, it is curious to note that an idea, even if already conceived and experienced firsthand, can remain hidden in the mind, without manifesting itself, as if it had not yet been properly assimilated. Then comes contact with its precise and detailed written exposition. The mind is enlightened; it grasps the meaning and the motivation. And it realizes that, without prior experience, it could never have understood it.