The man loves coffee. For years, for his entire life, he has drunk it every morning and enjoyed it. He loves the warm sensation on his tongue, the flavor that lingers in his mouth, and the obvious mental boost he relies on to work. He considers himself a connoisseur of the drink, just as he believes in the real benefits it brings to his daily life. In short: coffee makes him happy. Then comes the day when he tastes a superior-quality coffee that leaves his palate in ecstasy. When he returns to the old coffee he used to drink, he clearly realizes it is rubbish. He investigates the matter and discovers that it is indeed rubbish, in which real coffee, though made from lower-quality beans, is mixed with a wide variety of impurities, including some too unspeakable to name, and the whole lot is over-roasted to mask its defects. From that day forward, the same coffee, the drink he once cherished so much and which had brought him pleasure his whole life, will never satisfy him again. And philosophy, as it always does, poses the question: is knowledge worth it?
Category: Notes
It Is an Almost Heroic Act to Devote…
It is an almost heroic act to devote the final hours of an exhausting day to literature, when body and mind seem unable to bear any further effort. It really is the devil, as Carpeaux once vented. And through another venting, that of Ferreira de Castro, one realizes that the situation never takes any form other than that of a grueling struggle: even habit does not seem strong enough to prevent those days when one succumbs to exhaustion, when one cannot think, and cannot write. Ah, how much easier life would be without these two occupations! And yet, such is the lot of most writers, and it was under similar conditions that duty overcame nature and produced much of the best that literature has to offer.
Literarily Speaking, There Is No Doubt…
Literarily speaking, there is no doubt that the didactic and confessional tones are not among the most refined forms, and that they often provoke aversion in experienced readers. However, if we take Tolstoy as an example, we will see that, although they are certainly not his masterpieces, the books he wrote using these tones possess a special charm. It is as if the great author, the man of indisputably recognized qualities, were to strip himself of all sorts of artifice in order to objectively express what has most deeply affected him and what, if he could, he would like to teach us. For a novelist, this is an act that requires courage, because it means producing a work lacking in literary charm, a work that will likely displease. But we, who read it, cannot deny that, through it, we come a little closer to the man who chose neither to hide nor to protect himself.
The Visual Arts Possess a Special Capacity to Shock
The visual arts possess a special capacity to shock—instantly, unexpectedly—which, from the very first encounter, can create a memory that will never fade. This is, for example, what can happen to someone standing before a sculpture by Aleijadinho for the first time. The moment the eyes fix on the work and grasp its drama, it is as if it pierces them like a bolt of lightning; there is a startle, and that instant of bewilderment is etched forever in the mind. Afterward, one admires the details and reflects on the impossible feat; but from then on, it is that sudden shock that the mind will first recall whenever it evokes the name of the brilliant creator.