It is a pity that St. Augustine’s Confessions did not found a school, and that the style, or rather the type of discourse used there, is found almost nowhere else. This work teaches, in a word, what it means to speak with the utmost sincerity, something that not only any writer, but any man must know. And, in truth, it is impossible to reach such an extreme unless you are speaking to a knowingly omniscient observer, from whom nothing can be hidden and who, for every word you say, knows many more that you could not or would not confess. It is a pity that such a model did not found a school…
Category: Notes
It Is Not Surprising to See an Innumerable…
It is not surprising to see an innumerable collection of unsuccessful relationships in literature, since that is the natural path in life. What is perhaps curious is the ingenuity of certain artists in portraying the reasons for the inevitable end, when everything usually happens in banal succession. Ah, Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, you misogynists! A relationship ends when the cycle of dissatisfaction begins. The first sign of this is the end, and it does not take a philosopher to see why. The nature of the dissatisfied side is invincible, invincible. No matter the circumstances, the past, the length of the relationship: once the innate tendency is manifested, the end is guaranteed. Because once experienced, dissatisfaction may cease momentarily, but it will come back to destroy. It is like the wild feline that tastes human flesh for the first time: from that moment on, its anthropophagic appetite will never leave it.
Either One Values What Is Painful…
It is no use: either one values what is painful in the past, or one can make little use of it. Time does not return, and it teaches less what requires less effort to absorb. Where it hurts lies an opportunity, and one can only take advantage of the past when one assimilates the paradox of recognizing in it one’s present identity while accepting the part of what was, but is now gone.
Despite Everything That Can Be Said…
Despite everything that can be said to the contrary, modern literature has made some progress in getting closer to everyday life. And if the banality of plots and characters is sometimes annoying, it is certain that possibilities have opened up in this commonplace scenario, and something new can be said. If the previous tradition expanded the imagination, the new one has led to greater identification with the reader, who now finds it easier to read about his own life narrated by someone else, perhaps venturing into possibilities he had not imagined. In this sense, literature has become richer, and it is good that it has.