The scandal is, above all, sad. And far more distressing than the events that sparked it is the widespread misery it tends to lay bare. It spreads, spilling beyond its own boundaries; it stirs up and brings to the surface the most despicable aspects of human nature, from repugnant slander to that shameful schadenfreude. Anyone who observes this phenomenon ends up convinced he is living among swine. The frenzied gossip, the presumptuous tone, the demonic pleasure in accusing: all of this provokes a feeling of utter revulsion.
Category: Notes
When Nabokov Talks About His Butterflies…
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.
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.