Intellectually, planning is always more stimulating than acting. For many reasons, especially because of the broader, sometimes unlimited horizons and the possibility of changing them entirely without damage or complications. In other words: plans exist as if suspended in mid-air; nothing pulls them, nothing pushes them, the connections they establish are ethereal, malleable, until the very moment they are put into practice. Here, the entire structure crystallizes, and if it does not do so definitively, it does so in such a way that, from that point on, to change is to break. Intellectually, planning is undoubtedly more stimulating than acting. But action, bearing the weight of responsibility and the risk of error, is superior in terms of emotion.
When, Four Years Ago…
When, four years ago, I felt I was ready to write, or rather, I felt it was no longer possible to delay starting to work, I set myself a deadline and a number of works that would serve as a preamble to what I intended to do. The aim was to disperse predefined themes by genre and style, exposing problems rather than presenting solutions. This year, the deadline comes to an end, and I reach it with the certainty that what has been done, whether better or worse than planned, is done and is sufficient. Now it is time to change both the pace and the direction.
Another Little Volume…
Finally, another little volume written, ready for revision. This, it seems, was the most painful of them all; in prose, it was undoubtedly the one that came out more slowly, less spontaneously and more compelled, and thus another offspring of this powerful obligation. Many things come to mind now that, after four years of uninterrupted work, the lines, although not excessively abundant, although fewer than planned, are already something. Something that represents the realization of a good hundreds of hours of work, concentrated effort and inner struggle. The words do not seem more flexible than before; on the contrary, they seem heavier, as if time had only accentuated the responsibility in choosing them. The feeling is not one of relief or satisfaction with the work completed; there is simply the certainty that it is necessary to carry on.
By Himself, Man Is Nothing
By himself, man is nothing. But in him lies the potentiality of visualization which, when exercised, allows him to realize. His primary value is therefore limited to a potency. To realize it, he needs will. And he becomes something as he accomplishes something. Finally, he is destined to become the work itself.