There must be a difference between long meditated verse and verse carved out in seconds. If not the reader, it is the poet who must feel it. Otherwise, it is admitting that neither the mind nor the effort are of any use. And patience a virtue of those who have no talent. No, no… there seems to be a contradiction here, just as there is justice in the greater gratification that comes from the completion of long works. Great art asks for time, even if it is to ratify a creation conceived suddenly.
Bandeira’s Fundamental Criticism
It seems easy to note that Bandeira’s fundamental criticism, in Os sapos, was directed at the futility of the cultivators of form. He expressed his repulsion for useless aesthetic discussions and frivolous, though refined poetry. The curious thing is that this does not seem to have been noticed by those who, inspired by the poem, founded a new aesthetic, which developed into an even more passionate cult of form. But the worst thing is not this; the worst thing is to see that the new aesthetic has plunged itself into banalities not like the Parnassian ones, but infinitely worse, if not obscene and repulsive, into creations that do nothing but manifest the turpitude of the mind that created them. It is an aesthetic present most often in poems that combine ignorance with artistic inability and lowliness of spirit. On second thought, what a feat!
Man Should Be Forbidden the Possibility…
There! Now I cannot get rid of the memory of the fellow dancing with a harp under the applause of the audience. Man should be forbidden the possibility of collective demonstration. No doubt such a measure would bury at least half the world’s problems. Something inexplicable happens when man mixes—and annuls—himself in a collectivity. A collectivity, even if formed by intelligent men, is always stupid. This has already been noted, I do not know whether by Nelson, O’Neill or Wilde. Perhaps by Ibsen, and more likely by all four. Man, in a group, should only act as in orchestras where applause is forbidden and the verb is worth expulsion.
Any Work Is Bearable…
By Guyau:
« Maudit soit ce travail qui, semblable à la flamme,
Dévore notre vie et la disperse au vent ;
Maudit ce luxe vain, ces caprices de femme
Toujours prêts à payer sa vie à qui la vend ! »
Oh, despair! And the impressive, the unbelievable thing, is to see that such verses today can only come out of very rare feathers, those unable to adapt to the prevailing normality. Undoubtedly, such an unacknowledged feeling is a sin against modern society, which demands the acceptance and exaltation of these qualities and this conduct that seems to strangle human dignity. I believe it was Dostoevsky who reflected, in the freezing cold prison of Siberia, that any work is bearable, but to see it useless, to see oneself striving for nothing, that is absolutely revolting and intolerable to man: in such a situation, the best thing, no doubt, is not to exist. But Dostoevsky, perhaps, was too hasty: at least today, very few seem to fit his observation.