It is true that the last two centuries have accustomed man to a workload unthinkable in other times. From this we can see that, as far as literature is concerned, the works of great authors have taken on greater proportions: today, the natural thing is for serious writers to be like typewriters and to produce, time permitting, dozens of volumes. What can we conclude? First, that perhaps fecundity has become vulgar, as it is almost a contemporary requirement; second, that, as a result, one can no longer associate fecundity with the old estrus, since the former has become as automated by the spirit of this time; finally, that perhaps one has to admit that such fecundity entails a vice—a vice which, more than ever, one must be careful to avoid…
Life Would Be Fairer…
Life would be fairer if it were possible to plan it, or better yet, if we knew in advance its length. Then it would be infinitely simpler to balance, with intelligence, prudence and daring, detaching once and for all a possible cowardice from the first and an irresponsibility from the second. This is, in any case, a childish dream… and we have to live in the dark, so that the very words prudence and daring often become meaningless when viewed in perspective: I mean, how can we call prudent, for example, someone who saves money on the eve of death? We must, again and again, live in the dark, and this means that our ignorance can simply cancel out the effects of our reason.
Dedicating to Shoes
The advantage of the intellectual who, like Boehme, devotes himself to shoes during the day is that he can write what he wants, when he wants and how he wants, also read what he wants for as long as he wants, and publish what he has written only if he wants. In short: freedom. No need to get involved in polemics, to please or submit to editors and other writers, no need to deal with reader-clients, no nothing. There are shoes that will always serve as intellectual deliverance. There is nothing to pay for that self-sufficiency and carefree feeling. Freedom, after all, is always dignity.
The Affliction of the Intellectual
The affliction of the intellectual is to find himself powerless against the natural course of thought of his time. Even if he decides to do something, it will be useless and frustrating. The qualities he needs to impose and influence are often opposite to those he cultivated to become himself. But it should not be regretted, because in the end the “thought of his time” only matters as raw material for his reflections. Fads fall as they arise, taking their ideologists and enthusiasts with them. One should not and cannot expect anything but a few isolated individuals who make intellectual life gratifying.