When we read some economists, economics seems like a problem so logical and so simple that it really scares the stupidity of those who govern it in the real world. Today, there are more than enough historical examples of economic measures that have proven to be fruitful or disastrous, so that, in the vast majority of cases, or rather, as far as macroeconomic guidelines are concerned, there could be no doubt about how one who intends prosperity should act. But then, theoretical pragmatism seems absolutely inapplicable to reality, in which the most diverse interests, some mean, some naive, perverse or irresponsible, are placed in the foreground, to the detriment of that already weakened and distant objective that should guide all economic measures. The conclusion is only one: the human element makes any equation unfeasible.
The Use of Ink and Paper
It is with great enthusiasm that I read notes from writers justifying, in this century, the use of ink and paper. It is the arguments concerning productivity that most impress me: for many, the cerebral rhythm seems to fit better with manual writing. I am amazed to note that, for centuries, this is exactly how literature has been made, by this method that is as averse to my way of writing. There is no doubt that there is a certain charm, a certain enchantment in seeing the ink on the paper, in seeing in the handwriting another trace of the author’s uniqueness, in seeing the natural cadence of handwriting, whereby slowly the letters take shape, the idea turns into words, and the mental creation materializes. It is all stimulating. But… what to say? These writers claim that the slowness of the method favors fair reflection and, therefore, more precise words emerge. For my part, I only know writing as a process much more like the destruction and reconstruction of sentences: the mind, aided by the rapid beating of the fingers on the keys, spits out ideas disorderly on the screen; the brain then reasons and goes about ordering and shaping these ideas, which are then rewritten in a more appropriate manner. Every two sentences, one is completely erased and better conformed in a new attempt; at the end of the paragraph, new corrections… So here I am left wondering what I would do if I had to adapt myself to paper and ink: and it seems to me, more than ever, that Kafka’s ever-burning fire is justified.
The Moments When the Mind Turns…
The moments when the mind turns to the past and risks a synthesis of what endures from all that it has done and lived are always fruitful: it is often here that apparently useless works prove their worth; it is also here that routine futilities are exposed in a patent way. Then it is possible to notice that there is little that is truly resistant to the effects of time, and thus to reinvigorate priorities that may have been neglected. But beyond that: it is when the mood weakens and hope is shattered that such an exercise proves most useful—and the mind sees in it something that justifies persistence.
There Is Nothing More Boring to the Modern Reader…
There is nothing more boring to the modern reader, inhabitant of the gray metropolis, than such pastoral poetry. It is impossible for him to go on for more than a few pages in this poetic genre that cannot stir anything in him. This is firstly because the modern reader lacks the experience of harmony with the environment that is indispensable to open a pastoral poem. Having been bombarded from birth with the visual aggression that is a metropolis; having always associated the common environment with danger, with the possibility of a sudden robbery, with a sense of discomfort, insecurity, and fear, he can never understand how anyone can derive satisfaction from the environment. But beyond that: his whole existence has been shaped in a rhythm completely distinct from that of the poet accustomed to the countryside, so that between them there are so few psychological and behavioral similarities that they can definitely be said to be strangers.