The moralist is someone who swallows stones and, unable to digest them, feels them tearing him from the inside in a painful journey that turns into literary groans. Nothing is gained from them, except the realization that they have occurred and will occur again. The moralist can do nothing against the stones, and there seems to be something in him that urges him to eat them again and again.
There Must Be a Difference…
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.