Three months without composing a single, solitary verse. My mind boiling like never before. As an excuse, the other jobs and the stupid imperative of necessity. On more than one occasion, the feeling of a near explosion, the call of the mind to record in art the powerful and terrible judgment, the cry in verse form. And, alas, the silence, the rational inaction to let the impulse slow down. Indeed, it does slow down—and fate has another chance. In vain, however, for it will surely return…
Day and Night…
In thoughts, the ultimate and extreme movement not executed in life. And the consequences, all of them afflicting and pulsating as soon as the head rests and the eyes close. The need to annihilate, never forgetting a single word, carrying out all the violent impulses controlled by the rational manifesting itself, every night, while silence reigns outside. In life, in art, the effort to slow them down, the effort to mask their monstrous character, the effort for the predominance of conscience. And so the mind submerges into double life.
It Is Not Possible to Detach From Surroundings
It is true: it is not possible to detach from surroundings, to be a ghost, completely alien to time. The environment, like it or not, is an important component. However, there is a daily and useful exercise that consists of distancing oneself, or in other words, to be silent. To turn eyes inward and, as far as possible, ignore surroundings. Choose isolation, deny active participation, accept and adapt. Seek, if possible, to close ears, blocking out external influence. And thus, allow that only the inextinguishable part, or, let’s make a concession, the essential part, remains of the environment.
Nationalism and Stupidity
Few ideas seem as stupid to me as nationalism. I do not close the sentence and the mind points me to the objection: Dostoevsky, Hugo, Cervantes… I reject it. What these and many other “patriots” did goes beyond the limited boundaries of where they lived: the art they created is an expression of universal value. It would be unworthy to summarize them as “nationalists”. Nationalism is one of the many doors to stupidity, the ordinary patriot is a pretentious ignorant who always limits his intellect, thanks to that despicable feeling that Cioran repeatedly called péché contre l’esprit. Cioran: an example of courage and freedom of spirit; a man without a homeland; someone who has learned, in practice, that there is not an inch between national pride and the most abject idolatry.