It is in the moments when the spirit gives in and lowers itself that the motivation that characterizes it is impetuously reborn: ceasing to be itself makes evident, by contrast, the true value of that which it is. Then, once again, the guidelines and priorities are drawn with renewed stimulus, which is followed by the conduct that again proves ideal. Already at home, it returns to satisfaction. And from this it seems reasonable to conclude that sporadic falls are necessary to restore the humility that is the enemy of inertia, the humility eager to mold itself and which, in the act of molding, gradually becomes better.
Vigny and Kafka
Vigny lines:
Dans cette prison nommée la vie, d’où nous partons les uns après les autres pour aller à la mort, il ne faut compter sur aucune promenade, ni aucune fleur. Dès lors, le moindre bouquet, la plus petite feuille, réjouit la vue et le coeur, on en sait gré à la puissance qui a permis qu’elle se rencontrât sous vos pas.
Il est vrai que vous ne savez pas pourquoi vous êtes prisonnier et de quoi puni ; mais vous savez à n’en pas douter quelle sera votre peine : souffrance en prison, mort après.
Ne pensez pas au juge, ni au procès que vous ignorerez toujours, mais seulement à remercier le geôlier inconnu qui vous permet souvent des joies dignes du ciel.
It is curious how Vigny and Kafka, starting from similar premises, come to completely different conclusions. The analogy between life and prison, the absurdity of unjustified punishment, the certainty of condemnation… all of these factors, in both, are like obsessions from which they cannot divert themselves. The recognition of their own conditions seems to them an imposition of conscience. In Kafka’s hands, the plot culminates in despair; in Vigny’s, therein lies a recommendation that would sound strange to many of his critics: “remercier le geôlier inconnu qui vous permet souvent des joies dignes du ciel.” “Joies dignes du ciel”: this, from the pen of the “pessimist” Alfred de Vigny! It is true, it is true: not all critics have ignored this face of him…. But it is possible to go further and say that, perhaps, Kafka himself would be the target of hasty judgments. Would such a look be impossible in Kafka? I mean: the last act of Kafka’s life, his testament, leaves us reticence. But it would not be a bad hypothesis to conjecture Kafka’s astonishing resolution as simple regret of his conclusions or, at least, regret that his work does not leave the outline of a different conclusion…
Although the Eastern Explanations for the Extreme…
Although the Eastern explanations for the extreme discrepancies in the conditions under which beings are born on this earth seem very reasonable, it does not seem to make sense that a psychopathic murderer is reborn a saint, or the other way around. In other words, where is the link that unites such different natures? It is very difficult to accept the doctrine of karma when we see individuals paying for acts that they would not be capable of committing. If the same essence has to manifest itself in different circumstances, something of itself has to subsist in order to be identifiable, that is, to be itself in a different circumstance. It does not seem plausible that, in each life, the same being develops a temperament that bears no resemblance to what it once was. If this is so, what, then, defines it? And how to admit the supposed “spiritual evolution” through which it must pass, if in each life, unrecognizably, it returns to square one? To these questions, the answers do not seem satisfactory…
The Poet Easily Becomes a Good Prose Writer
It has been noticed that the poet easily becomes a good prose writer, while the opposite hardly ever happens. Compared to prose, poetry is so much more difficult that the first seems almost funny to the poet. To compose verses, one must first be in a propitious state of mind, that is, in a state of mind that allows one to concentrate entirely on the composition. Dispersed, the mind does not make poetry. Then, the slowness in composing, the technical difficulties, the large number of elements that must be harmonized in the creation, all this, over time, accustoms the mind to a patience and discipline that, for prose lines, is far beyond what is necessary. One does prose by force; fluid and natural prose. The simple movement of the fingers is enough to stimulate mental creation which, as if by automatism, registers itself as it is being created. How different it is to write poetry! The prose writer who is used to this almost therapeutic ease, if he risks composing verses, will find something very, very different…