Some writer once made the wise recommendation: one work at a time. And there is no doubt that concentrating the mind on a single piece of work can only speed it up, intensify it and be of great benefit to creation. But is it possible to stick to this rule? Perhaps with prose. With poetry, however, the situation changes, and when the planned verses exceed a few hundred, the mind seems to beg for an escape valve into which it can pour lines and lines and experience the relief of fluidity. Without this valve, soon the unproductivity, added to the ideas that accumulate in a closed deposit, begin to torture. For the poet, practicing prose seems psychologically essential.
The Cultural Environment in Russia…
The cultural environment in Russia in the mid-19th century seems fantastic. Not only because of the vigor, the effervescence of the debates, the practical consequences of the ideas in circulation, the active censorship, the controversies, the political events… but it is astonishing, first of all, the calibre of the authors who were publishing in the press—a press that was still home to much, much literature, and boasted a plethora that Russia had never produced and will never produce;—then, the relevance of what was being discussed, the historical importance of the discussions. The enthusiasm with which all this took place proved to be entirely justified, and words fail to describe the contrast with what is happening in the press today. It is didactic, however, to note the explosive results that followed such vigor.
Worries and Small Mistakes…
Fortunately, worries and small mistakes, even if they are plentiful, pass without any effort being made. They simply pass, and with an ease that sometimes seems miraculous. Then, mind refreshed, spirit restored, there is a new opportunity to return to the principal. The hardest thing is often to maintain this certainty with patience: there are times when the view darkens, and all one can do is hold back and wait.
It Is Characteristic of Many Authors…
It is characteristic of many authors that they express themselves with restraint, more by suggesting than by actually expressing what they want. In some cases, the suggestion certainly works, and perhaps says more than direct expression could. But this technique, if always employed, results in a vice that harms the author even more than the work. It is a vice that, whenever the verb is born inflamed in the mind, rejects its inflamed expression on paper. And so it is as if the author were forbidden certain ways of speaking. It is not just an obvious limitation, but the deprivation of extremely important artistic experiences: once the writer breaks all ties and forces his spirit to express what he wants with maximum intensity, he will realize that there, in the act of creation, something different has happened; but, above all, he will realize that, by concentrating entirely and sincerely on this, something different always happens.