All the contradictions, the dehumanization, and the very failure of Tolstoy’s life as recounted by Paul Johnson are very sad. However, it would be unwise to take his account as a summary of Tolstoy’s life: the biography lacks the literary testimony. And, without a doubt, the image we form of Tolstoy changes when we compare the two. On the one hand, there is the outward appearance, the actions, and all manner of human weaknesses and flaws that tend to surface when a man is called upon to act. All of this is regrettable. However, when we read a few lines by Tolstoy, we realize there is something different about him. It is not a matter of literary genius, but of the absolute impossibility that such a profound understanding of human nature could not have entailed an awareness of his own contradictions, his own dehumanization, and his own failure. It is impossible to imagine that Paul Johnson’s Tolstoy did not experience an excruciating inner conflict. And, upon noticing this, only the devil is incapable of empathy.
Tag: literature
It Is a Rather Silly Notion That…
It is a rather silly notion that, with each new poem, the author must “invent” something new. And it goes hand in hand with this other idea that the greatest poet is the one who has employed the greatest number of formulas, who has explored the widest range of compositional possibilities, who, in short, “has not repeated himself.” That is why versification manuals, after a certain point, begin to grow tiresome. The same is true of treatises on stylistics. There comes a point where the essential seems long since surpassed, and the text begins to dwell on the irrelevant. The student is left with the feeling that his noble interest is being trivialized, and that art itself is of little value.
It Would Undoubtedly Be More Fruitful…
It would undoubtedly be more fruitful, rather than speaking of “styles” and “schools,” to classify writers by types of artistic motivation. Curiously enough, however, there are many cases in which, based on the work itself, one can barely discern what motivated the writing. Or rather, such a classification would reveal that the most trivial of motivations were responsible for the bulk of what was written. On the other hand, however, there would be no doubt that a writer like Proust belongs to a specific family of writers. And that Antero, Vigny, Leopardi, and Unamuno are all, in their respective countries, representative of a similar motivation. It would not be difficult to demonstrate that these latter, through their artistic form, sought nothing more than to give the most refined expression to the issues they deemed fundamental. But in literature, unfortunately, not everyone is driven by motivations so simple and of such clear significance.
Some Complain That Contemporary Literature…
Some complain that contemporary literature lacks life, and that it resembles a castle of empty words and ideas. Well, that is the practical and predictable result of Saussure’s idea, according to which the meaning of a word is nothing more than the difference between it and all the others. I myself, when I think a little about this modern linguistics, feel that I am slowly ceasing to be a man and turning into a word. With such advances in this new science, I imagine that, after a graduate degree in linguistics, a subject should already be able to see his name instead of his face in a mirror. There is nothing surprising about this.