Tag: literature

To imagine that there was a Carpeaux before the invention of the computer gives one pause. An active reader, over the course of a decade, produces thousands upon thousands of notes. Three or four decades of study, therefore, amount to a volume that no human mind is capable of comprehending, unless one engages in a constant process of rereading and reorganization, a process that never ends because there are always old notes to revisit, and there are always new ideas and new connections to be made through this revisitation. A computer, if used wisely, makes research tremendously easier: a task that might take an hour is sometimes reduced to minutes. Even so, it seems almost impossible to match the feat of those ancient scholars, whose notes were tucked away in their own thick tomes—something that, today, sends a shiver down one’s spine.

There is no point in reading unless it is to make the material one’s own; and that is rarely achieved on a first reading. Therefore, assimilation requires rereading and returning to what first caught one’s attention. That is why the intellectual must spend a good deal of time planning and implementing his personal method of organization. Notes and highlighted passages must become a living part of one’s study routine: they must be at hand when needed, and always in plain sight to prevent them from falling into oblivion. It is a matter of rereading them methodically and seeing that, with this practice, they take root within oneself.

The great interest that epistles generate today stems primarily from the fact that this is a form of literature that is no longer produced, and that they sometimes reveal the most intimate content of certain works. Here, above all, lies their greatest appeal: through letters, we can discover an author who may only reveal himself in the deeper layers of his work, but whose understanding is essential. It happens, however—and it is regrettable to note this—that we do not always find the sincerity we seek in the letters. And we clearly realize that they were written with a view to later publication. The style, thus, loses its appeal; an uncomfortable feeling arises that we are being deceived. And our interest wanes…

What can be said about the study of literary theory is the same as what can be said about the study of stylistics: both contribute and are valuable to the writer who takes his work seriously. They provide him with the means to creatively express whatever he may wish to say. But they will not help him find something to say. Nor will they make his themes more interesting. Nor do they constitute an essential field of study. The study of grammar, indeed, is fundamental and should not be neglected. A true writer who has mastered it, however, can very well produce great works while remaining completely unaware of the subject matter of those stimulating but overrated disciplines. In fact, that is what all writers did until the 20th century.