Tag: literature

Gilberto Freyre, Mário Ferreira dos Santos, and Otto Maria Carpeaux: three authors who, on their own, could transform Brazil into a new civilization. Add to that, just to stick with them, the dozens of excellent poets the country has already produced, and we would have a broad and fertile literary landscape, sufficient to lay the foundations for a solid intellectual education. All of this already exists and is available to anyone interested. One need only get to know them to see how foolish the claim that “Brazilian literature is worthless” really is. The new civilization, however, may never come; but the offshoots of the one that once existed have already proven themselves worthy of a place in the pantheon of universal culture.

Although the author is likely never entirely satisfied, it is undeniable that, upon finishing a work, when he recalls its beginning—when there was little more than intention and expectation—he must conclude that something special has happened. Sometimes, it is noticing the unimaginable path the creation has taken, and consequently the unexpected outcome, that brings the satisfaction of knowing he has brought something new into being, that he has, at last, done justice to the task he set out to accomplish. Perhaps it is not much, and perhaps this satisfaction does not outweigh the dissatisfaction with the final product; but an author finds fulfillment only through creation, and improves only by building upon what he has already created. A completed work, therefore, will never be so bad that it does not teach him at least one good lesson.

When I think of the sannyasis of India, I realize that I have, of course, renounced nothing, that I lead a life of pleasure and comfort, and that I have faced nothing but minor obstacles in pursuing my calling. If, however, I compare my circumstances with what I have become, if I reflect on the natural path I rejected, on an adult life that has amounted to successive defections, to ever-increasing isolation, to small deprivations that have piled up, to the continuous abandonment of what I was and much of what I was destined to become, I see that it was no small matter. Surely, I would have no trouble convincing an ordinary citizen of my madness. And perhaps I will end up, like Lima Barreto, attending a mental institution. But it is certain that, just as Lima Barreto could not, I could not have done anything different from what I did.

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.