Arquivo de literature | Page 108 of 111

Candide, or Optimism, by Voltaire

Just as George Orwell’s Animal Farm is the best vaccine against communism, Voltaire’s Candide, or Optimism is the best vaccine against the risible contemporary notion of man’s self-reliance. “You can get what you want,” “The world is a projection of your interior,” “Thinking positive is the key to success,” and many other contemporary jargons are easily overthrown by Voltaire’s derision. And if we have today caveats as to the judgment of Leibniz’s philosophy made in Candide, due to the rediscovery of this philosopher already in the 19th century, Voltaire’s immortal work never loses its instructive value. In short, Voltaire places Candide in the front of human impotence when facing the environment, of the relentless human wickedness in all lands and the vile desire that commands our actions. And Candide, even finding earthly paradise after a scandalous succession of troubles, decides to leave it after judging that in this country he would be “like everyone else” and that he would not be in the company of his beloved — who, according to his judgment, should already have a lover; — showing us how man is a hostage to his own nature and his own ambition. We can draw from Candide, therefore, a list of lessons, among them, three very valuable in our time: humility before our possibilities, shame in the face of the ambition that dominates us, and reverence before the fate that plagues us.

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The Artist and the Coherence

I will say here what is an obviousness to me: an artist owes nothing for coherence.. If he thinks it is necessary, he has the freedom to throw it into space. And why do I say that? Because bores me seeing critics say about how incoherent an author is. For me it is very clear: when a philosopher or essayist sits and puts himself to write the goal is one: logic; the author will organize his arguments to expose his reasoning in the most clear and accurate way he can achieve. Not the artist. When an artist sits at the table the goal is another: it is to express the feeling with the greatest power possible, or to make the strongest impression on the reader. Different things. That’s why it is impossible to compare Aristotle and Fernando Pessoa. One does one thing, another does another. And the artist who sacrifices expression for coherence simply diminishes his art: defending ideas does not concern his work. On the verses of a giant:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself;
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

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Alfred de Vigny: “La solitude est sainte”

“La solitude est sainte” — said, in the nineteenth century, the French romantic poet Alfred de Vigny. Today, I find it impossible to write a phrase like this; I mean, the stones would be the inevitable reception. In our time, everything is collective: men are hand in hand circling around the beautiful world they share. And if, for a moment, someone feels an impulse to seclusion, a need for loneliness, he should not make a fuss! Otherwise, he will be crushed as an insect, censored by anyone who has the displeasure of seeing his lack of social maturity. The loner is sick, not having in himself the sense of collectivity is to be inferior. Today, only the common good matters, and only to the common good should direct the efforts a sensible, modern and conscious human. Therefore, I consider myself to be a quadruped: I judge any kind of collective intelligence impossible and I have no sense of belonging in me. The human being, for me, only develops intellectually in silence and retreat. So I cannot be read, so I cannot even find a Vigny’s book in Portuguese on Amazon. This century is too spacious to provide accommodation for solitude..

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The Idiot, by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Idiot, by Fyodor Dostoevsky, is certainly a book I will approach at other opportunities. The work, as well as Don Quijote de la Mancha, by Cervantes, is brilliant and can confuse the unwary. As I said on another occasion, I thank so much for not rating this book as hilarious, and I did it just for having read it with some intellectual preparation. Dostoevsky manages, more in this than in other books, to give focus to his obsession with personalities touched by the divine. Prince Myshkin, the protagonist of the book, is the embodiment of the noblest that can be achieved as a human being. Endowed with infinite kindness and complacency, the prince generates empathy wherever he passes; however, he is misunderstood: his fellow men associate his candidness with innocence, lack of sense, taxing him as an idiot. Among all the themes in Dostoevsky, it is this in The Idiot which fascinates me most: human elevation necessarily requires the annihilation of vanity. Myshkin knows himself a misunderstood, or rather: he knows that others judge him an idiot; and yet it does not alter his complacent stance towards anyone. What does it matter what other people think? Myshkin seems immune to lust and can stare evil in the eyes, being light by contrasting with the shadows that evidence around him. His candor assails, molests, and coexistence only exposes his moral superiority before others. Idiot? Like Alyosha of The Brothers Karamazov, it seems that Myshkin walks among men to prove the asymmetry between the human and the divine, the misery and the grace, the earth and the celestial. And he proves to us, undoubtedly, all the mediocrity of small desires, small vanities and pride, which annihilates what would perhaps be the only human virtue worthy of this name.

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