The Absence of a More Noble Conception

I think of the major of 20th-century literature. The human being is a multifaceted, ambiguous animal, subject to diverse and contradictory manifestations. In him, the savage mixes with the sublime in a variable—and generally unbalanced—proportions. An author, therefore, is not wrong when he portrays him as a slave of desire, a puppet of the will. And he gets it right when he explores irrationality and immorality. However, a pause. There is in man the manifestation of the beautiful, and amputated is the work that fails to explore it. To give life to the most archaic and animalistic human specimen is a task, let us say, less difficult than to dare to penetrate the mind of the model that rises above the banal. Therefore, the author will be smaller if he escapes from the task of conceiving the rare. Where is the noble? Non-existent? That is what seems to say the literature that is incapable of generating it even though, like Swift, in the form of horses…

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The Explosion of an Unbearable Inner Conflict

As opposed to the representation of external phenomena, I perceive great art as the explosion of an unbearable inner conflict. That is to say: the artist prints what torments him or the object of his insatiable desire. Psychological obsessions, feelings that attack him violently… the great art is the consequence of an inner war. Exactly because of that, it rarely presents itself as pleasant. Intensity has nothing to do with peace…

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A Thousand Times Sorry

I am sorry, thousand times sorry, but I find it hard to accept… Almost all of Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets on the same theme, almost all of Camões’ lyrical poetry chanting the same lament… How is that possible? I say and think myself a barbarian, amputee of my human dimension. But I cannot swallow it. Patience… I cannot and there is nothing to do. Here is the truth: there is a kind of suffering that’s never taken a single breath away from me, it does not arouse my compassion and sometimes it makes me laugh. O indolence! O cruelty!… I will end very, very badly with you…

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Don Quijote de la Mancha, by Miguel de Cervantes

I am barely starting these lines and I know I will be short of words… Don Quijote de la Mancha, classic of the classics, one of the greatest works of all universal literature, outstanding in all respects. From all that I have read, two works have aroused in me something that I am incapable of describing, a feeling without a name, the impression of any kind of magic operating, as if they had been written by something different from a human being; they are Commedia, by Dante, and Don Quijote de la Mancha. But why? Here is the fascinating… El ingenioso hidalgo has been the object of obsession of countless artists, has inspired many, many works, and I cannot imagine anyone who, knowing his history, remain untouched. Don Quijote de la Mancha awakens in the reader infinite compassion, a relationship of real affection for the duo Don Quijote and Sancho Panza. Let us try to understand the magic… Cervantes, at first, builds a union between opposite personalities: the caballero andante Don Quijote is, physically and psychologically, the opposite of his squire Sancho. The first inhabits the universe of dreams, submits reality to the imaginary, interprets existence almost in delirium. The second personifies pragmatism. The effect of this junction of contrasts is an immense and growing harmony during the work since Sancho develops in a way to gradually share the judgments of his master. Thus, Cervantes builds a relationship of friendship that perhaps has no match in universal literature. Sancho’s fidelity is moving: when he speaks, there is always a veiled attempt of conciliation and, above all, humility. Don Quijote, on the other hand, cannot stop showing us the tenderness behind his belligerent profile. The narrative advances revealing an intense conflict between reality and imagination and el caballero, an incurable megalomaniac, who from the beginning shows himself incapable of perceiving his own mediocrity, gradually succumbs to his imagination, losing consciousness. Reality imposes itself and evidences the absurdity of everything Don Quijote dreamed of. But it leaves open the question: did Don Quijote really not live his dreams? Is it really the practical reality the queen of existence? And, faced with a flawed character, essentially fragile, whose actions always lead to ridicule, but who still believes, we cannot but associate him moved by something that escapes to our understanding. Don Quijote de la Mancha is a work that gives life to the magical and evokes the divine. And the reader does not close the book being the same person: the sweetness that permeates the narrative impregnates and softens any character. Existence, then, slows down, and we learn—even if we cannot explain it—that life is more beautiful when not taken so seriously.

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