Tag: literature

The story of Aladdin is one of those stories that, whether you are young or old, makes you dream. And it is really impossible to read it and not imagine everything that could be asked of the famous jinni, how wonderfully simple the resolution of all problems would become. One also soon begins to think what a fool the protagonist was, asking for so little, making such superficial use of the immense power that fell into his hands. Undoubtedly, the strength of this story lies in its enchanting suggestiveness, to which no man can remain indifferent. All this stuff about sultans, magicians, jewels, and princesses may be utter nonsense, but rare are the stories that so intensely set the mind to dreaming.

The impression today is that never, not even after World War II, has literature been so contaminated by politics. But the context is very, very different. To begin with, in the past, war violently intervened in the lives of many writers, leading to radical and decisive consequences. For the writer, to ignore it would be to fail in his duty. Then, the insertion of war into literature took place, at least in the great works, just as it did in thousands of lives: as a component of complex and, above all, real human dramas. The current situation is quite different, and only one thing needs to be said about it: there will not be enough capable hands to clean up the mess that the last two decades have produced.

The great interest, and even noble interest, of critics in contemporary literature is understandable. There are cases in which, without them, the public would not be aware of, or would not know how to appreciate, great authors. It is also understandable, and in many ways beneficial, when critics manage to establish personal ties with one or more authors. However, there is perhaps no more obvious trap to be placed in their path, and one that is capable of ruining the longevity of their work. It is shocking to observe how, at times, a highly refined historical sense and the most complete lack of understanding when it comes to current literature can coexist in the critic’s mind. This becomes apparent, of course, as the current ages, revealing how much he has allowed himself to be contaminated by it. In such cases, the courage and integrity of always offering a sincere opinion do little to mitigate the problem: everything seems incoherent when one is oriented by a misguided sense of proportion.

Only yawns can respond to the old theory, revived from time to time in a new guise, according to which great art is that which limits itself to accurately portraying reality. If that were the case, it would suffice to remain faithful, and the art that portrayed the most stupid, repulsive, banal, or uninteresting scene would be great. In fact, the opposite effect is achieved if one dwells minutely on something that should be disregarded. To confirm this, one only has to imagine how ridiculous a piece of music would be in which the composer strove to perfectly replicate certain “sounds of nature.” Great art is only that which, using whatever medium it may, elevates those who come into contact with it, or at least holds out that possibility; the rest is nonsense.