It seems impossible for contemporary Brazilian literature not to have the tragic notes and gravity that it has historically lacked, now that the country has established itself as the world leader in homicides. To do otherwise would be a death knell for Brazilian literature. If, relatively speaking, Brazil was spared great tragedies in the past, reality is now imposing itself in the form of a humanitarian scandal, so violent that the writer can only consciously ignore it. And to ignore it, of course, would be to betray his profession.
Tag: literature
The Relationship Between Some Writers…
The relationship between some writers and their illness is difficult to explain. A normal person, without the slightest discomfort, can find all the excuses he needs not to write. If he suffers from an illness, there is nothing to say. So we see not one, not two, but many writers who have not only persevered with their illness for months, years or a lifetime, but who have made the illness itself a source of motivation. This is no small feat, and it is not easy to imagine. There are illnesses that one never gets used to, but it seems that these are the ones that trap you and leave you with no other option.
It Is Strange to Be Completely Unaware…
It is strange to be completely unaware of one hundred percent of contemporary literary production and to notice that no writer from any country has ever behaved like this. To write, to make writing the center of one’s existence, and never have opened a novel by a living author! Not knowing names, titles, everything! And carry on as if everything were normal… Whether or not this is necessary is an idle question, but it is certainly an attitude that reinforces the feeling of total isolation.
Some Writer Once Made the Wise Recommendation…
Some writer once made the wise recommendation: one work at a time. And there is no doubt that concentrating the mind on a single piece of work can only speed it up, intensify it and be of great benefit to creation. But is it possible to stick to this rule? Perhaps with prose. With poetry, however, the situation changes, and when the planned verses exceed a few hundred, the mind seems to beg for an escape valve into which it can pour lines and lines and experience the relief of fluidity. Without this valve, soon the unproductivity, added to the ideas that accumulate in a closed deposit, begin to torture. For the poet, practicing prose seems psychologically essential.