Tag: literature

If a poem is recited without respecting the obligatory pause at the end of the verse, a pause that characterizes poetic discourse itself, its structure is hidden from the listener. In doing so, it is impossible for the listener to distinguish blank verse from free verse, and both from prose. It is also impossible for him to distinguish between metrical verse, let alone define in which meter it was constructed, except in some cases by rhyme. To ignore the pause at the end of the verse is to nullify the intentional structural disturbance generated by enjambments; therefore, it is to nullify their very effect. It is to hide the harmony—or lack of it—resulting from the arrangement of the orational terms in the verses. In other words, if a poem is read with punctuation as the only reference, it is read as prose. And a poem read as prose is simply transformed into prose. It is worth reflecting on this: if that were the aim, it would be enough for the poet to write in prose what he had intentionally chosen to structure in verse—which, we hope, entailed a considerable additional effort.

There are three main differences between Solzhenitsyn and the rest of those who defend a cause through literature, or make literature to defend a cause. The first is that Solzhenitsyn, before attacking the regime he attacks, experienced it, that is, suffered it with eight years in jail and seeing countless friends, acquaintances and family members imprisoned, persecuted and shot. The second difference derives from the first: in honor of himself and those he lost, his cause is justified; this means that his literature is a response to his personal experience, in other words, his literary motivation is the most authentic there can be. Finally, this is simply it: his cause is noble, and this adjective needs no explanation. On the other hand, what do we find in the majority of those who make ideological literature? We do not need to spend many words: we find neither nobility nor knowledge of the cause; we find, in short, a fetish.

When, four years ago, I felt I was ready to write, or rather, I felt it was no longer possible to delay starting to work, I set myself a deadline and a number of works that would serve as a preamble to what I intended to do. The aim was to disperse predefined themes by genre and style, exposing problems rather than presenting solutions. This year, the deadline comes to an end, and I reach it with the certainty that what has been done, whether better or worse than planned, is done and is sufficient. Now it is time to change both the pace and the direction.

Finally, another little volume written, ready for revision. This, it seems, was the most painful of them all; in prose, it was undoubtedly the one that came out more slowly, less spontaneously and more compelled, and thus another offspring of this powerful obligation. Many things come to mind now that, after four years of uninterrupted work, the lines, although not excessively abundant, although fewer than planned, are already something. Something that represents the realization of a good hundreds of hours of work, concentrated effort and inner struggle. The words do not seem more flexible than before; on the contrary, they seem heavier, as if time had only accentuated the responsibility in choosing them. The feeling is not one of relief or satisfaction with the work completed; there is simply the certainty that it is necessary to carry on.