It is incredible how much sympathy a man like Osamu Dazai inspires. Though it has been some time since I read his work, the image of that profound anguish remains. An anguish that is familiar, all too familiar, which not even the language barrier can obscure. And to recall, in this work, those recurring, unpleasant, dangerous ideas, which, once they take root in the mind, are truly to be feared… The aura that emanates from this little book needs no explanation. Nor do the reasons for the inevitable sympathy. Osamu Dazai is so human, just like us… What will endure of him is the memory of the writer who did not play games, who ennobled art through the seriousness of his motivation.
Tag: literature
In Brazil, When a True Writer Is Born…
In Brazil, when a true writer is born, he is required to possess an extraordinary strength of character: from the outset, he already knows that his life’s work will be nothing more than a testament of love. There will be no recognition for his work, nor could there be, because one cannot expect someone to acknowledge something that holds no importance for him. There is nothing to regret. Brazilians do not read and do not like books; books are not part of their lives. Therefore, regardless of the seriousness and caliber of the Brazilian writer, his work will have neither relevance nor influence, as one might expect. That, however, is not the end of the story. He can also be certain in advance that, even if he studies more than writers from other countries, even if he endures greater hardships, overcomes greater obstacles, and practices his craft with greater dedication, even if the monument he erects proves irrefutably more worthy and moving, there will be, after his death, one of those journalists who pretend to be intellectuals, dazzled by their knowledge of English, to spew, from the heights of their ineptitude and terrible command of the language, phrases like “nothing is any good in Brazilian literature,” “nothing good has ever been produced here.” The Brazilian writer is doomed to be despised by fools and insulted by imbeciles.
The Difference Between a Technique Used Well…
It is curious to note how, at times, the difference between a technique used well or poorly, between a stimulating result and a tedious one, can be so subtle. In *Corpo vivo*, Adonias Filho interweaves narrative threads, as if gradually unfolding the story across the past and the present. As he does so, he introduces new characters. Throughout, he builds anticipation for a revelation or an event; and as soon as he satisfies one curiosity, he creates a new one, and so it goes throughout the narrative, sustaining an interest that never wanes. Furthermore, he employs the aesthetic, even visual pattern arising from these interweavings: the present narrative is followed by quotes that reveal the past, in a rhythm that is almost hypnotic, which, if attempted by less skilled writers, results in indescribable rubbish. This is the miracle of the great writer: with his masterful touch, he makes what is tedious interesting. Imitating him is always dangerous; but appreciating him—ah!—that is a privilege we all have.
Corpo vivo, by Adonias Filho
If Adonias Filho had published this short novel in any language other than Portuguese, and in any country other than Brazil, his name would have been put forward for the highest literary honors on the planet. Being Brazilian, of course, that did not happen. Never mind… This book, however, possesses the qualities that define a masterpiece. And it makes that old theme, so artificially and unfortunately handled by authors of the past, truly interesting: here, the natural aversion to it disappears. For the rest, suffice it to say the following: for its excellent writing, its stimulating narrative technique, the story’s unparalleled intensity, and the authenticity of the characters, this is one of the best novels Brazilian literature has ever produced.