Freedom… Certainly, I was lucky to have devoured books on finance before discovering literature, that is, to have understood the mechanics of money before committing the folly of dropping everything to become a writer. That way, I was able to do something no one could have taught me: I devised a financial plan, parallel to my study plan, to enable me to write. I prepared myself, through a plan that is still in place, to take the plunge with confidence. Has there ever been a penniless writer with the same luck? I was saved by this very special circumstance. Without it, if I had come across all this talk of freedom, I would have ended up very, very badly.
Tag: literature
Disgrace, by J. M. Coetzee
This unsettling narrative is permeated by an indescribable sense of foreboding that never subsides as the story unfolds. There is a palpable sense that something is about to occur, something terrible and shocking, and in the face of this impending danger, one feels an urge to act, to do anything at all, which is repeatedly thwarted. Nothing is done; and so the narrative carries us toward the events, as if defying our desire to avoid them, even though we are, at the same time, eager to know them and put an end to the apprehension once and for all. It is an interesting construction; the author’s style fades into the background before the scenes he describes. Above all, it is a book that leaves no one indifferent and that, perhaps, holds an important lesson.
When Nabokov Talks About His Butterflies…
When Nabokov talks about his butterflies, they become interesting even to those who despise them. This is because Nabokov, in addition to being a masterful writer, when he talks about butterflies, he talks about something that captivates him; he speaks enthusiastically, causing at least some of this great enthusiasm to radiate to the reader. With this example, it becomes easy to see that literature makes possible unlikely, unexpected, even impossible readings, provided the author is authentic and deals with subjects that truly interest him—acting as a host who, in an act of good faith, shows the visitor what he considers to be his most valuable possession. Perhaps the most evident effect of a great writer is precisely this: he stimulates, even if by force, the reader’s interest.
“I Am a Philosopher; I Do Philosophy”
“I am a philosopher; I do philosophy”—says the builder of imaginary castles, just as the one who plays at creating, arranging, and tampering with words says: “I am a writer; I do literature.” And although both, perhaps, feel justified by the status their craft confers upon them, the truth is that nothing they produce has any existential meaning. Pointing this out seems silly, but the years pass and life presses for a true justification. The philosopher, the writer, cannot find it in the past, having dedicated it to external motivations, detached from themselves. So they repent; perhaps still with time to redeem it, but having already left behind the harmful influence and example.