It is with great enthusiasm that I read notes from writers justifying, in this century, the use of ink and paper. It is the arguments concerning productivity that most impress me: for many, the cerebral rhythm seems to fit better with manual writing. I am amazed to note that, for centuries, this is exactly how literature has been made, by this method that is as averse to my way of writing. There is no doubt that there is a certain charm, a certain enchantment in seeing the ink on the paper, in seeing in the handwriting another trace of the author’s uniqueness, in seeing the natural cadence of handwriting, whereby slowly the letters take shape, the idea turns into words, and the mental creation materializes. It is all stimulating. But… what to say? These writers claim that the slowness of the method favors fair reflection and, therefore, more precise words emerge. For my part, I only know writing as a process much more like the destruction and reconstruction of sentences: the mind, aided by the rapid beating of the fingers on the keys, spits out ideas disorderly on the screen; the brain then reasons and goes about ordering and shaping these ideas, which are then rewritten in a more appropriate manner. Every two sentences, one is completely erased and better conformed in a new attempt; at the end of the paragraph, new corrections… So here I am left wondering what I would do if I had to adapt myself to paper and ink: and it seems to me, more than ever, that Kafka’s ever-burning fire is justified.
Tag: literature
There Is Nothing More Boring to the Modern Reader…
There is nothing more boring to the modern reader, inhabitant of the gray metropolis, than such pastoral poetry. It is impossible for him to go on for more than a few pages in this poetic genre that cannot stir anything in him. This is firstly because the modern reader lacks the experience of harmony with the environment that is indispensable to open a pastoral poem. Having been bombarded from birth with the visual aggression that is a metropolis; having always associated the common environment with danger, with the possibility of a sudden robbery, with a sense of discomfort, insecurity, and fear, he can never understand how anyone can derive satisfaction from the environment. But beyond that: his whole existence has been shaped in a rhythm completely distinct from that of the poet accustomed to the countryside, so that between them there are so few psychological and behavioral similarities that they can definitely be said to be strangers.
The Futile Appreciator of “Beauty”
Perhaps the image of the poet as the futile appreciator of “beauty” is irreversible, as the idler whose life’s goal is to “touch hearts”. Oh, ridiculous! And to think that poets were Dante and Homer… In any case, there is nothing left to do. Unless poetry proves to be an objective inducer of tangible qualities that those who do not know about it do not possess, and unless a current of poets emerges who totally break with what has been done in poetry, and they become known, have their works widely disseminated, read and re-read,—something quite unlikely,—such a scenario seems definitive.
There Is Something Really Beautiful in the Process of Creation…
There is something really beautiful in the process of poetic creation that only the poet can experience. The poem, when conceived, most often looks excellent: the idea is given, which is timidly transferred to the paper. Here, there is nothing concrete and well-defined, only a vague intention, and an image that seems to glimmer. Then follows the sketch, which comes out clumsy, if not disastrous, resulting in a kind of reality shock in the poet’s head. The idea, once brilliant, now seems bad, and its realization seems unfeasible, unable to produce the effects that seemed so simple and certain. The poet, then, has to decide: does he abandon the enterprise? does he continue with his intent? If he chooses the latter, there follows a long and exhausting work to improve the repulsive sketch, to bring it as close as possible to that image that seemed optimal to him. Then the verses are repeated over and over again in his mind and, little by little, it points out their flaws, modifies them, substituting words, framing them in a more interesting and more pleasant rhythm. Finally, almost miraculously, the sketch becomes a poem, and no longer retains the bulk of the disgusting aspects of former times. Sometimes there is a satisfactory approximation to the initial idea; sometimes something different is achieved. The time comes when the verses, already engraved in the mind, have to rest. And for an indefinite time, unexpectedly, the mind goes on with its work, polishing some edges, pointing out new solutions, and sometimes giving a hitherto non-existent shine to the verses already shaped. When this happens, the poet, remembering the bitter impression made by the sketch, and comparing it with the final result, can only rejoice and smile.