It seems easy to note that Bandeira’s fundamental criticism, in Os sapos, was directed at the futility of the cultivators of form. He expressed his repulsion for useless aesthetic discussions and frivolous, though refined poetry. The curious thing is that this does not seem to have been noticed by those who, inspired by the poem, founded a new aesthetic, which developed into an even more passionate cult of form. But the worst thing is not this; the worst thing is to see that the new aesthetic has plunged itself into banalities not like the Parnassian ones, but infinitely worse, if not obscene and repulsive, into creations that do nothing but manifest the turpitude of the mind that created them. It is an aesthetic present most often in poems that combine ignorance with artistic inability and lowliness of spirit. On second thought, what a feat!
Tag: literature
Man Should Be Forbidden the Possibility…
There! Now I cannot get rid of the memory of the fellow dancing with a harp under the applause of the audience. Man should be forbidden the possibility of collective demonstration. No doubt such a measure would bury at least half the world’s problems. Something inexplicable happens when man mixes—and annuls—himself in a collectivity. A collectivity, even if formed by intelligent men, is always stupid. This has already been noted, I do not know whether by Nelson, O’Neill or Wilde. Perhaps by Ibsen, and more likely by all four. Man, in a group, should only act as in orchestras where applause is forbidden and the verb is worth expulsion.
Any Work Is Bearable…
By Guyau:
« Maudit soit ce travail qui, semblable à la flamme,
Dévore notre vie et la disperse au vent ;
Maudit ce luxe vain, ces caprices de femme
Toujours prêts à payer sa vie à qui la vend ! »
Oh, despair! And the impressive, the unbelievable thing, is to see that such verses today can only come out of very rare feathers, those unable to adapt to the prevailing normality. Undoubtedly, such an unacknowledged feeling is a sin against modern society, which demands the acceptance and exaltation of these qualities and this conduct that seems to strangle human dignity. I believe it was Dostoevsky who reflected, in the freezing cold prison of Siberia, that any work is bearable, but to see it useless, to see oneself striving for nothing, that is absolutely revolting and intolerable to man: in such a situation, the best thing, no doubt, is not to exist. But Dostoevsky, perhaps, was too hasty: at least today, very few seem to fit his observation.
The True and the Artificial
Says Guyau, in the preface to his Vers d’un philosophe:
Il y a deux écoles en poésie : l’une recherche la vérité de la pensée, la sincérité de l’émotion, le naturel et la fidélité parfaite de l’expression, qui font qu’au lieu d’un auteur ” on trouve un homme ” : pour cette école, pas de poésie possible sans une idée et un sentiment qui soient vraiment pensés et sentis. Pour d’autres, au contraire, la vérité du fond et la valeur des idées sont chose accessoire dans la poésie : le tissu brillant de ses fictions n’a rien de commun ni avec la philosophie ni avec la science ; c’est un jeu d’imagination et de style, un ravissant mensonge dont personne ne doit être dupe, surtout le poète.
This division, which seems more precise than the traditional literary schools, and which can be easily extended to the other arts, summarizes artists in two groups: the true and the artificial. The only possible caveat consists in saying that, in many cases, the imagined emotion can be a felt emotion, that is, the imagination, as strong as it is, is worth as experience. For the rest, it is to admit that there are those who make art out of expressive necessity, those for whom a life without art is absolutely unjustified, absolutely impossible; and there are those for whom art is an entertainment and an exhibition. That is enough.