My best humor—I can perhaps call it my sarcastic vein—proves to me the best precisely because it manifests itself with maximum intensity at serious moments. I know well how Cioran felt: it is an irresistible impulse! This is why, relaxed, I may not feel instigated to joke. To make good jokes, I have to be in a solemn atmosphere; then they come out as if by automatism, if not necessity. And so I realize that in these Notes, which are light, calm, almost effortless, it is very rare to find evidence of my fatal inclination to clowning. But in my “serious” lines, where I put myself in a state of full concentration, where I extract from my heart what seems to me the purest truth, where—there is no denying it…— I often get myself, exactly like Cioran, to pour pessimism, despair and disenchantment on paper, then, precisely in these moments, also like Cioran, I have the feeling that it is almost a sin to waste them as a background for a crude joke. Unfortunately, I cannot change my nature…
Tag: literature
Finally…
It is a real joy to see that, after almost a year of hard work and repeated regrets, I can finally register here that I have finished a new little volume of poems. In poetry, it is undeniable that there is such a prize. It pleases the feeling of being the author of finished verses, a feeling that is quite different with prose. It is pleasing, above all, because poetry surprises, due to the poetic technique itself, and surprises even the reader who is the author of the verses he reads. This surprising effect, when unveiled by the new reading, brings sincere satisfaction by evoking in mind the moment of brilliance of its creation. This is poetry: a lot of hard work, and a few flashes that seem to justify such work; flashes that, shining in the midst of a cohesive whole, confer immense value to a deceptively sterile creation.
Art, in Its Most Authentic Manifestation, is the Expression…
The artist who aspires to success while alive deserves it, and deserves it because art is a very difficult choice. However, such an artist can never, ever aspire to a position among the greatest, since supreme art expects nothing and has nothing to expect. Art, in its most authentic manifestation, is the expression that springs from a need and has as its purpose the expression itself. It matters little the means by which it expresses itself, or the techniques it uses: these are mere details which, when over-emphasized, obscure this self-evident truth: great art is not made on a whim.
A Whole Year to Weave a Handful of Verses!
A whole year to weave a handful of verses! And I still have not finished them… The sensation is of an unacceptable slowness for someone who has in his own work the raison d’être. It bothers, and bothers a lot, this tortoise-like productivity, when at the same time the ideas seem desperate, banging on the bars of a cage, clamoring for release. They want to flood the papers immediately, as I also want to, but I do not let go of the prudent recommendation of “one job at a time”. There is no way to ignore the possibility of an immediate death: should such a scenario come true, there would remain, to a much greater extent than the very few verses I have composed, a disorganized and almost incomprehensible jumble of notes.