Tag: literature

Only yawns can respond to the old theory, revived from time to time in a new guise, according to which great art is that which limits itself to accurately portraying reality. If that were the case, it would suffice to remain faithful, and the art that portrayed the most stupid, repulsive, banal, or uninteresting scene would be great. In fact, the opposite effect is achieved if one dwells minutely on something that should be disregarded. To confirm this, one only has to imagine how ridiculous a piece of music would be in which the composer strove to perfectly replicate certain “sounds of nature.” Great art is only that which, using whatever medium it may, elevates those who come into contact with it, or at least holds out that possibility; the rest is nonsense.

The fact that, in the West, contact with these One Thousand and One Nights almost always occurs through children’s adaptations in various forms somewhat obscures the literary importance of this work, which transcended all imaginable barriers and permeated popular culture. Very few ever read it in its entirety, despite its influence being frequently suggested. The truth is that, like Greek mythology, this work has become mandatory reading for students of literature. Even if the stories had no value, knowing them is to witness the power of a narrative that can transcend time and cultural barriers as if they were nothing, becoming part of our common human heritage. No more needs to be said.

There is no denying it: in a writer’s personality, eccentricity is the most captivating trait. Fernando Pessoa is much more likable to us thanks to the stupid publishing venture that burned his inheritance; Dostoevsky, the same, for believing in the potential of his amazing strategy at the roulette wheel; Cioran, the philosopher, would never be the same if he had not suffered nervous breakdowns while buying eggs. And so on… But it is very rare to see writers aware that they will be characters in their own biography, and that therefore they should focus on the eccentric. For the benefit of the biography, they should follow the advice given by Cioran in these wonderful lines:

22 juin
Suis allé au marché. Pour quatre œufs, j’ai attendu une demi-heure. Crise de nerfs, fureur, ces femmes bavardes me mettent hors de moi. J’ai attendu uniquement pour me démontrer à moi-même que j’étais maître de mes nerfs, que je pouvais me contenir, et j’ai supporté effectivement toutes ces bonnes femmes sans hurler. Mais après, j’ai failli hurler.

C’est toujours la même histoire: tout effort que nous faisons sur nous-même se retourne contre nous ou nous nous retournons contre lui. La santé, c’est donner libre cours à ses humeurs, c’est être ce qu’on est.

If not health, at least complacency with future readers.

It is astonishing that there are professional literary critics, and good ones, who have written pages and pages about Augusto dos Anjos without ever suspecting that the “poet of melancholy,” when fitting words such as “helminth,” “hookworm,” or “colpoda” into his verses, could have done so with a smile. But no… there are critics who, in truth, did nothing but interpret the poet—a poet!—literally. And, in a literal sense, melancholy and despair are far away from humor, right? What a thing! Those who do not understand how much fun it must have been for Augusto dos Anjos, after the brilliant creation of his poetic personality, to force his verses to reach the peak of eccentricity, say monumental and hilarious nonsense. Perhaps no artist has ever had so much fun giving vent to such truly distressing psychological content. Because, in his verses, are real the despair, the melancholy, the anguish, and also the humor. Not to perceive this is to perceive nothing.