The artist who worries too much about the socio-political conjunctures of his time will soon find himself wasting his intellect with questions he cannot solve, that is, he will waste neurons uselessly and end up frustrated. Of course, this is not very intelligent… If there are issues of this nature that can affect him, the prudent thing to do is just to know about them, be prepared if necessary, and if they do come knocking on his door, adapts as best he can. So act, but only if he have no other option. And for the rest, do not worry about what he does not have control over, focusing on what is most important and what allows him a field of action.
Tag: literature
The Impression One Gets After Reading…
The impression one gets after reading several nautical novels is that man, in order to embark on a sailing ship, had to suffer from at least one serious mental disorder. It is very amusing to see how absurd the navigations of the past seem to us today, when ships were like toys exposed to the fury of the sea and travelers, harassed by the terrors of the storms, were on their knees before fate. This voluntary exposure to the unknown seems irrational to us, although it expresses a courage that we lack today. But the clash of the man with the irrational, the powerful and uncontrollable still exists; although we no longer learn lessons as before, nor do we leave with the same dignity.
Nocturnal Minds
Cioran, Antero, Kafka… all endowed with a nocturnal mind, that is, a mind that, in opposition to daytime bodily habits, chooses the night to put itself in intense activity. Most nights, therefore, a real torture, an incessant conflict that only ends when the light already invades the bedroom window. The tired body asking for rest, and the mind having in the stillness of dawn the perfect time to work. Ideas bursting like firecrackers, reasoning that builds upon each other, scenes, judgments, afflictions, plans, expectations, all bursting forth, sucking attention when the desire is to annul them all. Then, already accustomed to it, the spirit begins to call good nights those in which sleep is like a semi-sleep—the maximum it can reach—a state in which mental chatter blends into a middle ground between dream and reasoning, already automated by an unconscious enchainment and only interrupted by spaced awakenings, in which a conscious glimmer questions the degree of its own lucidity. And from this apparently terrible routine, many, many fruits, solutions that would never be given in a fully awake state, ideas that, if not originating from the deepest recess of the mind, seem to be placed by the hands of a superior spirit. Very well, very well: it is possible to learn to enjoy nights like this—it is just not possible, for a mind like this, to be in a good mood in the mornings.
Children Deluded by the Futile
Not to say non-existent, it is at least rare to find in this so-called lyric-love poetry verses in which a real experience is sung, something truly high and beautiful as seen in Dante. On the other hand, no matter the language or the time, one always finds the very same elements that bore the reader who is thirsty for some elevation. Of course, of course: there are exceptions; but the compassion that most of these poets arouse has nothing to do with the verses they have written. Sadly, they seem like children deluded by the futile, who lived by feeding on this never realized desire that maturity would disperse. Maturity, that is, wisdom or experience. Both seem to have been lacking, otherwise they would have found something more noble to direct their attention to.