Tag: literature

A work that does not sketch, that does not risk solutions to the problems it proposes, seems incomplete. It is inevitable… The high spirit must strive to surpass itself, must dare even if it fails, even if it feels the effort is useless after the battle. This is the only way to use judgment as a stimulating apparatus, as a delineator of barriers to be overcome, as a challenger of the limits of the will. Exposing problems, therefore, seems only the initial milestone of an intellectual path that unfolds from them.

It seems an affront, an insult to find Victor Hugo having composed more than one hundred and fifty thousand verses in just one life. One hundred and fifty thousand! It is unbelievable, a real humiliation to be confronted with this unattainable fecundity, this poetic monument coming from the pen of a single man. If we exercise mathematics, we arrive at an average daily production that only seems reasonable to someone who spends his entire life only sleeping and composing verses. Considering the whole creative process that involves ideation, planning, structuring, realization and refinement; considering that a normal mind is exhausted in the tiresome work of hooking words in the dictionary, and that therefore a long working day is unfeasible, discouraging and even counterproductive, how to justify Victor Hugo? How can we accept his poetic work, knowing that there are plays, novels, essays under the same signature? It is amazing…

There are few exercises as healthy and stimulating as personifying the immortal Bernardo Soares. In mind, talking to non-existent or distant peers, living what circumstances prevent, creating what life does not allow… all this in a practice that progressively enriches the details, changes the scenarios, expands and evolves. To do so is to open a new dimension to life, is to magnify oneself through impossible experiences, perfecting one’s reasoning, challenging oneself, experiencing whole new emotions on a plane where there are no limits or impediments. It is to finally leave the disguise of a bookkeeper’s assistant to effectively live the reality that one chooses.

For all the times I have laughed at Cioran’s explosive temperament, his wonderful rage in the grocery store line, and countless other situations that I always remember in laughter, it seems that I am now paying for them, and seem that laughter from heaven is directed to me. All the stupid banalities that make up my routine, the door that must open for me to leave my house, the scale that must work so that I weigh and buy food, the sun that must rise so that I know it is day… all these extremely banal things that always work because they have to work, or rather, all the human beings whose function somehow affects me, together and at the same time, fail to fulfill it, but with the whim of interrupting my routine and hindering me with problems that I have no means to solve! Cioran certainly laughs; that is the price: now it is my turn to make him laugh… But it is incredible to note the impossibility of peace in this world. Buddha is a folk character: in the real world, there would be someone to make him mad and ruin his spiritual progress.