The careful reading of several volumes in sequence by Mário Ferreira dos Santos impacted me so strongly that I had the impulse to go through all my notes looking for nonsense. However, this is an impulse I cannot allow. To revise my past is to destroy what I was, to erase the traces of a possible evolution. Written lines are the record in time of lasting impressions or not: but they are, nevertheless, the evidence of the path traveled. To suppress what I was is to distort what I am: a justifiable action, not in the minds of those obsessed with perfect coherence, but in the minds of impostors and scoundrels.
Tag: literature
Timeless Themes
Particularly, I restrict my art to themes that I consider to be timeless. This, in other words, means that I flatly refuse a detailed analysis of the values of this time, because I do not want to infest my literature with such a despicable and despicable moral. One will do well in the future if one never pays attention to the sociological-moral currents that this century has spawned, which are nothing but shamefully infamous ideologies, stupid lapses in the history of human thought.
Commitment Set in Stone
The advantage of these notes is that through them I can methodically capture and record ephemeral impressions that I experience while reading, sleeping, or composing, and that would probably be wasted. On the other hand, I already enjoy myself because I know, as I lap them up, that I am often rushing. It does not matter. I read a passage, I have an idea: this idea will become a note; this is a commitment already engraved in an imaginary stone. Analyzing coldly, I believe that these prose lines are the concretization of a rigorous method of mental utilization.
Ah, If I Wanted to Be Part of a Club…
Ah, if I wanted to be part of a club, of a “school”, of a congregation! After becoming aware of Antero’s existence—whom I could even fantasize as a past existence, seeing how much I have catechized myself in these philosophies—I could easily take upon myself to “continue what he did not finish”, “rescuing” his “values”, searching for his disciples coeval to me, etc., etc. So, perhaps, I could never be Antero—someone who martyred himself by giving in to the relapses of that feeling which, for an unusual mind like his, must be exterminated for the sake of peace.