When we notice examples as common as Augusto dos Anjos’, that is, examples of a mind that sprouts luminous and independent, seeming to ignore, if not pretermit what is considered fundamental, and we notice reactions that usually accompany this phenomenon, we are inclined to conclude that it is the stones that define an artist’s value. It is curious how individuality always, always seems to demand detachment. Individuality that can also be called essence or identity. And even the artists who, at a given moment, give in to these joint idealizations, to this applause-generating conformity, have to face a moment, perhaps the moment, when they are as if forced to separate themselves from everyone else and move forward alone, despite what others may think or say. Such reflections only lead us to wonder whether these literary associations serve any purpose other than to show us which are the sheep and which are the valuable artists.
Tag: literature
The Artist Individualizes Himself in the Expression
If the artist limits himself, as many have said, to giving new forms to old ideas, it must be concluded that he individualizes himself in the expression. There is some truth in the assertion of many writers that a narrative boils down to the action arc, with everything else being secondary. However, it should be noted that the plot gives us a mostly vague view of the artist, who cannot be summarized in a diagram. To see him, to know him, to identify him, we need to see how he expresses himself, not what is being expressed. We can see this even in an emblematic example like Dostoevsky, whose works have such well-defined dramatic arcs that Nabokov called him a playwright. Dostoevsky reveals himself, rather, in the long, troubled, intense and tumultuous periods. There is no need to go on.
Again the “Creative Block”
It is laughable the lack of creativity of these screenwriters who, when portraying a writer, must necessarily describe a period in which he experiences the much discussed, romanticized and ridiculous “creative block”. All professionals in all areas have processes, methods, a work system that allows them to obtain results despite mood and creative swings; except, of course, this stupid writer, who insists on sitting down every day in front of a white canvas, with absolutely nothing planned. It is regrettable to say it but, unfortunately, this so-called “creative block” simply does not exist for professional writers. Sitting in front of a blank canvas is just amateurism; and the professional writer who does so is just acting like an amateur. It does not take much experience to realize that the process of devising plots, chapters, and poems can largely be carried out away from the desk, in a relaxed, sometimes more favorable environment. It does not take much experience, either, to realize it is easier to execute a plan than to make it from scratch and then execute it. No, no… it is needed to keep representing the writer as a beast, who stubbornly sits down every day to solve all problems at once, the writer who sits down and waits for an angel to come down from heaven and guide his hand… What a joke!
The Harbinger of the Fall
There is a very interesting passage in My first wife, in which Wassermann describes the psychological state that foreshadowed his protagonist’s downfall: at a certain point, he began to idealize a real person, that is, he began to confuse a living person with an imaginary creation. It is curious that Wassermann supposes such a slip is a weakness of writers, who are used to making characters out of real beings. Wassermann is wrong, although the supposition is interesting. But this trap is not only meant for writers: the one who fell into it was not Alexander the writer, but Alexander the man. There are many, many similar examples… Feminine idealization is a very natural trait of men. There seems to be, if not a necessity, a natural psychological course when he creates a bond and lets himself be carried away by the feeling. It is as if the experience had to extend itself on the mental plane, which, more lasting and present, ends up overriding it. We all fall, dear Wassermann, all of us… although not every abyss is of the same depth.