If we have form as a means,—and not as an end,—and technique as the expression of an individuality, we must admit a certain relativism regarding the aesthetic quality of a work. Better said: although many have tried to do so, it is not possible to establish, in art, rigid and universally applicable criteria to judge a work. Especially when it comes to technique, it is not rare to see first-rate artists seem to cultivate it in an antagonistic way, making it obvious, therefore, that this “how” is valid as it enhances an individuality which, yes, is a reasonable measure of the greatness of a work.
Tag: literature
We Read a Handful of Coeval Poems…
We read a handful of coeval poems and we realize: punctuation is broken, capital letters are dispensed with, verses are often short, and the effect seems to depend on the aesthetics and on solitary words as units of meaning. The truth is that interesting effects are drawn from such techniques, already widely explored… These half irrational, half exotic and apparently sloppy constructions suggest a kind of ecstasy; but it seems that the most drastic change, as far as technique is concerned, is that the poems have become visual pieces. Although dependent on words, they have sound as secondary, and are meant to be read, or rather visualized—never recited. It is true: we find one or another alliteration, one or another parallelism; but these poems were not intended to be rhythmic constructions. We have to admit: even if sometimes they lack technique, in many of them we find genius—which is undoubtedly superior…
It Is Admirable to See the Author Who Interweaves…
Although it is not possible to say that there is such a thing as an ideal narrative method, it is admirable to see the author who interweaves sounds and images, actions and thoughts, as if stimulating our whole imaginative apparatus. Such a balance gives a stimulating dynamic to the lines we read, and it seems that a great part of the effects of the work derives from these variations that make the singularities more salient. A static, descriptive scene is followed by a sudden action, which leads to reflections, and so on; that is to say: each passage ends up emphasized in contrast with the previous and the following one; and, perhaps, this is something positive for the whole.
The Use of Ink and Paper
It is with great enthusiasm that I read notes from writers justifying, in this century, the use of ink and paper. It is the arguments concerning productivity that most impress me: for many, the cerebral rhythm seems to fit better with manual writing. I am amazed to note that, for centuries, this is exactly how literature has been made, by this method that is as averse to my way of writing. There is no doubt that there is a certain charm, a certain enchantment in seeing the ink on the paper, in seeing in the handwriting another trace of the author’s uniqueness, in seeing the natural cadence of handwriting, whereby slowly the letters take shape, the idea turns into words, and the mental creation materializes. It is all stimulating. But… what to say? These writers claim that the slowness of the method favors fair reflection and, therefore, more precise words emerge. For my part, I only know writing as a process much more like the destruction and reconstruction of sentences: the mind, aided by the rapid beating of the fingers on the keys, spits out ideas disorderly on the screen; the brain then reasons and goes about ordering and shaping these ideas, which are then rewritten in a more appropriate manner. Every two sentences, one is completely erased and better conformed in a new attempt; at the end of the paragraph, new corrections… So here I am left wondering what I would do if I had to adapt myself to paper and ink: and it seems to me, more than ever, that Kafka’s ever-burning fire is justified.