Tag: literature

There seems to be a consensus that a poem should be recited as prose or, rather, as dramatic interpretation. Where does this idea come from? It is true: by declaiming “dramatically,” one can express emotion, one can make a passionate declamation—what one definitely cannot do is convey to the listener the rhythm of the poem. The reason is very simple. What is rhythm, in music? It is the relationship between musical notes and silence in a metre. What is a metre? It is a regular interval that repeats itself for as long as the composition lasts. In music, play the same notes disrespecting the relationship between them, and the rhythm is gone, the music itself is gone. If we wish to speed up the execution of a piece, we alter the so-called tempo, which is the duration of each unit of the metre—that is, we proportionally alter the relationship of all the musical notes within the composition. If we intend a slower performance, we simply do the opposite process. What we can never change—at least, without disfiguring the music—is the rhythm of the composition; and rhythm, as said, requires regularity. Why should poetry be any different? In fact, it is not. If the verses of a regular poem are recited in varying lengths, if the intonation of the syllables does not follow a regularity, if the obligatory and standard pause at the end of each verse is disrespected, there is no way to convey the rhythm of a poem. It is impossible! Listening to what we are calling “dramatic declamation,” one cannot identify where the verse begins and ends, or which feet compose it—which does not occur when we listen to someone singing a poem. And if we consider that rhythm is the essence of a poem, how can we justify this way of declamation? Who invented this rule that a poem should not be sung? Did not the lyre, to the Greeks, support singing? I am sorry, I am sorry in several languages: but for those who consider a poem a melodic construction, to recite it without musicality seems unnatural—no matter how many diplomas the reciter collects.

Literature, to be enjoyable, must eschew judgment and the expression of torment. In this way, it pleases the reader, instead of hurting him. But we should ask: what kind of artist would opt for such an attitude? or rather: how can we justify the artistic impulse by writing pleasantly? It seems that pleasant literature is also literature that is disguised, that lacks sincerity and verve, that is boring because of its futility—despite its “lightness”. From this it follows that the sincere artist is unlikely not to arouse discomfort and, therefore, not to attract a strong rejection.

I am still impressed by the feat of a translator who ruined my experience with the Yoga Sutra. I could not contain myself and researched about the man: I found, on the site of a British university, a photo where I could see him, bald and smiling, above a long text detailing everything he had studied from the cradle and all his venerable academic degrees—and to see how appearances can be deceiving: I was almost saying that the fellow reminds me of Buddha! My impulse was to look for a way to contact him, a phone number, e-mail address, or something else. I soon gave up the idea, but my spirit urged me to tell him: “Sir Master Doctor, your comments are simply unbearable! Reading your translation of the Yoga Sutra is like trying to watch a movie with someone pausing at each scene to explain all the details, the cast’s filmography, the cultural context of the story, the exact phase of the director’s wife’s menstrual cycle at the time of shooting… all this while we simply wish for the movie to happen, for one scene to follow in sequence to the other, so that we can connect them, understand them, and have direct contact with the movie! But you, no, you do not allow it at all! You pause the movie at every speech, for every sentence, you want to immediately explain the semantics of the words, the subliminal meaning of the inflections, the symbolic connotations of the dialogue… Sir, do the world a favor: stop commenting on books! Stop, please, stop immediately! Exonerate the readers from your comments!”

If prose gives some satisfaction by making work seem productive, it is nowhere near the real pleasure of composing a righteous verse that satisfies in form and conveys the desired idea or feeling. It does not matter how many hours one spends ruminating: a single accurate verse saves the day and cheers the spirit, repeating itself in one’s mind to infinity after the work session. Prose, on the other hand, does nothing but conjure up a truckload of problems after the brief and faint feeling of duty done. Incomparable…