Everything indicates that I will complete a whole year of exclusive dedication to fifteen miserable poems or, more precisely, to about one thousand seven hundred verses. Laugh, Hugo, laugh! And, at the end of the process, there will be no publication, because it is necessary for the verses to rest—although it seems that this is what they have been doing in the last months. Were these notes not a very efficient way to give vent to the ideas that come and pile up, I would be faced with an impregnable mountain of annotations. I have, at the bottom, some forty perfectly idealized short stories that require no more than a day’s work to be realized on paper. Besides, I do not know how many plots for novels, plays, or whatever. Even for poems, there are excesses that could not be used in this volume. And I am left wondering how, in the past, artists who did not have secretaries would organize themselves after ten, twenty years of creative work. Without a computer, it seems to me that I would be forced to give up…
Tag: literature
The Great Genius Most Often Lives Hindered
I believe it was Carpeaux who noted that the great genius most often lives hindered by circumstances. And even if he does not want to, even if he resists, a force seems to set him in motion, prohibiting unproductive inertia. Thus we have the most common profile: an individual neither poor, nor rich; neither totally deprived of means, nor blessed with too many facilities. He takes action; he does it because he needs to, because he feels pulsating a desire and a need to surpass himself, to elevate himself, which is nothing more than a flat refusal of his actual conditions. From this, he acquires an unbreakable motivation, ready to go to the ultimate consequences to achieve what he has set out to do. He adapts as best he can to the momentary hindrances and goes forward, always forward. Then, all this complex set of circumstances that Pessoa talks about, especially those of the environment, makes his spirit exceptionally vigorous, so that he is finally benefited by the necessary—as Pessoa also notes—”minimal episodes of luck”. It is a very interesting phenomenon, and one that makes one think…
Just as Machado’s Irony…
Just as Machado’s irony, badly imitated—and so imitated—is irritating, so is this simulated lightness in poetry, this simplicity that pretends to be profound, this delicacy that, when it is not the authentic expression of a temperament, is annoying. In short: Drummond and Bandeira. Perhaps the greatest curse of success is its offspring, that is, the imitators. How embarrassing is the technique when exposed without the original varnish! And to see all these cheap copies proliferating, making ridiculous the very creativity that engendered it… Directly, it is true, the originals are not tarnished; however, it is difficult to say that any artist would rejoice in forgeries. There remain antidotes, and none seems more potent than inserting absurd, repulsive eccentricities into one’s own art, which no imitator will have the courage to appropriate.
Marriage Is the Death of Lyric-Love Poetry
Verses by Byron:
There’s doubtless something in domestic doings
Which forms, in fact, true Love’s antithesis;
Romances paint at full length people’s wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages;
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,
There’s nothing wrong in a connubial kiss:
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?
There are truths that are too unpleasant and deservedly avoided. There is no denying it: marriage is the death of lyric-love poetry. Or, rather, it ends the latter the instant the desire is consummated. To exist, it is necessary that the poet regrets not having what he covets, that is, it is necessary that something hinders the realization of his fantasy. The verses will sprout only as long as the idealized object is unavailable, and therefore allows itself to be painted with extraordinary form, something that will never occur if it proves to be a real entity. And here we go: Petrarch’s love gave birth to verses because it was unrequited,—an obvious conclusion that needs no biographical support,—as it occurred and occurs with all his peers. Whatever one may say, this is the truth: the poet capable of fulfilling his own will will hardly ever make “love” verses.