The flaws in Gonçalves Dias’ poetry are not few. But much more numerous, much more abundant are the passages in which form and expression shine, and the poet unquestionably rises to the level of the best in the Portuguese language. Gonçalves Dias delights, above all, by the sincerity of his poetic expression, which is convincing and has nothing of affectation. An emotional and vigorous poetry, that deservedly was received as the best of its time on a national level and that touches, even more, when supported by a biography worthy of a poet.
Tag: literature
A List of Next Readings Only Grows
No matter how much one reads, a list of next readings only grows, always grows, until it becomes an indomitable monster and demands, as humanly unfeasible, a new planning, from the ground, through a new list. It is always the same, and the process is inevitable. If, on the one hand, the planning of studies is fundamental, on the other hand, its full compliance is impractical, or rather, inconvenient. This is because, in the course of the process, interest expands to other paths, and nothing is more fruitful for intellectual growth than following the course of one’s own interest. The old next readings, let them be for another occasion… In short: reading lists are important guidelines designed to be disregarded and discarded. And that is just as well.
The Artist Becomes What He Is Able to Represent
The artist becomes what he is able to represent in his work. His whole dimension is summed up in what he is able to convert into art. As a man, it is as if he did not exist; he disappears as soon as his body dies. That is why he lives while he creates, he builds himself by making art—everything else is worth to him only as raw material and only if transformed into work.
It Is Curious How Kierkegaard, a Prolix Writer…
It is curious how Kierkegaard, a prolix writer,—who sins by being prolix,—hardly irritates me. Although there are passages in his work that cause me great boredom, still they do not irritate me. Some others… Oh, God! The name of the moment is Jean-Paul Sartre. How is it possible that Sartre, a remarkable writer, can make me want to unlearn how to read, when I endure many, many pages of Kierkegaard’s prose? It seems that I can tolerate prolixity when I notice the author’s emotional state, when I notice that the topic is close to his heart, and, above all, when I notice his sincerity. On the other hand, if the author spends words on nothing, if he runs away from the proposed theme, losing himself in futile and vain reasoning, wasting my sight, then an uncontrollable impulse points out to me the exasperating character of what I am reading. I close the work, slam it against the shelf, and verbalize an insult. Sometimes I regret… This is not the case. Indescribable joy at abandoning Sartre to pull out a volume of Helena Blavatsky. Holy irritation!