Tag: literature

It is more or less inevitable that the poet who sets out to criticize other poets will value in them precisely the qualities he seeks to develop in his own work. Involuntarily, the spotlight falls on what attracts him most. For this reason, it is not uncommon for a poet’s criticism to reveal more about himself than about the author he is criticizing. And that is a very good thing. Almost always, the best parts of his criticism are those in which the poet forgets the role he is playing and lets his personal interpretation flow freely. When we compare them with other passages in which are pointed out aspects, or even authors with whom the poet-critic identifies less, the criticism, even if good, seems somewhat bland.

Literary criticism suffers from the impossibility of fully objectifying the criteria for judging works, with its judgments thus always being more or less based on personal preferences. So far, so good. The problem arises when the critic feels compelled to always present himself as objective, when it is clear that he often is not. This leads to a lot of unnecessary controversy, which could perhaps be avoided if the verbs “I think,” “I prefer,” and “it seems” were more common in criticism. The best thing, without a doubt, is to leave this field to those who are truly gifted, and find other ways, without ever presenting oneself as a critic, to express preferences and opinions.

The story of Aladdin is one of those stories that, whether you are young or old, makes you dream. And it is really impossible to read it and not imagine everything that could be asked of the famous jinni, how wonderfully simple the resolution of all problems would become. One also soon begins to think what a fool the protagonist was, asking for so little, making such superficial use of the immense power that fell into his hands. Undoubtedly, the strength of this story lies in its enchanting suggestiveness, to which no man can remain indifferent. All this stuff about sultans, magicians, jewels, and princesses may be utter nonsense, but rare are the stories that so intensely set the mind to dreaming.

The impression today is that never, not even after World War II, has literature been so contaminated by politics. But the context is very, very different. To begin with, in the past, war violently intervened in the lives of many writers, leading to radical and decisive consequences. For the writer, to ignore it would be to fail in his duty. Then, the insertion of war into literature took place, at least in the great works, just as it did in thousands of lives: as a component of complex and, above all, real human dramas. The current situation is quite different, and only one thing needs to be said about it: there will not be enough capable hands to clean up the mess that the last two decades have produced.