Cioran, Antero, Kafka… all endowed with a nocturnal mind, that is, a mind that, in opposition to daytime bodily habits, chooses the night to put itself in intense activity. Most nights, therefore, a real torture, an incessant conflict that only ends when the light already invades the bedroom window. The tired body asking for rest, and the mind having in the stillness of dawn the perfect time to work. Ideas bursting like firecrackers, reasoning that builds upon each other, scenes, judgments, afflictions, plans, expectations, all bursting forth, sucking attention when the desire is to annul them all. Then, already accustomed to it, the spirit begins to call good nights those in which sleep is like a semi-sleep—the maximum it can reach—a state in which mental chatter blends into a middle ground between dream and reasoning, already automated by an unconscious enchainment and only interrupted by spaced awakenings, in which a conscious glimmer questions the degree of its own lucidity. And from this apparently terrible routine, many, many fruits, solutions that would never be given in a fully awake state, ideas that, if not originating from the deepest recess of the mind, seem to be placed by the hands of a superior spirit. Very well, very well: it is possible to learn to enjoy nights like this—it is just not possible, for a mind like this, to be in a good mood in the mornings.
Tag: literature
Children Deluded by the Futile
Not to say non-existent, it is at least rare to find in this so-called lyric-love poetry verses in which a real experience is sung, something truly high and beautiful as seen in Dante. On the other hand, no matter the language or the time, one always finds the very same elements that bore the reader who is thirsty for some elevation. Of course, of course: there are exceptions; but the compassion that most of these poets arouse has nothing to do with the verses they have written. Sadly, they seem like children deluded by the futile, who lived by feeding on this never realized desire that maturity would disperse. Maturity, that is, wisdom or experience. Both seem to have been lacking, otherwise they would have found something more noble to direct their attention to.
There Are Many Advantages to Publishing Small Volumes…
There are many advantages to publishing small volumes on a regular basis rather than letting the work grow indefinitely. The first is the more tolerable distribution of the revision work. Another, and perhaps the main one, is that one does not know when death will come, and it is good to avoid the risk of having passages published that would never pass the most faulty and inattentive revision, as one sees a lot in Kafka’s Diaries. What irony! Kafka, who loved to label as bad and burn what he wrote, had published in its entirety, with obvious errors and many idle lines, a work that he would probably have thrown on the bonfire. No doubt, it is something that could have been avoided.
The “Headquarters of Noise”
Kafka, in his Diaries, cheekily names his room as a “headquarters of noise”. He complains about the slamming of doors, the trotting of hurried footsteps, the dragging of robes, the scraping of ashes, the shouting… Oh, my dear Mr. Kafka, it was God who freed you from the sertanejo music, from the mad cursing of referees, central defenders and side-backs! You never knew what it was like to interrupt a composition with punches on the wall, with the heavy heels of an elephant just above your ceiling! To read with the unbearable sound of the drums of a gospel band, memorizing the chants of the cult instead of understanding the lines read! Be thankful, my dear! You lived when there was not yet this mobile phone crap, when churches did not have microphones, amplifiers, and did not set up on every corner, especially yours, no matter how many times you changed your address!…