Tag: literature

I exercise my tare for numbers. I am now 400 days without reading a page of Dostoevsky. Everything indicates that I will chase the record of 635 days of abstinence since the first contact. I seem to have fun looking elsewhere for what I already know I will not find. Dostoevsky’s work is a rare stage where the true and greatest problems of human existence are represented. But that is not what I wanted to say… I have a habit of evoking in mind my idols and making comparisons. I notice my mediocre problems and twists and turns, so I visualize, for example, the genius orphaned by his mother at fifteen, with his father murdered at seventeen and sentenced to death ten years later. But that is not all. I also compare the bitterness of these lines with the light emanating from those of the genius. All this even though I am not in physical contact with his books. Then I reflect. It is good to synthesize a work by exposing the problems it deals with and, when they exist, the solutions it offers. But beyond this: one does it well by delineating the various nuances that compose it. And in Dostoevsky, good humor abounds, even if the blind man cannot see it. His biography is summarized in a succession of difficulties of the most varied natures, and his work, synthesized, represents a hopeful and optimistic outlook that prevails over all of them. It is interesting to note the contrast, i.e., the apparent contrast that we see when we use the myopic and materialistic viewpoint that summarizes the experience in “good” and “bad” situations, “successes” and “misfortunes”, and compare the life and work of great personalities. If we consider that a work largely reflects experience, the mind points us to impressive conclusions.

It is incredible how Paul Valéry’s prose is contagious! Especially in the essays, I find an enormous vivacity, unprecedented, in lines that expose great curiosity, erudition in various areas, lightness in the handling of language, precision in the observations and, above all, a completely new way of looking. I am surprised, for example, with some adjectives. Talking about intellectual or literary experiences, there we find the captivating délicieux, even if in adverbial form. Unless I am mistaken, this adjective has never once been evoked by these morbid fingers, neither in prose, nor in verse, nor in anything. Incredible! And, analyzing Valéry’s descriptions, the intellectual assimilation of his experiences, I suspect my perception to be flawed—or is it my experience? Whatever. Let’s work! And let’s start on this note: Valéry’s prose is deliciously exciting!

I am also thinking about the accessibility of art, its social function, and everything else. Inevitably I think of my country. If I were to judge by the miserable character, the nullity of the effects on the masses, and the disrespect with which national artists are treated, I would have to conclude that the country where I was born produces only mediocre artists. This, of course, if I considered common sense as a parameter: the normal thing here is to live devoid of art. If someone says, in Brazil: “I am an artist”, one can ask him in sequence: “And what is your profession?” The artist, then, will have to admit that he does some odd jobs to pay the bills, or works in a job he hates. Why? Because, as a green-yellow artist, he carries on his back the sin of being superfluous, useless, idle, and at the same time is miserably underpaid. The artist, in Brazil, has to be an artist and an Uber driver, an artist and a cosmetics salesman. Nelson Rodrigues, a remarkably successful artist, worked as a journalist until the day before he died. I counter the notion of “accessible art” supported by reality: the great art necessarily goes against the grain of the majority, because the majority sees art as useless, dislikes thought, and praises pleasure. Funny… I think again of Tolstoy. A genius, the progenitor of a magnificent work, and he said that true art must be “accessible” and universal. It was said in Russia that Tolstoy’s entire work does not have a single moment that elicits a smile or the urge to laugh. It may be the passage of time, but I pose the question: How many today understand, or at least are interested in and read Tolstoy? In Brazil, certainly, his entire work would not relieve an artist of the need to deliver pizzas on a part-time basis…