Dostoevsky and the Artistic Technique

Proverbials are criticisms of Dostoevsky’s style. Not only the Russians but also those who do not know the language usually say Dostoevsky is prolix, imprecise and many other things, taxing his texts as badly written or badly finished. Of these, however, most recognize the immense value of Dostoevsky’s work, which raises an interesting question. Hemingway, in A Moveable Feast, puts it in the following terms: “How can a man write so badly, so unbelievably badly, and make you feel so deeply?” The answer is simple: what is in Dostoevsky’s work goes beyond the artistic technique. On this one, I keep the numerous caveats to the so unbelievably badly for when I am able to read in Russian—caution, by the way, that Hemingway did not have. But the question exposes another even more interesting: what is the purpose of art? how does great art manifest itself? And the critics who judge the essence of art to reside in technique are wrong. Great art stands out, primarily, for the power of expression, for the effect it is capable of generating. And style, technique, form are accessories that contribute to the creation of this effect, many times amplifying the expressiveness of the artistic work. Different intentions, different techniques… And distinguishing the essential, it is possible to understand how authors of styles as disparate as Hemingway and Dostoevsky manage, both, to deliver us works of enormous value.

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Mere Transcription Exercise

The feeling of being able to write endless pages, only transcribing the permanent psychological war and its endless chapters. Ruthless conflict, continuous affliction, tranquility that rarely comes… Words of the master opportunely recalled: “All my life I have spoken silently and lived in myself entire tragedies without uttering a word.”

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Expansions in Shock

I look at my thirty-six poems. They came out, that is for sure. Months of hard work, but they came out. Then I notice the immense contrast between the gusts that I simply allowed to manifest. The moralism I dislike is an obligatory component in my lines—I will never silence it, I will never neutralize a dimension of myself… Then, the psychology of despair, the ruptures of the mind inserted in a body contrary to action, perplexed by existence. And finally, cynicism, mockery, the expression of someone incapable of not consciously shooting himself into ridicule. Let us follow with the ultimate…

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The Story That Kafka Did Not Write

A very banal guy keeps, for fifteen years, the same cell phone number. He has thus built up an extensive network of personal and professional contacts. He is, above all, dependent on this number. Suddenly, he receives between 100 and 150 daily calls during business hours from companies trying to sell him some kind of financial product. Between 100 and 150 calls from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.: doing the bakery math, the number is equivalent to approximately one call every five minutes. The guy, or better, the young misanthrope is forced to answer them all since there is the possibility of finding a possible customer among the unknown numbers. The number is also a work number. Every five minutes, the phone rings. The young man attends with rudeness, dismisses the invasive company very irritated for being called to listen about products that he has no interest, without having ever granted opening in order such calls were made. So his routine becomes hell. He cannot concentrate on anything, the phone does not stop ringing. He has to answer, he becomes rude in the first word, mistreats professional contacts by mistake. “Mr. Luciano Duarte, please…”, “Kindly Mr. Luciano…”, “At this number I can talk to Mr. Luciano…”. Oh, Kafka, brother, help that your character!

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