Arquivo de literature | Page 87 of 111

What is art?, by Leo Tolstoy

Very interesting essay, as always, in the case of this plume. To Tolstoy, the work of art is a means of transmitting feelings, that is to say: regardless of the qualitative character of the feeling expressed,—which can be good, bad, strong, weak…—the artistic work fulfills its role as long as this feeling communicated by the artist is experienced by those who come in contact with it. And the master, without evasions, carries out the consequences of this proposition, judging the various aesthetic theories over time and citing numerous artists as examples of great, bad, true, and false art. Essentially, he says, art is not a search for “beauty”,—nor any other abstraction,—but an instrument that enables the artist to transmit that which extrapolates the rational argument, to transmit personal feelings experienced by the author. Art, thus, establishes a link between the artist and the common man, justifying its noble role in society since it allows anyone to have experiences that would not be possible by any other means. Tolstoy also judges the art of his time mostly corrupted and risks some comments about the “art of the future”. The essay dates from 1898, the master passed away in 1910: he spared himself from witnessing how unfortunately all his predictions would fall by the wayside…

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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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