It is interesting to note how impossible it is to read Latin without being in an absolute state of concentration, without the mind turning entirely to understanding the text. The eyes, if they run dispersed through Latin lines, do nothing but waste their time. And what about these classics? Add to the need for uninterrupted effort any kind of divine illumination—this, of course, after a few years of daily study. Oh, language…
Tag: literature
Astrology…
It is with amazement that I read Jung’s conclusions and Pessoa’s lines about astrology. Two modern minds, two minds that I hold in tremendous esteem. Modern, and immediately I see attacked the prejudices of an individual that grew up at the end of the 20th century, trained according to the ideology of his time. The reaction is to excite the newfound curiosity, by the desire not to be like the mediocre and to try to follow the path of the great. Then I come across an area that seems immersed in the most terrible confusions, when not dominated by the cheapest philosophy. Well done! Dozens of centuries give credence to the attention. But what can be gained from all this? Come on… the poet was an astrologer.
Art Is the Act of Artistic Creation
“L’œuvre de l’esprit n’existe qu’en acte”—thus Valéry begins one of the most lucid passages I have ever had the opportunity to read about art. Art is the act of artistic creation, which survives as the record of a momentary illumination, a response of the spirit to specific circumstances. Taken out of context, it is innocuous. It can only be assimilated if analyzed as a whole and is destroyed when its elements are dissected. A beautiful lesson for the “experts”…
Success Is the Ruin of the Artist
Cioran summarized: “Mourir inconnu, c’est peut-être cela la grâce”. Voltaire had already concluded: “Vivre et mourir inconnu”. Valéry, in the same vein, notes that “peut-être, si les grands hommes étaient aussi conscients qu’ils sont grands, il n’y aurait pas des grands hommes pour soi-même”. What to say? Success is a burier. It is perhaps the greatest misfortune that can befall an artist; it is the harbinger of ruin. Success takes away from him the fruitful bitter nights, the terrible and wonderful questioning about his own talent. Success robs him of loneliness and deludes, throwing sand in the inner fire that incites him to study, to continuous evolution, to the improvement of technique, to the need for a fuller expression. Worse, much worse. Success opens up “possibilities” and imposes a “new function” on the artist. This, in fact, is death to him.