Tag: literature

I think of the artistic conceptions of Poe and Tolstoy, and suddenly I start laughing. On one side, the construction of a supreme beauty; on the other, the transmission of a feeling to the reader. Objectives: therein lies the fun. I do not know why, I start thinking about art and comes to my mind the blind universe, the ultimate representation of chance. I think of everything as a whole, and I see nothingness, the empty sky, indifference, the certain extermination, and the improbability of a purpose. “Objective” is a word invented by men who, like men, tend to perish. Stars shine for nothing, an immense galaxy can simply vanish. And I end up reflecting on the very old “useless effort”. Is beauty hidden in the certainty of defeat? Does mercy require the fall? If nothing else interests me, why exactly do I have art as valuable, as the inducer of meaning? It all seems to me, always, to lead to the very same questions…

When I imagine Cioran’s posture in front of a piece of paper and compare it with that of some of the best-selling artisans of entertainment, I think that every book should have a colored label attached to the cover indicating whether the work is serious or whether it is fun, a pastime, a joke—perhaps a happy face would fulfill the role well for these. Sincerity has an aggressive potential that marketing should avoid at all cost. Who pays to be attacked? Certainly not the mainstream audience. Moreover, the classification would be useful for the reader to know from whom he could ask any satisfaction, from whom he would be seen as a customer and, therefore, who would be truly interested in his satisfaction. It would be useful and very easy to identify who publishes for fame and who scratches the paper realizing they are bleeding.