Tag: literature

The great interest, and even noble interest, of critics in contemporary literature is understandable. There are cases in which, without them, the public would not be aware of, or would not know how to appreciate, great authors. It is also understandable, and in many ways beneficial, when critics manage to establish personal ties with one or more authors. However, there is perhaps no more obvious trap to be placed in their path, and one that is capable of ruining the longevity of their work. It is shocking to observe how, at times, a highly refined historical sense and the most complete lack of understanding when it comes to current literature can coexist in the critic’s mind. This becomes apparent, of course, as the current ages, revealing how much he has allowed himself to be contaminated by it. In such cases, the courage and integrity of always offering a sincere opinion do little to mitigate the problem: everything seems incoherent when one is oriented by a misguided sense of proportion.

Only yawns can respond to the old theory, revived from time to time in a new guise, according to which great art is that which limits itself to accurately portraying reality. If that were the case, it would suffice to remain faithful, and the art that portrayed the most stupid, repulsive, banal, or uninteresting scene would be great. In fact, the opposite effect is achieved if one dwells minutely on something that should be disregarded. To confirm this, one only has to imagine how ridiculous a piece of music would be in which the composer strove to perfectly replicate certain “sounds of nature.” Great art is only that which, using whatever medium it may, elevates those who come into contact with it, or at least holds out that possibility; the rest is nonsense.

The fact that, in the West, contact with these One Thousand and One Nights almost always occurs through children’s adaptations in various forms somewhat obscures the literary importance of this work, which transcended all imaginable barriers and permeated popular culture. Very few ever read it in its entirety, despite its influence being frequently suggested. The truth is that, like Greek mythology, this work has become mandatory reading for students of literature. Even if the stories had no value, knowing them is to witness the power of a narrative that can transcend time and cultural barriers as if they were nothing, becoming part of our common human heritage. No more needs to be said.

There is no denying it: in a writer’s personality, eccentricity is the most captivating trait. Fernando Pessoa is much more likable to us thanks to the stupid publishing venture that burned his inheritance; Dostoevsky, the same, for believing in the potential of his amazing strategy at the roulette wheel; Cioran, the philosopher, would never be the same if he had not suffered nervous breakdowns while buying eggs. And so on… But it is very rare to see writers aware that they will be characters in their own biography, and that therefore they should focus on the eccentric. For the benefit of the biography, they should follow the advice given by Cioran in these wonderful lines:

22 juin
Suis allé au marché. Pour quatre œufs, j’ai attendu une demi-heure. Crise de nerfs, fureur, ces femmes bavardes me mettent hors de moi. J’ai attendu uniquement pour me démontrer à moi-même que j’étais maître de mes nerfs, que je pouvais me contenir, et j’ai supporté effectivement toutes ces bonnes femmes sans hurler. Mais après, j’ai failli hurler.

C’est toujours la même histoire: tout effort que nous faisons sur nous-même se retourne contre nous ou nous nous retournons contre lui. La santé, c’est donner libre cours à ses humeurs, c’est être ce qu’on est.

If not health, at least complacency with future readers.