Arquivo de literature | Page 92 of 111

The Traditional Melodic and Rhythmic Elements of Poetry

The traditional melodic and rhythmic elements of poetry, when used with skill, give a beauty to verses that hardly allow them to be matched by free verses. In a few decades, it will be possible to compare them with the necessary distance, and there is no doubt that the enchantment produced by the double rhythm and melody will, on average, be far superior to the new effects achieved by modern poetry. It will also be possible to wisely judge the diligence of the technique, and then it will become evident that transplanting music to letters is a very difficult art whose essence is directly linked to traditional poetry.

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Slaves of Praise

Knowing the corrosive character of praises when directed to the living artist, I notice that they apply more often to a pose than to a work—when not in search of reciprocity… oh, gross!…—And, exactly for this reason, they corrode the work becoming a fundamental element of the pose, seen miserably as the artist’s element of distinction. In short: the artist finds himself dependent on applause, cutting in the work what repels them, that is, he ends up making the work also part of the pose, becoming anything but sincere. And how numerous they are! Humiliating? deplorable? What can be said of this nation of slaves of praise? I lack words…

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Victor Hugo’s Lesson

For three months now, dedicating myself to closing a small volume of poems, fighting against the discouraging sensation of never considering a single sonnet finished, it is with amazement that I think of the more than 150 thousand verses that Victor Hugo finished in just one life. Once, I read someone saying that such productivity compromised the quality of these verses. Reasoning too obvious and that does not resist an accurate examination. To me, the scandalous in Victor Hugo is the discipline worthy of the greatest name in French literature. Immense merit, and quite instructive…

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When I Open a Book, I Do Not Sign a Contract

I remember the day I made this magnificent discovery: when I open a book, I do not sign a contract committing myself to read it until the end. Soon the idea shone, I transferred, smiling, the volume of my hands to the shelf. Since then, I have exercised my right more and more often. The works vary, so do the reasons: sometimes contempt speaks; for others, my inaptitude cries out. And, using this very useful technique of pressing the cover against the back of the book with my hands, I have learned that some works require the moment, require adequate preparation (especially in terms of mastery of the language) to prove themselves useful or enjoyable. Thus, closing a book can save time, avoid unnecessary wear and tear and prevent a rewarding future experience from being burned by an unjustified rush.

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