The Queen of Procrastination

Antipathetic to work, sometimes denying it, it is incredible to notice how the mind is stimulated to toil for procrastination. If there is no reason, it finds: because it wants to postpone it, it must postpone it immediately. Tomorrow, the day after: not now. And so wrecks the productivity. What could be done, is not. The little bit that, added up over many days, would become something robust is lost in the smoke of idleness. I think the phrase is from some philosopher; if not, let it go from me: there are cases that, fatally, demand violence.

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The “Motivational Therapy”

It is amazing to see that exactly in the century immediately following the eruption of the geniuses of modern psychology, the so-called “motivational therapy” is so successful. “Overcoming problems”: this is the impossibility—when we consider real psychological traumas—transformed into a product in the marketing era. When the means for a drastic deepening in the understanding of the psychology of the human being, of the origin of traumas arise, and when there is the possibility of using cognition to alleviate their unwanted effects, reduce their means of action—and never overcome them, eliminate them—man turns his back on knowledge and opts for the path of childhood, exchanges analytical prudence for happy psychology, psychology whose practice is summed up in “thinking positive” and acting like a child in the face of the traumas that overwhelm, sometimes without emitting a signal. Everything seems evidence that geniuses, when they appear, do it in vain…

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Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov

Vladimir Nabokov is an author who shakes me like few others. His Lectures on Russian Literature have given me a very strong and ambiguous impression. Then, interviews, like that of the Paris Review, consolidated the image I have in mind of him: a giant, but of an arrogance that escapes my understanding. And I simply do not understand some stones thrown by Nabokov, as in Dostoevsky in particular: I remain on the wall judging them envious or expressing intellectual honesty. Whatever: my mind suffers from this unbearable need for judgment; I do not. For I open Lolita and, repeating what I said a few days ago: one page is enough to perceive myself before a great writer, one page is enough to impress me with wonderful, elegant prose, brilliant in style and powerful in content. Nabokov’s prose, in Lolita, is endowed with the body that the English language seems to lack. And that is not the only reason why the work shines: Nabokov teaches the pairs of his century that writing about moral corruption does not demand the corruption of the language. Lolita digs deep: these are frightening pages about the psychology of a pedophile, ambiguous from the beginning, either by the controversial moralism, or by the behavior of Humbert Humbert, the protagonist, who oscillates between sarcasm, love, dissimulation, and desire, terribly corrupting a young girl and installing in our heads the infamous doubt: has he really corrupted? The mere questioning is the confession of immorality that inhabits our minds. And the masterpiece is the full proof that in man the hideous mixes with the sublime.

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The Clash Between Vanity and Conscience

Some natures impress by the complete absence of the clash between vanity and conscience. Perhaps by the very weakness of conscience, which justifies seeing it ignored by the most popular currents of psychology. In some, it seems simply that it does not manifest. But it is incredible to think of someone who, not once in his life, prays for the pettiness of his own conduct, for the motivators of his own “will”. To do so and not proceed with condemnation would be understandable, but the fact is that, in most people, there is not the slightest trace of conflict.

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