Tag: writing

The revision process is undoubtedly much more enjoyable in poetry than in prose. In fact, perhaps they deserve separate names, since they are very different processes. In the first case, the task is to polish, to swap out this or that word, and in doing so, one immediately reaps the reward of the altered line’s effect—a line that has already demanded work and reflection. In the second case, revision is more a process of correction and rewriting. In poetry, the greatest effort occurs at the beginning, when one must construct the poem’s framework; in prose, the draft flows naturally, and the hard part is transforming it into the final text. Transforming a mediocre line into an elegant one is a joy; correcting flaws in a poorly written text is nothing more than a duty.

Cioran rightly recommended that anyone experiencing a fit of rage toward someone simply take a piece of paper and a pen and write down a few dozen insults: “He’s a pig, a scoundrel, a criminal, an animal….” The rage passes. If it does not pass, it diminishes dramatically, and putting it down in writing brings about a kind of release. Now, what happens with anger also happens with anguish. But the processes are different. Anger dissipates with the frantic, dizzying outpouring; it dissipates through the way one writes. Anguish, on the other hand, dissipates, at least in part, through rationalization. It is always the same: evoking it seems to intensify it, plunging the mind into a painful process; yet, little by little, as one describes how it operates, it loses its strength, as if understanding were neutralizing it. In the end, one is left with a text: there it is, laid bare, perhaps very unpleasantly; but it has indeed diminished.

Better are always the words of one who does not allow himself to be dominated by a sense of self-importance, even if that sense has not been transformed into humility. Contempt, scorn, whatever it may be: anything is valid to nullify it, and any expression that contradicts it is more pleasing than the pride that may stem from it. The reader, even if not a philosopher, will always have an innate sense of the relative importance of a single human being in the face of creation. Therefore, vice, even if not consciously perceived, will produce the impression arising from its vicious nature. It’s that simple.

The phenomenon that occurred on Fernando Pessoa’s “triumphal day” never ceases to amaze. It is a majestic mystery to which all artists must bow. One can rationalize it in part; one can even attempt to replicate it with good results by methodically following predefined steps during the creative process. However, even if the process proves fruitful, nothing can be done to guarantee maximum power in the final act. This seems independent and sovereign: it occurs when and how it pleases. And perhaps it is for the best that it does so, because it prevents the author from falling into arrogance and considering himself the absolute master of the enigmatic act of creation.