In Brazil, when a true writer is born, he is required to possess an extraordinary strength of character: from the outset, he already knows that his life’s work will be nothing more than a testament of love. There will be no recognition for his work, nor could there be, because one cannot expect someone to acknowledge something that holds no importance for him. There is nothing to regret. Brazilians do not read and do not like books; books are not part of their lives. Therefore, regardless of the seriousness and caliber of the Brazilian writer, his work will have neither relevance nor influence, as one might expect. That, however, is not the end of the story. He can also be certain in advance that, even if he studies more than writers from other countries, even if he endures greater hardships, overcomes greater obstacles, and practices his craft with greater dedication, even if the monument he erects proves irrefutably more worthy and moving, there will be, after his death, one of those journalists who pretend to be intellectuals, dazzled by their knowledge of English, to spew, from the heights of their ineptitude and terrible command of the language, phrases like “nothing is any good in Brazilian literature,” “nothing good has ever been produced here.” The Brazilian writer is doomed to be despised by fools and insulted by imbeciles.
Tag: writing
The Difference Between a Technique Used Well…
It is curious to note how, at times, the difference between a technique used well or poorly, between a stimulating result and a tedious one, can be so subtle. In *Corpo vivo*, Adonias Filho interweaves narrative threads, as if gradually unfolding the story across the past and the present. As he does so, he introduces new characters. Throughout, he builds anticipation for a revelation or an event; and as soon as he satisfies one curiosity, he creates a new one, and so it goes throughout the narrative, sustaining an interest that never wanes. Furthermore, he employs the aesthetic, even visual pattern arising from these interweavings: the present narrative is followed by quotes that reveal the past, in a rhythm that is almost hypnotic, which, if attempted by less skilled writers, results in indescribable rubbish. This is the miracle of the great writer: with his masterful touch, he makes what is tedious interesting. Imitating him is always dangerous; but appreciating him—ah!—that is a privilege we all have.
If, as in the East, Writers Were Trained…
If, as in the East, writers were trained through a kind of apprenticeship, a good master would say right away, at the very first meeting with the apprentice: “First of all, we must resolve your financial situation. You must, if you do not already have them, create the conditions so that you never depend on, nor expect, money from any of your writings.” So, before grammar, before reading the classics, before anything else, the disciple would have to practice mathematics: calculate how much he would need, monthly, to live; calculate how much he would need to save to have that income, or what kind of work he could do, alongside writing, to raise the amount or secure that monthly income. Without a very well-defined financial plan—the success of which means overcoming the problem of money, freeing oneself from all sorts of financial disturbances—every writer tends to end up, with luck, like Mário de Sá-Carneiro; with bad luck, like others not worth mentioning. Cioran is right: any physical labor is preferable to paid textual work; the need for money must not contaminate the act of writing.
Cioran, in an Interview With Michael Jakob…
Cioran, in an interview with Michael Jakob:
M. J. : Aviez-vous décidé avant votre arrivée en France de ne pas travailler dans ce pays non plus ?
C. : Oui, c’est d’une façon ultra-lucide que j’ai compris qu’il faut accepter n’importe quelle humiliation ou souffrance pour se refuser à exercer un métier, à faire des choses qu’on n’aime pas et qu’on ne peut pas aimer, à exercer tout travail impersonnel. Seul j’aurais accepté un travail physique. J’aurais accepté de balayer les rues, n’importe quoi, mais pas d’écrire, de faire du journalisme ! Il fallait tout faire pour ne pas gagner sa vie. Pour être libre il faut supporter n’importe quelle humiliation et c’était presque le programme de ma vie.
Freedom and humiliation! Perhaps no two words are so closely linked. Such a response clearly reveals the feeling that pulsates within a true writer. And this writer, whether he likes it or not, will do little more than bear a life that, for others, would be unthinkable. There is no such thing as recognition in literature. The man dedicates his life to building a body of work, financially becomes a nobody, perseveres against all odds, renounces everything else—and yet, he must hope to remain in the peace of anonymity, to never be read. When that luck does not come, he is envied by his peers and insulted by the first imbecile. In the end, however, it is worth it, because the writer who accepts this, in truth, chooses an authentic life, and can be proud of having sustained it without betraying himself.