When Nabokov talks about his butterflies, they become interesting even to those who despise them. This is because Nabokov, in addition to being a masterful writer, when he talks about butterflies, he talks about something that captivates him; he speaks enthusiastically, causing at least some of this great enthusiasm to radiate to the reader. With this example, it becomes easy to see that literature makes possible unlikely, unexpected, even impossible readings, provided the author is authentic and deals with subjects that truly interest him—acting as a host who, in an act of good faith, shows the visitor what he considers to be his most valuable possession. Perhaps the most evident effect of a great writer is precisely this: he stimulates, even if by force, the reader’s interest.
Tag: writing
It Is as Liberating as It Is Unpopular…
It is as liberating as it is unpopular to reject all labels, to cling to nothing, to allow oneself to always say what one wants. To philosophize without the title of philosopher, to write poetry without the title of poet, to write without ever earning the title of writer. In this way, it is possible to do all of this authentically, that is, by employing authentic means of expression in an attempt to address the problems that experience has presented. No title will provide gratification comparable to this, to know oneself, to feel oneself spending time on matters of personal importance. And if nothing comes of the effort, at least the comforting sensation will remain that one’s attention was directed toward the questions that life has prescribed.
“I Am a Philosopher; I Do Philosophy”
“I am a philosopher; I do philosophy”—says the builder of imaginary castles, just as the one who plays at creating, arranging, and tampering with words says: “I am a writer; I do literature.” And although both, perhaps, feel justified by the status their craft confers upon them, the truth is that nothing they produce has any existential meaning. Pointing this out seems silly, but the years pass and life presses for a true justification. The philosopher, the writer, cannot find it in the past, having dedicated it to external motivations, detached from themselves. So they repent; perhaps still with time to redeem it, but having already left behind the harmful influence and example.
If a Scale Were Established for Levels…
If a scale were established for levels of literary understanding, or linguistic intelligence, there would surely be a level that most reasonably intelligent people—those with high IQs and strong reasoning skills—would not reach, and that is the level that enables one to identify an aesthetically crafted expression, an expression justified by the effect it produces. Indeed, how many fail to reach it! Most “intelligent” people refuse to let go of the literal meaning of sentences, and thus seem unaware that there is more than semantics, logic, and the most obvious figures of speech. They are the ones incapable of appreciating an author like Cioran, or Nietzsche, or even certain passages by Pessoa, because they “disagree” with what they read. The curious thing is that, although it is instinctive to label them as immature, such a level of understanding seems truly difficult to achieve for those who do not practice the craft of writing. When you do, everything becomes very simple: just set out, even if only in jest, to craft a few striking phrases; and then it will become evident that exaggeration, and even the distortion of thought, sometimes produce a far superior result.