Tag: writing

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.

It is an almost heroic act to devote the final hours of an exhausting day to literature, when body and mind seem unable to bear any further effort. It really is the devil, as Carpeaux once vented. And through another venting, that of Ferreira de Castro, one realizes that the situation never takes any form other than that of a grueling struggle: even habit does not seem strong enough to prevent those days when one succumbs to exhaustion, when one cannot think, and cannot write. Ah, how much easier life would be without these two occupations! And yet, such is the lot of most writers, and it was under similar conditions that duty overcame nature and produced much of the best that literature has to offer.