Tag: writing

It is a rather silly notion that, with each new poem, the author must “invent” something new. And it goes hand in hand with this other idea that the greatest poet is the one who has employed the greatest number of formulas, who has explored the widest range of compositional possibilities, who, in short, “has not repeated himself.” That is why versification manuals, after a certain point, begin to grow tiresome. The same is true of treatises on stylistics. There comes a point where the essential seems long since surpassed, and the text begins to dwell on the irrelevant. The student is left with the feeling that his noble interest is being trivialized, and that art itself is of little value.

There are scholars who do not consider Farias Brito a philosopher; there are literary critics who consider Lima Barreto a minor writer. And yet, it is possible to read the works of both with tears in the eyes. When the texts are taken out of context and reduced to objects of technical and structural analysis, much of their meaning disappears. It should be somewhat obvious, but there are always those who ignore the dimension that the author’s person can lend to his work. Perhaps this is a consequence of modernity. And the result is very simple: if you ignore it, you will be unable to discern the sincere from the feigned, authenticity from affectation; the text will be nothing more than a jumble of words; the depth of the discourse will never be grasped. There will be no difference, after all, between reading a comic book and reading Osamu Dazai.

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.

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.