Tag: writing

There must be a difference between long meditated verse and verse carved out in seconds. If not the reader, it is the poet who must feel it. Otherwise, it is admitting that neither the mind nor the effort are of any use. And patience a virtue of those who have no talent. No, no… there seems to be a contradiction here, just as there is justice in the greater gratification that comes from the completion of long works. Great art asks for time, even if it is to ratify a creation conceived suddenly.

Says Guyau, in the preface to his Vers d’un philosophe:

Il y a deux écoles en poésie : l’une recherche la vérité de la pensée, la sincérité de l’émotion, le naturel et la fidélité parfaite de l’expression, qui font qu’au lieu d’un auteur ” on trouve un homme ” : pour cette école, pas de poésie possible sans une idée et un sentiment qui soient vraiment pensés et sentis. Pour d’autres, au contraire, la vérité du fond et la valeur des idées sont chose accessoire dans la poésie : le tissu brillant de ses fictions n’a rien de commun ni avec la philosophie ni avec la science ; c’est un jeu d’imagination et de style, un ravissant mensonge dont personne ne doit être dupe, surtout le poète.

This division, which seems more precise than the traditional literary schools, and which can be easily extended to the other arts, summarizes artists in two groups: the true and the artificial. The only possible caveat consists in saying that, in many cases, the imagined emotion can be a felt emotion, that is, the imagination, as strong as it is, is worth as experience. For the rest, it is to admit that there are those who make art out of expressive necessity, those for whom a life without art is absolutely unjustified, absolutely impossible; and there are those for whom art is an entertainment and an exhibition. That is enough.

It is curious how the writing process always seems unpleasant, or at the very least, overexposes its worst aspects. We start a prose piece, and our mind remembers how much more beautiful poetry is; we draft a volume of verse, and our mind seems to miss the productivity of prose. There is no escape: whatever we create, the process will always be a struggle, and abandoning it will always be easier. That’s why it makes us envious when we observe those who play around making art or make it thinking of figures, of fame, of readers. Although they produce mediocre works, they free themselves from this unbearable anguish and this terrible desire for annihilation.

Auguste Dorchain, in L’art des vers, admirably defined the charm provided by poetry: “la surprise dans la sécurité”, “la variété dans l’unité”, “la liberté dans la discipline”. It is the balance between such contrasts that gives us a sense of pleasure in going through a poetic work. Without the security, the unity, the discipline, we do not find the whole harmonious; without the surprise, the variety, the freedom, it does not seem stimulating. Thus, it is fair that a poet defines which elements will represent the first qualities, and which the second in his poem. It is by balancing them that a well-made whole is built, even if it leans more toward the most desired effect. While the yearning for freedom that inspired poets of the past is understandable, while many innovations have renewed and enhanced admirably the poetic art, it seems a depreciation of art to accept it performed in any way, as if the music of a layman playing a musical instrument in disorderly fashion were rewarded with praise.