Tag: writing

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.

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.