In the phenomenon of psychography, nothing impresses as much as the indisputable literary quality of some texts, which fully justifies the process. The intelligence that express itself with elegance and clarity proves, through its form, to be worthy of attention. The expression sustains it and demands the right to a zealous appraisal, free of prejudices, as should be done with anyone whose lucidity shows that there is, at the very least, itself to be conveyed.
Tag: writing
Only Two Pleasurable Moments
In poetic creation, there are perhaps only two pleasurable moments: ideation and, of course, completion. The first comes down to illusion, the second to relief. For the rest of the process, there is nothing but struggle and more struggle. We get one verse right, but the satisfaction of a moment disappears in the face of the need to get the next one right. We get the idea right, but the verse lacks rhyme; idea and rhyme match, but the rhythm is off-putting. And so on, plus the need to find words that, when accurate, do not fit the needs of the verse. The process would resemble the assembly of a jigsaw puzzle, were it not innocuous matter to be concatenated, were it not a hobby whose success or failure exempts the practitioner from existential consequences.
Language Is Ingrained in Thought Itself
I have never written a line in English, among the hundreds of thousands that have come out of my head, that was not a translation of a thought conceived in Portuguese. Not even in an email. And to imagine the battle fought by so many writers of the last century, who voluntarily adopted a new language to create literature… A writer for whom language is limited to a vehicle of expression is inconceivable. Language is ingrained in thought itself, which is constructed through it. The logical structure of thought is based only on the syntactic structure of the language in which it is shaped; the two are inseparable, and the former cannot flourish without the latter. Words in different languages follow one another and are organized in different ways; this is evidence not of a formal difference, but of a distinction between the genius of the men who develop them. Changing it, when one is already old, seems like a shock of tremendous proportions.
Vary the Style
If not necessary, it is at least healthy for the writer to periodically vary the style, format and genre to which he shapes his ideas. This is the case for countless reasons, starting with how stimulating it is to do so, and also with the gradual awareness of the expressive possibilities that are never exhausted. More than that: in this exercise, one discovers that there are more suitable places for ideas and ideas, and one avoids having to mix them all up—because they will certainly come varied in the creative mind—in a single format. The best thing, then, is to vary like Voltaire; and it is good for the writer to keep this in mind if he does not do it spontaneously.