Tag: writing

All this affliction experienced by the serious writer could be mitigated if it were possible for him to promise and deceive himself, with each new work, that after completing it he would stop writing. Therefore, to see the present work as the last, always. Thus, the illusion of later relief would give strength so that the very painful work of the moment would not afflict, but rather motivate, because it is the last of a spirit that is one step away from rest. Unfortunately, this is not possible. What is possible is to see in dismay how much one still has to do, is to feel imprisoned by duty, obliged to force lines that refuse to come out, and then to fry oneself in a terrible process in which the satisfaction is strange and the result is always the same affliction.

If it is necessary for the writer to establish a link with his time, he can only do so by living it. It is inevitable… no matter how hard one tries, one cannot feel a past or future time as those who have lived or will live in it have felt and will feel it. Therefore, one can only have a notion of a distant time, and a notion entirely dependent on the degree to which the writer felt it in the flesh to then describe it to us. In this way, living his own time can be seen by the writer as a mission for the benefit of those who have not yet been born, and therefore it is perfectly possible, and even necessary, for him to find meaning in that which seems unpleasant and importunate: only in this way can he be useful and indispensable to those who will come.

If something is published, it will be read: this is an inevitable reality. But it is good to think that this will never happen, because then one can create with tranquility and independence. There is something beautiful and solemn about this silence that accompanies the creation and, more often than not, the reception of a work. It is an illusory but extremely stimulating silence, and has been present in most of the great works ever conceived. If he thinks of the natural breaking of this enchantment, the artist will judge it best never to publish anything, and therefore should not do so: he should allow himself to be deluded, and enjoy the stillness as if it were guaranteed and eternal.

It is strange to note the absolute irrationality of this duty that is often the inexhaustible and most potent fuel in the trajectory of great writers. When asked about the reason for so much effort and so much affliction, the answer of “I have to do it” does not seem sufficient, and even believable. An entire life, then, justified by something inexplicable… this is, no doubt, something apparently fragile; and yet, so it is.