In an untimely manner, I set out again to write film scripts. The work of the moment, which was beginning to crawl, is interrupted. And I do not know what to feel. Perspectives, I have few, whatever I am creating. But the ease of spitting out pages of screenplay jumps out when compared to the agony of literary creation. The screenwriter sees his work progress, every day, and finds manifest satisfaction. A screenplay, in fact, worths its structure, its effectiveness in distributing scenes within a predefined format, and its strength in exposing a dramatic arc. The screenwriter works on the structural demarcation of the text: he defines the conflict, its progression through the plot, and its ending; then he distributes it into scenes, with positioning and length following the dramatic arc and the format of the work. Then it is just a matter of formalizing, or rather, transforming the diagram into text. With well-defined characters, the dialogues spring up with amazing ease, in infinite variations. Of course, they are to a great extent adaptable, replaceable: the script, which is nothing but the outline of a work, worths its outline itself. And I, from being an artist, return to the role of a diagrammer.
Tag: writing
The Explosion of an Unbearable Inner Conflict
As opposed to the representation of external phenomena, I perceive great art as the explosion of an unbearable inner conflict. That is to say: the artist prints what torments him or the object of his insatiable desire. Psychological obsessions, feelings that attack him violently… the great art is the consequence of an inner war. Exactly because of that, it rarely presents itself as pleasant. Intensity has nothing to do with peace…
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Laughing at What Causes Anger…
I am delighted to note my disagreements with the language police, which, like the customs police, claim to be the lady of reason. I find it amusing and I am proud of my rebellion. I feel close to the crucified artists who have always aroused my admiration…
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The Illusion of Poetic Freedom
The evolution of poetry over the centuries gives us a false illusion of freedom gained, it seems to us that, over the centuries, the poets have been gradually getting rid of the ties of the verses until reaching the free verse. In part, the poets proved themselves capable of breaking old conventions, introducing new expressive resources (the enjambement, for example) and expanding the aesthetic possibilities of poetry. But it is false to think that, sitting down to compose, the poet feels free as to form, even in free verse. That, of course, if he is a good poet. But why? Because even if he gives up the metrics, the rhymes, varies the stanzas and extrapolates the limits of the verse, the poet will be bound by the rhythm. If he wants to compose a good poem, he is not free to put the words where he wants. Rhythm, the balance between tonic and tense syllables, cadenced movement of sounds: the day the poem that ignores these principles is considered good, we will all be—from illiterate to philistines—great poets.
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