I’ve always been a keen reader, but now that my thoughts are turning more and more to writing, reading has taken on the whiff of work. This is not necessarily a bad thing; it’s just a change I’ve noticed. My reading is now akin to strolling on the beach: eyes down, scanning the sand for treasures left by the tide, moving on from the mundane, gathering any tit bits with a bit of shine and bower-birding them away for later.
To find a phrase beautifully crafted leaves my feelings very much mixed. The wash of sensual and intellectual pleasure soon recedes, leaving only the damp sand of despondency. It’s intimidating. Once you’ve read the perfect description of something, will anything you come up with on your own ever do? Individual phrases needle me like this; so good, so perfect that my own mind is paralysed to other possible descriptions.
So many sublime works of art have been accomplished that sometimes I wonder if there’s any point in creating anything in this modern age. Why paint when there are Caravaggios in the world? What could any of us have to say that Twain, Kafka, Montaigne haven’t phrased to perfection already?
Well, who can possibly know until they’ve said it?
I can think of two good reasons for creating artwork. One is to better ourselves, as a tool of reflection -- who couldn’t benefit from that? The other reason is to better the world we live in. Culture is dynamic, and by taking an active part in it we can, in a small way, put our hand to the rope that’s pulling us all along as a people, rather than simply be towed along in whatever direction it happens to be going. None of us can say where our efforts will lead, perhaps not even in our lifetime, or even several lifetimes. And I’m not talking about Van Gogh-style posthumous glory here –- I simply mean giving the social rudder a gentle push in one direction or another. Contributing to the momentum of our culture –- the pleasure, the laughter, the criticism, the analysis and the introspection –- is probably reason enough.
1 comment:
I think that wonderful writing comes from a drive to say something -- a particular thing in a particular way. As you stated eloquently, who knows what significance it will have? If you believe in what you're saying, it will be beautiful, because you will love it enough to craft it with beauty. Indeed it's pretty hard to come up with new themes after several millennia of writing. Even so, nobody has ever been you before, in your particular place and time. Giving your utmost to breathing yourself into your words is the way to ensure that your words are your own.
I recently got my hands on The Art Of Writing by Milan Kundera. And then I read The Joke. Although it doesn't take away from his craft at all, reading his discussions of the art certainly brings his work back into the realm of human activity -- where before it dwelt in a sort of otherworldly realm, at least for me. It was actually quite heartening to learn that he actually had something in mind as he wrote, and that his fingers weren't just directed by divine will. Even he is just a craftsperson -- but he approaches his task with the eyes of an artist. And he knows what it should look like, and so has something to compare it to, even if it is only an ideal.
Worrying about not being able to communicate the beauty and wonder that we feel is as old as the task itself. The great thing about writing, as opposed to speaking, is that it's a visual art, and as imperfect as it is, it's not locked into a moment of time, and therefore it can always be re-crafted.
Post a Comment