29 January 2012

I'm reading a book

"I'll never be a real writer, major or minor, because I always write in moments of exaltation, so I always just write about myself instead of entering into my characters and becoming the tool that brings them to life. That's why I can never really express a situation, a mood, a change. I'll never be able to communicate that certain something, that nothing, that vertigo in the text that comes from somewhere but you don't know where, whether it's the sentences on the page or something prior to them. It's as if the words have shot from somewhere like comets and collided with the page, wounding it with the dizzying speed of their fall. Writing should be something cold, detached, like a comet - but I'm such an idiot that I write with my heart. It's the only reserve I've got, I've turned all my thoughts into feelings, and now when I sit down to write, I use my pen crudely, coarsely, not nourish my work, but as my sole source of inspiration - so that pain keeps bringing me back to myself, because I don't use it to strengthen my characters, but to empty them of all feeling, all suffering, since the only suffering I really care about is my own. Of course you'll say if I know all this, why don't I do something about it. It takes more, old boy, it takes more. Sometimes I imagine and even long for a violent death that might put me, just for a second, into that state of writing, so that just for a second-"

Enxerto extraído da página 96 do livro Sleepwalker da escritora grega Margarita Karapanou. Um livro excelente que me me está demorando para terminá-lo. Talvez hoje à tarde no parque termino a sua leitura, mas vai ser com pena.