The Sant Jordi preview
Now that Sant Jordi is approaching and booksellers, readers, writers, publishers, and cultural journalists are throwing themselves into it with energy and a touch of anxiety, I would like to share, from this corner, some reflections on the act of writing that May Sarton left us in her Diary of a Solitude(Amsterdam Llibres, translated by Núria Parés).
May Sarton was a Belgian-American writer (1912-1995) who, at a certain point in her life, chose a life of seclusion. This diary contains her doubts and fears, her moments of pure happiness, and many reflections on literature and everything surrounding the life of a writer.
To begin, regarding her choice to retire to write: "We live in an age in which more and more people are trapped in lives that barely allow them to make thoughtful decisions, in which there are fewer and fewer real choices."
Regarding what they call success"But it is worrying to see people waiting for applause and recognition when they haven't even begun to learn an art or a technique. Instant success is the order of the day: 'I want it right now!' I wonder if this isn't part of our corruption by machines. Machines do things very quickly and outside the natural rhythm of life."
On bestsellers: "All aspiring writers say the same thing: 'I'm not going to compromise and write a bestseller!' as if they had a choice. [...] It takes a good storyteller to write a bestseller, and a good craftsman to make concessions. [...] Many great writers—Dickens, Joyce, Trollope, Hemingway—have been bestsellers."
On the debate surrounding autobiographical literature: "In my opinion, if a writer is serious, he considers himself an instrument of experimentation." Life—in its entirety—flows through this instrument and is distilled into its works of art. The way we live our personal lives is intimately connected to it.
On the writer's work: "Today is a strange and empty day. I don't feel well; I've wandered around here doing nothing, contemplated the daffodils against the white walls, and twice I've thought I must be hallucinating because their extraordinary aroma permeates every room. How important it is sometimes not to expect to produce anything, not even four lines in a diary."
On Sant Jordi (she doesn't say it like that, of course): "I'm absurdly nervous about what clothes I have to wear; the whole social atmosphere overwhelms me... I'll never, ever feel at home. Everything went well, but I came home full of doubts and unease. Why me?" sale From my books? How does a writer like me survive this huge machine? [...] The reaction to so much exposure comes two days later, and these last few days I've been dead tired.
Hang in there, everyone!