FEATURE: RETURN
Hypnotists, magicians
By Antonio Muñoz Molina
loving too much is not good literature, or art. There is a danger of being bewitched, and believe they are richer, truer, more varied life. It is not too good to love literature and art and even less to admire in excess of those engaged in these trades.
not want to fall into the vulgarity of it is better not to meet in person whom you know from afar and admired for his work, not thereby be inevitable disappointment. It depends. Most of the writers, painters, filmmakers who would rather not know and had not liked me for their work. A writer whose books appeared to me was even more obnoxious obnoxious in person. But almost everyone I met after I greatly admire have found it even closer and more worthy of affection and respect. I will never forget the gentle warmth of Adolfo Bioy Casares, the simplicity laborious Jose Guerrero, Antonio Lopez Garcia, Antonio Saura, my dear, still active as John Genovese, who at eighty intact live without the joy of painting burden of the search for perfection or fear of criticism, or the anxiety of not being fashionable. Because they work with their hands and spend time alone in shops full of materials that are played and smell and weigh the painters are a breed apart. A Juan José Saer had not seen him in my life and two days later we met at an event in Paris publisher invited me to a memorable meal at a neighborhood restaurant where the owner was wearing an apron and called his name, Monsieur Saer. We ate lamb and do not know what else people cooking delights. We drank a whole bottle of wine and talk for hours about books and music that we were excited, Bill Evans and especially Marcel Proust. I looked sideways at the clock because my flight to Madrid was leaving that afternoon. We parted with a hug and I did not see him ever. Shortly after I received another gift from Him, the case with recordings Complete Bill Evans Trio at the Village Vanguard in June 1961. Saer soon died.
I have not met anyone who I really looked great it was a scoundrel, or a pimp, or a vain self-love. There are artists of a grotesque egotism, some of them very famous. I can think of no one who does not hide a part of banality or deception in his work, much as the canonized. And there is usually no proportion between the scale of merit or public recognition and size of the vanity. There are Nobel laureates, and not just literature, or especially, much less arrogant than some poet local broadcast or a genius of the narrative that perhaps has not published more than a story, a novel, or an artist of these are not painters, sculptors and photographers, but no other artists, artists, because, because what they say.
much nonsense. Every time I understand less than a writer or a fashion designer or an actor to be granted a right to arrogance that would be unlikely in a good engineer or a good doctor, a conscientious mechanic, a teacher who enhances life forever a student to help you discover your best abilities. Even worse than nonsense is poisoning, handling sometimes exerted who knows bright and has no respect for those that admire them feed his ego trip and unwittingly make themselves even more vulnerable to its toxic influence. In his novel Return to the world José Ángel González Sainz makes chilling portrait of the mature intellectual who uses his reading and talk to subject the student to his will and turn it into a sort of zombie at that the same may be ordered to Crush an opponent in an argument or wielding a pistol. Abimael Guzman and Pol Pot are not the only terrible teachers of philosophy that encouraged the killing ended. And it does not needed push toward crime or bigotry to damage the lives of people who believe too candid in the brightness of the ideas or the nobility of art and literature.
There people too eager, too ready to be dazzled. There are thugs who sense this weakness and are quick to exploit. Is likely to be a provision for all men, particularly heterosexual I do not know. The show is always repeated: the haunted young woman, an aspiring actress, an aspiring painter, aspiring writer, the writer, the teacher, the man of powerful brain and physical mediocre, theater director, the guru of the sect, the beloved adventurer tired, the legendary bon vivant, the winner, the unsuccessful, the damned, the self-destructive. It is the hopeful possibility that the case of a schema anachronistic, that young women now more alert and do not bite the bait, or that the arts have lost some of its luster.
If so, the scrapbook of Anne Roiphe, Art and Madness, will be part of the archaeological literature of the last century, that time when she was young and felt willing to sacrifice everything for masculine heroism and bohemian literature, including his own vocation writing. Anne Roiphe came to New York literary world in the late fifties, the heyday of alcohol and on the eve of the sexual revolution, when the writers were mostly men who got drunk, seduced classes and giving students or readers without fear of reprisals, they claimed for themselves and had recognized the power of sacrifice in the name of genius any liability to the people around them. Sometimes the genius, or at least the talent, there: many more times was primarily a sustained farce about the pride and credulity. In George Plimpton's house, at parties alcoholic Paris Review, has Roiphe, secretaries and aspiring writers is teachers surrendered wives drunken while looking elsewhere and smoked cigarettes. She married a playwright, convinced of his own genius, in large part thanks to the fervor of the woman holding him. Because he was a genius and was in combat public indifference and venality of theatrical producers had the right to spend several days drinking outside the home and prostitutes.
At some point she woke up from his excessive reverence for art. He had a young daughter and also had a deep need to write, but modesty, or inferiority complex towards her husband or fear of his sarcasm, had not dared to express it. Over the years, in another century, his look of insight and remorse into his own past is an excellent exercise literature.
Art and Madness. A Memoir of Lust Without Reason. Anne Roiphe. Random House, 2011. 240 pages. antoniomuñozmolina.es
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