Literature
«But what can a man who wrote literature all his life do? How can he escape the arcana of style? How, with what instruments, can you cloak the page with a pure confession, freed from the prison cell of artistic convention? Let me collect myself and have the courage to admit it: you can’t. I’ve known this from the beginning but, in my cornered animal cunning, I concealed my game, my stake, my bet from your gaze. Because, finally, I staked my life on literature. (…) But there is a place in the world where the impossible is possible, namely in fiction, that is, literature. (…) But then I, too, am a character, and I can’t stop myself from bursting with joy. Because characters never die, they live each time their world is “read”. (…) Thus, my wager and my hope.»
«But what can a man who wrote literature all his life do? How can he escape the arcana of style? How, with what instruments, can you cloak the page with a pure confession, freed from the prison cell of artistic convention? Let me collect myself and have the courage to admit it: you can’t. I’ve known this from the beginning but, in my cornered animal cunning, I concealed my game, my stake, my bet from your gaze. Because, finally, I staked my life on literature. (…) But there is a place in the world where the impossible is possible, namely in fiction, that is, literature. (…) But then I, too, am a character, and I can’t stop myself from bursting with joy. Because characters never die, they live each time their world is “read”. (…) Thus, my wager and my hope.»
Mircea Cărtărescu, «Nostalgia», New Directions 2005, p. 22
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