‘Don’t let anyone tell you that there are no magic words.’
This phrase really got to me. Especially since it reminded me of the fact that I already knew that. An oak is not felled at one stroke, my sister once told me in a grey period of my life, at my first coming to Bucharest. And I pulled through for I had understood this.
Man
is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will
tell you the truth, Oscar Wilde said. Can literature be a mask? What about
artistic creations?
Yes.
Siri Hustvedt’s novel brings arguments to support this. Also, there is an entire
discussion about forms within it. How we perceive them, how we represent them, how
we subject to them, how we were taught to look at them, to accept them and to
live according to all prejudices we have against them.
There is a question that I really appreciated and with which I would like to end:
Was there ever a work of art that was not burdened with the expectations and
prejudices of the viewer, reader or listener, regardless of their degree of
education or refinement?
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