la inceputul acestei saptamini a plecat de pe aici o mare doamna care a inspirat multe generatii, o doamna ale carei cuvinte au facut ocolul lumii: Maya Angelou
ce avea ea in plus fata de altii care-si exprima gindurile (sau povestesc vietile) prin compuneri?
in primul rind o viata din care a invatat foarte multe (a fost prostituata, dansatoare intr-un bar), a facut studii de literatura si scriere, a ajuns o poeta faimoasa dupa ce a scris scenarii de televiziune, piese de teatru si a fost un celebru producator de televiziune.
in al doilea rind a povestit intotdeauna esenta lucrurilor, nu ambalajul lor
si-n al treilea rind, a muncit foarte mult pentru fiecare fraza pe care a pus-o in spatiul public. a scris-o si rescris-o pina cind i-a dat forma cea mai buna din ce putea da in acel moment.
si da, avea HAR.
de dragul ei, dar si al celor care vor sa scrie, un fragment dintr-un interviu din The Paris Review.
How do you know when it’s what you want?
ANGELOU: I know when it’s the best I can do. It may not be the best there is. Another writer may do it much better. But I know when it’s the best I can do. I know that one of the great arts that the writer develops is the art of saying, “No. No, I’m finished. Bye.” And leaving it alone. I will not write it into the ground. I will not write the life out of it. I won’t do that.
How much revising is involved?
ANGELOU: I write in the morning and then go home about midday and take a shower, because writing, as you know, is very hard work, so you have to do a double ablution. Then I go out and shop—I’m a serious cook—and pretend to be normal. I play sane—Good morning! Fine, thank you. And you? And I go home. I prepare dinner for myself and if I have houseguests, I do the candles and the pretty music and all that. Then after all the dishes are moved away I read what I wrote that morning. And more often than not if I’ve done nine pages I may be able to save two and a half or three. That’s the cruelest time you know, to really admit that it doesn’t work. And to blue pencil it. When I finish maybe fifty pages and read them—fifty acceptable pages—it’s not too bad. I’ve had the same editor since 1967. Many times he has said to me over the years or asked me, Why would you use a semicolon instead of a colon? And many times over the years I have said to him things like: I will never speak to you again. Forever. Goodbye. That is it. Thank you very much. And I leave. Then I read the piece and I think of his suggestions. I send him a telegram that says, OK, so you’re right. So what? Don’t ever mention this to me again. If you do, I will never speak to you again. About two years ago I was visiting him and his wife in the Hamptons. I was at the end of a dining room table with a sit-down dinner of about fourteen people. Way at the end I said to someone, I sent him telegrams over the years. From the other end of the table he said, And I’ve kept every one! Brute! But the editing, one’s own editing, before the editor sees it, is the most important.
Aren’t you tempted to lie? Novelists lie, don’t they?
ANGELOU: I don’t know about lying for novelists. I look at some of the great novelists, and I think the reason they are great is that they’re telling the truth. The fact is they’re using made-up names, made-up people, made-up places, and made-up times, but they’re telling the truth about the human being—what we are capable of, what makes us lose, laugh, weep, fall down, and gnash our teeth and wring our hands and kill each other and love each other.
intregul interviu aici