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Thursday, August 7, 2008


All the world-literature talks about the human unhappiness. Of course, we could exclude comedy here, but only up to the certain extant - even comedy is impossible without tragedy, without difference, a surface to be reflected upon. Anna Karenina, Moon Palace, the Joke, In Cold Blood, The Trial, you name it. I don't know why but lately I like this kind of short and sharp definitions. Obviously some things we must generalize – like night is nigh or day is day. That is why the history of the world’s literature is basically the history of human unhappiness - a beautiful history though. Milan Kundera in his wonderful book The Curtain reminded us– about the old, Aristotelian thought that in literature, in art – is impossible to repeat the chaos and absurdity of history. Human history is full of chaotic repetitions, savage wars, voluntary and terrifying reoccurrences of the same old fears. Such repetitions are impossible in the history of literature, because literature wouldn’t tolerate anything so banal, anything that repeats itself in such a ludicrous way. Literature is one of the places where such things simply are not possible. It's because the aesthetic law reigns within it.

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