Bust of Pirandello in Palermo. |
To me it was never enough to present a man or a woman and what is special and characteristic about them simply for the the pleasure of presenting them; to narrate a particular affair, lively or sad, simply for the pleasure of narrating it; to describe a landscape simply for the pleasure of describing it.
There are some writers (and not a few) who do feel this pleasure and, satisfied, ask no more. They are, to speak more precisely, historical writers.
But there are others who, beyond such pleasure, feel a more profound spiritual need on whose account they admit only figures, affairs, landscapes which have been soaked, so to speak, in a particular sense of life, and acquire from it a universal value. These are, more precisely, philosophical writers.
I have the misfortune to belong to the last.*
*As translated by Eric Bentley