On Writing
I even did some work: a long book review. On the other hand, I have
not written a single line of my deeply metaphysical book on death. I
am not in the proper mood for such enterprises; no matter how much I
wrack my brains, not a single thought (philosophical or otherwise)
occurs to me. I have promised an eager editor an article on a Spanish
poet who recently died and whose work I almost totally ignore. My
ignorance will perhaps help, so I will probably produce the
article. This is how the intellectual world goes. [Barcelona, July 20,
1960]
My book on death remains in the same state as when I left it before
summer vacation . . . . such book will probably require more hours
than I can afford, but I will do my best to avoid perishing in furious
philosophical meditation. Should I enter a monastery (or a substitute
thereto) in order to definitively complete what is supposed to be my
metaphysical system? I am wondering; after all, it may be that
carefree coffee conversation is a terrible sin that no self-respecting
philosopher would ever indulge in. [Bryn Mawr, Sept. 1960]
You will find on your desk . . . a copy of Americas with that
article of mine I wrote in Paris last June. Neither my article nor
its English translation add anything to anything, but I can assure
you that the original text is slightly more alive than its present
rendering. For some reason, the translator thought it proper to dismiss
the ironical tone of some of my remarks. God bless him (or her).
I finally accepted delivering a lecture at Syracuse U. I suddenly
remembered that last year I gave a brief talk on “religious experience,”
and that my notes, conveniently revised and expanded, could serve
as a starting point for a lecture. I had thought of using my ideas
(strongly opposed by Mr. X) on philosophical questioning, but it occurred
to me that Syracusans nowadays are unlike their predecessors, and
will find the question of questioning goes nowhere. So I decided in
favor of a less uncanny subject.
Also I am furious, because I still have no answer from that damned
publisher. My (last) letter to him is dated November 11, (1960). Well,
I suppose I must be patient. But, should I be? [Bryn Mawr, Nov. 6,
1961]
I finished my report on a book (it was rather unfavorable, I must say).
I will soon begin my report to the APA
and have to think of my research project, although I do not know what
to say. I do not seem to have anything to do research on.
I have thought a little of my course on Philosophy of History. I
am sorry I have not enough time to prepare it comme il faut.
[Bryn Mawr, Dec. 2, 1961]
As a matter of fact, I am still behind (as usual). . . . I must organize
a little my work, lest I am so much behind that I lose contact with
whatever behind I am approaching—all this being, to be sure,
rigorously metaphorical.
I am going to work like mad. I have finished reading proofs (the
ones I received), and have reached the conviction that I could still
produce another good book. More than one, for that matter.
[Bryn Mawr, Feb. 12, 1962]
With such a crisp day I should feel ready to work hard, but for some reason,
I do not. I feel very, very lazy. I suppose things will change this
afternoon, so I am permitted to give the final touch to my two books
of essays, which, needless to say, I am beginning to hate.
This (the place and time) is very quiet and solitary; however, whereas
in one way it is too solitary, in another way it is not solitary enough.
As you can see, I am becoming as obscure as a Greek Sybil. [Bryn Mawr,
nd]
I have been writing a few more sublime pages, and reached the
conclusion that sometimes I can write damned well, although sometimes
I an quite a disaster, as you know. [Paris, July 20, 1962]
I am, or have been, (a little busy) mostly in the process of preparing a number
of interviews within the frame of the self-promoting campaign I alluded
to in one of my previous letters. . . . The “promoter” started, finally,
and the first result is enclosed herewith under the guise of a short,
crisp interview published in Barcelona's most widely circulated newspaper
(Sunday circulation: 300,000 copies). The drawing (or “caricature”)
is supposed to resemble the original only with the best of all possible
intentions. Although the interview is brief, its presentation was
long, for it was necessary to ascertain “what can be said” (mostly
in the sense of “what cannot be said”). It is most likely that tomorrow
another (longer) interview will come out in another newspaper, and
I will eventually send you a copy. Friday this week a third interview,
of a somewhat higher intellectual caliber, will come out in a widely
circulated weekly. Other similar or, as the case may be, dissimilar
interviews will be published “in due time,” and perhaps a radio, not
to say a TV appearance, will be in the offing. All this is not meant
to do something in favor of my “public image,” but simply, and more
modestly, something in favor of the recently published “Selected Works.”
Unfortunately, copies of such “S.W.” are available nowhere. I have
visited five of the most important bookstores, only in one of them
could said “S.W.” be detected, after a systematic hunt, in an inconspicuous
corner, almost completely submerged by copies of the Spanish edition
of Manchester's monster book. In the other three bookstores there
was not a single copy, and the employees had no idea of the so often
mentioned (in this letter) “S.W.” In the fifth (bookstore) I spent
some twenty-five minutes of hard inquiry; the salesboys (no salesgirls)
asked each other about the matter, consulted various catalogues, looked
behind rows of books, and, finally, succeeded in finding one single
copy behind a counter. I have written an indignant letter to my publisher
telling him that if he does nothing, as it seems to be quite obvious
to distribute my book, he should not complain that sales are disappointing.
I am beginning to realize how hard is the life of people who promote
themselves, or who let themselves be promoted. I have spent a considerable
number of hours in this (frustrating) undertaking, and I am beginning
to be fed up with it. It is obvious that as a “public figure”
I am quite a failure.
Besides busying myself with the above promotion campaign, I have
been seeing some friends. Self-promoting activities and a few friends
aside, I have been spending all my time in proof reading. I read the
galley proof of my book once, but started all over again, because
I wish to improve the text as much as possible now that I have an
opportunity to do so (page proofs must be simply read, and misprints
corrected but that is about all). I have tightened up (or rather I
am tightening up, since I am still in the process of proof reading)
the book a little bit more—mostly by means of elimination of unwelcome
repetitions; I have tried to express myself a little more trenchantly
at a number of crucial points, and I have added some 12 more pages
to the whole thing. The printer will hate me when he will see the
result of my over-tampering with the text. It would be a pity, however,
not to “do it” now that I have the last opportunity of improving what,
after all, is supposed to be my most serious and/or crucial philosophical
opus.
I am going back soon to proof read again—and, above all, to
improve the text. I doubt that I will be able to do—work wise—much
more than that during my stay in Barcelona, but at least I will leave
the book in the state of the greatest possible perfection, from the
author's viewpoint. I have bought a couple of books but haven't even
looked at them. Tomorrow night there is an “intellectual dinner” with
some of the people who belong to one of the seven or eight “intellectual
Establishments” rooted in this city. This may tarnish my image in
front of the other six or seven intellectual Establishments, but I
am not going to be very worried about that. [Barcelona, July 10, 1967]
I am still working on proof reading, for the simple reason stated
in my letter of yesterday: I want to tighten up things to a point
of no return, meaning in such a way that when the page proofs do “come”
I will limit myself to correction of misprints. It is a somewhat distasteful
work, but one which is in tune with my “re-writing maniac tendencies.”
But enough of proof reading; it only happens that I wanted to tell
you something about my present “work.”
. . . despite the self-promoting campaign started last Sunday, my publisher
is doing his best to conceal the existence of my book [Selected
Works] I am waiting for his answer to my (justly and rightly)
indignant letter, and subsequent complaints. [Barcelona, July 11 1967]
I have been working hard in proof reading; after having completed this job,
I started it all over again with the charitable aim of improving the
original text and reducing misprints to a minimum. If all goes well,
tomorrow I will be able to mail the proof, plus the typescript; I
am fed up with both, I can tell you.
Enclosed you will find a clipping containing another interview. This
has been done by the very same Mr. Porcel who prepared the long interview
with the 20-odd celebrated pictures. A dinner was held yesterday in
Mr. Porcel's home—a very nice house, on the slope of one of the
mountains surrounding Barcelona—and a highly intellectual . . . conversation
ensued. . . . The debate centered on Catalonia's future, a permanent obsession
among Catalans. I maintained the view, staunchly opposed by almost
everyone, that unless Catalan intellectuals decide to talk about something
else the future of Catalan culture will be very meager, indeed.
In a way, I look like a kind of secluded monk, despite my many “encounters,”
with people—or perhaps because of these so many “encounters.”
Being some sort of “intellectual” is sometimes quite a nuisance. A
group of people are now preparing a “panel discussion” on the basis
of tape recorders, with the aim of using the ensuing materials for
a book (another book); to be sure I have been asked to participate—as
a matter of fact, my temporary presence here is the reason for such
panel discussion. I think that I also must talk on the radio. . . . I am
beginning to get a little sick of this pseudo-publicity, which, as
I explained in a previous letter, probably goes nowhere, because my
“Selected Works” are still unavailable in bookstores. Some of such
bookstores even go as far as denying that the author exists.
I am (as I said at the beginning) really fed up with my proof reading.
I did not foresee that it would take so much time. [Barcelona, July
14, 1967]
I gave the final touch to proof reading, which took so much time
not only because I read the whole affair twice, and very carefully,
but also because I slashed a number of pages to be replaced by a few
(up to the present) much better ones. Now, I must do something however
little, with respect to selections of articles for the would-be
Catalan version of a very abbreviated Dictionary of Philosophy. I
don't know what happens, but I am always stumbling against some type
of unbecoming work when I come to this place. [Barcelona, July 17,
1967]
My article on “Structure and History” [will be] published in La
Nación, of Buenos Aires. I have just finished a
couple
of other articles, just in case the first one is accepted, published
(and paid). I now plan to write a longer thing “On religion,” based
upon lecture notes, and possibly an English text for my La Salle lecture. . . . Then I will consider my article—and essay—period to be over
for a time and will concentrate on more minoritarian affairs. After
all, what's the point of writing supposedly less minoritarian pieces
if any piece of mine seems to be doomed to either ignorance or extinction.
This last sad sentence has probably been caused by a note asking me
for permission to throw away “everything concerned with Man at
the Crossroads” (proofs, plates, and so on). I cannot [lay] claim
to a success like that of Mr. Manchester, whose book on The Death
of the President has already sold out (before publication), and
is being frantically reprinted, but it is a little sad to give an
account of what may be called The Death of a Book. [Bryn Mawr,
nd]
I finally succeeded in writing a “Table of Contents” for my next book. It reads as follows: 1. Philosophy and Language. 2. Medium and Message. 3. Games and Rules. 4. Language as an activity. 5. Language as structure. 6. Language and the world. 7. Words and Utterances. 8. On Use.
9. On Meanings. 10. On referents. 11. A Budget of Questions. 12. Appendix: On “expressive language.” It looks pretty good. Unfortunately, I am only at the beginning, namely, I have completed Chapters 1 & parts of 3 and 4, and almost the entire chapter 8. What remains to be done is the most difficult part; at any rate, I seem to have little original to say. Lack of inspiration, as always.
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