the writer has no name

i have finally finished reading the art of the novel by milan kundera. it was long overdue, but as usual, it came in the right time. i might not ever be a successful writer, in the case of kundera exceptional artist, philosopher and thinker.,(very much misunderstood by his own country. the country we both once called home.) but i simply might educate myself on the topic of the craft and try to find better comprehension behind any novel meaning. the art of the novel and writing interesting in a separate entity from the author. it is a living entity, a creature forming itself.

i fight a lot with the criticism and the eyes that read these words and judge me for it. the eyes that search for me and themselves in it, not the meaning of my chain of thoughts. yet digging deeper on kundera´s thinking and his approach to writing, the author is the vessel to pass the message, which is the only connection to the final piece. 

the novel or the writing put out should be a stand-alone piece of the writer's mind, not the existence of the writer as a person and therefore losing the boundaries of judgment and criticism, for the kind of person he is and the life he has.

kundera says, the novel should be published under a pseudonym, not only to escape the misunderstanding under the wrong pretense of knowing the person who writes, but also to take away the narcissism of the personality being transmitted to the words and therefore not losing the meaning of a pure message. the author will put himself into the writing if he knows he is being seen for who is. with the sweet belief of not being recognized, comes art.

it makes me wonder how much authenticity i lost here and how much of my writing i miss just because i am scared of people seeing me over my writing. 

i am fully aware that fear places a big role here, namely in my case, whilst in kundera's case it goes deeper to produce a novel, but yet again the fear of being seen is highly connected to my own egoism and traces of narcissism. and still, kundera's books are being published under his name. or are there books we do not even know about? and therefore he is also able to put his ego aside? 

elena ferrante recently publish a book on reading and writing. as she slowly introduces the topic, she mentions: "the "I" who writes seriously is twenty people, a hypersensitive plurality all concentrated in the hand provided..." and she adds "True writing is the gesture that digs into the warehouse of literature in search of the necessary words."

"the writer has no name." she continues.

kundera quotes faulkner and for the longest time, this part of writing stays stuck in my head: It is my ambition to be, as a private individual, abolished and voided from history, leaving it markless, no refuse save the printed books. and it continues as such: It is my aim, and every effort bent, that the sum and history of my life, which in the same sentence is my obit and epitaph too, shall be them both: he made the books and he died.

can we only be real artists if we strip ourselves of the ego, identity, and marks made on this earth? can we only be authentic and produce pure art when we are not haunted by the judgment of others. to write freely, do i need to strip myself of all i know and who i know. who i am in society. and how can one do this in the era of social media when the self does not exist? self, right now, is only a projection of likes and dislikes formed by other people and algorithms. we are being everyday formed and reformed by the highest power of judges, the screens. every day comes back to me with the question on social media, to be or not to be? there.

my fight with the understanding of society and the never-ending feeling of being misunderstood does not end here but gives me hope in the texts of kundera and other books, that i am not alone. that I, as a person of wanting to speak and write, do not want to be questioned, i want to be read and understood in the scope of the world and my words, not in the scope of somebody trying to make sense out of me for their own good, to fit in their world of understanding, to their understanding of history and social stigma and preferences. 

i feel like i want the words to flow and find their way to new thinking of opening new rooms.

if broken heart is an open heart. what does it say about the mind?

i wish this would be the push for me to write more, to get to it and finally produce something i can be proud for the sake of writing. not for the satisfaction of the outside world. i wonder if my way of writing or simply thinking that i can do such a craft comes only from the fact that i fancy reading and overthink all i do, having high construction of social criticism inside of me and never-stopping need for finding myself and a deeper understanding of things. i am not a novelist nor a writer, i rather consider myself as an explorer. 

but yet again, the need for stripping myself of this and to quote kundera's art of the novel again, coming from Kafka, a writer needs to deconstruct himself in order to construct a novel. a final piece of art that is ready to be unleashed for the world. to create a clean slate for the ideas to come. never to think of oneself. to lose the moral ground so severely filled into of us to be only a mirror of current and past events, never to try to be the reflector of new ways.

"A novel examines not reality but existence. And existence is not what has occurred, existence is the realm of human possibilities, everything that man can become, everything he's capable of. Novelists draw up the map of existence by discovering this or that human possibility..."

* quoted: Milan Kundera, The Art of the Novel

Elena Ferrante, In the Margins. On the Pleasures of Reading and Writing

Documentary -  Milan Kundera: Od Žertu k Bezvýznamnosti

Photo - Wednesday, Netflix

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