The article on Sappho in this week's New Yorker is worthy of its
subject. Daniel Mendelsohn builds masterfully toward some incredible
moments. The last lines of the essay: "Where, exactly, does the "Old Age
Poem" end? Was it a melancholy testament to the mortifying effects of
age or a triumphant assertion of the power of beauty, of the "finer
things" -of poetry itself- to redeem the ravages of time? Even as we
strain to hear this remarkable woman's sweet speech, the thrumming in
our ears grows louder."
I was reading Werner Herzog's incredible book of reflections on the
making of Fitzcarraldo, CONQUEST OF THE USELESS, and came across a
mention of Vargas Llosa. Where had I just seen that name? Oh yeah, in
this week's New Yorker. So I went back to read that article and stopped
in my tracks when I read, "Mad Peru hurt Vargas Llosa into fiction long
before it pushed him toward politics. In fact, his pursuit of the first
probably assured his failure at the second, since, as he himself has
argued, "good literature always ends up showing those who read it...the
inevitable limitation of all power to fulfill human aspirations and
desires."
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