The Writer And The Text

Which of the text or the author is the broadest ?

I thought for a long time that the text was always wider than the author…
It cannot be reduced to the latter. It transcends it because it bounces in each of the readers’ minds before eternally soothing down in the deep seas of Literature.

At that time, it had little to do with the author who, by the tip of the pen, had breathed the ink in him.
If it were not to be traversed by any human eye, it would still be very precious to the author, for a text is easier, more stable than this ever-changing human matter.

Can we reverse this, and consider the possibility that the author is broader than the texts.
By his flexibility, by the life that passes through him, he goes far beyond its conceptual meaning. The author is so vast that he can laugh at his text, even though it may have been written in the most austere of seriousness : it is his greatness.

He is not obliged to forever dwell or identify with his text. The supra-temporal pretensions of the latter entertain him to the highest point.
The text is ridiculous, pathetic, in the way it has, and it cannot be otherwise — to take itself seriously.
By his humility, the author is wider. It is made of wisdom and perspective.

The superimposition of the author and the text is a bias of perception, out of habit, of the laziness, of school conditioning, of the cult of words that we have only been able to comment on at the height of their text and which can have no existence other than by wearing their clothes of letters. This optical illusion is also the consequence of an absence of writing practice in those who get caught up in it.
If the text is great, it is because it is drapes itself in eternity and plunges its meaning into an endless collective unconscious.

He is wise and learned.
Above all, he is the perfect receptacle for the anxieties of Man who seeks to mason the foundations of his psychic structures of the Humanity and never ceases to want to extract himself from any enslavement to change.

Because, it must be remembered, all this is an illusion.
Basically, the text is not the bricks of words that compose it, nor are words the conceptual objects to which they refer.
It’s all but sand in the wind.

Hardly aggregated,
barely dispersed.

Remains the author
Laughing, Dying.

Franck Joseph
©FJ July 2021 – All Rights Reserved
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