Let’s start this with a confession. Some days ago I had a very strange dream… a standard dream… a very standard strange dream -all my dreams are strange-. Since that day, I’ve been trying to contact Freud many times. I dialled and dialled his number but was never able to get hold of him. I supposed he wouldn’t answer because my dream was of no importance, so I simply put it away in the dreams box. Oh, but there! This little piece of the dream would not stay in the box. It would jump out again and again to knock at my conscience’s door. All the noise this little dream scene made kept me thinking about brain and heart matters, what’s a brain for us? What’s the meaning of a heart?
I guess you’ll be curious to know about this rebellious scene of my dream. It’s a low-budget scene really. In fact, it has no special effects or anything flashy; a dearly loved friend of mine stars in it. In my dream, my friend says that he’d love to have my talent. And I answer –oh, shame!- I answer: ‘you’ll never have my talent, but you can have me’… It was a dream, ok? I ask for your mercy, don’t think me too proud. Anyway, that moment in my dream has kept me thinking about the different value and meaning we attribute to our heart and our brain. The way we use these two things in our language.
Let me give you an example. I read this sentence the other day: ‘she ripped my heart out and ate it’. Why doesn’t it work with ‘brain’, why wouldn’t anybody eat anybody else’s brain? I know, I know, because it would be disgusting. But if you think about it, eating any of the two – brain or heart – is just gore. You don’t have to explain me that heart stands for one’s feelings. It is a literary figure. Precisely, why do we give an aesthetic value to the heart and not to the brain? You can offer your heart in a poem, it’s beautiful, but would you offer your brain? I guess one of the fascinating things about hearts it’s their anarchic nature; no one can tell you what to feel. Al cuore non si comanda, you can’t rule your heart. When you have someone’s heart you can go and tell their brain: “hey, you! You think you’re the boss here? Well, that little engine that keeps you alive belongs to me!” The brain may be really powerful, but the heart follows its own paths. Then, why is it so difficult to let your heart loose when you write?
A month ago, when I was in Madrid, I had a very interesting conversation with two friends of mine who are writers. One of them says that for something to be good, it has to be written with your guts. Writing has to be a visceral process. When I think of it, I realise that many of the texts I consider good literature seem to be raw pieces taken directly from inside the writer. But are they good because they are ‘raw’ –and therefore they keep their natural colours- or are they good because they’re authentic? I vote for authenticity, I’m not so sure I like digesting raw food.
Ever since that conversation I’ve observed that many people make an equation between raw and good. Let’s make an experiment: think of two books and two films you consider masterpieces, there’s a high probability that they are about ugly things in life. For many people, a good book is one that talks about such serious matters that it slaps you every time you turn a page. Good films are those you would never watch while having dinner because their content would take away your appetite. Why? Why a comedy can be hilarious but not a piece of art? It is as though inside ourselves there were only thorns and no soft parts. Art reflects the artist, I agree with that. I also agree that a brainy work is not attractive. However, an artist can put anything in their work, wouldn’t it be nice to put guts –ok, you’re right, my friend- but also a bit of heart?