Back to Brel

Brel, to the popular consumer, has the advantage of being able to put his Buddhist-related takes on life into swell music and theatrical performance. It strikes me the writer, with his humdrum tale, is at a disadvantage, maybe more so if his 'sad' story comes at particularly angst-ridden times. But, if his focus is keen, and if he can ignore such conditions, his quiet take on a simple life that addresses the basic issues of constant change, suffering, etc., has a potential for great energy like the atom. He must offer his plain story, one that might even be honestly regarded as dull and boring (not meant for the market's sensational tastes), as a vehicle of some small enlightenment that might add to others and grow into something.

The greater or more common the observed fault of falling for the illusory, the foolishness, the 'how could I have been so vain and stupid to have fallen for that,' the greater the potential energy the moment of literature has, for exciting other molecules of human kind to do good and circumspect things. But, in the meantime, the moment of literature itself sits waiting nakedly and pathetically. Certain times will heap more ridicule upon it, trying to bury an important discovery with further excesses of its own vanity.

First, the writer, or a Brel, must approach his own sins.