“Virgil left instructions at his death that the Aeneid, still unfinished, be destroyed. For he thought it needed three more years of licking into shape, time spent, perhaps, in harmonizing the voices he had sounded out. Or was he simply driven by his perfectionism as a poet? It is impossible to say, but fortunately, as we know, Augustus countermanded Virgil’s ‘final orders’ and preserved the Aeneid as we have it now.”
—Robert Fagles, The Aeneid, “Translator’s Postscript”
We have heard similar stories before. Kafka, too, asked that his works be destroyed after death; but instead his friend had them published.
There is a scene in The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand, (which I read three decades ago, so I hope I am remembering this correctly) (if so, spoiler alert) where the great architect has his building blown up because it wasn’t built exactly as he wanted. I remember thinking that this was going a bit far, seeing as so many materials and so much human effort were expended in its creation, and additionally, it was going to have functions other than pure art.
In any case—a true artist, it seems, will stand for nothing but perfection.
As a writer-artist myself, I have to say that I am quite the perfectionist when it comes to my creative writing. I am a slave to perfection, for better or worse.
I will also say that since writing well takes such a loooong time, and soooo much effort must be expended to do it well—it is entirely possible that works won’t be finished upon the death of a writer. Especially when the writer’s life is cut tragically short by illness, as in the case of Virgil and Kafka.
Which is better, to leave behind an imperfect work of art, or to leave behind nothing at all?
Perfectionism. Perhaps why artists are often miserable to the point of insanity. rds
Indeed.
This probably only applies to myself as I’ve struggled with perfection, wanting standards and paying attention to social norms. But then a friend of mine unleashed a side of me I repressed. That side was intrigued by transgressive pleasures. Being frightened by this I would run in the opposite direction and creating narratives that I preferred my safe life. But he was my friend and we had long chats, he was my foil I thought but actually he pulled out of me that he was me.
We went to establishments I’d never venture before, rough neighborhoods I’d only be in by accident. The people I met had different world views from mine. They were imperfect and they are artists. In this environment I felt the fraud. Turning down invites to more pleasures even though they would just be contractual in nature but still, like paying for a movie ticket and sitting in their dark, it still feels real.
These acts in imperfection taught me something, that it’s OK to be different and it’s OK others are different as well and just know your readers are also different. So trying to be perfect, you risk alienating them, even on a subconscious level. So go ahead, write bad narratives like I just had. Ramble and use words incorrectly. Most times it’s not the content but the emotion that is recalled