The writer and the endless pursuit of words

I write a lot. Scattered notes, fleeting thoughts, texts that often struggle to find meaning, or sometimes have none at all. And yet, I love delving into language. My own, and that of others. There is always a kind of vertigo in witnessing the unfolding of another person’s inner world, their singular way of arranging thought, of holding the world together with words. And what a stark and arduous path it is, the one that leads to building a voice of one’s own!

I read somewhere (though I must admit I can no longer remember where, which doesn’t look so serious) that an increasing number of texts published today, especially in the press, are written by artificial intelligence. And so I wonder: what place does writing still hold in our world? Do we still truly take the time to devote ourselves to it, to submit ourselves to this demanding labor? And its importance both as writers and readers?

Learning to handle language is a severe discipline, perhaps even more unforgiving than making images. A successful photograph reveals itself at once, even if it follows many failed attempts. A piece of writing, on the other hand, reveals itself in layers, through long hours of drafting, rereading, and deleting. Just the other day, reading again the first sketches of this article, I was horrified to see how clumsy and muddled it all seemed. What had felt clear and precise now appeared flat and confused. Nearly everything had to be rewritten (and perhaps it still should). And I believe that is the fate of any text, be it fiction, memoir, column, or essay: to be revised, rewritten, excavated, until a glimmer of clarity finally appears.

For writing is not simply about lining up facts or polishing sentences: it is about drawing something out from within. Giving shape to a thought still obscure, to a way of seeing the world. It’s about choosing whether to depict reality or transcend it. These are things no artificial intelligence can truly replicate, for to find the right words, one must first have lived what they are meant to express.

We often say “a picture is worth a thousand words,” and perhaps it’s true. An image offers, in an instant, a sense of wholeness that writing can only build slowly, sequentially. It gives the illusion of immediate understanding. But images often conceal the intent of their creator, and the context in which they were made. Writing, on the other hand, has another strength: it draws us gradually into the writer’s interior world, into the winding paths of their thought, and gives us time to absorb it.

We remained silent. And as we watched a line of mountains over which a flock of migratory birds passed soundlessly, we stood there, pressed close to one another, filled with the same affection as in those early days. Little by little, our shadows lengthened, and we let them stretch out across the grass. Tatsuo Hori, The wind rises

When I read, I try to understand what gives certain writers their greatness. There is, of course, the precision of their descriptions. The way they resurrect the landscapes of our childhoods, the daily rituals and inner feelings. And through all of that, universal truths emerge. But what moves me most is when words rise like notes on a score, and the text, when read aloud, becomes melody. The writer, I believe, has a deeply musical relationship to language.

I don’t think everyone should be encouraged to write. It is, after all, a question of one’s preference and sensibility. But for those who feel drawn to it, I fear there are no shortcuts. One must endure the endless hours of writing, from which, if lucky enough, something both true and beautiful might eventually emerge.

In the end, it is the same lesson I have drawn from travel or art: one must learn to embrace slowness, doubt, and wandering. It’s at that cost, and only at that cost, that light may appear. And what a thrill, when it finally does !

More clearly than ever, he now saw that art, always and without rest, has two concerns. It meditates tirelessly on death, and in doing so, tirelessly creates life. Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago