"I'm interested in lucidity, not sincerity." ~Paul Valery to Andre Malraux (from Anti-Memoirs)
One immediately hears the record's hiss reading Valery's quote on Gide. This circular sarcasm lives just outside the music of his sentiment. For lucidity is the proposed aim of many a writer (and artist), though not at the vulgar expense of sincerity. They are not inviolate twins, but rather incestuous cousins who know all too well the circumstances of their bith. They do not show up randomly at the same parties, but rather find themselves drawn together by the nature of their features, however Photoshopped by semantics.
For me 'sincerity' speaks to a backhanded complement to the lucid. To see through the core yet present what is encountered within a soundtrack of earnestness. Translation for the naked truth. A marketing pitch to ensure the purchase is made and desired emotional investment is secured to reject the notion of return.
Sincerity, as Malraux goes on to comment, has taken a seat on the bridge of literature, as prose and poetry alike very often seem to require a caveat or affirmation of validity via the aura of good will, the assurance that the work in question is no accident and that any resulting consequences make the world a different, if not better, place.
The ambiance of Valery's remark must be enjoyed, as well. It is the kind of line one delivers in the presence of others. It resonates not in the head, not merely within the silent spaces we reserve for guilt, fear, the vagaries of love. It requires an echo off the culture at large, the individual to whom such a shot across the bow is launched for effect. Such a line is destined for memoirs and for random and invisible discussions such as this.