Summer Wine

Nu stiu cum/cat am sa ma descurc cu tot ceea ce mi-am propus pentru anul acesta. Haos este cuvantul ce ar descrie cel mai bine ceea ce e in jurul meu, ceea ce e in mintea mea. Mi-e dor sa finalizez o recenzie, un articol, mi-e dor sa stau linistita, citind o carte. Nu stiu cum sa-mi fac prietenii sa nu-mi repete greselile – a vorbi, a explica, in aceasta sintaxa proprie a tacerii, pare a fi unul dintre lucrurile tabu, nelalocul lui, incarcat cu prea multe sensuri.

In tot acest ,,habar n-am”, in toate aceste proiecte prin care m-am pierdut, stiu doar ca iubesc aceasta linie de start, desi unele lucruri imi par lipsite de sens – teste initiale date in scoli, miile de hartii ce trebuie sa fie scrise, sedintele unde prezenta este obligatorie, pline de birocratii, legi, obiective –romanesti, europene, americane, cui ii pasa? -  iar in toata aceasta aparenta ordine, dedesubt, gasesti copii orfani, bolnavi, copii cu probleme psihice, copii ce au nevoie de ajutor ...  in cat de multe te poti imparti? Cum pot oferi empatia necesara si totodata sa incerc sa fac o diferenta prin locurile pe unde trec, cum pot sa mai fiu EU, eu-l meu, acela linistit, retras, atat de diferit, de atipic de tot ce se intampla acum ... Si cu toate acestea, cu toate ca simt ca puterea mea de concentrare e mult prea „bruiata”, iubesc provocarea adusa de noua toamna, asa cum iubesc cuvintele ce m-asteapta undeva in vacarmul scolii, pe coridoarele propriei minti, asa cum iubesc prietenii ce-i am.

Si pentru ca la baza voi ramane probabil mereu o fire artistica, cum vara a trecut, cum imi este nespus de dor sa scriu, sa ma focalizez pe ceea ce sunt, m-am gandit sa ma retrag din nou aici, sa incerc sa ma adun, gandindu-ma la cartile parcurse vara asta.

Razboi si pace si Numele trandafirului sunt doua carti neterminate inca, doua carti ce probabil ar fi trebuit citite prin liceu. In timp ce Numele trandafirului, ma face sa-mi rasune-n minte melodia Ameno si doresc sa ma abtin momentan de la orice comentariu, la Razboi si pace ma intreb ce varsta ar trebui sa ai ca sa intelegi si sa ai rabdarea sa parcurgi tomurile acelea voluminoase, sa intelegi atat harta socio-politica a Europei, cat si efectul fluterului, prezentat prin viata personajelor. Abia astept sa termin cartea asta, sa ies din vacanta impusa in pauza mea la scris si sa-mi scriu recenzia la ea ...

Printre cartile preferate parcurse vara aceasta se numara Delir, de Laura Restrepo. Mi-a placut stilul, felul in care scriitoarea a prezentat anxietatea/nebunia mintii umane. Comparata adesea cu Marquez, personal nu am vazut in roman un realism magic pentru ca poate pur si simplu autoarea nu m-a facut sa cred in ,,puterile paranormale” avute de fetita, ci am vazut mai degraba-n ele incercarile disperate ale unui copil de-a-si salva fratele mai mic si de a-si mentine familia unita, o angoasa prezenta in copilarie, care a facut-o pe Agustina sa creada toate acele jocuri si care a avut drept consecinta perioadele ei de nebunie.  

De ce oamenii destepti fac greseli prostesti, cat si Roman teatral (Bulgakov), sunt cartile care m-au plictisit cel mai mult vara aceasta. Prima, psihologie practica, nu mi-a adus nici prea multe informatii noi si nici nu mi-a fost de folos in zilele in care am simtit nevoia sa citesc si alte tipuri de carti. Bulgakov mi-a ramas in minte pentru conditia creatorului, dar felul in care cartea e scrisa, dupa parerea mea, lasa mult de dorit.

Patetica in cea de-a doua parte, dar interesanta in prima, zugravind viata si gandirea negrilor de curand eliberati, Black Boy este o carte ce merita citita pentru mentalitatea negrului + a scriitorului, a diferentei dintre negru vs. alb, creator vs. ceilalti, America vs. lumea intreaga. Omul este un mare fazan pe lume merita in primul rand un alt titlu, mai putin patetic poate, dar care m-a introdus in literatura Hertei Muller. Si din punctul meu de vedere, e ok – nu m-a impresionat, nu mi-a atins acea coarda sensibila, nu m-a facut sa ma gandesc mai adanc (?) la problema comunismului, dar stilul scriitoarei (insusit, nu innascut) merita a fi cunoscut.

Una dintre cartile care m-a emotionat la nivelul mesajului vara asta este The Joy Luck Club, cartea dupa care mi-am botezat sectiunea de literatura si care prezinta mai mult relatia universala dintre mama-fiica si mai putin decat s-ar crede gandirea americana vs. gandirea chineza. Bine, daca am sta si am vrea sa ne jucam putin aici, am putea vedea acest gap generation intre China (mama) si America (fiica), intre traditie si modernitate, intre lumea de ieri si lumea de azi.

O ultima carte prezentata succint aici – Generation P – carte ruseasca, diferita de majoritatea cartilor rusesti citite, o satira adusa gandiri si lumii moderne, o generatie bantuita de Cola, Pepsi, telembiziune si de o lipsa tot mai accentuata de cultura (pt. mai multe exemple, vizitati scolile romanesti... )

The Literature of Exhaustion or the Library of Babel

Barth’s essay, “The Literature of Exhaustion”, is considered by some the manifesto of postmodernism. More than talking about postmodernism, Barth talks about a new kind of literature, with a new technique, starting from Joyce’s and Kafka’s prose, a “literature of exhaustion” in opposition with the literature of consumption. He also depicts the “things worth remaking”, rewriting, from the perspective of the present, and last, but not the least, a major role in the new literature is being given to Borges’ prose.

One of the ideas that I liked here is his opinion about writers that write in the old style, and writers of the new technique:

"A good many current novelists write turn-of-the-century-type novels, only in more or less mid-twentieth-century language and about contemporary people and topics; this makes them considerably less interesting (to me) than excellent writers who are also technically contemporary: Joyce and Kafka, for instance, in their time, and in ours, Samuel Beckett and Jorge Luis Borges."

Moreover, the “technically old-fashioned artist”,

“write not as if the twentieth century didn't exist, but as if the great writers of the last sixty years or so hadn't existed (nota bene that our century's more than two-thirds done; it's dismaying to see so many of our writers following Dostoevsky or Tolstoy or Flaubert or Balzac, when the real technical question seems to me to be how to succeed not even Joyce and Kafka, but those who've succeeded Joyce and Kafka and are now in the evenings of their own careers)”

The truth is that many readers stick to the old prose, not accepting this new type ... who would read something, unable to understand it? A literature of words and silence, a literature that goes beyond syntax … I think that literature split itself into a literature of consumption, the one accessible for everyone, with its own readers and writers, and a “literature of exhaustion”, where a few writers and readers have “access”. In this latter field, writers write with new techniques old themes, crossing borderlands, engaging the readers into the new prose, offering them the freedom of their own interpretations … because let’s face it, if we read Hawthorne, most of the interpretations are made by the writer himself; for the few things that are not told in the text, the readers can have two or three interpretations … if we read Joyce, some readers can sympathize with the characters, some can hate them, some can see in a word a world, and so on … Literature is the one that chooses its readers and writers. We cannot write in a style and about something we cannot understand, we cannot read (reading as understanding) something that is beyond our limits …

Barth also depicts the “things worth remaking” and the “things worth doing”. We have always wanted new things; we have always rebelled against Tradition. As it is well known, postmodernism rewrites old stories, old themes, from the point of view not only of the present, but also of the writer’s personality. As Kierkegaard says, “Every moment leaping into infinite, and every moment falling surely back into the finite”.

In his analysis of Borges' style, Barth depicts the core of the new literature:

"The infinite library of one of the most popular stories is an image particularly pertinent to the literature of exhaustion; the 'Library of Babel' houses every possible combination of alphabetical characters and spaces, and thus every possible book and statement, including your and my refutations and viridications, the history of the actual future, the history of every possible future."

 

Photo source: here.

 

 

 

Memory

I think memories give me the power to move on. I remember almost everything, from images to words, from hues to feelings. I know I’m a pain in the ass for the ones around me … for my thirst of details, for my stream of consciousness … moving to and fro, past and present, thought and soul …

Sometimes I wish people remembered all the things that I remember, sometimes I wish people saw the world through my eyes … Memories reminds me to laugh in times of need. Memories soothe me and sometimes they give me hope. Hope for new bright memories, for tomorrow. Other times they make me feel tiny and scared, closing myself in my shell, lost in my maze of memories … Because in a way, they create not only my eternity, but also the m.e.a.n.i.ng. of life …

The day of today reminded me of a song, of a mood, of a story. From the broken pieces of today I awoke in three different places, with three different persons, three different “pasts”, the same old restless ego … do you remember?