Inainte de a ma arunca in alte munci sisifice, de a uita aceste saptamani, de a ma ridica de aici, as vrea sa ma opresc putin si sa respir. As vrea sa-mi azvarl hainele si cartile intr-o valiza, sa ma urc intr-o masina si sa plec cat mai departe. As vrea sa ma intind pe iarba, sa mananc o inghetata uriasa, si doar sa privesc in jur. As vrea ca toate sunetele sa dispara si oamenii de care am avut atata nevoie in ultimul timp, sa fie aici. Sa inchid ochii si pentru o saptamana sau doua, sa am dreptul sa ma pot bucura de toate lucrurile la care am lucrat anul acesta.
Probabil ca daca fericirea s-ar masura in note, as fi fericirea intruchipata. Numai ca fericirea se masoara in ignoranta … suntem oamenii ce-i purtam zi de zi in noi, si ne amintim sentimentele pe care le-am impartasit (sau nu) la acest capat de drum cu ei. Ignorance is Bliss and I wanted Hell.
Nu stiu ce am scris, cum am scris, sau despre ce am scris in acele pagini. Nu mai stiu nimic. La capat de drum, din stanca aia de care oricine se putea prinde, ramai un Rayless sfasiat de oboseala, incapabil sa mai duca o idee pana la capat, dornic de mai mult, dar pustiit de puteri. Ramai cu un pumn de vise sfaramate de propria creatie, in care aceasta extenuare fizica si psihica iti cere lucruri ce nu le mai poti da. Nothing, everything, what’s the difference? E randul tau sa vrei ca timpul sa se opreasca in loc, randul tau sa cauti oamenii ce ii iubesti, randul tau sa cedezi complet in fata tuturor furtunelor pe care le-ai ignorat. E recviemul tau pentru un vis. Din tot ceea ce am scris pana acum, nimic nu m-a chinuit mai tare, si-n acelasi timp, nu l-am indragit mai mult. Desi niciodata pana acum nu te-ai mai simtit atat de mic.
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“I did not know. I was fully aware of what would be destroyed. I did not know what would be built out of the ruins. No one can know that with any degree of certainty, I thought. The old world is tangible, solid, we live in it and are struggling with it every moment - it exists. The world of the future is not yet born, it is elusive, fluid, made of the light from which dreams are woven; it is a cloud buffeted by violent winds - love, hate, imagination, luck, God... The greatest prophet on earth can give men no more than a watchword, and the vaguer the watchword the greater the prophet.”
Nikos Kazantzakis
We cannot be without a Past. We would not have a history – be it social or personal - , a memory, or a self. We would simply be walking shadows, without identities. What does it happen when this Past swallows the present and the future, and it makes from them motionless states?
William Faulkner and Katherine Anne Porter explore this theme in their works and depict for us a world without time, where memories become myths, and reality is another “once upon a time …”. They also depict characters who suddenly pass from the sacrality of a past world into the profanity of the brave new world, where modernity destroyed the stability of tradition. The character is now put face to face with the code that was inherited by his or her family from an illo tempore, a code destroyed now either by the changes brought by the Civil War, or by the inner conflicts of the Southerners.
...
We are written, and we write ourselves day by day. Quentin and Miranda are caught in the power of the past, not having the possibility to reach that fluidity of the future, into the clash of tradition in modernity, in a destiny written by the human beings that surround them, and into their own hubris. Their whole identity is torn between the Southern image of the Old Order, and the reality of the New Order; they cannot live in the past, because it is dead, but they are not allowed to live in the present, because in the South, present is motionless, and future must be the image of another past. They are tormented characters, destroyed, who face their own realities – or others - and lose everything.
Only by accepting who they are, and confronting death, they are able to let time flow. Because the world of the future, as Kazanstakis sees it, “is a cloud buffeted by violent winds”, and only by accepting the past, the memories – personal and inherited – and the loss, in a world of nothingness, only then, as Miranda confesses, there will be time for everything.
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