Eden

Uneori viata pare a fi o piesa absurda, in care ajungi sa te detasezi de propria persoana si sa privesti de undeva din afara lucrurile care se intampla. Alteori aceasta nu este ,,cronica unei morti anuntate”, ci se opreste sau se schimba cand te astepti mai putin. Iar acest absurd pe care uneori il mai prindem din cand in cand la televizor pare ceva indepartat, desprins dintr-o carte, care nu ni se poate intampla noua. Pana se intampla, o data, de doua ori, de trei ori.

O singura data, lucrurile care mi-au schimbat viata, au fost in cel mai ciudat mod posibil anuntate. Si atunci, nimic nu mi-a stat in putere sa le schimb. Nu stiu cum se va termina totul, nu stiu cum lucrurile se vor schimba, sau cat vor sta in aceeasi stagnare, nu stiu cati dintre noi suntem constienti de lipsa de control pe care o avem. Nu stiu cate depresii ne mai asteapta si daca cineva, candva, chiar va sti sa ne asculte. 

“Memory is identity”, si este cu siguranta identitatea mea. Daca ar exista un Dumnezeu, i-as cere sa o pot lua cu mine pentru ca in amintiri avem putinii oameni pe care ii indragim. Si pentru asta, da, as lasa si acele amintiri care bantuie sa o mai faca o vesnicie. Nu stiu cat am reusit sa fac aici, nu stiu daca am pus vreo amprenta in viata cuiva, nu stiu daca am reusit sa fac o diferenta pe unde am calcat. Dar as vrea ca putinii oameni care au facut pentru mine o diferenta sa o stie.  

The Passenger

“I suppose in the end what we have to offer is only what we’ve lost.” (376) 

McCarthy’s prose is poetry that acknowledges the evil in the world and inside each of us. The darkness, the despair, the fall, the pain and the loneliness. Written and uttered in a paradoxical minimalistic way that for me is very personal and intimate. McCarthy’s language is my language. And yet, inside this darkness/the Shadow, there is also light, there is also goodness – in all of us, in the simple human beings. Besides all of these, The Passenger is perhaps McCarthy’s last novel (if we see it and Stella Maris as a whole), a mature and challenging novel about friendship, family relationships and forgiveness, modern issues of the world, literature and philosophy, and why not, physics. And of course, what remains at the end of a day/of a life.  

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“His father. Who had created out of the absolute dust of earth an evil sun by whose light men saw like some hideous adumbration of their own ends through cloth and flesh the bones in one another’s bodies.” (368)

“Let’s just turn out the lights and call it a life.” (16)

“There were people who escaped Hiroshima and rushed to Nagasaki to see their loved ones were safe. Arriving just in time to be incinerated. He went there after the war with a team of scientists. My father. He said that everything was rusty. Everything looked covered with rust.” (115-116)

“You will never know what the world is made of. The only thing that’s certain is that it’s not made of the world. As you close upon some mathematical description of reality you cant help but lose what is being described. Every inquiry displaces what is addressed. A moment in time is a fact, not a possibility. The world will take your life. But above all and lastly the world does not know that you are here. You think that you understand this. But you dont. Not in your heart you dont. If you did you would be terrified. And you’re not. Not yet.” (128)

“You have to believe that there is good in the world. I’m goin to say that you have to believe that the work of your hands will bring it into your life. You may be wrong, but if you dont believe that then you will not have a life. You may call it one. But it wont be one.” (174)

“I think I would have found my life pretty funny if I hadn’t had to live it.” (293)

“I believe in the reality of the world. The harder and the sharper the edges the more you believe. The world is here. It is not someplace else. I dont believe in traveling about. I believe that the dead are in the ground. I suppose at one time I was like old Pau. I waited to hear from God and I never did. Yet he remained a believer and I did not.” (380)

The Banshees of Inisherin

How do you define loneliness? How do you depict exactly that state that you feel at the end of an awful week, when everything went wrong, when you were just struggling to breathe and cope with your own shit, and people – strangers, co-workers, best friends – hit exactly where it hurts the most?

The Banshees of Inisherin is about all these feelings and more. “History is the nightmare from which I am trying to awake” (Joyce), be it personal or social, and War has been created by the human being. But war, in this film, is like a faint echo, far away from all the noise and loneliness of characters, and at the same time present everywhere. Because the simple people don’t care about the war, it’s not theirs, because like most of the fights, war/the conflicts between/among people are absurd, like some whispers of the banshees.

We get loneliness, fury, and pain through this absurd conflict and blindless. And when we feel that, we all want to hit back, don’t we? When we are left all by ourselves, when we feel unloved -when all we have wanted was to feel safe and beloved – how can one remain kind, good, present there? How can one not strike back? Because at the end, evil seems to conquer and defeat all of us – some sinking, some taking their lives, some regretting their acts when it’s too late. Do we have any kind of agency in front of the evilness of this world? 

I guess that’s one of the most challenging parts of our lives, almost impossible. To understand the one that harms you, to remain true-to-yourself even when you are wounded and you feel that you are alone in the world. 

In a World Where You Can Be Anything ...

Cu toții avem nevoie să credem în ceva, iar eu una cred în acel Bine prezent în străfundul tuturor, oricât și orice am fi făcut, paradoxal, într-o lume care pare să-și fi pierdut umanitatea.

Este ușor să nu avem niciodată timp pentru ceilalți, să ne pese doar de noi, să uităm să spunem ,,mulțumesc, ești bine, cum pot să te ajut?”, ușor să ne amintim doar ceea ce ne-a rănit, ușor să arătăm cu degetul spre ceilalți care de fapt sunt o oglindă a ceea ce nu ne place în noi înșine.

Este greu să ascultăm, chiar să-i ascultăm pe ceilalți, să ne reamintim din când în când momentele când ceilalți chiar au fost prezenți pentru noi, când ne-au fost alături în cele mai grele momente, este greu să le spunem cât îi prețuim, mai ales când suntem îngroziți să arătăm această vulnerabilitate.

Mereu începem să îi prețuim pe ceilalți când este prea târziu. Mereu ni se spune să spunem oamenilor cât sunt aici și nu atunci când aparțin unei alte lumi. Câți dintre noi chiar facem asta? Este atât de ușor să răspundem lovitorilor pe care le primim tot prin lovituri, atât de greu în a încerca a-l înțelege pe celălalt, în a-l lăsa să lovească, pentru că știi că aceasta nu este persoana în care crezi.

In a world where you can be anything, be kind. Asta este unul dintre cele mai dificile lucruri pe care un om le poate face.