Trainspotting

I don’t like weak people. I don’t like people who keep blaming their life, their family, their destiny, a divinity for their own mistakes. I don’t like hearing “this is what my mother/father did when I was a kid, so I cannot be otherwise.” Yes, you damn can. With great effort, and indeed with some side-effects, but you can. All of us can. Because after all, isn’t what all of us want, to be a better person, and to be happy in life?

I understand that life’s a bitch. Meaningless, pointless, and there are few chances that in the future things will be better (although, as humans, we keep on hoping). But as Cormac McCarthy has kept on saying, we, the few ones, must “carry on the fire”, in this bad, absurd, vicious world, despite knowing that things will always be the same, that we cannot change humanity, that God won’t appear from nowhere and say “I’m here, I’m back”, that the world will keep pushing us down and didn’t care for our own suffering.   

I read half of Trainspotting. If I had to vote for the worst book that I read this year I think this would be. I get its point, I see the struggle, the misery, the absurdity of life – but is it the only book of literature that does this? And it is simply not the book for me. 

People may be attracted to it because of its Scottish dialect, its overuse of words like “cunt” and “fuck”, of its easy, neat construction of episodes. But when it comes to style and technique, it is just a novel that depicts well the world of addicts, and that’s it. Moreover, when it comes to the construction of characters one can easily observe how empathy and remorse are absent: when friends are dying, when babies are found dead and everyone asks for another injection. You could read in this book how someone is stealing something or how a baby dies, the language to describe these events is the same. And on a psychological level, I can get the author’s point of view: for an addict, nothing matters, only the drug.

I guess that my problem with this book is on a personal level. I really know that life’s a bitch, and life for the unprivileged ones is harsh, I know that everybody wants a goal, a difference in this life, but in the end, we all wish for that house, that family, that car and that steady job, for personal happiness. But I simply cannot read about such weak characters, who use drugs to escape the cruel (or invented) reality. Where is their will to get up from that place, from that apathy, where is their character? And if you have read this novel (or at least some pages of it), please think of Jack Kerouac’s The Road or Piri Thomas’ Down These Mean Streets.

Literature depicts Life (and Death), in all of its (their) aspects. I want to hear from it the struggle. The war within. The madness and the creation.  

My Revolutionary Road

,,Nebunia mă urmărea încă din fragedă pruncie, pândindu-mă de după un pom sau un bolovan. Treptat m-am obişnuit să simt aţintită asupra mea privirea de sepie a acelor ochi neobosiţi care se mişcau lin pe traseul vieţii mele. Totuşi n-am cunoscut nebunia doar sub forma unor umbre malefice. Am cunoscut-o şi ca pe o explozie de extaz, atât de bogată şi de zdrobitoare, încât lipsa unui obiect palpabil prin preajmă, asupra căreia ea să se poată descărca, a fost pentru mine o formă de evadare.” (Nabokov, Priveste-i pe Arlechini, 248)

For me, 2013 is synonym with “dreams deferred”. Not to mention the lack of snow from this year.  So I want everything that belongs to 2013 to go away. And I want my own self back. My insanity. My games. My energy – to let it out. I want the people that I love in my future, but I don’t wish for ordinary things anymore.

I don’t draw lines at the end of a year. But I really wish to do this now, because of all the wars fought within myself. I wrote very little, here, on this half-abandoned blog, and for my own personal projects. I failed an important thing in my “career”, and I also lost a dream. And I guess that this is the most painful thing for our souls: the dreams that we love, that we cherish, our own children, buried inside ourselves, being killed by others and by us before we even start working on them. It’s like losing a baby, a limb, a piece of your own identity. And I don’t want this to go on in 2014. I read fewer books – I think it’s the “poorest” year from all my life.

However, I cannot say here that I haven’t found some new titles and writers. My favourite book and author from 2013 is without a doubt Cormac McCarthy – The Crossing. It’s the book which gave the title of a dream, a book that I love, which reminds me a lot of Johnny Cash. It’s about the death of the American dream, or another kind of it, it’s about the loneliness of the soul, the history of America, and also our own personal histories. Because, as Joyce was saying, “History is a nightmare from which I’m trying to awake.” Be it personal or social.

Other great books that I read this year are Paul Auster’s The New York Trilogy, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5, Paul Harding’s Tinkers, Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 – awesome book -, Jose Donoso’s The Obscene Bird of Night, Ernesto Sabato’s On Heroes and Tombs, and Steinbeck’s To a God Unknown. It’s difficult to say which one of these is better than the other ones. I could definitely say that McCarthy was my year’s favorite, followed by all of these books.

Maybe the greatest disappointment was Papini’s A Man Finished. Interesting, philosophical, brutal. But a book that I had to read when I was a teenager and not now. Good for this year, though.

Hoping that 2013 is really over. Hoping that I should or someone would remember me that I want more from life. Hoping that maybe that miracle that I have been waiting all my life will suddenly come true.  

And let it be insanity …. 

New York, New York ... sau in cautarea lui Neverland

I want to wake up in that city/That doesn’t sleep/And find that I’m the king of the hill/Top of the head.

"Give me your tired, your poor,/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore./Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,/I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"/

(Emma Lazarus - the poem written on the Statue of Liberty)

Cum a trecut ceva vreme de cand nu m-am mai plimbat pe aici, cum am incercat sa arat ca identitatea/istoria unei natiuni e doar apa de ploaie in fata identitatii/istoriei individului, cum oboseala ce m-a acaparat in ultimul timp pare a fi rupta dintr-un rand din cartea lui O’Neill, si cum cica disertatia mea [fara prof’, fara subiect] ar avea legatura cu imigrarea/felul in care vedem un oras, m-am gandit sa visez acum la New York.

Alunec rapid pe-o panta a amintirilor si-mi amintesc de-un alt eu ... ti se intampla si tie cateodata? Imi amintesc de-un eu mai ambitios, mai tanar, ma increzator ... sau uneori, mai batran, mai lenes, mai pesimist. Alunec printre evenimentele de azi si ma trezesc in fata celei ce visa candva la o schimbare, la cea care visa la un alt oras, la o alta lume, la un nou inceput ... ce s-a schimbat oare intre timp?  O atmosfera, un decor, un gand, o rafala de vant. E ca si cum m-as uita intr-o camera plina de oglinzi, ce reflecta alte parti din mine, alte perioade, alte stadii ... a te schimba sau a nu te schimba, a-ti recunoaste sau a nu-ti recunoaste trecutul e o alta tema de gandire (prezenta de asemenea si-n cartea lui O'Neill), azi vreau sa ma gandesc la New York. La New York-ul din cartea lui Joseph O’Neill.

Cartea lui Josehp O’Neill, Netherland, (roman distins cu PEN/FAULKNER AWARD, si nominalizat la Booker Prize 2008) e una dintre cartile not for college, citita printre Black Boy, Beloved, The Joy Luck Club, Ceremony, si alte cateva. E o carte, pentru mine, in primul rand despre prietenie, apoi despre New York si imigrare, despre omul matur, care descopera o lume fara dulcegarii si alte cateva mituri, despre cricket (desi eu una ii las pe altii sa-si spuna opinia), despre 9/11, despre dezradacinare, despre rebuilding, reshaping ... Un roman cu o furie mocnita, ascunsa in actiune si printre cuvinte, care te invata sa privesti lucrurile (viata, dragostea, prietenia, orasul) din mai multe unghiuri, cu mai multe umbre si culori.

Unul dintre lucrurile pe care le-am admirat la aceasta carte a fost ironia subtila, care incepe inca din titlu. Desi o buna parte din carte este despre New York, si doar o amintire sau doua ne duce pe strazile Olandei, romanul, plecand de la o istorie a orasului american, este numit Netherland. Pe mine una mereu Netherland ma duce cu gandul la Neverland, la lumea lui Peter Pan, unde totul este posibil ... asa cum New York-ul este vazut de multi dintre noi. Numai ca povestea lui Hans ne arata ca povestea unui oras, ca felul in care vedem lucrurile din jurul nostru, nu tin atat de traditia/istoria locului respectiv, ci de propria stare, poveste, traire, etc. Hans porneste in calatoria lui, trezindu-se la jumatatea drumului intr-un oras al terorii, singur, parasit de sotie, de fiu, de legaturile cu Olanda/Londra, intr-un oras al tuturor, al ironiilor, al miscarii, si al vietii. Pentru el insa, si alte cateva personaje, tot focul si toata aceasta miscare se estompeaza intr-un cerc repetitiv, de la o incercare (mereu esuata) de a face o schimbare, pana la indiferenta adusa de suferinta.

Am spus la inceput ca pentru mine, acest roman este si o carte a prieteniei (masculine). Motto-ul cartii,

„Mi s-a aparut in vis un oras care nu poate fi biruit, chiar daca s-ar napusti/asupra lui tot restul pamantului, si era noul Oras al Prietenilor ...” (Whitman/Am visat un vis)

anunta bizara prietenie intre Hans si Chuck, personaj ce mi-a amintit de Dean M. Din The Road, a lui Kerouac (Chuck fiind de altfel motivul rememorarii perioadei din New York).   De asemenea:

„Trebuie sa-i declar ei, sau tuturor celor interesati, ca sunt extrem de indurerat? Ca, desi 2 ani poate ca nu-mi fusese dor de el, acum imi lipsea teribil? Trebuie sa le spun ca l-am iubit pe Chuck? Asa ar trebui?” (340)

Ce mi-a ramas dupa citirea romanului, pe langa ideile pentru disertatie, e refrenul lui Frank Sinatra: New York, New York ... mi-a ramas un gust al New York-ului, al orasului viselor, al nostalgiei. Mi-a ramas ideea identitatii personale, mult mai puternica decat identitatea sociala, un regret subtil pentru neincrederea din mine, neincredere ce-mi asigura ca New York-ul si toata America vor ramane pentru mine un Neverland mult prea indepartat.

 

,,Eşti pe o insulă pustie şi ai voie să-ţi alegi cinci cărţi. Ce alegi?”

Am dat de această întrebare în ultima carte citită, Splendida Cetate a Celor O Mie de Sori, de Khaled Hosseini, că tot vorbeam de o literatură necunoscută de cititori, din cauza anonimatului ţării scriitorului. Înainte de a răspunde la întrebare, aş vrea să menţionez câteva lucruri:

Bestseller. Sunt un pic alergică la acest termen, şi sincer, am luat această carte pentru a scăpa de una de economie, gândindu-mă că iar am să găsesc o carte siropoasă, pe gustul tuturor, mai puţin al meu …  Splendida cetate … a ocupat locul 1 în The New York Times Book Review, şi ca să vezi, chiar îl merită. E o carte care ar trebui cunoscută de câţi mai mulţi cititori, o carte care nu poate fi comparată cu un bestseller francez, gen Fata de hârtie, de Guillamo Musso (care culmea, bănuiesc că şi la noi în ţară are parte de mai multă publicitate decât romanul lui Hosseini).

E o carte care m-a făcut să plâng. Şi nu o dată. Nu-mi amintesc care a fost ultima carte care m-a făcut într-adevăr să plâng (?Hemingway – Adio arme), care mi-a dat o lecţie de istorie prin ochii oamenilor comuni, simpli, care m-a făcut să simt cât de mult îmi doresc anumite lucruri …

La întrebarea din titlu, primele cărţi pe care le-aş lua ar fi “cărţile amintiri”/ “cărţile-sentimente”, cele primite de la persoane dragi, cu un rând/două scris pe ele, încărcate cu amintirile mele. Mereu dau cărţi oamenilor pe care-i iubesc; ironic însă, prima carte primită a fost Pinocchio, la 5-6 ani, iar până în ultimul an de liceu, de ziua mea, nu am mai primit nici una. Si atunci am primit niste povesti de Sadoveanu (asta ar fi prima la categoria top 5 books de aruncat la gunoi). Deci aş începe cu cărţile-amintiri, cele care-mi amintesc de oamenii care mi le-au oferit. M-aş uita apoi la cărţile-enciclopedii, care înglobează în ele nenumărate cărţi, sursă pentru altele, pentru că aşa, aş trişa un pic de la regula de a lua NUMAI cinci cărţi. Deci lista mea ar suna cam aşa:

1. Pinocchio, Carlo Collodi – my first book, from my first friend, for the kid inside of me;


2. Finnegans Wake, James Joyce – a book that I want SO MUCH to read this year/next one …;


3. Ulysses, James Joyce – the novel of the novels, a text that refers to/mocks all the English literature (and not only) before it;


4. The Bible – because it is a vital source for Literature (let’s think only of Faulkner or Steinbeck…);


5. A HUGE notebook – for me, to write my own stories/thoughts. :)

Da, cam acesta ar fi raspunsul meu, desi sper sa nu se intample asta niciodata. Si in caz ca se va intampla, sa mi se puna la dispozie un avion sau doua, sa-mi transport toata biblioteca si toate cartile pe care le-as vrea in casa. Si intrabarea ramane deschisa tuturor celor care mai poposesc din cand in cand pe aici.

Death of Literature?

I was in the eleventh grade, meeting Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude, when I first heard and thought of this question. How can Literature die? How can God die? But after all, how can we die? …

Years passed by and I met different writers, different views, different novels. I miss that year, that grade, that age … in the same year I met the writings of James Joyce, Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist, Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, Dante’s Divine Comedy, Kazantzakis’ Zorba the Greek, and some novels by Marquez. I began to be thirsty of Literature, to feel its voice in my heart. In the twelfth grade I read Goethe’s Faust and, as a graduation present to myself, I read Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Lovely books. Probably I read in my life a couple of great books … then I met again Joyce, and I met myself in Ulysses, and I saw the birth of literature, of culture, of humanity, I met the Irish nation and the human nation, and at the same time, I started thinking of this question: can Literature die?

There are days when I can’t read. Sometimes weeks. There are books that I hate, that I judge, that I dislike, that I wish I had never heard. There are times when I think “oh, but I saw this theme/motif/idea somewhere else. And it was better.”  Sometimes I am sorry that I read so much, that I saw so many things. Why? Because I LOVE to talk about Literature, but there are so few people that really read … the books that I love. And I feel miserable from time to time because I never really talk about these books … Furthermore, when you read the “best books” from a genre, it’s impossible for you to have any sympathy for the rest of the books. For instance, I love magical realism. I read 3-4 novels by Marquez (and the best remains A Hundred Years of Solitude), I read Rushdie, Bulgakov, and Cristina García’s Dreaming in Cuban. It is hard for me to like and to put in the category of magical realism a book like Rudolfo Anaya’s Bless me, Ultima. Of course that I shall probably use this book in teaching my students, of course that I found it a nice book, but you can’t ask me to love, to appreciate it. So if we think from this perspective, we could say that literature is dead for a part of me, for the part that read the books that should have come before “the easy ones”.

        However, this year I stumbled across another writer. Leslie Marmon Silko. She’s an Indian, a Native American, and I said in my mind “this is something different”. And I guess it was. Have you ever thought how many writers, from various countries, have a story to tell? How many writers are unknown to us just because they are not English/American/French? How many writers are not good enough for us just because they are swallowed by Time and Unknown Space? Think of this.  

Ceremony is a novel written by an Indian. It hides in its pages a different culture, extremely different from the West, from the things that we know, a world that could be understood completely only if you are an Indian. If you have seen movies like Burry my Heart at Wounded Knee, Thunderheart, Dancing with the Wolves, you would know the specific Indian atmosphere/style … like a lyrical ever-lasting song, beyond words. This is one of the things that I liked at this book: its style, how Tayo’s story is linked with Indian poems/traditions/legends. I have also liked the oscillation between past and present, between the chains of memories and the everlasting present. In this aspect, Faulkner helped me … indeed, he is more complicated, complex, more mythical, but still … I love writers that play with Time. Moreover, the narrator doesn’t offer to us complete access to the action, at least not all the time … after all, does it really matter the things that happen in a novel or is it most significant the atmosphere, the transmitted message (think of Woolf’s Mrs. Ramsay, from To the Lighthouse)?

It is a novel about loss – of identity, of dear ones, of a nation, of self, of will to live. A nice aspect that is present in Ceremony is the relation between Death and Life; Tayo, in his road (or his Ceremony), learns that there are things which are worse than Death. The more he accepts Death, the more he sees the World around him, the more he starts Living.

Remorse plays an important role here. Remorse for being who he is, for his roots, for being the survival of the war, for his brother’s death, for his family’s feeling. Silko presents not only how a war destroys a man and a nation, but how the white people (and not only) destroyed a culture.

“If the white people never looked beyond the lie, to see that theirs was a nation built on stolen land, then they would never be able to understand how they had been used by the witchery; they would never know that they were still being manipulated by those who knew how to stir the ingredients together: white thievery and injustice boiling up the anger and hatred that would finally destroy the world, the starving against the fat, the colored against the white. The destroyers had only to set it into motion, and sit back to count the casualties. But it was more than a body count, the lies devoured white hearts, and for more than 200 years white people had worked to fill their emptiness; they tried to glut the hollowness with patriotic wars and with great technology and the wealth it brought. And always they had been fooling themselves, and they knew it.”(Ceremony, 191)

But Tayo doesn’t want to be an Indian or a white fellow. He just wants to be a human being.

“It took a great deal of energy to be a human being, and the more the wind blew and the sun moved southwest, the less energy Tayo had.”(Ceremony, 25)

On the other hand, yes, there are various clichés presented in this book, themes that are also present in European/American books. One simple example could be the war and all the things that he causes, the remorse, the loss, the haunting of the past. But to me the key difference is the ceremony, the strong connection with the land, the level of humanity searched by the protagonist, his integrity in the Ceremony of Life ...  

So, is Literature on its finale road? I think that all the readers will always have something to learn, to discover in it. I think that writers shall always have something to say, with their own voice, in their own style, to shape not only the outside world, but also their inside one. And if the outside world can be the same for many of us, the inside one has always something unique, different in it.