Cahiers du Vertebrata

a human being is never what he is but the self he seeks

Month: April, 2014

Sergei Rachmaninoff – Vespers Op. 37

Hildur Guðnadóttir – Light

Pas, Lajoš Kesegi

Ajaks i Hela, dva vučjaka, goli trčkaraju ispod drveća. Ne istražuju značenje stvari, njihov smisao, istinu. Idem za njima. Zalazimo u šumu. Borovi su uvek ovde, znaju tajnu stanja, rastu. Na rubu čistine psi sednu, motre. Koliba ispod drveća. Madrac, krpe, ognjište ograđeno kamenom, pepeo, ostaci jela. Na širokom kamenu otvorena knjiga. Odmah krećemo dalje. Ne uznemiravajmo ničiji život. Odlazimo da ne bismo umeli ponovo da nabasamo. Negde ćemo leći i grejati se među blagom jeseni.

Pas je navodno bio ogromnog stasa, slabo odeven, snažan muškarac, istovremeno izvrstan strelac, bacač diska, genijalan improvizator. On je bio uvek čuveni cinik, bestidnik i besramnik. Diogen je prošao kao i bilo ko drugi koji nije štedeo ljudsku glupost. Vređao je ljude, ali je s njima patio. Nalazio se izvan dnevnog morala, nasilne i žuđene civilizacije svoga doba, nije mogao da računa na razumevanje. Diogen je imao kolibu daleko od grada, gde je sam živeo, nigde nikoga nije trebalo obavestiti o tome da “ko nije Bog, okreni mu dupe!”

Rusoovska slika čoveka jedna je od najpopularnijih, kao takva ona je najštetnija. Njena vatra je mase terala u revoluciju, raspoloženja je uzdizala do religije, pohlepnu žudnju za životom. Toro je realizovao život u Valdenu onda kada se Marks nije kolebao da pokrene svoj eksperiment, komunistički manifest. Toro je sam živeo na obali jezera Valden. To nije bilo romantično bekstvo iz društva, nego blaga diogenesovska, alegorična slika čovekovog bivstva. Pirsig je u putovanju našao slično rešenje. Na motorbiciklu je putovao između bezvremenih savremenika, od Platona do Ničea. U kvalitetu je tražio supstanciju čovekovog bivstva, u harmoniji prometejskom tehnikom. Kaže da “iskušenjima, naravno, nikada kraja”. Jedan pas mi prilazi i njuška knjigu.

Lajoš Kesegi, Misli na mene (pr. Sava Babić)

Rea
Na slici: Rea

3.12.

Kako sam dospio do ovog mjesta?  Nisam se izgubio. Nisam pobjegao. Znam gdje sam. Ali ovo mjesto. Napušteno. Ostavljeno. Nedovršeno. Nisam izgubio sebe. Izgubio sam sve ostale.

Čudno je ovo mjesto. Mjesto gdje sam sakrio sve svoje strahove, sve snove, želje, žudnje, nadanja, uvjerenja, vjeru. Mislio sam da je dovoljno samo jednom pobijediti strah,  samo jednom ispuniti želju, samo jednom izgubiti ili naći vjeru. Ali sve ostaje nesakriveno. I one najranije želje otkrivaju se kao drveća; a najraniji strahovi ponekad kao oblaci, ponekad kao divlje zvijeri. Bolno poznato mjesto. I saznanje da sam sve to davno napustio. I da nisam trebao napustiti. Da nisam trebao zatvoriti i zaključati. Sad mi je opet jasno:  sve  što sam ikada napustio još uvijek živi u meni.

Čudno je ovo mjesto. Promatrao sam druge  i okretao se za njima. Okretao i vrtio u krug. To ne može biti način. Tako se može jedino iskopati rupa i sahraniti sebe. Promatrao sam ih sa rezigniranošću jednog stoika. A nisam trebao. Da sam ih promatrao sa pažnjom učenika možda ne bih ostao na mjestu.

Čudno je ovo mjesto. Moje je to mjesto. Ne mogu ga napustiti. Ne mogu krenuti ispočetka. Ne mogu zatvoriti vrata. Ne mogu ni strahove odagnati niti želje suspregnuti a kamoli ostvariti. I moram opet naučiti živjeti s tim. Jer, imao sam gubitke ali doći će novi i treba imati snage podnijeti ih. Imao sam želja ali doći će nove i treba imati hrabrosti ostvariti ih. A tek ljubav? Koliko ću je puta opet iznova naučiti davati i primati?

Prevladavanje samog sebe. To je moje mjesto. Sagorijevati u strahu i želji. Gorjeti tihim samoprijegorom. I čuvati tu nevidljivu vatru. Naposljetku je samo za mene bitna. Svatko nosi svoju.

Priznati kako se vrtiš u krug u pustinji koju si sam stvorio bitno je. Ali bitnije je ono što slijedi nakon priznanja. Tvoj prvi korak. Obećaj mi da nećeš iznevjeriti.

Miserere mei, Deus

Miserere, (full title: Miserere mei, Deus, Latin for “Have mercy on me, O God”) by Italian composer Gregorio Allegri, is a setting of Psalm 51 (50) composed during the reign of Pope Urban VIII, probably during the 1630s, for use in the Sistine Chapel during matins, as part of the exclusive Tenebrae service on Holy Wednesday and Good Friday of Holy Week.

Miserere was the last of twelve falsobordone Miserere settings composed and chanted at the service since 1514 and is the most popular: at some point, it became forbidden to transcribe the music and it was allowed to be performed only at those particular services, thus adding to the mystery surrounding it. Writing it down or performing it elsewhere was punishable by excommunication.

According to the popular story (backed up by family letters), the fourteen-year-old Mozart was visiting Rome, when he first heard the piece during the Wednesday service. Later that day, he wrote it down entirely from memory, returning to the Chapel that Friday to make minor corrections.

Once the piece was published, the ban was lifted; Mozart was summoned to Rome by the Pope, only instead of excommunicating the boy, the Pope showered praises on him for his feat of musical genius. The work was also transcribed by Felix Mendelssohn in 1831 and Franz Liszt, and various other 18th and 19th century sources survive. Since the lifting of the ban, Allegri’s Miserere has become one of the most popular a cappella choral works now performed.

Anna Kamienska, From Notebooks

Sacred stone,

Sacred roadside stone,

you, who have become hammer and ax and home.

And tomb.

*     *     *

I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

 *     *     *

The soul has two distinct layers. One is the “I”—capricious, fickle, uncertain, it hops from joy to despair. The other, the “soul,” is steady, sure, unwavering, watchful, ready, aware.

 *     *     *

I got back from Bulgaria and found out that Irena Kronska died on the sixteenth. Zosia Koreywo was with her to the end. She says she received more than she gave. I’m not afraid of death now, she says, it was a wonderful passage.

They put a crucifix in the coffin, the Gospels with her notes in the margins, photos of her daughter, her husband, and Kafka. Just enough luggage for the afterlife.

*     *     *

There are beautiful, gleaming beetles that feed on feces.

*     *     *

Never. Never. Never. I could fill a whole notebook with that word.

*     *     *

Diogenes, living in the barrel, had a bowl for drinking water. One day he saw a boy drinking from his hand. So he smashed his bowl.

*     *     *

I returned
to confirm
there can be no return.

*     *     *

Simplicity in poetry is humility itself. We know that what we want to say exceeds us, may even lie beyond expression. We can only make simple signs, poor stuttering sentences. Even questions tend towards grandiloquence.

Poetry is not an “act of imagination.” Imagination sins through pride; it can be bribed. It’s coquettish, self-assured. It gestures at creation, but it’s just that, a gesture, usurpation. Imagination is the flirt of poetry.

*     *     *

I call my shadow like a dog. And go.

*     *     *

The medicine of words—medicina verbi.

*     *     *

Korczak: “When the little wrongs come, it’s not worth crying. When the great wrongs come, you forget to cry.”

*     *     *

During the sleepless hours of the night a thought came to me that seemed important. I got up in the dark and wrote it down. In the morning I read: “I went looking for loneliness. But it found me.”

*     *     *

Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.

*     *     *

Misfortune, personal disaster stops our inner time short. Objective time moves on—but we spin in place like straws in water.

*     *     *

Since morning, despair lifts its head like a faithful animal.

*     *     *

Just think: your last dream can’t be written down or told!

*     *     *

Hölderlin: “What remains of the poet in times of woe?”

Heidegger: “For the Greeks being and beauty were synonyms. Now beauty is the business of the pastry chef.”

Hölderlin: “Still, whatever endures was made by poets.”

*     *     *

To express the truth. With a chisel. A word. With silence. With life.

*     *     *

We don’t want immortality for ourselves: too scary. We just need it for our family, our loved ones.

*     *     *

Silence has gone gray. Not hair, silence.

*     *     *

Sometimes I reread my last note as if it were really the last. What would it sound like then?

At times I think I jot down these scraps of thoughts and emotions just waiting for that last sentence, the sentence that will reveal all.

*     *     *

Szymon tells me that he has enough scholarly materials piled up for three lifetimes.

I answer him in the words of the Talmud: “Lo alecha hamlacha ligmor. Finishing the job is not your problem.”

*     *     *

The poet is a great mute. He wheezes his infirmity, mumbles, stutters, fumbles; his great error is human.

*     *     *

A whisper.

To speak in a whisper.

To whisper—like the sea.

*     *     *

The problem of exile.

Anaximander.

Exile from the fatherland, from faith, from the right to criticism, mourning, revolt, bitterness.

*     *     *

Exile from self itself.

The heart’s homelessness.

*     *     *

So a little spring prays to the ocean, so the beating heart prays to the heart of the universe, so the little word prays to the great Logos, so a dust speck prays to the earth, so the earth prays to the cosmos, so the one prays to the billion, so human love prays to God’s love, so always prays to never, so the moment prays to eternity, so the snowflake prays to winter, so the frightened beast prays to the forest silence, so uncertainty prays to beauty itself.

And all these prayers are heard.

*     *     *

Collecting pebbles for a new mosaic of a world that I could love.

*     *     *

Poems—letters to friends and enemies, to the dead, maybe to one living person.

*     *     *

My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the various layers of silence.

*     *     *

Simone Weil: Physical work is “time that permeates the body.” This also holds for imaginative or intellectual labor. Time enters into us and transforms us.

*     *     *

When we don’t work, time flows by us, we don’t assimilate it through ourselves.

Even rest should be creative, so that time doesn’t flow around us, but through us. This is art.

*     *     *

The zone of silence. The zone of loneliness. The zone of love. For me it is the only zone.

*     *     *

Bernanos: “The miracle of our empty hands.”

*     *     *

Philosophies as sui generis “security systems” (Péguy)—forms of domestication.

*     *     *

“There are angels of Silence and angels of Anger and angels of Intellect.”

*     *     *

What is this valley that you must climb to reach?
What is this mountain to which you must descend?

*     *     *

At the beginning of a new notebook I copy a quote from Simone Weil, which captures me completely: “Don’t insist on understanding new things, but try with your whole self, with patience, effort and method, to comprehend obvious truths.”

This quote conducts a polemic with the ceaseless, barbaric pursuit of novelty and disdain for obvious, primary truths.

And so all my notes, all these snail’s traces, are the realization of Simone’s one thought. I won’t and can’t discover anything, I want only with my whole self to reach the heart of obvious truths.

*     *     *

Pascal, who caused me to lose my faith and then helped me to find it. Saint Pascal, pray for us.

*     *     *

Poem-formulas. Poem-prayers.

*     *     *

Human hands are sometimes more intelligent than faces.

*     *     *

The menagerie inside us: despair, melancholy, insomnia, sorrow, vanity. Beasts of the Apocalypse.

 

 

The Notebooks:

Industrious Amazament

A Nest of Quiet

In That Great River

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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a human being is never what he is but the self he seeks

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a human being is never what he is but the self he seeks

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a human being is never what he is but the self he seeks

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