Cahiers du Vertebrata

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

Month: October, 2016

Béla Hamvas, Mađarski Hiperion

O Némésis, entends-tu ce qu´il dit?

                                                                Chénier

 

-schwer ist zu tragen das Unglück, 

aber scherer das Glück

                                                            Hölderlin

 

Where’s the poet? …”This the man

who with a man is an equal, be

he king, or poorest of the beggar-clan.

                                                                    Keats

 

Prvo pismo

Sada me već čekaju spori i dugi dani u ovoj gustoj, mirisno rasprostranjenoj tišini, duboki i usamljeni dani. Nema više nikoga koga je teško ostaviti. I ovi moji bezbolni, vedri, čisti, samo što ne slatko sazreli dani prolaze mi, a s njima zajedno i sve ono što nam samo dragi život može pružiti. Dječačka nevinost, ali u njoj ima spoznaje. Mladenačka vatra, ali u kojoj gori cijeli čovjek. San i igra, vino i ljubav, pustolov i divlja snaga misli, svi su zajedno, svi, ali više ne u opijenosti i uzavrelosti, nego kao osmijeh koji ne mogu vidjeti, jer sam to ja sâm.

Nitko me nije ostavio, niti sam se izgubio. Prijatelj? Ljubavnik? Obitelj? Država? – Šutim. Kažem ti da je to tako dobro. Ovako. Šutim. Zato i nisam mogao biti prijateljem, ni ljubavnikom. I nemam obitelj, kao što nemam, niti sam imao, državu. Šutim, kao što šuti nebo, kao što šuti brdo, more, zvijezde, kamenje, kao što šuti sve u čemu ima spoznaje. Jer postoji jedan zakon – tko ga je uspostavio? Ne znam. Zakon je: ne izreći. Ne razdvojiti da od ne.  Ne imenovati. Nikada ne izgovoriti. Teško je. Znati, i nikada ne izreći. To je tako teško, mislim da je od te težine i samo kamenje tako teško, i ova spoznaja toliko peče da se od te vatre žare i dani. To što jest, i kako jest, zabranjeno je čak i bogovima izreći. Veliko iskušenje: reći. Ovako bezimene vlasti zavode sve one u kojima nema težine kamena i  vatre dana. Onaj koji šuti, taj je vječan. Koji se oglasi, izgubljen je. Tako nastaju od palih bogova ljudi, a od šutljivih ljudi ponovno mogu nastati bogovi. Ne izreći, ne imenovati, ne, nikada ne povrijediti svjetske, djevičanskom koprenom prekrivene tajne. Neka tako i ostane, tajna. Upravo kako je skrivena. Koja i mora ostati skrivena jer je samo tako, u dubini tajni, istinita, lijepa i veličanstvena, jedino tako ona je radost, osmijeh i beskraj. Neka ona ostane poezija, san, proricanje, predosjećaj. I neka ostane ono što nema imena.

Drugo pismo

Ono što ću sada reći suprotno je od svega onoga što su nekada nazivali priznanjem. Ovdje ne može biti riječ o grijesima i priznanjima, nitko ovdje, s ovom knjigom, ne želi stupiti pred nekakva suca. Ponekad se čudim Cezaru koji nikada o sebi ne govori u prvome licu. Napiše što je učinio u Galiji i za vrijeme građanskoga rata, i uvijek piše o sebi kao o nekakvu strancu. Gleda sudbinu u kojoj živi. Potrese se nad tajnom koja je u njemu oživjela i jedva dodiruje daimona kojega nosi u sebi. A daimon nije on. Zato ne kaže: ono ja. On je taj koji gleda i koji piše sudbinu. On je drugi daimon. Vojskovođa, državnik i osvajač različita su bića. I ja se čudim daimonu kojega nosim u sebi. Koji nosi mene. Kojega živim, i koji živi mene. To je najdublji užitak. Gdje je to od samoljublja? O, ovoga čovjeka tako volim, kao lijepu životinju ili biljku koju sam sam uzgajao, koja je uzgajala mene. Dakle, tako ga volim kao jednog boga.

Tkoj te taj bog? Čut ćeš još o njemu. Smatraš napuhanošću što tako govorim o sebi? Ne bi li prije bila napuhanost ono kada bih se ponizio? Poniženje je prikrivena napuhanost, koja sebe smatra zaslužnom poniženja. To ne želim, niti se želim uzvisiti. Ne smatram se vrijednim ničega. Koga to vidim u sebi? Oblik-formu. Jednu prelijepu pojavu svijeta. Ne zato što sam ja taj. Ionako bih od te pojave bio razdražen, ako bih bio i netko drugi. I zato što sam ja taj, da se odreknem uživanja?

Treće pismo

Otkrit ću ti svoju tajnu. U djetinjstvu sam mislio da ću biti kralj. Pripremao sam se za to, i vježbao kraljevske vrline. Tada nisam ni slutio da bih mogao biti potreban. Ova zemlja je imala vladare, prijestolonasljednike, i ludo bi bilo i zamisliti kako će ovi umrijeti i nestati i narod će ostati bez kralja. Ali ja sam se za to pripremao. I to je u meni bilo najozbiljnije. Vježbao sam u sebi iznimnu velikodušnost. Naučio sam ne žaliti ništa, ponajmanje sebe. Rado sam davao i već sam sljedećeg trenutka zaboravio komu i što. Nisam trpio oko sebe ljutita lica. Tako sam bio otmjen, kao osmijeh.

Jako se dobro sjećam da sam na srednjem putu vrta na jednoj okuci držao svoje konje. Među grmovima jorgovana živjelo je pet konja. Svaki sam dan išao u školu na konju druge boje. Najviše sam volio zlatnožutog. Sandec mu je bilo ime. Školski drugovi mi nisu vidjeli konje, niti su znali da se pripremam za kralja. Niti je to poslije itko vidio, osim jedne žene koju sam volio. U to sam doba morao nositi odjeću kao u nekog lutalice. Zakrpane, iznošene, poderane hlače, polovne cipele. A rekla mi je: izgledaš kao princ.

Stari kralj je umro, mladog su potjerali. Tada sam se sjetio, pa tu sam ja. Što bih trebao učiniti, nekako izreći, ali ne previše otvoreno? Grozio sam se nametljivosti. Kažem, odgajao sam se za kralja. Suzdržavao sam se od toga da se namećem. Nekako je to trebalo izvesti, kao s kraljem, kao s kraljem Davidom. Ili sam se možda trebao pojaviti kao kralj u snu glavnoga svećenika? Gdje su veliki svećenici, i gdje su snovi?

Četvrto pismo

Sada već vidiš kako sam nesuvremen. Valjda i to zbog čega sam takav. Nesuvremeni moraju biti svi oni kojima je daimon čist i lagan, kao spavajući san na cvjetnoj livadi. Što ja imam tražiti među sumornima i ogorčenima koji samo jedno vole: patiti. Na to ćeš reći da nisam realan. Ali ne razmišljaš to koliko je stvarnija radost od patnje i koliko je veselje stvarnije od gorčine. Ne, veselje ne leži na onom putu koji odvodi od svijeta. Nije nestvarno. Kao da bi se znao veseliti samo onaj komu je uspjelo pobjeći od stvarnosti. Nisam radostan kada se zatvorim. Veselje je najstvarnije, u smislu stvarnosti srca svih stvari, jer to je najdublje. Nisam radostan onda kada se skrivam, nego kada se otvorim, i ne onda kada pobjegnem od svijeta, nego kad krenem u njega sve do same njegove srži.

Upravo sam baš zato sada nesuvremen. Bilo je vremena kao ono kada bi glavni svećenik odsanjao zlatnožutog konja. I mislim da je to i sada odsanjao, jer je morao odsanjati. Život nikada ne propušta upozoriti čovjeka. Samo što on nije saslušao to upozorenje. Sanjao je o tome, ali je ili zaboravio, ili porekao. Zbog toga nisam mogao postati kraljem. Ali, vjeruj, svi bi imali koristi od toga. Nikada ne bih dopustio da dođu do riječi oni prljavih ruku. Narod ne bi mogao biti plijenom. Jedino bi se smjelo graditi lijepu kuću. Pokazao bih radost svakodnevice, onu koja je na ovoj zemlji najveća. U ponedjeljak ujutro prikazali bi žrtvu bijesnom bogu, koji bi smijući se gledao kako ljudi jure – na posao? Ne! svaki prema svojoj najvećoj strasti.

Koliko samo ovisi o kralju  to kakvu mu volju ima narod! Ta ne zavisi li sve od volje? Kažeš, ljudi su zli. Ljudi nisu zli, samo su loše raspoloženi. Ja znam da raspoloženje zavisi od toga tko je kralj.

Nisam imao nikakav plan, niti sam imao ikakva cilja. Nisam želio biti otkupiteljem. Kao što sam već rekao, samo sam htio donijeti veselje svakodnevice, sreću zbog najobičnijih stvari, jednostavnost, ono kako je neizreciva radost piti mlijeko i orati i izići na sunce i odlaziti na sajmove, i kako je fantastično pogađati se i prepirati i prekapati vrt i kuhati i graditi kuću i lijevati kovinu. Samo jedan grijeh poznajem, a to je briga. Ja kao kralj ovaj grijeh nikada ne bih počinio. Ako bi mi netko i došao na preslušavanje, ponudio bih ga vinom, sjeli bismo na mekani tepih prostrane terase pune cvijeća i razgovarali bismo. Više nas zajedno. Sve bi se odvijalo polako. Samo se briga uvijek žuri. Kamo jurimo? Sjednimo i pojedimo po jednu jabuku.

Béla Hamvas, Mađarski Hiperion, Drugi dio

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Once more unto the breach, dear friends

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’

 

Henry V, Act III, Scene I

William Shakespeare

3.41.

Sudac, krvnik i optuženik u meni bore se za pravdu.

I ta borba toliko je krvoločna, rigorozna i nemilosrdna da čak i kad uspijem pobjeći iz te tamnice i otići pred ljude, bivam slomljen i prestrašen, a moj govor neprestano mucanje.

Kako to da se optuženik, unatoč svemu, stalno vraća na mjesto zločina?

Thomas Wolfe, A Letter To Mother

 

 

U dvadeset i drugoj godini, šest godina prije “Pogledaj dom svoj, Anđele” i petnaest godina prije smrti, Thomas Wolfe je napisao pismo majci :

 

I know this now: I am inevitable, I sincerely believe. The only thing that can stop me now is insanity, disease, or death.
The plays I am going to write may not be suited to the tender bellies of old maids, sweet young girls, or Baptist ministers, but they will be true and honest and courageous, and the rest doesn’t matter. If my play goes on I want you to be prepared for execreations upon my head. I have stepped on toes right and left-I spared Boston with its nigger-sentimentalists no more than the South, which I love, but which I nevertheless pounded. I am not interested in writing what our pot-bellied members of the Rotary and Kiwanis call a “good show.” I want to know life and understand it and interpret it without fear or favor. This, I feel, is a man’s work and worthy of a man’s dignity. For life is not made up of sugary, sticky, sickening Edgar A. Guest sentimentality; it is not made up of dishonest optimism. God is not always in His Heaven, all is not always right with the world. It is not all bad, but it is not all good; it is not all ugly, but it is not all beautiful; it is life, life, life-the only thing that matters. It is savage, cruel, kind, noble, passionate, generous, stupid, ugly, beautiful, painful, joyous – it is all these and more – and it’s all these I want to know, and BY GOD I shall, though they crucify me for it. I will go to the end of the earth to find it, to understand it. I will know this country when I am through as I know the palm of my hand, and I will put it on paper and make it true and beautiful.
I will step on toes. I will not hesitate to say what I think of those people who shout “Progress, Progress, Progress” – when what they mean is more Ford automobiles, more Rotary Clubs, more Baptist Ladies Social Unions. I shall say that “Greater Asheville” does not necessarily mean “100,000 by 1930,” that we are not necessarily four times as civilized as our grandfathers because we go four times as fast in automobiles, because our buildings are four times as tall. What I shall try to get into their dusty, little pint-measure minds is that a full belly, a good automobile, paved streets, and more, does not make them one whit better or finer – that there is beauty in this world – beauty even in this wilderness of ugliness and provincialisam that is at present our country, beauty and spirit which will make us men instead of cheap Board of Trade Boosters and blatant pamphleteers.
I shall try to impress upon their little craniums that one does not have to be a “highbrow”or “queer” or “impractical” to know these things, to love them, and to realize they are our common heritage – there for us all to possess and make a part of us. In the name of God, let us learn to be men, not monkeys.
When I speak of beauty I do not mean a movie close-up where Susie and Johnny meet at the end and clinch and all the gum-chewing ladies go home thinking husband is not so good a lover as Valentino. That’s cheap and vulgar! I mean everything which is lovely, and noble, and true. It does not have to be sweet, it may be bitter;it does not have to be joyous, it may be sad.
When spring comes I think of a cool, narrow back yard in North Carolina, with green, damp earth, and cherry trees in blossom. I think of a skinny little boy at the top of one of those trees, with the fragrant blooms about him, with the tang of the sap in his nose, looking out on a world of back yards, and building his castles in Spain. That’s beauty! – that’s romance. I think of an old man in the grip of a terrible disease, who thought he was afraid to die, but who died like a warrior in an epic poem. That’s beauty. I think of a boy of twenty-six years heaving his life away, and gasping to regain it, I think of the frightened glare in his eyes and the way he seizes my hands, and cries, “What have you come home for?” – I think of the lie that trembles in my throat, I think of a woman who sits with a face as white and set as if cut from marble, and whose fingers cannot be unclasped from his hand.
And the boy of eighteen sees and knows for the first time that more than a son is dying, that part of a mother is being buried before her – life in death – that something which she nursed and loved, something out of her blood, out of her life, is taken away. It’s terrible but it’s beautiful.
I think of the devotion of a woman of frail physique to a father, I think of the daisy meadows on the way to Craggy Mountain, of the birch forests of New Hampshire, of the Mississippi River at Memphis – of all of which I have been a part – and I know there is nothing so commonplace, so dull, that is not touched with nobility and dignity.
And I intend to wreak out my soul on people and express it all. This is what my life means to me: I am at the mercy of this thing ad I will do it or die.
I never forget: I have never forgotten, I have tried to make myself conscious of the whole of my life since first the baby in the basket became conscious of the warm sunlight on the porch, and saw his sister go up the hill to the girl’s school on the corner ( the first thing I remember).
Slowly out of the world of infant darkness things take shape: the big terryfying faces become familiar – I recognize my father by his bristly moustache. Then the animal books, which I memorize before I can read, and recite for the benefit of admiring neighbors, every night, holding my book upside-down. I become conscious of Santa Claus and send scrawls upthe chimney. Then St. Louis. A flight of stairs at the Cincinnati railroad station – which must be gone up – the Word’s Fair, the Ferris Wheel, Grover at the Inside Inn, the Delmar Gardens where you let me taste beer which I spit out, a ride on a bus-automobile over the Fair Grounds with Effie- it is raining, raining, the Cascades in the rain – a ride in the scenic railway – scared at the darkness and the hideous faces – eating a peach in the back yard ( St. Louis) – I swallowed a fly and am sick – and one of my brothers laughs at me – two little boys who ride tricycles up and down the street – they dress in white and look alike – their father injured or killed in elevator accident(wasn’t he?) – I commit a nuisance on the narrow steps of side yard and the policeman sees me and reports me – the smell of tea at the East India House – I’ll never forget it – Grover’s sickness and death – I am awakened at midnight by Mabel and she says, “Grover’s on the cooling board.” I don’t know what a cooling board is but am anxious to see.
I don’t know what death is but have a vague, terrified sensation that something awful has happend – then she takes me in her arms and up the hall – disappointed at the cooling board – it’s only a table – the brown mole on his neck – the trip home – visitors in the parlor with condolences – Norah Israel was there then it gets fairly plain thereafter and I can trace it step by step.
This is why I think I am going to be an artist. The things that really mattered sank in and left their mark – sometimes a peculiar smile – sometimes death – sometimes the smell of dandelions in spring – Once Love.
I will go everywhere and see everything. I will meet all the people I can. I will think all the thoughts, feel all the emotions I am able, and I will write, write, write…

 

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

roškofrenija

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

Sve ostalo su priče

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

six glasses of water

I could afford to be good, kind, generous, loyal and so forth, since I was free of envy. Envy was the one thing I was never a victim of.