Cahiers du Vertebrata

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

Category: Wissenschaft

Fernando Pessoa, Knjiga nemira, 139.

 

Već dugo ne pišem. Prošli su mjeseci kako ne živim, samo trajem između ureda i fiziologije, u nekoj dubokoj zaustavljenosti misli i osjećaja. Nažalost, to me ne umiruje: u truljenju postoji fermentacija.

Već dugo ne samo da ne pišem, nego čak i ne postojim. Jedva da sanjam. Ulice su za mene ulice. Obavljam posao u uredu tek s onoliko svijesti koliko je za to potrebno, ali ne bih točno rekao da kažem bez rastresenosti: iza toga, jesam, umjesto da razmišljam, spavam, jer uvijek sam drugi iza obavljanja posla.

Već dugo ne postojim. Vrlo sam smiren. Nitko me ne odvaja od onoga koji jesam. Osjetih sada da dišem kao da sam napravio nešto novo, ili zakašnjelo. Počinjem postajati svjestan da sam svjestan. Možda se sutra probudim za sebe, i ponovno proslijedim svojim vlastitim postojanjem. Ne znam hoću li tada biti više ili manje sretan. Ništa ne znam. Podižem glavu i ugledam kao se, na padini Utvrde, naspram nje, na desecima prozora rasplamsava zalaz sunca u visokom odsjaju hladne vatre. Oko tih očiju jarkog plamena padina postaje blaga na kraju dana. Mogu barem osjetiti tugu, i pojmiti kako se s ovom mojom tugom sada susreo, viđen sluhom, iznenadni zvuk tramvaja što prolazi, slučajni glas mladih sugovornika, zaboravljeni žamor staroga grada.

Već dugo nisam ja.

 

§

 

For a long time now I haven’t written. Months have gone by in which I haven’t lived, just endured, between the office and physiology, in an inward stagnation of thinking and feeling. Unfortunately, this isn’t even restful, since in rotting there’s fermentation.

For a long time now I haven’t written and haven’t even existed. I hardly even seem to be dreaming. The streets for me are just streets. I do my office work conscious only of it, though I can’t say without distraction: in the back of my mind I’m sleeping instead of meditating (which is what I usually do), but I still have a different existence behind my work.

For a long time now I haven’t existed. I’m utterly calm. No one distinguishes me from who I am. I just felt myself breathe as if I’d done something new, or done it late. I’m beginning to be conscious of being conscious. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll wake up to myself and resume the course of my own existence. I don’t know if that will make me more happy or less. I don’t know anything. I lift my pedestrian’s head and see that, on the hill of the Castle, the sunset’s reflection is burning in dozens of windows, in a lofty brilliance of cold fire. Around these hard-flamed eyes, the entire hillside has the softness of day’s end. I’m able at least to feel sad, and to be conscious that my sadness was just now crossed – I saw it with my ears – by the sudden sound of a passing tram, by the casual voices of young people, and by the forgotten murmur of the living city.

For a long time now I haven’t been I.

 

§

 

Há muito tempo que não escrevo. Têm passado meses sem que viva, e vou durando, entre o escritório e a fisiologia, numa estagnação íntima de pensar e de sentir. Isto, infelizmente, não repousa: no apodrecimento há fermentação.

Há muito tempo que não só não escrevo, mas nem sequer existo. Creio que mal sonho. As ruas são ruas para mim. Faço o trabalho do escritório com consciência só para ele, mas não direi bem sem me distrair: por detrás estou, em vez de meditando, dormindo, porém estou sempre outro por detrás do trabalho.

Há muito tempo que não existo. Estou sossegadíssimo. Ninguém me distingue de quem sou. Senti-me agora respirar como se houvesse praticado uma coisa nova, ou atrasada. Começo a ter consciência de ter consciência. Talvez amanhã desperte para mim mesmo, e reate o curso da minha existência própria. Não sei se, com isso, serei mais feliz ou menos. Não sei nada. Ergo a cabeça de passeante e vejo que, sobre a encosta do Castelo, o poente oposto arde em dezenas de janelas, num revérbero alto de fogo frio. À roda desses olhos de chama dura toda a encosta é suave do fim do dia. Posso ao menos sentir-me triste, e ter a consciência de que, com esta minha tristeza, se cruzou agora – visto com ouvido – o som súbito do eléctrico que passa, a voz casual dos conversadores jovens, o sussurro esquecido da cidade viva. 

Há muito tempo que não sou eu.

 

 

Fernando Pessoa, 139.   Knjiga nemira  /  The Book of Disquiet /  Livro do Desassossego

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Brad Mehldau, Three Pieces After Bach

https://www.arte.tv/player/v3/index.php?json_url=https%3A%2F%2Fapi.arte.tv%2Fapi%2Fplayer%2Fv1%2Fconfig%2Ffr%2F081886-000-A%3Fautostart%3D1%26lifeCycle%3D1&lang=fr_FR&embed=1&mute=0

Brad Mehldau “Three Pieces After Bach” à la Philharmonie de Paris,  2 avril 2018

Milan Kundera, Iznevjerene oporuke

Original image- 1920x1280

Kada mi je bilo trinaest, četrnaest godina, dobijao sam lekcije iz glazbene kompozicije. Ne zato jer sam bio čudo od djeteta već zbog stidljive osjetljivosti mog oca. Bio je rat i njegov prijatelj židovski skladatelj morao je nositi žutu zvijezdu; ljudi su ga počeli izbjegavati. Moj otac, ne znajući kako bi izrazio svoju solidarnost, dosjetio se da ga zamoli da mi daje lekcije. Židovima su, u to vrijeme, oduzimali stanove i skladatelj se morao stalno seliti u nove, sve manje i manje prostore da bi, prije odlaska u Terezin, završio u malenom stanu u kojem se u svakoj sobi tiskalo više osoba. Svaki put bi zadržao svoj glasovir, na kojem sam ja svirao vježbe iz harmonije i polifonije, dok su neznanci oko nas obavljali svoj poslove.

Od svega toga ostalo mi je u sjećanju moje divljenje prema njemu i tri ili četiri slike. Posebno ova: prateći me nakon lekcije, zaustavio se pokraj vrata i iznenada mi rekao: “Mnogo je začuđujuće slabih stranica u Beethovena. Ali ti slabi dijelovi ističu vrijednost snažnih. Nalik je to na livadu bez koje ne bismo mogli uživati u lijepom stablu koje raste na njoj.”

Čudna misao koja mi se urezala u sjećanje. Možda sam se osjetio počašćenim povjerljivim priznanjem učitelja, tajnom, velikom mudrošću koju samo upućeni imaju pravo saznati.

Bilo kako bilo, ta kratka napomena mog učitelja pratila me cijeloga života (branio sam je, borio se protiv nje i nikad joj nisam došao kraja); bez nje ovaj tekst sigurno ne bi bio napisan.

Ali mi je još milija od same misli slika čovjeka koji malo prije svog užasnog putovanja, razmišlja glasno, pred djetetom, o problemu kompozicije umjetničkog djela.

 

Iznevjerene oporuke, Djela i pauci, XVII.

 

Philosophy’s Struggle with God | Dr Anders Kraal

Ivo Pogorelić, Brahms Intermezzo Op. 118 No.2

Brad Mehldau, Prayer for Healing

Keith Jarrett – Hamburg 1982

Darko Cvijetić, Dnevnik

Darko Cvijetić je rođen 11. januara 1968. godine u mjestu Ljubija Rudnik, Bosna i Hercegovina. Piše pjesme i kratke priče, režiser je i dramaturg u Pozorištu Prijedor. Pjesme su prepjevavane na francuski, engleski, njemački, slovenski, hebrejski, albanski, mađarski, poljski, makedonski i jidiš.

Od 2013. godine uređuje književni blog “Hypomnemata”. Član PEN Centra BiH i Društva pisaca Bosne i Hercegovine.

Objavio desetak knjiga poezije, kratke proze, eseja.

Režirao u Pozorištu Prijedor desetak pozorišnih projekata, te ostvario tridesetak premijernih uloga u rasponu od Raskoljnikova u Zločinu i kazni Dostojevskog, u režiji Gradimira Gojera, do Estragona S.Becketta, u Čekajući Godota, u režiji Radenka Bilbije…

Vrtlarstvo učio kod Majstora Ivana Obrenova.

 

 

Subota, 2. prosinca

Danas je 99 godina i jedan dan od nastanka prve Jugoslavije.

Otac ozbiljno boluje već treći mjesec. Tumor na mozgu (“benigan ali vrlo agresivan”) operiran, većina ga izvađena, ostatak nepristupačan, razliven iza sinusa i oka.

Ocu se kapak oka naglo počeo spuštati.

Od oftalmologa do onkologa i neurokirurga – kratak i brz put. Čini mi se da Mirko Kovač pominje dvoje mladih bolesnika koji se ljube na klupi u bolničkom parku, u istovjetnim pidžamama, dok im se cijevi infuzije upetljavaju; i više se ne zna što u što ukapljava, i s kojim povodom.

Otac se bori.

Brat doleti iz Amerike na desetak dana. Svih deset se nismo zapravo ni vidjeli. Noćna kiša spere posuđe zaboravljeno nakon slavlja u vrtu. Dvoje mladih s infuzijama doista se ljube i cjevčice se zapetljavaju.

Pada mrak. “Sunce visoko” (Damir Ovčina, “Kad sam bio hodža”)

Nekako se samo pogodilo da sam počeo čitati Igora Mandića “Predsmrtni dnevnik”, u samu zoru očevog obolijevanja.

Neumoljivo brutalan (prema sebi prvenstveno, a tek potom k vani), pomaže mi da se naoružan ironijom krećem po predvorju pakla – što su balkanske bolnice, dakako austrougarske konjušarnice, umrlišta i bernhardovske štale s mesarima.

Mandić detaljno opisuje Matoševo strašno umiranje u bolnici Sestara Milosrdnica 1914. usljed pogrešne dijagnoze tada poznatog stručnjaka.

Izvađeno Gustlovo grlo i nepredviđeno buđenje u zadnjem satu četverosatne operacije. Umiranje u četrdesetoj. Gotovo istodobno mladi Ivo Andrić u Zagrebu operira grlo, no operacija je bezazlena i uspješna, ništa ozbiljno, izuzev vremenske paralele o nožu u grlu.

Matoševo grlo, iz nekog razloga, još i danas čuvaju u formalinu, kao da misle da će jednom propjevati.

Vrtlar zemlji oblikuje vrijeme.

Zato vrijedi imati i vrtlarske i kirurške rukavice. Tu smo, koliko sunce odluči da nas vrijedi grijati. Ni tren više ili manje. Mala muzička kutija od gustolakiranog drva, puna čuda verglajućeg, čuvana dva života ili pustinja zapijeskana u sebe, dva vjetra.

Nedjelja, 3. prosinca

Ne škole i vrtići, nama su već i šatori prazni, govori gospođa koja u nedjeljno jutro posjećuje svoje pokojne.

I dalje sam kod grla. Kafka veli da nesreća Don Quijoteova nije mašta, već Sancho Panza. I kod Kafke tuberkuloza grla munjevito je napredovala. Prestao je uzimati hranu. Umro je zapravo od gladi, u 41. godini života, 1924. (deset godina iza Matoša).

Kafka je na češkom “čavka”, i toga se valja prisjetiti pri pogledu na svaku uspjelu šumu. Još malo da je poživio, Kafka bi i na Shoah stigao, i u dim bi se sasuo. Na kraju, kao i Matoš, komunicirao je ceduljicama.

Praznogrl. Tako su se Matoš i Kafka uvezali u istovjetnu pustovratu smrt. Ne znam još, čuvaju li i Kafkino grlo u kakvoj tegli, kao krastavce, ili kao Matoševe glasne žice s grkljanom?

Za Borgesom – moje rečenice ne znaju za mene.

Smrtnost za svoj tekst nastupa ispisivanjem. Živjeti ovdje jest postmatoševska ili postkafkijanska obezgrljenost, nemanje “Sredstava za pjevanje”.

Samo bez grla ovdje čavke opstaju. Bez grla si tih, bez grla si šaptav, a u zemlji ispražnjenih i škola i šatora, govoreća grla trebaju što manje.

Tako stižemo izravno u nepotrebnost pjesnika i pjevanja, u zemlji koja ubrzano radi na svojem postajanju pustinjom.

I, što čovjek još može, s grlom, ili bez? Umoriti svojeg marionetara, umoriti mu mišice i prste, olabaviti mu moć nad žicama, biti opet obećanje o podizanju, sjećanje na pun pokret, na puno grlo glasa.

Jeste, to je putrefakcija (što znači kvarenje, vrijenje, raspadanje, truljenje, nadimanje). Putrefakcija nije besmisleno truljenje radi nestajanja, ona je vrijenje i bujanje, zapravo čisto kompostiranje radi hranjenja novog.

Tako valja, dakle, ući u novi tjedan zalijevanjem komposta u vrtu, čuvanjem topline u zemlji, za neke nove ljude, manje zle od ovih koji su nam suvremenici.

Ponedjeljak, 4. prosinca

“Haškog sužanjstva” pun tjedan, pun staričjih mirisa, pun patetike i užasa. Vrtni patuljci okruženi vranama (Mladić/Praljak).

Kao da se iz tog kruga žrtvoslovnog ne može zauvijek izaći i kako je to moguće? Pokazuje se da je itekako moguće voditi državice rubom vječite prošlosti bez ikakve ideologije, izuzev kompradorskog sužanjstva sa zakonima ruljizirane elite ili elitizirane rulje.

Odlaženje odavde doseglo je razmjere cunamija, ali ovdašnji feudalci još uvijek o tome ni slova da zucnu. Ne razumiju da će im ostati samo strane banke koje su doveli, i zastave, koje su toliko zazivali u rukama golobradih mladaca, i maske, dakako, kojima neće moći ikoga više uplašiti.

Neće uskoro imati ni vozače svojih audija, samo im još to nije objašnjeno. Crkve su obesmislile pojam dobroga i vezale ga za materijalnu dobit. Njima čovjek samo može poželjeti susret s Bogom kojega toliko zazivaju, pa neka Svevišnjem pokušaju objasniti svoje praznovjerje i ljubav za zločince.

Očevo bolovanje bilo je izravan sudar sa sustavom koji izbjegava na sve načine da bude sustav, koji se samosabotira na svakom koraku, pokazao mi se svijet iz kojega se bježi, u svoj svojoj raskoši bijede. Bolnice s izgledom i vonjem austrougarskih konjušnica, otjerale bi svakog iole normalnog.

Kao četvrt stoljeća prošlo od rata? Ali ljudi jedu kao da je rat, ljudi imaju platežnu moć kao da je rat, umiru kao da je rat jer se nemaju čime liječiti, ljudi nose hranu u bolnicu kao da je rat, griju se kao da je rat, voze se putovima kao da je rat… pa kako onda nije rat!?

Na TV-u nedostaju samo izvešća s linija i brojevi mrtvih na dnevnom nivou.

Žene ginu kao da je rat.

Mladi bježe kao da je rat.

Njive nitko ne obrađuje kao da je rat.

Pa, gospodo, onda – rat je, zar ne?
Političari govore kao da je rat, kupuju i prodaju oružje, avione, proturaketne sustave, a djeca umiru jer nema novca za citostatike… Koliko je to zvjezdica, 12 ili 12.000? Kad uprosiš marku za recimo “malog Marka”, za liječenje u istokrvnom Beogradu, je li to zvjezdica više ili manje na nebu nad domovinom?

Onda je rat, gospodo!

Ljudi je sve manje, mape sve čišće i praznije, i sve uvježbanije ih iscrtavaju. Muholovke će postati jedino oružje staraca, bivših boraca svih armija, s penzijom u visini izdataka za ćuku onih koji su sada eleta, ruljizirana elita, rekoh.

Tako smo htjeli. Tako samo mi otpjevali o slobodi, sad je malo vrijeme da ona odćuti nas.

Utorak, 5. prosinca

Pričamo u Cvijetićima, onako, rodbinski, okupljeni usljed očevog bolovanja. Šutimo. Povremeno se pogledamo, pa opet u pod. Kažem naglas kako je djed Ostoja, ubijen u Jasenovcu, imao 35 godina. Svi me u tišini pogledaju.

Kažem – “mi smo ga svi, oduvijek, doživljavali kao djeda Ostoju i zamišljali starca, a on je još bio mlad čovjek kad je ubijen”.

Svi i dalje šute ili se prave da nisu čuli moje pojašnjenje djedovih godina. Tetku Dragutinu (90) ustaše su pred očima zaklali majku i oca. On jedini naglas kaže za djeda Ostoju – “dijete” !

“Dobro… Kad smo bili deca, Maruan je imao simpatične i zanimljive ideje. Jednom me je zamolio da mu pomognem u sakupljanju vremena. Sišli smo do reke, legli potrbuške i ne mičući se, zurili duže od sata u meku divlju travku. Ćutali smo kao dva kamena kipa. Maruan je bio uveren da ćemo, ako budemo nepomično gledali sat vremena u ma koju stvar u prirodi, sačuvati taj sat u svome umu. Dok ljudi gube vreme, mi ga sakupljamo. (Hassan Blasim, “Ukrštene reči”, preveo Srpko Leštarić)

Otac sve jači, sve stabilniji… Postoperativno oporavljanje napokon uzlazno. Kao da još nije siguran da li je u magnovanju nakon operacije vidio i čuo brata, ili je i to bila jedna od mnoštva komatoznih prevara. Moj otac, kao i otac Bruna Schultza, dijete jedno, ptica jedna.

Srijeda, 6. prosinca

S. mi objašnjava kako niti jedan osuđeni ratni zločinac iz Haaga nije bio – ateista. Svi su deklarirani vjernici, svatko svoje vjere dakako.

Da je Bog imao Sina bez ruku – ne bi ga mogli raspeti, i tko zna što bi kršćanstvu bio znak, kaže mi još. Ovi su napravili puno sinova bez glava, bez ruku, nogu, bez očeva, matera, braće i sestara… I, svi hoće u raj!

Bilo bi zanimljivo poslušati Isusov odgovor nakon što sasluša njihove brižljivo osmišljavane monologe prožete molitvom za oprost, i njihove odvjetničke prigovore. Na misao mi odmah nalijeće Saulov sin, Lasla Nemeša, dobitnika Oscara za najbolji strani film prije nekoliko godina, s nevjerojatnim Gezom Rohrigom.

I redatelju i glumcu bio je to jedini film. O Auschwitzu.

O pripadniku Sonderkommando imenom Saul, koji na hrpi leševa netom izvađenih iz gasnih komora prepoznaje dječaka – sina! Od tog trena Saul po cijelome Auschwitzu traži rabina, da mu sina pokopa po Zakonu i izmoli kadiš.

No, Saul kremira leševe, prelopatava tone pepela, iščupava zlatne zube i krunice, šmrkom čisti preostalu krv… Kako da jedan Sonderkommando u ludilu koncentracijskoga logora nađe rabina i pokloni se Stvoritelju. Pa mu i kažu da to nije njegov sin, da on i nema sina i da je to anonimni leš bilokojega dječaka. Tako Saul nosi sina umotanog u platno, da ga vidi Bog.

Isti je to Bog kojeg zazivaju Sheveningenski junaci?!?

A Sinišina majka? Siniša ima 25 godina i umire od metastaziranog raka s pluća na mozak. Leži na krevetu pored očevog, na odjelu banjolučke neurokirurgije, nakon operacije na mozgu. Sinišina je majka uz sina, u bolnici, po cijele dane

Iz Brčkog su, i ona je iznajmila hotelsku sobicu da može biti uz njega, ili u banjolučkoj crkvi Hrista Spasitelja, gdje se moli za umirućeg sina.

I onda danas slušam kako se medicinska sestra na nju izdere jer je tu 24 sata, jer im smeta da oni rade svoj posao, da “ona razumije” ali… da joj ne može dopustiti da bude uz sina kad ona to poželi, te da ona neprekidnom brigom o sinu maltretira i omalovažava sestre koje brinu o svima, pa tako i o umirućem malom Siniši.

Majka je Sinišina slušala izdiruću reakciju gl. sestre pognute glave, kao anđeo. Nije niti rječju progovorila. Stidjela se. Kao Sonja Marmeladova. Sestra je izašla i Sinišina majka je kazala da ide u crkvu da se pomoli za sve nas. (I da je Bog imao Sina s rakom, tko bi mu mijenjao pelene dok se raspada u polusvijesti? Saul, ili možda Savle-Pavle?) I za sestru ovu da se pomolim, sine moj, naravno, prvo za sestru, rekla je.

Četvrtak, 7. prosinca

Danas je 99 godina i sedam dana od nastanka prve Jugoslavije.

Tome didaskalija –

/Javljaju mi iz Beograda za Međunarodnu konferenciju – “Svedočenje.Poezija. Jezik.” od 14. do 17. 12. 2017. godine u organizaciji Centra za kulturnu dekontaminaciju. Jedna od tema jest Paul Celan, Paul Celan danas. Znanstvenica iz Hrvatske dr Andrijana Kos Lajtman, govorit će u Beogradu, u Srbiji, o bosanskohercegovačkom pjesniku: “Neodadaističko lice postmodernizma: MANIFEST MLADE BOSNE Darka Cvijetića kao protest protiv kulturnih i općedruštvenih defektnosti jugoslavenskoga prostora na prijelazu milenija.”/

Koliko nade, vjere, pregnuća, odricanja, želje, žara, smrti samo, koliko junaštava, hapšenja, mlaćenja, atentata, manifesta, vojski, deklaracija, koliko ljubavi, ponosa, zavoja i gaze, krvi i joda, štafeta i kokardi, petokraka i šahovnica, koliko zakletvi, straža, logorovanja, koliko radnih akcija, zastava, pjesama, tenkova i šljemova, brojeva pušaka, koliko mina i radničkih odmarališta na moru, sretnih rudara i stranih studenata, tamnovanja i avnojevanja, koliko mapa i naroda, koliko jezika u jednom velikom, koliko velikih pisaca na danas nepostojećem srpskohrvatskom/hrvatskosrpskom jeziku…

Nestao, kao latinski ili jidiš, sasuo se u dim druge bočice. Zemlja bila velika, a bila i Kraljevina i Republika, i svi narodi bili u jednoj državi…

Kako danas nekomu objasniti Jugoslaviju?

Ovako:

Kao kad se vraćaš iz kakve crkve ili drugoga kakvog hrama, pa te susretne neznanac i ispituje te da mu prepričaš svoju molitvu, i da mu potanko ispričaš i što ti je odgovoreno od onoga kome si se molio?

Možda čak i pokušaš da prepričaš, pa vidiš da se čarolije ne prepričavaju, jer trebaju drukčiji jezik da bi se govorilo o, recimo, zemlji koju su izdavali, izdavili, preorali i prodali njezini najlošiji pioniri, za malo titoističke imitacije u svojem sokaku.

Nemoguće je biti hladnoglav nad mladoudavljenom čarolijom, 99-godišnjom staricom čije kosti zatrpavaju pijeskom a one se iznova samoiskopavaju.

Samoiskopavaju se naše gadosti i buđenja, sve sa Radićem i Račićem, ubijenim Aleksandrom, nožekanjama i ofenzivama, Lolom i Starim koji 1943. ima 51. godinu, ali ga svejedno zovu Starim, sve sorbonski pjesnici i mladi komandanti, sve sa Omarskom, Dreteljem, Sarajevom, Vukovarom ili Briševom…

A W. Benjamin kaže da je prvo iskustvo djeteta spoznaja – da ono samo nije sposobno za čaroliju. Da nad čarolijom moć ima netko veći – Netko, kome dijete opetovano govori: Hajde opet, hajde opet…

I bude – opet!

Petak, 8. prosinca

Odavno već, svaki dan, jedan minut promatram nebo. Pustim pogled na lica koja promiču s oblacima, mjesečnih dobranih pola sata gledanja u ponor, naravno ničeanski ponor također zuri meni u bjeloočje. To je više od šest sati godišnje, 365 minuta.

Gledamo se tako ozbiljno, virimo jedan drugom u grobiće, on u moj plići, ja u njegov malo tamniji, i nije to nikako puno, kako naizgled sliči. Nema tamo zvijezde, izuzev one koju ću ja unijeti, da sijamo jedno drugome, kad ne bude oka da razmrsi toliki mrak.

Ali, još ne.

Ozemljen mesom – zurim u vedro noćno zimsko nebo sinoć, prosinački čisto. Ako je zvijezda koju upravo gledam odavno mrtva – onda se vidimo baš u gadnome trenu: mene za nju još nema (još se nisam niti zbio) a nje, pak, za mene još ima, eno je, svijetli (iako se davno završilo njezino zbivanje).

Točka u kojoj se sreće moj pogled na nju, koje nema, s njenim pogledom na mene, kojega još nema – mora da je sam Alef, ona svakovrsna nulta točka svega, impuls i dar, munja i svjetlosno rašivanje nebesa, početak i kraj i, dakako – Riječ!

Vjerojatno moj pogled traži točku, vrzma se po nebu da je ugledam, da vidim ima li je, traži li me?

Jer svaka stvar, svako biće, posjeduje, vele mudri, uz bjelodano i skriveno ime, ono na koje se pozvani nužno odaziva.

Bit, suština pjevanja jest dozvati skriveno ime. Ako se tko osvrne, ako se odazove, ako se sretnemo, onda… onda je… onda je to… za pozvati Sinišinu majku i Sinišu, da se za ruke držimo.

 

Preuzeto sa:

https://www.slobodnaevropa.org/a/dnevnik-darko-cvijetic/28904902.html

Viktor E. Frankl, The Meaning of Life

The Meaning of Life

I doubt whether a doctor can answer this question in general terms. For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment. To put the question in general terms would be comparable to the question posed to a chess champion: “Tell me, Master, what is the best move in the world?” There simply is no such thing as the best or even a good move apart from a particular situation in a game and the particular personality of one’s opponent. The same holds for human existence. One should not search for an abstract meaning of life. Everyone has his own specific vocation or mission in life to carry out a concrete assignment which demands fulfillment. Therein he cannot be replaced, nor can his life be repeated. Thus, everyone’s task is as unique as is his specific opportunity to implement it.

As each situation in life represents a challenge to man and presents a problem for him to solve, the question of the meaning of life may actually be reversed. Ultimately, man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather he must recognize that it is he who is asked. In a word, each man is questioned by life; and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life; to life he can only respond by being responsible. Thus, logotherapy sees in responsibleness the very essence of human existence.

The Essence of Existence

This emphasis on responsibleness is reflected in the categorical imperative of logotherapy, which is: “Live as if you were living already for the second time and as if you had acted the first time as wrongly as you are about to act now!” It seems to me that there is nothing which would stimulate a man’s sense of responsibleness more than this maxim, which invites him to imagine first that the present is past and, second, that the past may yet be changed and amended. Such a precept confronts him with life’s finiteness as well as the finality of what he makes out of both his life and himself.

Logotherapy tries to make the patient fully aware of his own responsibleness; therefore, it must leave to him the option for what, to what, or to whom he understands himself to be responsible. That is why a logotherapist is the least tempted of all psychotherapists to impose value judgments on his patients, for he will never permit the patient to pass to the doctor the responsibility of judging.

It is, therefore, up to the patient to decide whether he should interpret his life task as being responsible to society or to his own conscience. There are people, however, who do not interpret their own lives merely in terms of a task assigned to them but also in terms of the taskmaster who has assigned it to them.

Logotherapy is neither teaching nor preaching. It is as far removed from logical reasoning as it is from moral exhortation. To put it figuratively, the role played by a logotherapist is that of an eye specialist rather than that of a painter. A painter tries to convey to us a picture of the world as he sees it; an ophthalmologist tries to enable us to see the world as it really is. The logotherapist’s role consists of widening and broadening the visual field of the patient so that the whole spectrum of potential meaning becomes conscious and visible to him.

By declaring that man is responsible and must actualize the potential meaning of his life, I wish to stress that the true meaning of life is to be discovered in the world rather than within man or his own psyche, as though it were a closed system. I have termed this constitutive characteristic “the self-transcendence of human existence.” It denotes the fact that being human always points, and is directed, to something, or someone, other than oneself—be it a meaning to fulfill or another human being to encounter. The more one forgets himself—by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love—the more human he is and the more he actualizes himself. What is called self-actualization is not an attainable aim at all, for the simple reason that the more one would strive for it, the more he would miss it. In other words, self-actualization is possible only as a side-effect of self- transcendence.

Thus far we have shown that the meaning of life always changes, but that it never ceases to be. According to logotherapy, we can discover this meaning in life in three different ways: (1) by creating a work or doing a deed; (2) by experiencing something or encountering someone; and (3) by the attitude we take toward unavoidable suffering. The first, the way of achievement or accomplishment, is quite obvious. The second and third need further elaboration.

The second way of finding a meaning in life is by experiencing something—such as goodness, truth and beauty—by experiencing nature and culture or, last but not least, by experiencing another human being in his very uniqueness—by loving him.

The Meaning of Love

Love is the only way to grasp another human being in the innermost core of his personality. No one can become fully aware of the very essence of another human being unless he loves him. By his love he is enabled to see the essential traits and features in the beloved person; and even more, he sees that which is potential in him, which is not yet actualized but yet ought to be actualized. Furthermore, by his love, the loving person enables the beloved person to actualize these potentialities. By making him aware of what he can be and of what he should become, he makes these potentialities come true.

In logotherapy, love is not interpreted as a mere epiphenomenon of sexual drives and instincts in the sense of a so-called sublimation. Love is as primary a phenomenon as sex. Normally, sex is a mode of expression for love. Sex is justified, even sanctified, as soon as, but only as long as, it is a vehicle of love. Thus love is not understood as a mere side-effect of sex; rather, sex is a way of expressing the experience of that ultimate togetherness which is called love.

The third way of finding a meaning in life is by suffering.

The Meaning of Suffering

We must never forget that we may also find meaning in life even when confronted with a hopeless situation, when facing a fate that cannot be changed. For what then matters is to bear witness to the uniquely human potential at its best, which is to transform a personal tragedy into a triumph, to turn one’s predicament into a human achievement. When we are no longer able to change a situation—just think of an incurable disease such as inoperable cancer—we are challenged to change ourselves.

Let me cite a clear-cut example: Once, an elderly general practitioner consulted me because of his severe depression. He could not overcome the loss of his wife who had died two years before and whom he had loved above all else. Now, how could I help him? What should I tell him? Well, I refrained from telling him anything but instead confronted him with the question, “What would have happened, Doctor, if you had died first, and your wife would have had to survive you?” “Oh,” he said, “for her this would have been terrible; how she would have suffered!” Whereupon I replied, “You see, Doc- tor, such a suffering has been spared her, and it was you who have spared her this suffering—to be sure, at the price that now you have to survive and mourn her.” He said no word but shook my hand and calmly left my office. In some way, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.

Of course, this was no therapy in the proper sense since, first, his despair was no disease; and second, I could not change his fate; I could not revive his wife. But in that moment I did succeed in changing his attitude toward his unalterable fate inasmuch as from that time on he could at least see a meaning in his suffering. It is one of the basic tenets of logotherapy that man’s main concern is not to gain pleasure or to avoid pain but rather to see a meaning in his life. That is why man is even ready to suffer, on the condition, to be sure, that his suffering has a meaning.

But let me make it perfectly clear that in no way is suffering necessary to find meaning. I only insist that meaning is possible even in spite of suffering—provided, certainly, that the suffering is unavoidable. If it were avoidable, however, the meaningful thing to do would be to remove its cause, be it psychological, biological or political. To suffer unnecessarily is masochistic rather than heroic.

Edith Weisskopf-Joelson, before her death professor of psychology at the University of Georgia, contended, in her article on logotherapy, that “our current mental-hygiene philosophy stresses the idea that people ought to be happy, that unhappiness is a symptom of maladjustment. Such a value system might be responsible for the fact that the burden of unavoidable unhappiness is increased by unhappiness about being unhappy.” And in another paper she expressed the hope that logotherapy “may help counteract certain unhealthy trends in the present-day culture of the United States, where the incurable sufferer is given very little opportunity to be proud of his suffering and to consider it ennobling rather than degrading” so that “he is not only unhappy, but also ashamed of being unhappy.”

There are situations in which one is cut off from the opportunity to do one’s work or to enjoy one’s life; but what never can be ruled out is the unavoidability of suffering. In accepting this challenge to suffer bravely, life has a meaning up to the last moment, and it retains this meaning literally to the end. In other words, life’s meaning is an unconditional one, for it even includes the potential meaning of unavoidable suffering.

Let me recall that which was perhaps the deepest experience I had in the concentration camp. The odds of surviving the camp were no more than one in twenty-eight, as can easily be verified by exact statistics. It did not even seem possible, let alone probable, that the manuscript of my first book, which I had hidden in my coat when I arrived at Auschwitz, would ever be rescued. Thus, I had to undergo and to overcome the loss of my mental child. And now it seemed as if nothing and no one would survive me; neither a physical nor a mental child of my own! So I found myself confronted with the question whether under such circumstances my life was ultimately void of any meaning.

Not yet did I notice that an answer to this question with which I was wrestling so passionately was already in store for me, and that soon thereafter this answer would be given to me. This was the case when I had to surrender my clothes and in turn inherited the worn-out rags of an inmate who had already been sent to the gas chamber immediately after his arrival at the Auschwitz railway station. Instead of the many pages of my manuscript, I found in a pocket of the newly acquired coat one single page torn out of a Hebrew prayer book, containing the most important Jewish prayer, Shema Yisrael. How should I have interpreted such a “coincidence” other than as a challenge to live my thoughts instead of merely putting them on paper?

A bit later, I remember, it seemed to me that I would die in the near future. In this critical situation, however, my concern was different from that of most of my comrades. Their question was, “Will we survive the camp? For, if not, all this suffering has no meaning.” The question which beset me was, “Has all this suffering, this dying around us, a meaning? For, if not, then ultimately there is no meaning to survival; for a life whose meaning depends upon such a happenstance—as whether one escapes or not—ultimately would not be worth living at all.”

 

Viktor E. Frankl – Man’s Search for Meaning

Rainald Goetz – To Live and To Write: The Existence Mission of Writing

1.

The essence of this ongoing practice of writing is the difference between text and thought: the reading of one’s own words. And that is the fundamental experience of writing: that what’s there on the page doesn’t say what one wanted to say, that the self-will of the scripturality, the act of fixating, the textual verbality constantly impose themselves; very powerfully, the text says what it wants to, not what it’s supposed to according to the will of the writer. To experience this autonomy of writing, the texticity of statements, one needs to experience as a writer, as often as possible, constantly, how great the distance really is between a statement’s intent and what the words actually convey.

2.

It’s often been observed that the everyday practice of writing has undergone a spectacular rebirth over the past years due to electronic communications devices. All this incessant writing everyone’s been doing in mails, text messages, forums, on blogs, Twitter, and Facebook has also, however, had the tremendous effect of promoting standardization, stereotypes, truisms, and empty talk to the degree that there’s practically no thought, experience, or even a second of life anymore for which a hiatus of speechlessness still exists; in every situation, everyone knows perfectly what sentence is supposed to come next.

3.

The right kind of writing is very easy. Anyone who types and texts and presses ‘send’ knows this. When the feeling is right, the words are too. Writing is breathing. It used to be the writer’s life that was constructed this way, a singular existence, privileged, even sick, fantastically engrossed and absorbed in everything etc. And today, everyone lives this way: writing, constantly writing their existence-text, writing away.

4.

Which world. — That’s wonderful, of course, but at the same time, the sensibility for it has decreased along with everybody’s me-empowerment, via their own text among other things, and that’s not wonderful. It’s a very extraneous, very alien world that the self encounters, unknown in a way that should unsettle everyone, arouse their curiosity, incite them to all kinds of everyday world exploration measures, etc. But that is not the case.

5.

The world arrives on each person’s screen in a manner that is highly liquid, continuous, and quick: news, information, dispositions, images, and films, preselected by a collective of friends and acquaintances in a quantity so incomprehensible that self-protection requires erecting the wall of bored composure that used to typify the way the flood of TV information was dealt with. The gesture of composure today is that of the hand sweeping away towards the right, that staves off what one has seen, wipes it away, marks it as read and sends it down into the underworld of dead information that will never again inundate one.

6.

Today it’s easier to know more, in more detail, than ever before, but it’s not this easy access that’s made it harder to profit from the fact. The great rupture in recent years comes from the subscriptions, the alerts, the dispatching automats that have been in use since around the mid-2000s, initially to facilitate things, to not have to concern oneself all the time with all the websites one wants to consult, which have since gone on to prevent any possibility of consulting a site oneself, to specifically seek out a blog that one happens to be interested in; once subscribed to, everything intrudes on the interested person unbidden and in an absolutely overwhelming continuity and number.

7.

This intrusion forestalls appreciation. Even the most valuable messages, highly interesting new thoughts of someone’s on some blog, take on the status of annoying advertisement, become a thing to fend off: gone, gone, gone. I’m aware, I know about it, don’t need it.

8.

Only for friends. — As the old millennium was drawing to an end, in 1999, my God, how long, how absurdly long ago that is, the German pop literature faction was also experimenting with this social media thing early on. Elke Naters and Sven Lager thought up an event and a site called “Am Pool” [Poolside], where maybe twenty or thirty people talked to one another internally, textually. I took part in it back then too, with my day-poems KRANK [SICK], which I uploaded there on a daily basis. It only took a few days to observe the extreme limitation in thought and intellect this social circumscription injected the texts with that were based on and conceived for it: the poison is the pretense, the texts automatically want to brag, the writer to present himself to the others in a braggardly manner. The underlying tone that emerges here is unpleasant, the nonchalance in one-uppance repugnant.

9.

The reason Facebook has commercialized this so successfully is because it’s precisely the real-life loser — in the majority, naturally, in real life exposed as a zero in a matter of seconds, this is an effect of the flesh, to embody a person’s truth and to externalize it visibly for everyone to see — that especially yearns to be a really cool dude in the abstract space of the Internet, in a purely verbal sense. The braggart’s verbality is such a success because there are so many of these tricksters trying to fool one another, which explains why a sensibility for these subtle gradations in tone is not a particularly coveted commodity. Now, in many journalists’ texts, you can hear this sound that emerged in the braggart-contest on Facebook. Not a very nice development in language to come from pop literature and to have since turned into journalism.

10.

Authorship is wrested from a highly specific limitation. If relevant texts arise, it’s not due to some sort of skill, a technique that can be passed on, but because they’ve emerged this way out of one’s response to a defect-complex configured in a highly individual manner, because the defect has brought forth sensoria that have enabled its exploitation for the purposes of text production. Objectively speaking, this is all completely uninteresting.

11.

As a reader, one senses that every author that is somehow of interest is also crazy in some way. But that doesn’t matter, that’s irrelevant. What’s interesting are the results, the work, the books, the output in written form that goes beyond the author’s confines, that sheds, by proxy for everyone, the fear of being an existence-nothing paralyzed by a defect-complex.

12.

Nothing else can be passed along. With writing time, in my case it’s been thirty years now, what becomes strongest of all in an author is the experience: how insanely rare it is that it actually works out. That is the essence of writing: it doesn’t work, I can’t do it, I don’t know why.

13.

The Demon. — The demon inside me that rules me is cruel. I don’t know him, I hunt him with my intellectuality, I probably expend more energy than on anything else to find him, to understand, recognize, and in the end, hopefully, to finally disempower him. The effort fails. I can’t find him, I can only find his tracks, register the way he makes it impossible for me to live the way I want to: productive, steady, open, free.

14.

In any case, the demon is a magnifying glass that enlarges everything that happens to me, brings it into focus. The completely normal behavior of the people around me: gigantic, in excessive detail, the horror. Just like in me, the thoughts and feelings inside me, the confusion: gigantic, oppressively gigantic and overpowering, dictating the moment completely. The next instant: gone. As though it had never existed. A mockery of the insane agitation that just now prevailed, gone. The skittishness of the demon torments me, it’s the self-contradiction of the obsession’s monstrousness a moment before. The demon is the gaze emanating from my eyes, which are extremely close together, every year they grow more closely, obsessively, absurdly together. I hate.

15.

The demon wants to be alone and never write again. Read, lie in bed, sleep, read, and actually, quite honestly, more than anything else: perhaps to be just a little bit dead sometimes, or maybe completely dead, forever? Peace, peace is the longing, a permanence of total panic the reality.

16.

Demon for sale, cheap, gladly. The demon impairs my work because it makes my life so insanely complicated. The work does not profit from a complicated life, actually I’ve always hoped that, hoped it would. But that’s wrong. The complicatedness stultifies me, weakens me, narrows my mind. When the demon is gone, I can see what I mean, think, want to say. When the demon is there, I’m blind. And then I try with a mad energy to concentrate, and this purpose locks my frontal lobe in a brutal torture vise, where it’s pressed together and wrung out, the result of this effort of concentration being an unfathomable depletion of the frontal lobe, the worst state of depletion, without any kind of concentration resulting from the exertion at all. The demon is a life-energy-annihilator of galactic dimensions. A life-annihilating galaxy pulsates inside me.

17.

Then the person next to me says something while the person opposite is still talking: a brainwave short-circuit is the demon-induced result. Other people find it normal when two or three conversations are conducted simultaneously right past them, but when it’s exposed to sound in this manner, my demon emits a maddeningly piercing whistle that grows louder and louder until the short-circuit cuts it off. This is why the demon doesn’t love the sociability that I so revere. Even in the company of other people, the demon has one goal and intention: to drag me down, to make my delight in people impossible. My demon is bile and Saturn. Heavy and mean.

18.

Go away, Demon, the compensatory hyper-focus delivers its ultimate demand, be silent, die, stop talking so that I can finally concentrate better, finally live better. The demon nods, amused. He is not at all funny himself, but the text about him is. This contradiction is called, text-typically: grace, clemency, nonsense, delirium.

19.

Reading. — Constantly, incessantly, of course, everything. Reading as the fundamental vitality-enforcement of the mind, an indefatigable joy in gazing at these tiny black things, letters strung together into type, their beauty over and over again, in all its forms, inscrutable.

20.

One’s feeling for language is always in a state of becoming, is unstable, changes constantly through what one reads and writes. Watch out! A feeling for language is highly vulnerable, it belongs to the sphere remotest from rationality, that of language’s musicality; even the keenest intellectuality fails to bring every dimension of this feeling in all its crucial subtleties under the control of its explicative verbality.

21.

Because the social always inundates the brain with an unworkable profusion of individual data, and not everything can be grasped, much less deliberated during the situation itself, it is once again the reception of text, reading, which makes a retrospective reenactment of personal experience possible through the example of other, comparable social situations evoked by the text; thus, what develops as the reading material presents and makes available to the reader the interference of his own experiences and those of others is this: a knowledge of human nature.

It is the specific interiority of this kind of knowledge of human nature that reading brings forth and that differs strongly from those formed in other arts — particularly the viewing of films calls for and creates a completely different type of identification with the other, one far less contemplative, of course — from the racing stream of time that sweeps events along as though in real life, for the most part even faster, makes them race and hurtle past one, etc. Which, complementarily, gives rise to an especially elaborate discursivity upon which aesthetic theory has always prominently developed, first in music, then film, pop music, and opera, from Adorno to Diederichsen.

22.

Wanting to write begins with being fascinated by other writers only a few years older than oneself whose books can take on an ostensible ultra-plausibility, because an individual text project has already attained a work-generating precision, there’s someone who can actually do that, in all its infinity-dimensionality: write — while at the same time he still lives in the common here and now which one also, as the younger one, has access to and is fascinated by. Which is why, in the arts in general, and especially in literature, the most wonderful masterliness is inherently: young.

 

 

From the lecture “To Live and to Write: The Existence Mission of Writing”

Rainald Goetz, Freie Universität Berlin. To see the full lecture

(in German): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJk2_Yopxcw

Excerpts translated by Andrea Scrima

Follow the link to issue 7–1 of Hyperion: On the Future of Aesthetics. 

Senior Editors: Andrea Scrima and Carole Viers-Andronico.

http://contramundum.net/2016/02/27/hyperion-vol-7-1/

Scroll to page 63 or open the PDF:  Hyperion Goetz 2013

https://andreascrima.wordpress.com/2013/02/01/observations-on-writing-in-rainald-goetz/

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