Dacă aș întreba oamenii ce tip de literatură preferă, cu siguranță răspunsurile ar înclina în favoarea celei americane, engleze sau franceze. Ar mai fi, desigur, și cei care sunt topiți după literatura spaniolă/portugheză sau captivați de cea rusă. Dar cu vecinii noștri cum rămâne? Ne lăsăm probabil păcăliți de ideea că țările mai micuțe sau mai sărace nu au potențialul necesar pentru a da naștere unei literaturi de calitate, ceea ce este total fals. E suficient că suntem izolați din cauza barierelor geografice, lingvistice și multe altele, măcar de prejudecăți să nu ne lăsam conduși. Tocmai de aceea, am selectat pentru voi câteva titluri din spațiul balcanic demne de atenție:
Un roman mozaical ce a câștigat în 2003 premiul World Fantasy Award, alcătuit din 6 povestiri legate printr-o temă comună. Acesta redă coșmarurile declanșate de bibliofilia excesivă. Avem de-a face cu un autor care găsește pe un site toate operele sale viitoare, o bibliotecă ce pare un fel de arhivă a sufletelor și un iad în care cei damnați sunt supuși caznelor printr-o eternă lectură. Abordând un stil mai degrabă hyperrealist prin detalii, acest autor a fost adesea asociat cu Borges și Kafka.
”books devour space. You can’t reverse this law. However much space you give them, it’s never enough. First they occupy the walls. They continue to spread wherever they can gain a foothold. Only ceilings are spared the invasion. New books keep arriving, and you can’t bear to get rid of a single one. And so, slowly and imperceptibly, the volumes crowd out everything before them. Like glaciers.”
Milorad Pavić este de multă vreme preferatul meu, fiind și cel care mi-a stârnit curiozitatea și fascinația față de literatura sârbă. Dictionarul este o carte imaginară a cunoștințelor khazarilor, un melanj de creștinism, iudaism și islamism, proverbe și mituri, fantome flămânde și vânători de vise, în care visul și poezia se împletesc cu portretul dispariției unei culturi.
”For there is no man’s reality around us that someone else is not dreaming about somewhere in this human ocean tonight, nor is there somebody’s dream that is not becoming the reality of another. If one were to go from here to the Bosporus, from street to street, one would count all the seasons of a year from date to date, because autumn and spring and all the seasons of a human life are not the same for everyone, because nobody is old or young every day, and an entire life could be gathered like the fire of a candle’s flames, and if you blow it out not even a breath remains between birth and death. If you knew exactly where to go, you would this very night find someone who was experiencing your waking days and nights, one who eats your next day’s lunch, another who mourns your losses of eight years ago or kisses your future wife, and a fourth who is dying exactly the same death you will die. And if you were to move faster and delve deeper and wider, you would see that a whole infinity of nights is evolving over an immense expanse this evening. Time that has elapsed in one town is only just beginning in another, and one can travel between these two towns forward and backward through time. In a male town you can meet in life a woman who in a female town is already dead, or vice versa. Not individual lives, but all future and past times, all the branches of eternity, are already here, broken up into tiny morsels and divided among people and their dreams. …”
În legendele slavone, Baba Yaga este un fel de vrăjitoare ( echivalentul Babei Roga la sârbi și Mumei Pădurii la noi). Într-un mix de poezie, analiză academică și cotidian, autoarea se folosește de aceast personaj mitologic pentru a realiza o meditație asupra identității femeii.
”Let us imagine women (that hardly negligible half of humankind, after all), those Baba Yagas, plucking the swords from beneath their heads and sallying forth to settle the accounts?! For every smack in the face, every rape, every affront, every hurt, every drop of spittle on their faces. can we imagine al those Indian brides and widows rising form the ashes where they were burned alive and going forth into the world with drawn swords int heir hands?! Let’s try to imagine all those invisible women peering out between their woven bars, from their dark bunker-burkas, and the ones who keep their mouths hidden behind the burka’s miniature curtains even when they are speaking, eating and kissing. Let’s imagine a million-strong army of ‘madwomen’, homeless women, beggar women; women with faces scorched by acid, because self-styled righteous men took offense at the expression on a bare female face; women whose lives are completely in the power of their husbands, fathers and brothers; women who were stoned and survived, and others who perished at the hands of male mobs. Let’s now imagine all those women lifting their robes and drawing their swords. . .”
Nu ratați nici:
“The idea behind the Sovereign’s creation of the Tabir (Palace of Dreams) is that Allah looses a forewarning dream on the world as casually as He unleashes a flash of lightning or draws a rainbow or suddenly sends a comet close to us, drawn from the mysterious depths of the Universe. He dispatches a signal to the earth without bothering about where it will land; He is too far away to be concerned with such details. It is up to us to find out where the dream has come to earth – to flush it out from among millions, billions of others, as one might look for a pearl lost in the desert. For the interpretation of that dream, fallen like a stray spark into the brain of one out of millions of sleeper, may help to save the country or its Sovereign from disaster; may help to avert war or plague or to create new ideas.”
“When your fight has purpose—to free you from something, to interfere on the behalf of an innocent—it has a hope of finality. When the fight is about unraveling—when it is about your name, the places to which your blood is anchored, the attachment of your name to some landmark or event—there is nothing but hate, and the long, slow progression of people who feed on it and are fed it, meticulously, by the ones who come before them. Then the fight is endless, and comes in waves and waves, but always retains its capacity to surprise those who hope against it.”
I call to witness the ink, the quill, and the script,
which flows from the quill;
I call to witness the faltering shadows of the sinking evening,
the night and all she enlivens;
I call to witness the moon when she waxes, and the sunrise when it dawns.
I call to witness the Resurrection Day and the soul that accuses itself;
I call to witness time, the beginning and end of all things – to witness that every man always suffers loss.”
”There are two possible conclusions. Either the young aristocrat died a brave and noble death, fully conscious of the certainty thereof, his head held high, or the whole thing was merely a clever bit of playacting directed by a proud mother. The first, heroic, version was upheld and promulgated–orally, and then in writing, in their chronicles–by the sans-culottes and Jacobins; the second, according to which the young man hoped to the very end for some magical sleight of hand, was recorded by the official historians of the powerful Habsburg dynasty to prevent the birth of a legend. History is written by the victors. Legends are woven by the people. Writers fantasize. Only death is certain.”
”Long live the idiot! That is the safest kind of mimicry life can offer a being of its creation. From his vantage point the idiot watches history run its course without the danger of getting caught up in the action, just as we cry as we watch a film playing in the cinema. We mourn fictitious travails, while it’s only an idiot who laughs at genuine deaths. He jeers at life from his safe vantage point, taking his revenge for being rejected, smug at being spared. Life has chosen Intelligence for its games, it does not use idiots to make history. It has chosen geniuses for grand words on the cross, at the guillotine, at the gallows, facing the barrels of guns, in front of nations cheering the Brutuses and Caesars alike. An idiot ceded the cup of poison to Socrates. An idiot ceded to Danton the glory of being decapitated by history. (And then made it up to him by producing a marble bust of his head and raising it on a square as an example for future generations.) Whereas the idiot wears his head with a strange grimace of disgust, as if he had long understood everything, sneered derisively, and stopped time in the rigid folds of his mindless face. Long live the idiot!”