Din ZIUA - CULTURA - Joi, 29 septembrie 2005, iata un interviu al Iolandei Malmen cu scriitorul israelian Haim Be'er
Nu stiam nimic despre Haim Be'er pana in acest sfarsit de septembrie, la Neptun, la Festivalul "Zile si nopti de literatura". Despre cartile lui mi-a vorbit cu multa insufletire, in cunostinta de cauza, Riri Silvya Manor, despre faptul ca este unul dintre cei mai buni prozatori din Israel, detinatorul multor premii literare, tradus in cateva limbi de circulatie si promitand ca va milita in cel mai scurt timp posibil pentru traducerea lui in romaneste.
Dincolo de asta, intalnirea cu Haim Be'er, atat la Neptun, cat si la Bucuresti, a fost un lucru pe care, ca scriitori, nu-l traim in fiecare zi. Insotit obsesiv de cutremuratoare imagini ale unui razboi de care s-a dezis in timp, prozatorul s-a hotarat de foarte tanar sa-si schimbe radical modul de a privi lumea inconjuratoare, facand din propria literatura o confesiune tulburatoare. Din clipa in care a vazut cum dintr-un om, in cateva fractiuni de secunda, ramane numai o mana ciuntita, si-a dat seama ca numai scrisul il poate mantui de infricosatorul spectru al zadarniciei.
Haim Be'er, ati venit la Neptun alaturi de alti cativa scriitori israelieni, pentru a participa la Festivalul "Zile si nopti de literatura". In Romania nu v-a fost tradusa pana acum nici o carte, dar stiu acum despre dumneavoastra, ca va numarati printre prozatorii de prima importanta ai Israelului.
Intalnirea mea cu Romania este de fapt o intalnire cu radacinile european-rasaritene ale familiei mele. Tatal meu a venit din Ucraina in Israel, ca fiu al unei familii de hasidici. Din punctul meu de vedere, baza miscarii hasidice este aici, in Carpati, in Romania. De aceea, zilele acestea, in Romania, am avut o senzatie de familie, de camin, am trait sentimentul ca nu sunt cu mama si cu tata, dar sunt cu verii si verisoarele mele. Eu sper ca romanii vor putea sa ma citeasca si, pe de alta parte, mi-as dori tare mult sa cunosc cat mai bine lumea literara de aici, o societate care se gaseste intr-un clocot de schimbari: tensiunile dintre religiosi si nereligiosi, dintre nationalism si internationalism, tot capitalismul fata de grija sociala, cum sa va masurati cu trecutul despre care nu intotdeauna sunteti mandri. Toate aceste lucruri sunt foarte cunoscute. Eu am venit aici de parca as fi intrat in visul unui alt om.
De ce se scrie in Israel o proza foarte de buna? Experientele limita duc la asta?
Eu sunt profesor de literatura la Universitate...
Sper sa nu aveti rigiditati profesorale si opinii de universitar intransigent.
Sunt numai de 4 ani in profesie, dupa ce am lucrat ca jurnalist. De aceea sunt in toate lumile.
Literatura creste si infloreste din criza. Criza dintre nou si vechi. Ea creste dintr-o fisura intre credintele vechi si cele noi, ea creste cand devine clar ca politicienii, carturarii, filozofii, absolut toti au dat faliment. Atunci creste literatura. Acolo devine clar ca omul sarman, neluat in seama de nimeni, stie mai mult decat toti invatatii. In Biblie, asta se numeste "inteligenta sarmanului". Scriitorul este inteligentul sarman care are raspunsuri, cel putin partial, la aceasta criza.
Nu v-am citit decat un fragment de proza, in catalogul festivalului, dar mi-a placut foarte mult. Puteti sa vorbiti, sa definiti literatura pe care o scrieti?
As spune ca scrisul meu este un amestec intre ironie si empatie, intre cinstea cu care-i spui cuiva in fata adevarul, dar si dragoste. Vin dintr-o familie care a trait intr-un mod foarte interesant criza dintre credinta si ateism, dintre, as spune, lumea evreiasca, cu toate implicatiile acestui cuvant, si dorinta, pasiunea de a fi o parte din Apus si din Europa. Familia mamei mele a trait in Israel de 200 de ani, ceea ce este foarte, foarte rar! Nu sunt nici macar 200 de familii care sa aiba o asemenea vechime. Sunt oameni foarte religiosi, care au trait in "Tara sfanta" intr-o asteptare necontenita, crezand ca Mesia evreilor o sa vina odata si odata. De aceea au locuit in Ierusalim, pe Muntele Sfant, in credinta ca intr-o buna zi Dumnezeu o sa coboare din nou si o sa aduca iarasi Templul din ceruri pe pamant, in contrast total cu nationalistii religiosi noi de astazi, care cred ca oamenii trebuie sa darame Moscheea care exista acuma pe acest munte si sa construiasca ceva din nou.
Lumea mea, viata mea e un amestec de ultrareligiozitate ortodoxa, izvorul ei fiind din Satu Mare si Sighetul Marmatiei, Prejbur, Bratislava. Toata aceasta miscare ultrareligioasa apare din locurile astea, din Romania, si eu am crescut in toata aceasta amestecatura, toti prietenii mei sunt astazi colonistii din teritoriile ocupate.
Cum v-ati adaptat lumii violente in care traiti?
Am trait toata viata intr-un fel de razvratire linistita: sunt intr-un conflict linistit cu toata atmosfera in care am fost educat. M-am razvratit, dar acum traiesc un fel de resemnare.
Sunteti prozator, un prozator important. Ati scris si poezie?
Am inceput prin a scrie poezie, dar forma cantecelor, carapacea lor n-a putut sa cuprinda caracterul epic al scrisului meu. Dupa o perioada lunga de tacere, timp in care nu-mi gasisem defel drumul, am participat la razboiul de Iom Kippur din 1973, timp de o jumatate de an, departe de casa. Am fost gropar, asta era insarcinarea mea. Nu al soldatilor nostri, ci al soldatilor dusmanului.
Ati transpus literar aceasta teribila experienta?
Atmosfera razboiului mi-a produs un soc. Fata de ceea ce traisem pana atunci, acest lucru terifiant m-a marcat puternic. Eram un tanar fin, obisnuit cu cartile, nonviolent. Deodata, mirosuri si mirosuri si mirosuri! Deodata, cadavrele pe care trebuia sa le ingrop. Toate cartile mele au crescut din socul asta. Am fost in Africa, in Egipt, dincolo de Canalul de Suez si am calatorit intr-un jeep si in fata mea era o cisterna plina cu petrol. Un avion al egiptenilor a mitraliat cisterna, care a explodat si noi am trecut pe langa moarte, as spune, la un milimetru. Am alergat sa cautam soferul cisternei, dar i-am gasit numai o mana. Mana singura pe care am gasit-o in acel terifiant episod este de atunci mana cu care scriu toate cartile. Mana care ramasese din acel egiptean. Toate cartile, inclusiv "Timpul privighetorii", au fost scrise cu aceasta mana ramasa in praful drumului.
Cum ati rezistat, totusi, in viscerele unei asemenea experiente?
Cand m-am intors de-acolo, luni de zile n-am putut sa-mi imbratisez copii, n-am putut sa-mi ating sotia. Tot timpul, noaptea, in vis, revenea mirosul si mirosul si mirosul.
Asta v-a transformat intr-un veritabil pacifist?
Nu pacifist, ci pacifist-extremist, daca pot spune asa. Am inceput sa caut orice drum care sa micsoreze posibilitatile unui razboi.
Numai experientele-limita pot fi convertite in mare literatura?
Nu. Dar, la mine, locul in care am fost a sporit atractia spre literatura, in mod incapatanat si constant.
Erati uimit ca ati intrat in acest razboi?
Am intrat in razboi (in limbaj jurnalistic) crezand ca se poate schimba ceva si am iesit din jurnalistica dupa 10 ani. Cand mi-am dat seama ca nu poate influenta, am devenit editor la o editura importanta.
Il cunoasteti bine pe Amos Oz?
Ne-am nascut in acelasi cartier, am scris in acelasi jurnal si acum predam amandoi la aceeasi Universitate: Ben Gurion.
Haim Be'er, exista un canon prezent in toata literatura lumii?
Ceeea ce am facut eu a fost sa povestesc lumea concreta, printr-un singur om, nu dinafara, ci prin prisma experientei proprii, personale. Romanele mele au ca element central autobiografia visului. Nu ceea ce era de-a dreptul, ci ceea ce putea sa fie. Ultima carte pe care am scris-o, "Sfori" (in ebraica veche, unul din intelesuri este: durere), l-a facut pe Amos Oz sa scrie un roman despre dragoste si intuneric. Amos Oz a spus asta la un congres foarte mare al psihiatrilor si psihologilor, la Haifa, pe tema familiei. Acolo a afirmat ca romanul meu a fost pentru el o trambulina: a sarit in apa mea si a scris, prin viata mea, povestea lui. Suntem prieteni apropiati. Intre noi sunt relatii foarte bune.
Nu stiu de alt canon, stiu de canonul meu, care se traduce asa: "povestirea vietii concrete".
Ce inseamna pentru scriitorul Haim Be'er, in acest septembrie 2005, statiunea Neptun?
Raman cu o buna impresie despre lucrurile la care nu ma asteptam dinainte, neprevazute. Sunt insa profund dezamagit de Mario Vargas Llosa.
Inainte de-a fi un mare scriitor, Llosa este om, un om care poate si dezamagi.
Nevorbind despre literatura lui, repet, Mario Vargas Llosa m-a dezamagit.
Interesant la aceasta intalnire de la Neptun n-a fost ceea ce s-a petrecut in sala, ci in culise: in autobuz, la masa, la cafea. In aramaica, limba in care a vorbit Iisus, exista un proverb: "Baza pamantului este a doua baza", adica intalnesti oameni din Irlanda, America, Romania, Finlanda si, in fond, toti se ocupa cu acelasi lucru care m-a emotionat: literatura. O poeta din Finlanda, ati ascultat-o, descrie un copil care se trezeste noaptea, ajunge in camera parintilor si ii vede facand dragoste. Cam asa cum Adam si Eva au mancat marul in Paradis. Nimic nu a mai fost ca inainte pentru copil, din acea noapte. Toata lumea lui interioara s-a schimbat. Iata un exemplu ca literatura este un instrument care strabate granitele, cu toate ca ea este arta cea mai grea, fiind foarte legata de memoria istorica si de limba, de civilizatii si de culturi indepartate. Cand aud muzica sau vad o pictura, imi intra ca o infuzie in sange. In literatura exista bariera limbii, asa cum o simtim noi acum, de exemplu, vorbind in ebraica si in romana. Pe de alta parte, chiar fara vorbe, ne intelegem unii pe altii.
Dialog realizat de Iolanda MALAMEN
Presa culturala: prea "cool"/ "so boring"
Iulia POPOVICI semneaza un excelent articol in Ziua de vineri, 23 septembrie 2005. Ce ar mai fi de spus?
In Romania, revistele de specialitate, cu profil academic, sunt practic inexistente - mai ales in domeniul umanioarelor. Universitarii nostri scriu, de obicei, pentru periodice culturale cu un profil intelectual larg, formandu-si un stil intre accesibil si "avizat" devenit de mult timp marca intregii productii intelectuale "cu pretentii", a suporturilor de curs si volumelor de referinta. Exceptiile, remarcabile, sunt la fel de remarcabil de putine, caci, crescut la scoala naravasului impresionism interbelic (care, la originile lui, era o forma de "dizidenta" si libertate estetica), cititorul intelectual vrea sa i se vorbeasca in cuvinte cat mai pompoase, dar concepte cat mai "terre ŕ terre". Si uite-asa s-a construit (inca se mai lucreaza la ea) cultura romana de foileton, operele din volume de articole si memoria scurta a vedetelor literaro-teatralo-cinematografico-artistice.
Intre timp, din acelasi spirit de fronda care nascuse impresionismul critic, dar cateva generatii mai tarziu, au aparut critica si jurnalismul "cool". Care e, logic, inversul presei "intelectuale": mimeaza dezinvoltura stilistica, vorbind despre subiecte cat se poate de inalt-serioase. Avem acum reviste care, programandu-si dezbararea culturii de morga ei elitista, militeaza fara drept de apel pentru lejeritate, "coolness" si mimarea nepasarii. "Suntem intelectuali si suntem trendy!", e noul slogan, al unei generatii pentru care cultura chiar e ceea ce ramane dupa ce-ai uitat tot si-ai invatat limbajul "clubber"-ilor.
Pentru cei care scriu la reviste "serioase", cultura e in primul rand cuvant: paginilor sus-numitelor publicatii au paginile ticsite de text, pe hartie proasta. Pentru intelectualii "cool", traim intr-o lume a vizualului: revistele lor apar pe hartie eleganta, cu o paginatie savanta, dominata de imagini, de la grafica la (mai ales) fotografie. Intre cele doua lumi, incompatibilitate absoluta: se dispretuiesc reciproc, dar cordial, convinsi fiind fiecare ca ei au dreptate, dar ca sansele ca lumile lor paralele sa se intersecteze sunt strict egale cu zero.
La mijloc, intre culturalii "cool" si cei "boring", jurnalistii. Pe ei ii dispretuiesc, intr-o dulce fraternitate, toti ceilalti: pun intrebari tampite, nu se informeaza/ documenteaza, umbla dupa mondenitati si picanterii si nu sunt niciodata destul de modesti si invizibili intr-o lume culturala in care pentru ei nu e loc. Cei care scriu in presa strict culturala nu sunt niciodata "doar" jurnalisti: sunt critici literari, scriitori, cronicari teatrali, muzicali sau plastici, critici de film etc., care publica in periodice pentru ca asta aduce vizibilitate si ceva bani. E un fel de activitate de timp liber, energia lor propriu-zisa ducandu-se pe tinere de cursuri, scrierea de carti, selectia pentru festivaluri. Ei sunt specialisti, ziaristica e veleitarism. Jurnalismul cultural nu e nici meserie, nici arta, e un soi de aflare in treaba a absolventilor de universitati fara viitor - ca dovada, e sectorul cu cea mai mica medie de varsta din toata presa romaneasca (de ce? fiindca nu prea poti sa iesi la pensie din functia de amator).
Morala: vanate de organizatorii de evenimente din cauza ca ofera o expunere larga (ceea ce cauta sponsorii) si aduc public "civil", paginile de cultura ale cotidienelor sunt injurate constant de oamenii de arta si discreditate de practicantii presei auto-considerate intelectuale.
In state, tari, culturi mai mult luminate de soarele civilizatiei, o asemenea harta jurnalistica ar fi de neconceput: in mod "normal", profesorii universitari nu se amesteca printre comentatorii periodicelor cu difuzare si tiraj mare, informatia culturala e ierarhizata pe paliere bine definite de public, accesibilitatea ei nu presupune neaparat a face "hoha", iar scrisul charismatic nu exclude obligatoriu seriozitatea discursului. Din care discurs fac parte, obligatoriu, de data asta, cuvantul si imaginea, amandoua pe picior de egalitate.
Intr-o astfel de "normalitate" - pana la care mai e drum lung la noi, judecand dupa cum ne-am raportat, jurnalistic, la recenta vizita a lui Mario Vargas Llosa in Romania - a fi ziarist de cultura poate fi o cariera, fara academisme si fara mode. Era odata unul, in Franta, care facea emisiunea aia, "Bouillon de culture"; il chema Bernard Pivot: niciodata nu si-a spus siesi critic, s-a considerat intotdeauna jurnalist. Daca, prin absurd, ar fi trait la Bucuresti, nu i s-ar fi strepezit nimanui dintii daca l-ar fi intrebat pe Llosa ce crede despre Romania - chiar daca, cum ar fi fost de asteptat, n-ar fi primit nici un raspuns.
In Romania, revistele de specialitate, cu profil academic, sunt practic inexistente - mai ales in domeniul umanioarelor. Universitarii nostri scriu, de obicei, pentru periodice culturale cu un profil intelectual larg, formandu-si un stil intre accesibil si "avizat" devenit de mult timp marca intregii productii intelectuale "cu pretentii", a suporturilor de curs si volumelor de referinta. Exceptiile, remarcabile, sunt la fel de remarcabil de putine, caci, crescut la scoala naravasului impresionism interbelic (care, la originile lui, era o forma de "dizidenta" si libertate estetica), cititorul intelectual vrea sa i se vorbeasca in cuvinte cat mai pompoase, dar concepte cat mai "terre ŕ terre". Si uite-asa s-a construit (inca se mai lucreaza la ea) cultura romana de foileton, operele din volume de articole si memoria scurta a vedetelor literaro-teatralo-cinematografico-artistice.
Intre timp, din acelasi spirit de fronda care nascuse impresionismul critic, dar cateva generatii mai tarziu, au aparut critica si jurnalismul "cool". Care e, logic, inversul presei "intelectuale": mimeaza dezinvoltura stilistica, vorbind despre subiecte cat se poate de inalt-serioase. Avem acum reviste care, programandu-si dezbararea culturii de morga ei elitista, militeaza fara drept de apel pentru lejeritate, "coolness" si mimarea nepasarii. "Suntem intelectuali si suntem trendy!", e noul slogan, al unei generatii pentru care cultura chiar e ceea ce ramane dupa ce-ai uitat tot si-ai invatat limbajul "clubber"-ilor.
Pentru cei care scriu la reviste "serioase", cultura e in primul rand cuvant: paginilor sus-numitelor publicatii au paginile ticsite de text, pe hartie proasta. Pentru intelectualii "cool", traim intr-o lume a vizualului: revistele lor apar pe hartie eleganta, cu o paginatie savanta, dominata de imagini, de la grafica la (mai ales) fotografie. Intre cele doua lumi, incompatibilitate absoluta: se dispretuiesc reciproc, dar cordial, convinsi fiind fiecare ca ei au dreptate, dar ca sansele ca lumile lor paralele sa se intersecteze sunt strict egale cu zero.
La mijloc, intre culturalii "cool" si cei "boring", jurnalistii. Pe ei ii dispretuiesc, intr-o dulce fraternitate, toti ceilalti: pun intrebari tampite, nu se informeaza/ documenteaza, umbla dupa mondenitati si picanterii si nu sunt niciodata destul de modesti si invizibili intr-o lume culturala in care pentru ei nu e loc. Cei care scriu in presa strict culturala nu sunt niciodata "doar" jurnalisti: sunt critici literari, scriitori, cronicari teatrali, muzicali sau plastici, critici de film etc., care publica in periodice pentru ca asta aduce vizibilitate si ceva bani. E un fel de activitate de timp liber, energia lor propriu-zisa ducandu-se pe tinere de cursuri, scrierea de carti, selectia pentru festivaluri. Ei sunt specialisti, ziaristica e veleitarism. Jurnalismul cultural nu e nici meserie, nici arta, e un soi de aflare in treaba a absolventilor de universitati fara viitor - ca dovada, e sectorul cu cea mai mica medie de varsta din toata presa romaneasca (de ce? fiindca nu prea poti sa iesi la pensie din functia de amator).
Morala: vanate de organizatorii de evenimente din cauza ca ofera o expunere larga (ceea ce cauta sponsorii) si aduc public "civil", paginile de cultura ale cotidienelor sunt injurate constant de oamenii de arta si discreditate de practicantii presei auto-considerate intelectuale.
In state, tari, culturi mai mult luminate de soarele civilizatiei, o asemenea harta jurnalistica ar fi de neconceput: in mod "normal", profesorii universitari nu se amesteca printre comentatorii periodicelor cu difuzare si tiraj mare, informatia culturala e ierarhizata pe paliere bine definite de public, accesibilitatea ei nu presupune neaparat a face "hoha", iar scrisul charismatic nu exclude obligatoriu seriozitatea discursului. Din care discurs fac parte, obligatoriu, de data asta, cuvantul si imaginea, amandoua pe picior de egalitate.
Intr-o astfel de "normalitate" - pana la care mai e drum lung la noi, judecand dupa cum ne-am raportat, jurnalistic, la recenta vizita a lui Mario Vargas Llosa in Romania - a fi ziarist de cultura poate fi o cariera, fara academisme si fara mode. Era odata unul, in Franta, care facea emisiunea aia, "Bouillon de culture"; il chema Bernard Pivot: niciodata nu si-a spus siesi critic, s-a considerat intotdeauna jurnalist. Daca, prin absurd, ar fi trait la Bucuresti, nu i s-ar fi strepezit nimanui dintii daca l-ar fi intrebat pe Llosa ce crede despre Romania - chiar daca, cum ar fi fost de asteptat, n-ar fi primit nici un raspuns.
Arhitectura ca expresie a puterii
Aproape toate exemplele notabile de arhitectura sunt expresii ale puterii. De la piramide la marile catedrale, de la vilele potentatilor la sediile marilor firme si banci, de la fostele sedii judetene ale PCR la Casa Poporului...
Tadao Ando despre arhitectura si locuri
Q. Why did you decide to set out on this journey in 1965 when you were twenty-four years old?
A. It all started from my desire to see first-hand European architecture, which seemed so different from the buildings of the world I lived in. And more than anything else, I greatly admired the works of Le Corbusier. Just at that time, the restrictions on traveling to different parts of the world had finally been lifted. Also, since I had no other choice but to study architecture on my own in Japan, I could only get a hold of a very limited amount of information. So you can say that I took this trip because I wanted to learn much more about architecture. That time, I was fortunate enough to come across a book of Le Corbusier's collected works in a used bookstore in Osaka. I would find the time to look through this book again and again and to trace over the careful use of space in his blueprints and drawings. At the same time, I became very interested in Le Corbusier as a person, and I was truly impressed by the fact that he taught himself ways to create a new world. As I became able to copy every drawing in the Le Corbusier book by heart, I could not help thinking, "I want to see these works with my own eyes. I want to meet Le Corbusier in person." So then, I set off on my grand tour.
Q. What did you see during your one-year journey?
A. First, I stood on the deck of the boat I took from Yokohama to Nakhodka, Russia and looked out at the horizon of the Pacific Ocean, and then, while traveling to Moscow on the Siberian Railway, I looked out the train window at the flat plains that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. These sights had a great impact on me. They helped me to gain a true sense of the world's vastness and the smallness of my own existence. In this respect, I must say it is a bit of a shame that these days travel has gotten so convenient that you can just get on an airplane and move from city to city in half a day. I began my walking tours of European architecture in Scandinavia. In Finland, I saw the works of Alvar Aalto. In France, I looked at the works of Le Corbusier, and in Spain, I saw the architecture of Antonio Gaudi. And then, I had the chance to see classical Italian buildings --- the source of Western architecture. Seeing Aalto works first-hand left an especially strong impression on me. I will never forget the excitement I felt standing in the large spaces of Rautatalo (iron house). Yet this trip was a very difficult time in my life.
Q. Why was it a difficult time for you?
A. I went on this trip to learn more about architecture, not to sight see. Because I set off on this journey without knowing very much about architecture, it took much physical strength for me to continue to walk around and concentrate on seeing different things. I also had to make sure I understood what I saw. At any rate, I needed to find the answer to the question, "What is so attractive about the architecture I see here?" before I could return home to Japan. Of course, I had neither teachers to guide me nor friends to talk to about this. I was left to continually ponder this architecture on my own. Since I never had the chance to attend university, even from the time I opened my own firm and to the present, this situation has not changed.
Q. And so has this spiritual journey continued?
A. Indeed, traveling to me is a spiritual journey because whenever I visit a place, I always take time to contemplate its history and culture. When I come across a new world, I ponder its meaning and look for answers to things I do not understand, I am always thinking about the next new things I will see. To me, traveling is like going to school. For example, when I look at architecture, I constantly have conversations with myself and ask myself, "If I were the architect, how would I make these structures?" In this way, I began my career as an architect, and, even in my work now, I continue to search for answers to questions like these. Thinking of architecture by myself can be a journey for me. I guess you can say that architecture is a journey. I say this because the things an architect sees inspire him to constantly think, and his search to understand what he sees takes him far and wide. In the process, he creates.
A. It all started from my desire to see first-hand European architecture, which seemed so different from the buildings of the world I lived in. And more than anything else, I greatly admired the works of Le Corbusier. Just at that time, the restrictions on traveling to different parts of the world had finally been lifted. Also, since I had no other choice but to study architecture on my own in Japan, I could only get a hold of a very limited amount of information. So you can say that I took this trip because I wanted to learn much more about architecture. That time, I was fortunate enough to come across a book of Le Corbusier's collected works in a used bookstore in Osaka. I would find the time to look through this book again and again and to trace over the careful use of space in his blueprints and drawings. At the same time, I became very interested in Le Corbusier as a person, and I was truly impressed by the fact that he taught himself ways to create a new world. As I became able to copy every drawing in the Le Corbusier book by heart, I could not help thinking, "I want to see these works with my own eyes. I want to meet Le Corbusier in person." So then, I set off on my grand tour.
Q. What did you see during your one-year journey?
A. First, I stood on the deck of the boat I took from Yokohama to Nakhodka, Russia and looked out at the horizon of the Pacific Ocean, and then, while traveling to Moscow on the Siberian Railway, I looked out the train window at the flat plains that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. These sights had a great impact on me. They helped me to gain a true sense of the world's vastness and the smallness of my own existence. In this respect, I must say it is a bit of a shame that these days travel has gotten so convenient that you can just get on an airplane and move from city to city in half a day. I began my walking tours of European architecture in Scandinavia. In Finland, I saw the works of Alvar Aalto. In France, I looked at the works of Le Corbusier, and in Spain, I saw the architecture of Antonio Gaudi. And then, I had the chance to see classical Italian buildings --- the source of Western architecture. Seeing Aalto works first-hand left an especially strong impression on me. I will never forget the excitement I felt standing in the large spaces of Rautatalo (iron house). Yet this trip was a very difficult time in my life.
Q. Why was it a difficult time for you?
A. I went on this trip to learn more about architecture, not to sight see. Because I set off on this journey without knowing very much about architecture, it took much physical strength for me to continue to walk around and concentrate on seeing different things. I also had to make sure I understood what I saw. At any rate, I needed to find the answer to the question, "What is so attractive about the architecture I see here?" before I could return home to Japan. Of course, I had neither teachers to guide me nor friends to talk to about this. I was left to continually ponder this architecture on my own. Since I never had the chance to attend university, even from the time I opened my own firm and to the present, this situation has not changed.
Q. And so has this spiritual journey continued?
A. Indeed, traveling to me is a spiritual journey because whenever I visit a place, I always take time to contemplate its history and culture. When I come across a new world, I ponder its meaning and look for answers to things I do not understand, I am always thinking about the next new things I will see. To me, traveling is like going to school. For example, when I look at architecture, I constantly have conversations with myself and ask myself, "If I were the architect, how would I make these structures?" In this way, I began my career as an architect, and, even in my work now, I continue to search for answers to questions like these. Thinking of architecture by myself can be a journey for me. I guess you can say that architecture is a journey. I say this because the things an architect sees inspire him to constantly think, and his search to understand what he sees takes him far and wide. In the process, he creates.
Pentru continuare vezi comentariile! Acolo, Ando discuta despre Paris, New York, Roma si Osaka.
Criteriile sunt acum estetice, nu tematice
Interviul lui Ioan Grosan cu Dumitru Tepeneag, aparut in Ziua 15-09-05
Stimate dle Tepeneag, si inainte, si dupa 1990, ati fost un promotor constant si tenace al literaturii romane in Franta, prin traduceri, prin publicarea unor importanti scriitori de la noi in revistele conduse de dvs. ("Cahiers de l'Est", "Nouveaux Cahiers de l'Est", "Seine et Danube"), prin sprijinirea aparitiei lor si-n alte publicatii de prestigiu din Hexagon, iar uneori chiar prin gazduirea lor, la propriu, in locuinta dvs. Cum vedeti, la aproape 16 ani de la Revolutie, starea literaturii romane? A "evoluat" ea? A devenit mai "competitiva" in lume?
Draga d-le Grosan, cum sa ma exprim ca sa nu par prea pesimist si sa nu se zica: sigur, ii convine sa faca pe pesimistul la Paris! E drept ca, daca m-as arata cat de cat optimist, n-as scapa nici in cazul asta de gura scriitorului roman: e la Paris, ii convine sa fie optimist! Asa ca, prins intre ciocan si nicovala, ce pot sa fac? Culmea e ca, intr-adevar, nu se poate raspunde transant. Situatia nu e nici alba, nici neagra. Pe de-o parte, sunt tentat sa afirm ca in timpul lui Ceausescu literatura romana era mai cunoscuta decat acum: inca mai traiau "cei trei" (Ionesco, Cioran, Eliade), iar dizidenta lui Goma era luata in seama si-i permitea acestuia sa-si publice, pe la diversi editori, nu mai putin de 13 volume. Dupa 1989, n-a mai publicat decat unul singur si acela fara nici un rasunet. Tot in timpul lui Ceausescu au publicat si Breban, Nedelcovici, Papilian. Dupa aceea, singurii din exil care au rezistat au fost Visniec si cu mine. Explicatia e simpla: in timpul asa-numitului razboi rece, occidentalii in general se uitau catre Est nu din admiratie, ci de frica. Soljenitan si Goma, literatura de dizidenta, de protest, nu era judecata dupa criterii estetice, ci politice. Cand a cazut faimosul Zid de la Berlin, fostii cititori - care si-asa nu erau foarte numerosi - s-au intors cu spatele: nu-i mai interesa literatura care venea din Rasarit. Bineinteles, schimbarea nu a fost brusca. Mai ales in cazul Romaniei, unde avusese loc un fel de revolutie. Si mai ales la inceputul schimbarilor. Dvs. stiti ca numarul din "Temps modernes" consacrat literaturii romane care a aparut la sfarsitul anului 1989 s-a epuizat intr-o luna sau doua? Atunci a atins Romania cota cea mai inalta la bursa valorilor (si nu numai literare). Va aduceti aminte de festivalul de literatura romana organizat la Aix-en-Provence? Atunci ni se parea ca portile Occidentului se deschid in fata noastra si vom fi primiti cu bratele deschise. Stateam pe terasa nu stiu carei cafenele, sub platanii seculari, si sorbeam bauturi si ne intreceam in calambururi bilingve. Era cu noi si Buduca, voi erati inca tineri, iar eu parca intineream intre voi... Din pacate, Romania a inceput sa aiba o faima proasta: cadavrele de la Timisoara, minerii in Piata Universitatii, cersetorii romani pe strazile Parisului, furtisaguri, prostitutie etc. Dar au fost si cativa scriitori romani publicati in timpul asta: in primul rand Mircea Cartarescu, care s-a impus pe criterii estetice, sau poeti ca Ion Muresan, Marta Petreu. Nuvelele dvs. au aparut prin reviste, la fel si fragmente din proza lui Agopian. O sa apara la Gallimard excelentul roman al Gabrielei Adamesteanu - "Dimineata pierduta". Si fac un efort sa nu-l uit pe Gh. Craciun, pe care eu insumi l-am recomandat lui Maurice Nadeau. Literatura romana e probabil mai putin cunoscuta decat inainte, dar criteriile sunt acum estetice, nu tematice. Poeti si prozatori tineri incep sa se impuna cu literatura pura. Ceea ce nu inseamna ca nu avem si un scriitor ca Norman Manea, care poarta cu el tema grava a Holocaustului. Azi el e cel mai tradus scriitor roman si nu inteleg de ce a refuzat sa faca parte din echipa de 12 scriitori romani invitati in toamna aceasta in Franta. Nu pot sa cred ca-si dispretuieste chiar intr-atat confratii de limba. Iata-i pe cei 12 apostoli: Gabriela Adamesteanu, Stefan Agopian, Ana Blandiana, Mircea Cartarescu, Gh. Craciun, Letitia Ilea, Dan Lungu, Ion Muresan, Marta Petreu, Simona Popescu, Cecilia Stefanescu, Vlad Zografi. Pe lista initiala fusese si fostul presedinte al Uniunii Scriitorilor, romancierul Eugen Uricaru. Cand s-a aflat ca a lucrat pentru Securitate, a fost eliminat. Dar n-a fost inlocuit cu actualul presedinte al Uniunii. Doamnele care reprezinta CNL-ul (adica Centrul National al Cartii) nici nu vroiau sa auda de critici. N-am inteles prea bine de ce.
Ati publicat dupa 1989, la editurile din tara, intr-un ritm alert, o serie de volume de proza, de publicistica, interviuri s.a.m.d. Care e relatia dvs. cu editorii nostri? Stim, de pilda, ca n-ati avut una tocmai stralucita cu A. Buzura.
Asta e o poveste veche, d-le Grosan. Acum, ca in sfarsit Buzura a fost smuls din scaunul unde aproape ca prinsese radacini, parca nici nu mai merita sa vorbim despre el. Adevarul e ca acest romancier profund antipatic nu prea era facut sa conduca Fundatia (devenita acum Institut) care are drept scop promovarea literaturii romane in lume. De ce? Pai, cred ca pur si simplu nu avea calitatile necesare. Ca nu cunostea lumea occidentala si cultura acesteia mai treaca mearga, dar el parea sa nu cunoasca nici literatura romana. Poate ca-si zicea ca nici nu are nevoie, din moment ce nu avea alt scop decat sa-si publice propria sa literatura. Dar ce puteau intelege cititorii de pe alte meleaguri din proza lui cu soparle, menita sa insele vigilenta Cenzurii in timpul lui Ceausescu? Si nici macar asta n-ar fi fost prea grav, daca reusea sa publice alaturi de el si alti cativa confrati. Dar n-a reusit... Mai mult, cand "Les Nouveaux Cahiers de l'Est", revista pe care o scoteam la Paris, la un adevarat editor, apartinand trustului Gallimard si care publica scriitori romani, se afla intr-un moment foarte dificil, Buzura a refuzat sa contribuie la subventionarea ei, fie si provizorie. A preferat sa cheltuiasca banii Fundatiei pentru publicarea variantei romanesti a revistei lui Liehm, "Lettre internationale", o revista foarte buna, numai ca varianta romaneasca era un fel bicicleta medicala cu care scriitorii romani n-aveau cum sa ajunga dincolo de Aleea Alexandru: nu erau publicati si in variantele franceza, germana etc. Dar ce-i pasa lui Buzura, el nu era un editor, era un nomenclaturist care cheltuia banii statului pentru nevoi si capricii personale.
Relatia mea cu editorii romani? Ar fi putut sa fie excelenta, pentru ca eu sunt de felul meu un om fidel si in prietenie, si in relatiile profesionale. La Paris, am avut de la inceput si pana astazi unul si acelasi editor. Pe cand in Romania am fost silit la un adevarat balet! Si nu numai eu: vad foarte bine ce se intampla in jurul meu. Cititorii nu-si dau seama cat e de destabilizant sa treci asa de la o editura la alta, sa semnezi un contract si sa nu fii sigur ca va fi respectat. Ori sa nu semnezi nici un fel de contract si sa fii la cheremul editorului. Iata, printre editorii mei din ultimii ani de care - slava Domnului! - am scapat, doua exemple, cred eu, graitoare. La indemnul lui Nicolae Breban (pe vremea aceea inca mai aveam incredere in el!), i-am propus al treilea volum din trilogie, si anume "Maramures", fostului poet echinoxist Ion Vadan, care intre timp se imbogatise prin diverse mijloace si cumparase Editura Dacia. Mi-a facut contract in regula si pentru "Maramures", dar si pentru "Destin cu Popesti" (pe care Marta Petreu nu reusea s-o publice singura), precum si pentru "Zadarnica e arta fugii" - mic roman avangardist, dar tradus deja in sarba si in americana. Da, fara ajutorul lui Buzura... E adevarat, "Maramures"-ul, precum si volumul de "Sotroane", au aparut, desi onorariul nu mi-a fost platit in intregime, dar nu si celalalt roman, pentru care aveam un contract separat. Ce era sa fac? Dupa un an sau doi, l-am vazut pe directorul Vadan la mare si l-am intrebat, asa, intr-o doara, de ce nu apare si cea de-a treia carte. Raspunsul lui a fost aiuritor: Nu stiam ca mai vrei s-o publici!
Dar Ion Vadan e un dulce copil pe langa Calin Vlasie, rechinul din apele editoriale romanesti. Pe Calin Vlasie l-am cunoscut inca din primii ani de dupa schimbarea regimului. Era un barbat chipes si scrisese poeme nu lipsite de interes. Dupa schimbarea regimului, insa, nu-i mai ardea de poezie: voia sa faca parale! Nu era singurul in situatia asta, dar el vroia sa se imbogateasca din comertul cu carti si culmea e ca a si reusit. Prin 1992-1993, am publicat la el o carticica de schite si de articole scrise prin anii '60. Pe urma am vrut sa facem o revista impreuna. Era si Gh. Craciun in combinatie. Pe Vlasie il interesau banii, pe Craciun, gloria. Eu eram exilatul numai bun de scarmanat! Vorba e ca baietii astia uita un detaliu din biografia mea: eu sunt maestru de sah, nu jucator de barbut. In 2003, dupa esecul cu Vadan, Mircea Martin, banatean de-al meu, om fin si cultivat, debarcat din postul de director al Editurii Univers, s-a aciuat pe langa Vlasie, ca director literar. El m-a convins sa ma apropii din nou de rechin. Ca sa fiu sincer, jocul asta pe plaja editoriala romaneasca ma si amuza. I-am dat mai intai o carte de dialoguri cu Ion Simut. Mi-a facut contract in regula, mi-a aratat cifrele de vanzare - slabe! - si nu mi-a platit, fireste, nici un ban. Pe urma i-am trimis prin mail ultimul meu roman, "La belle Roumaine". Intre timp, Mircea Martin parasise plaja, plecase sa se joace prin alte parti. Ramasesem singur cu rechinul! A publicat romanul, am venit la Bucuresti la lansare, mi-am pus sutien si palarie de dama ca sa atrag privirile din ce in ce mai blazate ale scriitorilor si cititorilor bucuresteni. Calin Vlasie, boss-ul, n-a venit la lansare. Tatal sau era bolnav si din cauza asta nu putea nici macar sa-mi faca contract. M-am intors la Paris. A venit si el, mai tarziu, cu nevasta. Cu ocazia asta mi-a spus ca romanul se vinde bine si ca va trage o a doua editie. Contract tot nu mi-a facut. Anul urmator, am venit eu din nou la Bucuresti, Vlasie mi-a dat sa mananc mici pe terasa La Motor, contract tot nu mi-a facut. Ce ziceti de crapceanul nostru devenit rechin? Dv., care sunteti pescar...
Ca unul care cunoasteti in profunzime piata culturala occidentala, ce-ati recomanda noii conduceri a Institutului Cultural Roman? Ce proiecte ar trebui sa aiba, literar vorbind, prioritate?
M-am intins la vorba si poate nu mai avem destul spatiu... Voi incerca sa fiu mult mai scurt la aceasta ultima intrebare. Mai ales ca am mai vorbit si scris despre asta de nu stiu cate ori.
In cazul unei politici coerente de promovare a literaturii, etapa cea mai importanta mi se pare aceea a traducerii. Sa nu credeti ca sunt multi traducatori din romana. In Franta, de pilda, in afara de Alain Paruit, nimeni nu poate trai cat de cat din traducerea cartilor din romana in franceza. Eu as face asa: as invita trei-patru scriitori tineri francezi (dar si englezi, spanioli, germani) si timp de trei-patru luni i-as tine undeva in Romania, pe casa si pe masa. Va asigur ca sunt destui tineri scriitori care trag mata de coada si ar fi incantati sa haladuiasca in Romania, pe banii statului roman. Ei bine, acesti scriitori ar avea sarcina sa verifice traducerile lucrate de autohtoni, mai ales femei, si sa faca in asa fel incat acestea sa sune bine in limba respectiva. Asta e cel mai important. Uneori e de ajuns ca o prepozitie sa fie prost plasata pentru ca impresia sa fie aceea de traducere proasta. Macar 30 de carti, mai ales proza, pot fi traduse asa. Iar cheltuielile vor fi minime, caci vor fi interne. Cine va face selectia? Ei bine, eu as forma o comisie numai din critici reputati pentru obiectivitatea lor. Sa speram ca exista! In aceasta comisie as introduce si critici care traiesc in Occident si sunt la curent cu preferintele cititorilor de acolo. Apoi, aceste carti traduse si dichisite de tinerii scriitori francezi vor fi propuse editorilor din principalele tari europene de catre un agent literar, care va avea un procentaj. Asta daca ICR nu vrea sa faca un efort in plus si sa deschida el insusi o librarie-agentie in doua-trei capitale mai importante. Tinerii scriitori care au lucrat in Romania, sau macar unii dintre ei, vor fi si propagatorii literaturii romane. Ei pot fi cointeresati, la modul cel mai simplu, daca sunt angajati in aceasta librarie (la parter) si agentie (la etaj). Investitiile necesare nu vor depasi costul a doua elicoptere care oricum vor fi repede perimate ori vor cadea in cadrul exercitiilor absolut inutile ale armatei romane.
Interviu realizat de Ioan GROSAN
Stimate dle Tepeneag, si inainte, si dupa 1990, ati fost un promotor constant si tenace al literaturii romane in Franta, prin traduceri, prin publicarea unor importanti scriitori de la noi in revistele conduse de dvs. ("Cahiers de l'Est", "Nouveaux Cahiers de l'Est", "Seine et Danube"), prin sprijinirea aparitiei lor si-n alte publicatii de prestigiu din Hexagon, iar uneori chiar prin gazduirea lor, la propriu, in locuinta dvs. Cum vedeti, la aproape 16 ani de la Revolutie, starea literaturii romane? A "evoluat" ea? A devenit mai "competitiva" in lume?
Draga d-le Grosan, cum sa ma exprim ca sa nu par prea pesimist si sa nu se zica: sigur, ii convine sa faca pe pesimistul la Paris! E drept ca, daca m-as arata cat de cat optimist, n-as scapa nici in cazul asta de gura scriitorului roman: e la Paris, ii convine sa fie optimist! Asa ca, prins intre ciocan si nicovala, ce pot sa fac? Culmea e ca, intr-adevar, nu se poate raspunde transant. Situatia nu e nici alba, nici neagra. Pe de-o parte, sunt tentat sa afirm ca in timpul lui Ceausescu literatura romana era mai cunoscuta decat acum: inca mai traiau "cei trei" (Ionesco, Cioran, Eliade), iar dizidenta lui Goma era luata in seama si-i permitea acestuia sa-si publice, pe la diversi editori, nu mai putin de 13 volume. Dupa 1989, n-a mai publicat decat unul singur si acela fara nici un rasunet. Tot in timpul lui Ceausescu au publicat si Breban, Nedelcovici, Papilian. Dupa aceea, singurii din exil care au rezistat au fost Visniec si cu mine. Explicatia e simpla: in timpul asa-numitului razboi rece, occidentalii in general se uitau catre Est nu din admiratie, ci de frica. Soljenitan si Goma, literatura de dizidenta, de protest, nu era judecata dupa criterii estetice, ci politice. Cand a cazut faimosul Zid de la Berlin, fostii cititori - care si-asa nu erau foarte numerosi - s-au intors cu spatele: nu-i mai interesa literatura care venea din Rasarit. Bineinteles, schimbarea nu a fost brusca. Mai ales in cazul Romaniei, unde avusese loc un fel de revolutie. Si mai ales la inceputul schimbarilor. Dvs. stiti ca numarul din "Temps modernes" consacrat literaturii romane care a aparut la sfarsitul anului 1989 s-a epuizat intr-o luna sau doua? Atunci a atins Romania cota cea mai inalta la bursa valorilor (si nu numai literare). Va aduceti aminte de festivalul de literatura romana organizat la Aix-en-Provence? Atunci ni se parea ca portile Occidentului se deschid in fata noastra si vom fi primiti cu bratele deschise. Stateam pe terasa nu stiu carei cafenele, sub platanii seculari, si sorbeam bauturi si ne intreceam in calambururi bilingve. Era cu noi si Buduca, voi erati inca tineri, iar eu parca intineream intre voi... Din pacate, Romania a inceput sa aiba o faima proasta: cadavrele de la Timisoara, minerii in Piata Universitatii, cersetorii romani pe strazile Parisului, furtisaguri, prostitutie etc. Dar au fost si cativa scriitori romani publicati in timpul asta: in primul rand Mircea Cartarescu, care s-a impus pe criterii estetice, sau poeti ca Ion Muresan, Marta Petreu. Nuvelele dvs. au aparut prin reviste, la fel si fragmente din proza lui Agopian. O sa apara la Gallimard excelentul roman al Gabrielei Adamesteanu - "Dimineata pierduta". Si fac un efort sa nu-l uit pe Gh. Craciun, pe care eu insumi l-am recomandat lui Maurice Nadeau. Literatura romana e probabil mai putin cunoscuta decat inainte, dar criteriile sunt acum estetice, nu tematice. Poeti si prozatori tineri incep sa se impuna cu literatura pura. Ceea ce nu inseamna ca nu avem si un scriitor ca Norman Manea, care poarta cu el tema grava a Holocaustului. Azi el e cel mai tradus scriitor roman si nu inteleg de ce a refuzat sa faca parte din echipa de 12 scriitori romani invitati in toamna aceasta in Franta. Nu pot sa cred ca-si dispretuieste chiar intr-atat confratii de limba. Iata-i pe cei 12 apostoli: Gabriela Adamesteanu, Stefan Agopian, Ana Blandiana, Mircea Cartarescu, Gh. Craciun, Letitia Ilea, Dan Lungu, Ion Muresan, Marta Petreu, Simona Popescu, Cecilia Stefanescu, Vlad Zografi. Pe lista initiala fusese si fostul presedinte al Uniunii Scriitorilor, romancierul Eugen Uricaru. Cand s-a aflat ca a lucrat pentru Securitate, a fost eliminat. Dar n-a fost inlocuit cu actualul presedinte al Uniunii. Doamnele care reprezinta CNL-ul (adica Centrul National al Cartii) nici nu vroiau sa auda de critici. N-am inteles prea bine de ce.
Ati publicat dupa 1989, la editurile din tara, intr-un ritm alert, o serie de volume de proza, de publicistica, interviuri s.a.m.d. Care e relatia dvs. cu editorii nostri? Stim, de pilda, ca n-ati avut una tocmai stralucita cu A. Buzura.
Asta e o poveste veche, d-le Grosan. Acum, ca in sfarsit Buzura a fost smuls din scaunul unde aproape ca prinsese radacini, parca nici nu mai merita sa vorbim despre el. Adevarul e ca acest romancier profund antipatic nu prea era facut sa conduca Fundatia (devenita acum Institut) care are drept scop promovarea literaturii romane in lume. De ce? Pai, cred ca pur si simplu nu avea calitatile necesare. Ca nu cunostea lumea occidentala si cultura acesteia mai treaca mearga, dar el parea sa nu cunoasca nici literatura romana. Poate ca-si zicea ca nici nu are nevoie, din moment ce nu avea alt scop decat sa-si publice propria sa literatura. Dar ce puteau intelege cititorii de pe alte meleaguri din proza lui cu soparle, menita sa insele vigilenta Cenzurii in timpul lui Ceausescu? Si nici macar asta n-ar fi fost prea grav, daca reusea sa publice alaturi de el si alti cativa confrati. Dar n-a reusit... Mai mult, cand "Les Nouveaux Cahiers de l'Est", revista pe care o scoteam la Paris, la un adevarat editor, apartinand trustului Gallimard si care publica scriitori romani, se afla intr-un moment foarte dificil, Buzura a refuzat sa contribuie la subventionarea ei, fie si provizorie. A preferat sa cheltuiasca banii Fundatiei pentru publicarea variantei romanesti a revistei lui Liehm, "Lettre internationale", o revista foarte buna, numai ca varianta romaneasca era un fel bicicleta medicala cu care scriitorii romani n-aveau cum sa ajunga dincolo de Aleea Alexandru: nu erau publicati si in variantele franceza, germana etc. Dar ce-i pasa lui Buzura, el nu era un editor, era un nomenclaturist care cheltuia banii statului pentru nevoi si capricii personale.
Relatia mea cu editorii romani? Ar fi putut sa fie excelenta, pentru ca eu sunt de felul meu un om fidel si in prietenie, si in relatiile profesionale. La Paris, am avut de la inceput si pana astazi unul si acelasi editor. Pe cand in Romania am fost silit la un adevarat balet! Si nu numai eu: vad foarte bine ce se intampla in jurul meu. Cititorii nu-si dau seama cat e de destabilizant sa treci asa de la o editura la alta, sa semnezi un contract si sa nu fii sigur ca va fi respectat. Ori sa nu semnezi nici un fel de contract si sa fii la cheremul editorului. Iata, printre editorii mei din ultimii ani de care - slava Domnului! - am scapat, doua exemple, cred eu, graitoare. La indemnul lui Nicolae Breban (pe vremea aceea inca mai aveam incredere in el!), i-am propus al treilea volum din trilogie, si anume "Maramures", fostului poet echinoxist Ion Vadan, care intre timp se imbogatise prin diverse mijloace si cumparase Editura Dacia. Mi-a facut contract in regula si pentru "Maramures", dar si pentru "Destin cu Popesti" (pe care Marta Petreu nu reusea s-o publice singura), precum si pentru "Zadarnica e arta fugii" - mic roman avangardist, dar tradus deja in sarba si in americana. Da, fara ajutorul lui Buzura... E adevarat, "Maramures"-ul, precum si volumul de "Sotroane", au aparut, desi onorariul nu mi-a fost platit in intregime, dar nu si celalalt roman, pentru care aveam un contract separat. Ce era sa fac? Dupa un an sau doi, l-am vazut pe directorul Vadan la mare si l-am intrebat, asa, intr-o doara, de ce nu apare si cea de-a treia carte. Raspunsul lui a fost aiuritor: Nu stiam ca mai vrei s-o publici!
Dar Ion Vadan e un dulce copil pe langa Calin Vlasie, rechinul din apele editoriale romanesti. Pe Calin Vlasie l-am cunoscut inca din primii ani de dupa schimbarea regimului. Era un barbat chipes si scrisese poeme nu lipsite de interes. Dupa schimbarea regimului, insa, nu-i mai ardea de poezie: voia sa faca parale! Nu era singurul in situatia asta, dar el vroia sa se imbogateasca din comertul cu carti si culmea e ca a si reusit. Prin 1992-1993, am publicat la el o carticica de schite si de articole scrise prin anii '60. Pe urma am vrut sa facem o revista impreuna. Era si Gh. Craciun in combinatie. Pe Vlasie il interesau banii, pe Craciun, gloria. Eu eram exilatul numai bun de scarmanat! Vorba e ca baietii astia uita un detaliu din biografia mea: eu sunt maestru de sah, nu jucator de barbut. In 2003, dupa esecul cu Vadan, Mircea Martin, banatean de-al meu, om fin si cultivat, debarcat din postul de director al Editurii Univers, s-a aciuat pe langa Vlasie, ca director literar. El m-a convins sa ma apropii din nou de rechin. Ca sa fiu sincer, jocul asta pe plaja editoriala romaneasca ma si amuza. I-am dat mai intai o carte de dialoguri cu Ion Simut. Mi-a facut contract in regula, mi-a aratat cifrele de vanzare - slabe! - si nu mi-a platit, fireste, nici un ban. Pe urma i-am trimis prin mail ultimul meu roman, "La belle Roumaine". Intre timp, Mircea Martin parasise plaja, plecase sa se joace prin alte parti. Ramasesem singur cu rechinul! A publicat romanul, am venit la Bucuresti la lansare, mi-am pus sutien si palarie de dama ca sa atrag privirile din ce in ce mai blazate ale scriitorilor si cititorilor bucuresteni. Calin Vlasie, boss-ul, n-a venit la lansare. Tatal sau era bolnav si din cauza asta nu putea nici macar sa-mi faca contract. M-am intors la Paris. A venit si el, mai tarziu, cu nevasta. Cu ocazia asta mi-a spus ca romanul se vinde bine si ca va trage o a doua editie. Contract tot nu mi-a facut. Anul urmator, am venit eu din nou la Bucuresti, Vlasie mi-a dat sa mananc mici pe terasa La Motor, contract tot nu mi-a facut. Ce ziceti de crapceanul nostru devenit rechin? Dv., care sunteti pescar...
Ca unul care cunoasteti in profunzime piata culturala occidentala, ce-ati recomanda noii conduceri a Institutului Cultural Roman? Ce proiecte ar trebui sa aiba, literar vorbind, prioritate?
M-am intins la vorba si poate nu mai avem destul spatiu... Voi incerca sa fiu mult mai scurt la aceasta ultima intrebare. Mai ales ca am mai vorbit si scris despre asta de nu stiu cate ori.
In cazul unei politici coerente de promovare a literaturii, etapa cea mai importanta mi se pare aceea a traducerii. Sa nu credeti ca sunt multi traducatori din romana. In Franta, de pilda, in afara de Alain Paruit, nimeni nu poate trai cat de cat din traducerea cartilor din romana in franceza. Eu as face asa: as invita trei-patru scriitori tineri francezi (dar si englezi, spanioli, germani) si timp de trei-patru luni i-as tine undeva in Romania, pe casa si pe masa. Va asigur ca sunt destui tineri scriitori care trag mata de coada si ar fi incantati sa haladuiasca in Romania, pe banii statului roman. Ei bine, acesti scriitori ar avea sarcina sa verifice traducerile lucrate de autohtoni, mai ales femei, si sa faca in asa fel incat acestea sa sune bine in limba respectiva. Asta e cel mai important. Uneori e de ajuns ca o prepozitie sa fie prost plasata pentru ca impresia sa fie aceea de traducere proasta. Macar 30 de carti, mai ales proza, pot fi traduse asa. Iar cheltuielile vor fi minime, caci vor fi interne. Cine va face selectia? Ei bine, eu as forma o comisie numai din critici reputati pentru obiectivitatea lor. Sa speram ca exista! In aceasta comisie as introduce si critici care traiesc in Occident si sunt la curent cu preferintele cititorilor de acolo. Apoi, aceste carti traduse si dichisite de tinerii scriitori francezi vor fi propuse editorilor din principalele tari europene de catre un agent literar, care va avea un procentaj. Asta daca ICR nu vrea sa faca un efort in plus si sa deschida el insusi o librarie-agentie in doua-trei capitale mai importante. Tinerii scriitori care au lucrat in Romania, sau macar unii dintre ei, vor fi si propagatorii literaturii romane. Ei pot fi cointeresati, la modul cel mai simplu, daca sunt angajati in aceasta librarie (la parter) si agentie (la etaj). Investitiile necesare nu vor depasi costul a doua elicoptere care oricum vor fi repede perimate ori vor cadea in cadrul exercitiilor absolut inutile ale armatei romane.
Interviu realizat de Ioan GROSAN
apa, uscat, aer
Pliny's Naturalis Historia : Books 8-11
Extracts from Pliny the Elder's Naturalis Historia, about the sea, land and air
SEA
Velocissimum omnium animalium, non solum marinorum, est delphinus, ocior volucre, acrior telo.
The swiftest of all animals, not only those of the sea, is the dolphin. It is swifter than a bird and darts faster than a javelin.
Pro voce gemitus humano similis.
For a voice they have a moan like that of a human being.
Delphinus non homini tantum amicum animal, verum et musicae arti,
The dolphin is an animal that is not only friendly to mankind but is also a lover of music,
mulcetur symphoniae cantu, set praecipue hydrauli sono.
and it can be charmed by singing in harmony, but particularly by the sound of the water organ.
Maximum animal in Indico mari pristis et ballaena est, in Gallico oceano physeter, ingentis columnae modo se attollens altiorque navium velis diluviem quandam eructans.
The largest animals in the Indian Ocean are the shark and the whale; the largest in the Bay of Biscay is the sperm whale, which rears up like a vast pillar higher than a ship's rigging and belches out a short of deluge.
Ora ballaenae habent in frontibus ideoque summa aqua natantes in sublime nimbos efflant.
Whales have their mouths in their foreheads and consequently when swimming on the surface of the water they blow clouds of spray into the air.
Lolligo etiam volitat . . .. . . ambo autem, ubi sensere se adprehendi, effuso atramento, quod pro sanguine iis est, infuscata aqua absconduntur.
The cuttle fish even flies. Both sexes, on perceiving they are being caught hold of, pour out a dark fluid which these animals have instead of blood, so darkening the water and concealing themselves.
Cancris vita longa, pedes octoni, omnes in obliquum flexi. praeterea bina bracchia denticulatis forcipibus. superior pars in primoribus his movetur, inferiore inmobili. dexterum bracchium omnibus maius.
Crabs are long lived. They have eight feet, all curved crooked. They also have two claws and denticulated nippers. The upper part moves and the lower half is fixed. The right claw is the larger in every specimen.
LAND
Ranis sui generis vox.
Frogs have a special kind of voice.
Ranae quoque rubetae, quarum et in terra et in umore vita, plurimis refertae medicaminibus.
Also the bramble frog, which is amphibious in its habit, is replete with a number of drugs.
Insecta, ut intellegi possit, non videntur habere nervos nec ossa nec spinas nec cartilaginem nec pinguia nec carnes, habent autem oculos praeterque e sensibus et tactum atque gustatum, aliqua et odoratum, pauca et auditum.
Insects, so far as is perceptible, do not appear to possess sinews or bones, or spines or cartilage or fat or flesh. But they possess eyes and also of the other senses taste and touch, and some have smell as well, and a few hearing also.
Sed inter omnia ea principatus apibus.
But among all these species the chief place belongs to the bees.
Ratio operis mire divisi: statio ad portas more castrorum, quies in matutinum, donec una excitet gemino aut triplici bombo ut bucino aliquo. tunc universae provolant.
Their work is marvellously mapped out in the following manner. A guard is posted at the gates, after the manner of a camp. They sleep until dawn, until one bee wakes them up with a double or triple buzz as a sort of bugle call. Then they fly forth in a body.
Aliae flores adgerunt pedibus, alia aquam ore guttasque lanugine totius corporis.
Some bring home flowers in their feet and others water in their mouth, and drops clinging to the down all over their body.
Aculeum apibus dedit natura, ventri consertum ad unum ictum.
Nature has given bees a sting attached to the stomach, designed for a single blow.
Canum plura genera. Scrutatur vestigia atque persequitur.
There are several kinds of dogs. A dog traces and follows footprints.
Basiliscus serpens.
The basilisk serpent.
Serpentes, cum occasio est, vinum praecipue adpetunt, cum alioqui exiguo indigeant potu.
Snakes are specially fond of wine when they have the chance, though otherwise they need little drink.
Sibilo omnis fugat serpentes.
It routs all snakes with its hiss.
Aliis vis malo est.
Its effect on other animals is disastrous.
Animae leonis virus grave, ursi pestilens.
Lion's breath contains a severe poison and the bear's is pestilential.
Maximum est elephans proximumque humanis sensibus:
The largest land animal is the elephant, and it is the nearest to man in intelligence:
durissimum dorso tergus, ventri molle,
the hide of the back is extremely hard, but that of the belly is soft,
elephans citra nares ore ipso sternumento similem elidit sonum, per nares autem tubarum raucitati.
the elephant squeezes out a sound like a sneeze from its actual mouth, not through the nostrils, but through the nostrils it emits a harsh trumpet sound.
Mandunt ore, spirant et bibunt odoranturque haut inproprie appellata manu.
They eat with the mouth, but they breathe and drink and smell with the organ not unsuitably called their hand.
Germanici Caesaris munere gladiatorio quosdam etiam inconditos meatus edidere saltantium modo.
At the gladiatorial show given by Germanicus Caesar some even performed clumsy movements in figures, like dancers.
mirum et adversis quidem funibus subire, sed maxime regredi, utique pronis.
It is surprising that they can even climb ropes, but especially that they can come down them again.
AIR
Sequitur natura avium.
The next subject is the nature of birds.
Ex his quas novimus aquilae maximus honos, maxima et vis.
Of the birds known to us the eagle is the most honourable and also the strongest.
Vulturum praevalent nigri.
Of vultures the black are the strongest.
Nidificant in excelsissimis rupibus;
They make their nests on extremely lofty crags;
distinctio generum ex aviditate: alii non nisi e terra rapiunt avem, alii non nisi circa arbores volitantem, alii sedentem in sublimi, aliqui volantem in aperto.
the varieties of hawks are distinguished by their appetite for food: some only snatch a bird off the ground, others only one fluttering round a tree, others one that perches high in the branches, others one flying in the open.
Coccyx videtur ex accipitre fieri, tempore anni figuram mutans,
The cuckoo seems to be made by changing its shape out of a hawk at a certain time of the year,
procedit vere, occultatur caniculae ortu.
it comes out in spring and goes into hiding at the rising of the dog-star.
Bubo, funebris et maxime abominatus publicis praecipue auspiciis ... noctis monstrum, nec cantu aliquo vocalis, sed gemitu.
The eagle owl is a funereal bird, and is regarded as an extremely bad omen ... a weird creature of the night, its cry is not a musical note but a scream.
Sturnorum generi proprium catervatim volare et quodam pilae orbe circumagi, omnibus in medium agmen tendentibus.
It is a peculiarity of the starling kind that they fly in flocks and wheel round in a sort of circular ball, all making towards the centre of the flock.
Temporum magna differentia avibus: perennes, ut columbae, semenstres, ut hirundines, trimenstres, ut turdi, turtures, et quae, cum fetum eduxere, abeunt, ut galguli, upupae.
There is a great difference in the seasons of birds: some stay all the year round, eg pigeons, some for six months, eg swallows, some for three months, eg thrushes and turtle doves and those that migrate when they have reared their brood, such as woodpeckers and hoopoes.
Alia admiratio circa oscines. fere mutant colorem vocemque tempore anni.
There is another remarkable fact about song-birds: they usually change their colour and note with the season.
merula ex nigra rufescit, canit aestate, hieme balbutit, circa solstitium muta.
The blackbird changes from black to red; and it sings in the summer, and chirps in the winter, but in midsummer is silent.
Lusciniis diebus ac noctibus continuis XV garrulus sine intermissu cantus densante se frondium germine,
Nightingales pour out a ceaseless gush of song for 15 days and nights on end when the buds of the leaves are swelling,
plenus, gravis, acutus, creber, extentus, ubi visum est, vibrans, summus, medius, imus.
loud, low, bass, treble, with trills, with long notes, modulated when this seems good, soprano, mezzo, baritone.
Extracts from Pliny the Elder's Naturalis Historia, about the sea, land and air
SEA
Velocissimum omnium animalium, non solum marinorum, est delphinus, ocior volucre, acrior telo.
The swiftest of all animals, not only those of the sea, is the dolphin. It is swifter than a bird and darts faster than a javelin.
Pro voce gemitus humano similis.
For a voice they have a moan like that of a human being.
Delphinus non homini tantum amicum animal, verum et musicae arti,
The dolphin is an animal that is not only friendly to mankind but is also a lover of music,
mulcetur symphoniae cantu, set praecipue hydrauli sono.
and it can be charmed by singing in harmony, but particularly by the sound of the water organ.
Maximum animal in Indico mari pristis et ballaena est, in Gallico oceano physeter, ingentis columnae modo se attollens altiorque navium velis diluviem quandam eructans.
The largest animals in the Indian Ocean are the shark and the whale; the largest in the Bay of Biscay is the sperm whale, which rears up like a vast pillar higher than a ship's rigging and belches out a short of deluge.
Ora ballaenae habent in frontibus ideoque summa aqua natantes in sublime nimbos efflant.
Whales have their mouths in their foreheads and consequently when swimming on the surface of the water they blow clouds of spray into the air.
Lolligo etiam volitat . . .. . . ambo autem, ubi sensere se adprehendi, effuso atramento, quod pro sanguine iis est, infuscata aqua absconduntur.
The cuttle fish even flies. Both sexes, on perceiving they are being caught hold of, pour out a dark fluid which these animals have instead of blood, so darkening the water and concealing themselves.
Cancris vita longa, pedes octoni, omnes in obliquum flexi. praeterea bina bracchia denticulatis forcipibus. superior pars in primoribus his movetur, inferiore inmobili. dexterum bracchium omnibus maius.
Crabs are long lived. They have eight feet, all curved crooked. They also have two claws and denticulated nippers. The upper part moves and the lower half is fixed. The right claw is the larger in every specimen.
LAND
Ranis sui generis vox.
Frogs have a special kind of voice.
Ranae quoque rubetae, quarum et in terra et in umore vita, plurimis refertae medicaminibus.
Also the bramble frog, which is amphibious in its habit, is replete with a number of drugs.
Insecta, ut intellegi possit, non videntur habere nervos nec ossa nec spinas nec cartilaginem nec pinguia nec carnes, habent autem oculos praeterque e sensibus et tactum atque gustatum, aliqua et odoratum, pauca et auditum.
Insects, so far as is perceptible, do not appear to possess sinews or bones, or spines or cartilage or fat or flesh. But they possess eyes and also of the other senses taste and touch, and some have smell as well, and a few hearing also.
Sed inter omnia ea principatus apibus.
But among all these species the chief place belongs to the bees.
Ratio operis mire divisi: statio ad portas more castrorum, quies in matutinum, donec una excitet gemino aut triplici bombo ut bucino aliquo. tunc universae provolant.
Their work is marvellously mapped out in the following manner. A guard is posted at the gates, after the manner of a camp. They sleep until dawn, until one bee wakes them up with a double or triple buzz as a sort of bugle call. Then they fly forth in a body.
Aliae flores adgerunt pedibus, alia aquam ore guttasque lanugine totius corporis.
Some bring home flowers in their feet and others water in their mouth, and drops clinging to the down all over their body.
Aculeum apibus dedit natura, ventri consertum ad unum ictum.
Nature has given bees a sting attached to the stomach, designed for a single blow.
Canum plura genera. Scrutatur vestigia atque persequitur.
There are several kinds of dogs. A dog traces and follows footprints.
Basiliscus serpens.
The basilisk serpent.
Serpentes, cum occasio est, vinum praecipue adpetunt, cum alioqui exiguo indigeant potu.
Snakes are specially fond of wine when they have the chance, though otherwise they need little drink.
Sibilo omnis fugat serpentes.
It routs all snakes with its hiss.
Aliis vis malo est.
Its effect on other animals is disastrous.
Animae leonis virus grave, ursi pestilens.
Lion's breath contains a severe poison and the bear's is pestilential.
Maximum est elephans proximumque humanis sensibus:
The largest land animal is the elephant, and it is the nearest to man in intelligence:
durissimum dorso tergus, ventri molle,
the hide of the back is extremely hard, but that of the belly is soft,
elephans citra nares ore ipso sternumento similem elidit sonum, per nares autem tubarum raucitati.
the elephant squeezes out a sound like a sneeze from its actual mouth, not through the nostrils, but through the nostrils it emits a harsh trumpet sound.
Mandunt ore, spirant et bibunt odoranturque haut inproprie appellata manu.
They eat with the mouth, but they breathe and drink and smell with the organ not unsuitably called their hand.
Germanici Caesaris munere gladiatorio quosdam etiam inconditos meatus edidere saltantium modo.
At the gladiatorial show given by Germanicus Caesar some even performed clumsy movements in figures, like dancers.
mirum et adversis quidem funibus subire, sed maxime regredi, utique pronis.
It is surprising that they can even climb ropes, but especially that they can come down them again.
AIR
Sequitur natura avium.
The next subject is the nature of birds.
Ex his quas novimus aquilae maximus honos, maxima et vis.
Of the birds known to us the eagle is the most honourable and also the strongest.
Vulturum praevalent nigri.
Of vultures the black are the strongest.
Nidificant in excelsissimis rupibus;
They make their nests on extremely lofty crags;
distinctio generum ex aviditate: alii non nisi e terra rapiunt avem, alii non nisi circa arbores volitantem, alii sedentem in sublimi, aliqui volantem in aperto.
the varieties of hawks are distinguished by their appetite for food: some only snatch a bird off the ground, others only one fluttering round a tree, others one that perches high in the branches, others one flying in the open.
Coccyx videtur ex accipitre fieri, tempore anni figuram mutans,
The cuckoo seems to be made by changing its shape out of a hawk at a certain time of the year,
procedit vere, occultatur caniculae ortu.
it comes out in spring and goes into hiding at the rising of the dog-star.
Bubo, funebris et maxime abominatus publicis praecipue auspiciis ... noctis monstrum, nec cantu aliquo vocalis, sed gemitu.
The eagle owl is a funereal bird, and is regarded as an extremely bad omen ... a weird creature of the night, its cry is not a musical note but a scream.
Sturnorum generi proprium catervatim volare et quodam pilae orbe circumagi, omnibus in medium agmen tendentibus.
It is a peculiarity of the starling kind that they fly in flocks and wheel round in a sort of circular ball, all making towards the centre of the flock.
Temporum magna differentia avibus: perennes, ut columbae, semenstres, ut hirundines, trimenstres, ut turdi, turtures, et quae, cum fetum eduxere, abeunt, ut galguli, upupae.
There is a great difference in the seasons of birds: some stay all the year round, eg pigeons, some for six months, eg swallows, some for three months, eg thrushes and turtle doves and those that migrate when they have reared their brood, such as woodpeckers and hoopoes.
Alia admiratio circa oscines. fere mutant colorem vocemque tempore anni.
There is another remarkable fact about song-birds: they usually change their colour and note with the season.
merula ex nigra rufescit, canit aestate, hieme balbutit, circa solstitium muta.
The blackbird changes from black to red; and it sings in the summer, and chirps in the winter, but in midsummer is silent.
Lusciniis diebus ac noctibus continuis XV garrulus sine intermissu cantus densante se frondium germine,
Nightingales pour out a ceaseless gush of song for 15 days and nights on end when the buds of the leaves are swelling,
plenus, gravis, acutus, creber, extentus, ubi visum est, vibrans, summus, medius, imus.
loud, low, bass, treble, with trills, with long notes, modulated when this seems good, soprano, mezzo, baritone.
Scriitori II
STEINBECK ON HAVING A WRITER IN THE FAMILY
This is sad news, but I can’t think of a thing you can do about it. I can remember the horror which came over my parents when they became convinced that it was so with me–and properly so. What you have and they had to look forward to is life made intolerable by a mean, cantankerous, opinionated, moody, quarrelsome, unreasonable, nervous, flighty, irresponsible son. You will get no loyalty, little consideration, and desperately little attention from him. In fact you will want to kill him.
INTERVIEWER
What is a twerp in the strictest sense, in the original sense?
VONNEGUT
It’s a person who inserts a set of false teeth between the cheeks of his ass.
INTERVIEWER
I see.
VONNEGUT
I beg your pardon; between the cheeks of his or her ass. I’m always offending feminists that way.
INTERVIEWER
I don’t quite understand why someone would do that with false teeth.
VONNEGUT
In order to bite the buttons off the back seats of taxicabs. That’s the only reason twerps do it. It’s all that turns them on.
INTERVIEWER
There is still quite a lot of violent anti-bourgeois England in your early things.
Lawrence DURRELL
I think part of it I may have got from my heroes of that time–Lawrence, as I said, and Aldington, and so on–but it’s more than just a fashionable thing. I think that, as I say, in England, living as if we are not part of Europe, we are living against the grain of what is nourishing to our artists, do you see? There seems to be an ingrown psychological thing about it, I don’t know why it is. You can see it reflected even in quite primitive ways like this market business now–the European Common Market. It’s purely psychological, the feeling that we are too damned superior to join this bunch of continentals in anything they do.
INTERVIEWER
So many of your heroes have bad consciences. What sins have your characters committed in order to have such bad consciences?
FRISCH
Actually, I don’t know sin. I know guilt.
INTERVIEWER
So there’s no connection between sin and guilt?
Max FRISCH
You know the awful thing–I know I’m not answering your question–is that we in this neoChristian age still have some fixed ideas about believing in the whole thing, the whole Christian church. For instance, let’s take sexuality. As a very young boy I was very upset when I realized I had an erection. A sin. This goddamned erection, and so on. I didn’t know who had told me about that. I wasn’t even three years old yet and already there was this burden of judgment. Everything was so unclear, it was so disturbing. The idea that by birth you are born a sinner. Why? I didn’t ask to be born. Why do I have to be born on a blacklist?
INTERVIEWER
I was wondering if as you grew up you had a sense of somehow representing your culture to other cultures.
Carlos FUENTES
I did. Let me tell you another anecdote. I was a Mexican child growing up in Washington in the thirties. I went to public school, I was popular, as you must be to be happy in an American school, until the Mexican government expropriated foreignowned oil holdings on March 18, 1938. I became a leper in my school, nobody would talk to me, everyone turned their backs on me because there were screaming headlines every day talking about Mexican Communists stealing “our” oil wells. So I became a terrible Mexican chauvinist as a reaction. I remember going to see a Richard Dix film at the Keith Theater in Washington in 1939, a film in which Dix played Sam Houston. When the Alamo came around, I jumped up in my seat shouting “Death to the gringos! Viva México!”
GARCIA MARQUEZ
In One Hundred Years of Solitude I used the insomnia plague as something of a literary trick since it’s the opposite of the sleeping plague. Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry.
INTERVIEWER
Can you explain that analogy a little more?
GARCIA MARQUEZ
Both are very hard work. Writing something is almost as hard as making a table. With both you are working with reality, a material just as hard as wood. Both are full of tricks and techniques. Basically very little magic and a lot of hard work are involved. And as Proust, I think, said, it takes ten percent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration. I never have done any carpentry, but it’s the job I admire most, especially because you can never find anyone to do it for you.
INTERVIEWER
Why did you choose the farce form for a novel that is not at all meant to be an entertainment?
Milan KUNDERA
But it is an entertainment! I don’t understand the contempt that the French have for entertainment, why they are so ashamed of the word “divertissement.” They run less risk of being entertaining than of being boring. And they also run the risk of falling for kitsch, that sweetish, lying embellishment of things, the rosecolored light that bathes even such modernist works as Illuard’s poetry or Ettore Scola’s recent film Le Bal, whose subtitle could be: “French history as kitsch.” Yes, kitsch, not entertainment, is the real aesthetic disease! The great European novel started out as entertainment, and every true novelist is nostalgic for it. In fact, the themes of those great entertainments are terribly serious–think of Cervantes! In The Farewell Party, the question is, does man deserve to live on this earth? Shouldn’t one “free the planet from man’s clutches”?
INTERVIEWER
Are you a religious man?
KOESTLER
Not in a denominational way. I’m attracted by mysticism.
INTERVIEWER
The Society for Psychical Research, ESP, that sort of thing?
KOESTLER
I do believe that the evidence for telepathy, for example, is overwhelming and that it is a part of reality that is above science. Science allows us to glimpse fragments of reality. There is another level, for the understanding of which our brains are not programmed. In other words, there are concepts, such as infinity in space and in time, which science cannot fathom. These concepts belong to a level of reality which is above our heads.
INTERVIEWER
How does the London theater world differ from New York?
Tom STOPPARD
Theater in New York is nearer to the street. In London you have to go deep into the building, usually, to reach the place where theater happens. On Broadway, only the fire doors separate you from the sidewalk and you’re lucky if the sound of a police car doesn’t rip the envelope twice a night. This difference means something, I’m not quite sure what. Well, as Peter Brook will tell you, the theater has its roots in something holy, and perhaps we in London are still a little holier than thou. The potential rewards of theater in New York are really too great for its own good. One bull’sand you’re rich and famous. The rich get more famous and the famous get richer. You’re the talk of the town. The taxi drivers have read about you and they remember you for a fortnight. You get to be photographed for Vogue with new clothes and Vuitton luggage, if that’s your bag.
INTERVIEWER
You have been criticized for the way you live, and for your economic position. . . . Isn’t this accusation more intense because you belong to the Communist Party?
Pablo NERUDA
Precisely. He who has nothing–it has been said many times–has nothing to lose but his chains. I risk, at every moment, my life, my person, all that I have–my books, my house. My house has been burned; I have been persecuted; I have been detained more than once; I have been exiled; they have declared me incommunicado; I have been sought by thousands of police. Very well then. I’m not comfortable with what I have.
COCTEAU
Critics? A critic severely criticized my lighting at a Saturday evening opening in Munich. I thanked him but there was no time to change anything for the Sunday matinee. He felicitated me on the improvement. “You see how my suggestions helped?” he said. No, there will always be a conflict between creators and the technicians of the métier.
INTERVIEWER
It is claimed that you have served as a model [for the crowd of expatriate poets in Paris] and that you have strongly influenced certain American novelists.
Blaise CENDRARS
That’s absolutely false. If I’ve been able to influence this one or that without my or his knowledge, I haven’t served as a model. It’s Victor Hugo, it’s Maupassant who served as models for them when they came to establish themselves in Paris at the end of the other war. They came to France without an afterthought, be it as soldiers, ambulance drivers, diplomats; the war over, they sojourned for a time, short or long, in Paris, where certain ones stayed during the entire time between the two wars; they frequented Montparnasse, then Saintand if they were influenced it was rather by the ambiance, the air of Paris and the way of living in France rather than by this or that French author. John Dos Passos declared to me one day: “You have in France a literary genre that we don’t know at all in the United States, the grand reportage a la Victor Hugo.”
INTERVIEWER
Did you have much encouragement [of your writing] in [your] early days, and if so, by whom?
CAPOTE
Good Lord! I’m afraid you’ve let yourself in for quite a saga. . . . I was thought somewhat eccentric, which was fair enough, and stupid, which I suitably resented. . . . Well, finally, I guess I was around twelve, the principal at the school I was attending paid a call on my family, and told them that in his opinion, and in the opinion of the faculty, I was “subnormal.” He thought it would be sensible, the humane action, to send me to some special school equipped to handle backward brats. Whatever they may have privately felt, my family as a whole took official umbrage, and in an effort to prove I wasn’t subnormal, pronto packed me off to a psychiatric study clinic at a university in the East where I had my I.Q. inspected. I enjoyed it thoroughly and–guess what?–came home a genius, so proclaimed by science. I don’t know who was the more appalled: my former teachers, who refused to believe it, or my family, who didn’t want to believe it–they’d just hoped to be told I was a nice normal boy.
INTERVIEWER
Do you think there’s a connection with the American past?
T.S. ELIOT
Yes, but I couldn’t put it any more definitely than that, you see. It wouldn’t be what it is, and I imagine it wouldn’t be so good; putting it as modestly as I can, it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.
INTERVIEWER
What technique do you use to arrive at your standard?
FAULKNER
Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, be wants to beat him.
INTERVIEWER
What led you to make the remark quoted by Lionel Trilling, that the older you got the less it seemed to you to matter that an artist should “develop.”
E.M. FORSTER
I am more interested in achievement than in advance on it and decline from it. And I am more interested in works than in authors. The paternal wish of critics to show how a writer dropped off or picked up as he went along seems to me misplaced. I am only interested in myself as a producer.
INTERVIEWER
Is emotional stability necessary to write well? You told me once that you could only write well when you were in love. Could you expound on that a bit more?
HEMINGWAY
What a question. But full marks for trying. You can write any time people will leave you alone and not interrupt you. Or rather you can if you will be ruthless enough about it. But the best writing is certainly when you are in love. If it is all the same to you I would rather not expound on that.
INTERVIEWER
Many of your most memorable characters, Raven for instance, are from low life. Have you ever had any experience of low life? . . . What did you know about poverty?
GREENE
I have never known it. I was “short,” yes, in the sense that I had to be careful for the first eight years of my adult life but I have never been any closer.
INTERVIEWER
Then you don’t draw your characters from life?
GREENE
No, one never knows enough about characters in real life to put them into novels. One gets started and then, suddenly, one cannot remember what toothpaste they use, what are their views on interior decoration, and one is stuck utterly. No, major characters emerge: minor ones may be photographed.
INTERVIEWER
Do you believe that literature has been turned over to the philosophers by accident?
MAURIAC
There is a historical reason for it: the tragedy of France. Sartre expressed the despair of this generation. He did not create it, but he gave it a justification and a style.
INTERVIEWER
You do not consider yourself a moralist, do you?
MORAVIA
No, I most emphatically do not. Truth and beauty are educatory in themselves. . . . Social criticism must necessarily, and always, be an extremely superficial thing. But don’t misunderstand me. Writers, like all artists, are concerned to represent reality, to create a more absolute and complete reality than reality itself. They must, if they are to accomplish this, assume a moral position, a clearly conceived political, social, and philosophical attitude; in consequence, their beliefs are, of course, going to find their way into their work. What artists believe, however, is of secondary importance, ancillary to the work itself. A writer survives in spite of his beliefs. Lawrence will be read whatever one thinks of his notions on sex. Dante is read in the Soviet Union.
INTERVIEWER
What are some of the problems you have dealt with often and expect to deal with in the future?
Georges SIMENON
One of them, for example, which will probably haunt me more than any other is the problem of communication. I mean communication between two people. The fact that we are I don’t know how many millions of people, yet communication, complete communication, is completely impossible between two of those people, is to me one of the biggest tragic themes in the world. When I was a young boy I was afraid of it. I would almost scream because of it. It gave me such a sensation of solitude, of loneliness. That is a theme I have taken I don’t know how many times. But I know it will come again. Certainly it will come again.
INTERVIEWER
Are you worried about the future of the written word?
STYRON
Not really. I get moments of alarm. Not long ago I received in the mail a doctoral thesis entitled: “Sophie’s Choice: A Jungian Perspective,” which I sat down to read. It was quite a long document. In the first paragraph it said, “In this thesis my point of reference throughout will be the Alan J. Pakula movie of Sophie’s Choice.” There was a footnote, which I swear to you said, “Where the movie is obscure I will refer to William Styron’s novel for clarification.” This idiocy laid a pall over my life for a dark brief time because it brought back all these bugaboos we have about the written word.
INTERVIEWER
You tend not to write directly about particular historical crises or catastrophes, but surely the war in the Balkans underlies the bleak historical perspectives of poems such as “Reading History” or “Empires,” both from the early nineties?
SIMIC
I’m sure it was in the background. “Reading History” was written after going on a binge and reading a pile of books on Chinese and Indian history. Every few pages, of course, there was some atrocity, some massacre, or some battle in which thousands died, so that got me thinking. “Empires” is a poem about my grandmother on my mother’s side, who died in 1948, when I was ten. She took care of me from when I was very little while my parents were at work. She used to listen to Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, and other lunatics on the radio. I understood nothing, but she knew several languages. She got very upset. She could not get over the lies she heard. What’s wrong with the world? she’d ask everyone. Good question. I still haven’t figured it out myself. There have been so many wars in my lifetime, so much killing. I’m as uncomprehending as she was. The ease and arrogance with which so many are sent to their deaths continues to astonish me.
The use of murder to improve the world, for instance, is popular in American intellectual circles as if there had never been any historical precedents. I think about these things all the time.
INTERVIEWER
“All I have is a voice,” Auden wrote in “September 1, 1939,” “To undo the folded lie.” Of course he then later disowned this poem . . . But it seems to me your poems are often motivated by the desire to “undo folded lies,” or at least to expose the various complexities that politicians and pundits attempt to disguise from us.
SIMIC
Let’s hope so. Poetry in my view is a defense of the individual against all the forces arrayed against him. Every religion, every ideology and orthodoxy of thought and manner wants to reeducate him and make him into something else. To sing from the same sheet is the ideal. A true patriot doesn’t think for himself, they’ll tell you. I realize that there’s a long tradition in poetry of not speaking truth to power and, in fact, of being its groveling apologist. I just don’t have it in me.
INTERVIEWER
On the other hand, one of the main pleasures of your work, for me anyway, is the way it reminds us of all the ordinary pleasures of life, and urges us, or rather invites us, to enjoy them while we still can—things such as fried shrimp, tomatoes, roast lamb, red wine . . .
SIMIC
Don’t forget sausages sautéed with potatoes and onions! It’s also highly advisable to have a philosopher or two on hand. A few pages of Plato while working on a baked ham. Wittgenstein’s Tractatus over a bowl of spaghetti with littleneck clams. We think best when we bring opposites together, when we realize that all these realities, one inside the other, are somehow connected. That’s how the wonder and amazement that are so necessary to both poetry and philosophy come about. A “truth” detached and purified of pleasures of ordinary life is not worth a damn in my view. Every grand theory and noble sentiment ought to be first tested in the kitchen—and then in bed, of course.
This is sad news, but I can’t think of a thing you can do about it. I can remember the horror which came over my parents when they became convinced that it was so with me–and properly so. What you have and they had to look forward to is life made intolerable by a mean, cantankerous, opinionated, moody, quarrelsome, unreasonable, nervous, flighty, irresponsible son. You will get no loyalty, little consideration, and desperately little attention from him. In fact you will want to kill him.
INTERVIEWER
What is a twerp in the strictest sense, in the original sense?
VONNEGUT
It’s a person who inserts a set of false teeth between the cheeks of his ass.
INTERVIEWER
I see.
VONNEGUT
I beg your pardon; between the cheeks of his or her ass. I’m always offending feminists that way.
INTERVIEWER
I don’t quite understand why someone would do that with false teeth.
VONNEGUT
In order to bite the buttons off the back seats of taxicabs. That’s the only reason twerps do it. It’s all that turns them on.
INTERVIEWER
There is still quite a lot of violent anti-bourgeois England in your early things.
Lawrence DURRELL
I think part of it I may have got from my heroes of that time–Lawrence, as I said, and Aldington, and so on–but it’s more than just a fashionable thing. I think that, as I say, in England, living as if we are not part of Europe, we are living against the grain of what is nourishing to our artists, do you see? There seems to be an ingrown psychological thing about it, I don’t know why it is. You can see it reflected even in quite primitive ways like this market business now–the European Common Market. It’s purely psychological, the feeling that we are too damned superior to join this bunch of continentals in anything they do.
INTERVIEWER
So many of your heroes have bad consciences. What sins have your characters committed in order to have such bad consciences?
FRISCH
Actually, I don’t know sin. I know guilt.
INTERVIEWER
So there’s no connection between sin and guilt?
Max FRISCH
You know the awful thing–I know I’m not answering your question–is that we in this neoChristian age still have some fixed ideas about believing in the whole thing, the whole Christian church. For instance, let’s take sexuality. As a very young boy I was very upset when I realized I had an erection. A sin. This goddamned erection, and so on. I didn’t know who had told me about that. I wasn’t even three years old yet and already there was this burden of judgment. Everything was so unclear, it was so disturbing. The idea that by birth you are born a sinner. Why? I didn’t ask to be born. Why do I have to be born on a blacklist?
INTERVIEWER
I was wondering if as you grew up you had a sense of somehow representing your culture to other cultures.
Carlos FUENTES
I did. Let me tell you another anecdote. I was a Mexican child growing up in Washington in the thirties. I went to public school, I was popular, as you must be to be happy in an American school, until the Mexican government expropriated foreignowned oil holdings on March 18, 1938. I became a leper in my school, nobody would talk to me, everyone turned their backs on me because there were screaming headlines every day talking about Mexican Communists stealing “our” oil wells. So I became a terrible Mexican chauvinist as a reaction. I remember going to see a Richard Dix film at the Keith Theater in Washington in 1939, a film in which Dix played Sam Houston. When the Alamo came around, I jumped up in my seat shouting “Death to the gringos! Viva México!”
GARCIA MARQUEZ
In One Hundred Years of Solitude I used the insomnia plague as something of a literary trick since it’s the opposite of the sleeping plague. Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry.
INTERVIEWER
Can you explain that analogy a little more?
GARCIA MARQUEZ
Both are very hard work. Writing something is almost as hard as making a table. With both you are working with reality, a material just as hard as wood. Both are full of tricks and techniques. Basically very little magic and a lot of hard work are involved. And as Proust, I think, said, it takes ten percent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration. I never have done any carpentry, but it’s the job I admire most, especially because you can never find anyone to do it for you.
INTERVIEWER
Why did you choose the farce form for a novel that is not at all meant to be an entertainment?
Milan KUNDERA
But it is an entertainment! I don’t understand the contempt that the French have for entertainment, why they are so ashamed of the word “divertissement.” They run less risk of being entertaining than of being boring. And they also run the risk of falling for kitsch, that sweetish, lying embellishment of things, the rosecolored light that bathes even such modernist works as Illuard’s poetry or Ettore Scola’s recent film Le Bal, whose subtitle could be: “French history as kitsch.” Yes, kitsch, not entertainment, is the real aesthetic disease! The great European novel started out as entertainment, and every true novelist is nostalgic for it. In fact, the themes of those great entertainments are terribly serious–think of Cervantes! In The Farewell Party, the question is, does man deserve to live on this earth? Shouldn’t one “free the planet from man’s clutches”?
INTERVIEWER
Are you a religious man?
KOESTLER
Not in a denominational way. I’m attracted by mysticism.
INTERVIEWER
The Society for Psychical Research, ESP, that sort of thing?
KOESTLER
I do believe that the evidence for telepathy, for example, is overwhelming and that it is a part of reality that is above science. Science allows us to glimpse fragments of reality. There is another level, for the understanding of which our brains are not programmed. In other words, there are concepts, such as infinity in space and in time, which science cannot fathom. These concepts belong to a level of reality which is above our heads.
INTERVIEWER
How does the London theater world differ from New York?
Tom STOPPARD
Theater in New York is nearer to the street. In London you have to go deep into the building, usually, to reach the place where theater happens. On Broadway, only the fire doors separate you from the sidewalk and you’re lucky if the sound of a police car doesn’t rip the envelope twice a night. This difference means something, I’m not quite sure what. Well, as Peter Brook will tell you, the theater has its roots in something holy, and perhaps we in London are still a little holier than thou. The potential rewards of theater in New York are really too great for its own good. One bull’sand you’re rich and famous. The rich get more famous and the famous get richer. You’re the talk of the town. The taxi drivers have read about you and they remember you for a fortnight. You get to be photographed for Vogue with new clothes and Vuitton luggage, if that’s your bag.
INTERVIEWER
You have been criticized for the way you live, and for your economic position. . . . Isn’t this accusation more intense because you belong to the Communist Party?
Pablo NERUDA
Precisely. He who has nothing–it has been said many times–has nothing to lose but his chains. I risk, at every moment, my life, my person, all that I have–my books, my house. My house has been burned; I have been persecuted; I have been detained more than once; I have been exiled; they have declared me incommunicado; I have been sought by thousands of police. Very well then. I’m not comfortable with what I have.
COCTEAU
Critics? A critic severely criticized my lighting at a Saturday evening opening in Munich. I thanked him but there was no time to change anything for the Sunday matinee. He felicitated me on the improvement. “You see how my suggestions helped?” he said. No, there will always be a conflict between creators and the technicians of the métier.
INTERVIEWER
It is claimed that you have served as a model [for the crowd of expatriate poets in Paris] and that you have strongly influenced certain American novelists.
Blaise CENDRARS
That’s absolutely false. If I’ve been able to influence this one or that without my or his knowledge, I haven’t served as a model. It’s Victor Hugo, it’s Maupassant who served as models for them when they came to establish themselves in Paris at the end of the other war. They came to France without an afterthought, be it as soldiers, ambulance drivers, diplomats; the war over, they sojourned for a time, short or long, in Paris, where certain ones stayed during the entire time between the two wars; they frequented Montparnasse, then Saintand if they were influenced it was rather by the ambiance, the air of Paris and the way of living in France rather than by this or that French author. John Dos Passos declared to me one day: “You have in France a literary genre that we don’t know at all in the United States, the grand reportage a la Victor Hugo.”
INTERVIEWER
Did you have much encouragement [of your writing] in [your] early days, and if so, by whom?
CAPOTE
Good Lord! I’m afraid you’ve let yourself in for quite a saga. . . . I was thought somewhat eccentric, which was fair enough, and stupid, which I suitably resented. . . . Well, finally, I guess I was around twelve, the principal at the school I was attending paid a call on my family, and told them that in his opinion, and in the opinion of the faculty, I was “subnormal.” He thought it would be sensible, the humane action, to send me to some special school equipped to handle backward brats. Whatever they may have privately felt, my family as a whole took official umbrage, and in an effort to prove I wasn’t subnormal, pronto packed me off to a psychiatric study clinic at a university in the East where I had my I.Q. inspected. I enjoyed it thoroughly and–guess what?–came home a genius, so proclaimed by science. I don’t know who was the more appalled: my former teachers, who refused to believe it, or my family, who didn’t want to believe it–they’d just hoped to be told I was a nice normal boy.
INTERVIEWER
Do you think there’s a connection with the American past?
T.S. ELIOT
Yes, but I couldn’t put it any more definitely than that, you see. It wouldn’t be what it is, and I imagine it wouldn’t be so good; putting it as modestly as I can, it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.
INTERVIEWER
What technique do you use to arrive at your standard?
FAULKNER
Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, be wants to beat him.
INTERVIEWER
What led you to make the remark quoted by Lionel Trilling, that the older you got the less it seemed to you to matter that an artist should “develop.”
E.M. FORSTER
I am more interested in achievement than in advance on it and decline from it. And I am more interested in works than in authors. The paternal wish of critics to show how a writer dropped off or picked up as he went along seems to me misplaced. I am only interested in myself as a producer.
INTERVIEWER
Is emotional stability necessary to write well? You told me once that you could only write well when you were in love. Could you expound on that a bit more?
HEMINGWAY
What a question. But full marks for trying. You can write any time people will leave you alone and not interrupt you. Or rather you can if you will be ruthless enough about it. But the best writing is certainly when you are in love. If it is all the same to you I would rather not expound on that.
INTERVIEWER
Many of your most memorable characters, Raven for instance, are from low life. Have you ever had any experience of low life? . . . What did you know about poverty?
GREENE
I have never known it. I was “short,” yes, in the sense that I had to be careful for the first eight years of my adult life but I have never been any closer.
INTERVIEWER
Then you don’t draw your characters from life?
GREENE
No, one never knows enough about characters in real life to put them into novels. One gets started and then, suddenly, one cannot remember what toothpaste they use, what are their views on interior decoration, and one is stuck utterly. No, major characters emerge: minor ones may be photographed.
INTERVIEWER
Do you believe that literature has been turned over to the philosophers by accident?
MAURIAC
There is a historical reason for it: the tragedy of France. Sartre expressed the despair of this generation. He did not create it, but he gave it a justification and a style.
INTERVIEWER
You do not consider yourself a moralist, do you?
MORAVIA
No, I most emphatically do not. Truth and beauty are educatory in themselves. . . . Social criticism must necessarily, and always, be an extremely superficial thing. But don’t misunderstand me. Writers, like all artists, are concerned to represent reality, to create a more absolute and complete reality than reality itself. They must, if they are to accomplish this, assume a moral position, a clearly conceived political, social, and philosophical attitude; in consequence, their beliefs are, of course, going to find their way into their work. What artists believe, however, is of secondary importance, ancillary to the work itself. A writer survives in spite of his beliefs. Lawrence will be read whatever one thinks of his notions on sex. Dante is read in the Soviet Union.
INTERVIEWER
What are some of the problems you have dealt with often and expect to deal with in the future?
Georges SIMENON
One of them, for example, which will probably haunt me more than any other is the problem of communication. I mean communication between two people. The fact that we are I don’t know how many millions of people, yet communication, complete communication, is completely impossible between two of those people, is to me one of the biggest tragic themes in the world. When I was a young boy I was afraid of it. I would almost scream because of it. It gave me such a sensation of solitude, of loneliness. That is a theme I have taken I don’t know how many times. But I know it will come again. Certainly it will come again.
INTERVIEWER
Are you worried about the future of the written word?
STYRON
Not really. I get moments of alarm. Not long ago I received in the mail a doctoral thesis entitled: “Sophie’s Choice: A Jungian Perspective,” which I sat down to read. It was quite a long document. In the first paragraph it said, “In this thesis my point of reference throughout will be the Alan J. Pakula movie of Sophie’s Choice.” There was a footnote, which I swear to you said, “Where the movie is obscure I will refer to William Styron’s novel for clarification.” This idiocy laid a pall over my life for a dark brief time because it brought back all these bugaboos we have about the written word.
INTERVIEWER
You tend not to write directly about particular historical crises or catastrophes, but surely the war in the Balkans underlies the bleak historical perspectives of poems such as “Reading History” or “Empires,” both from the early nineties?
SIMIC
I’m sure it was in the background. “Reading History” was written after going on a binge and reading a pile of books on Chinese and Indian history. Every few pages, of course, there was some atrocity, some massacre, or some battle in which thousands died, so that got me thinking. “Empires” is a poem about my grandmother on my mother’s side, who died in 1948, when I was ten. She took care of me from when I was very little while my parents were at work. She used to listen to Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, and other lunatics on the radio. I understood nothing, but she knew several languages. She got very upset. She could not get over the lies she heard. What’s wrong with the world? she’d ask everyone. Good question. I still haven’t figured it out myself. There have been so many wars in my lifetime, so much killing. I’m as uncomprehending as she was. The ease and arrogance with which so many are sent to their deaths continues to astonish me.
The use of murder to improve the world, for instance, is popular in American intellectual circles as if there had never been any historical precedents. I think about these things all the time.
INTERVIEWER
“All I have is a voice,” Auden wrote in “September 1, 1939,” “To undo the folded lie.” Of course he then later disowned this poem . . . But it seems to me your poems are often motivated by the desire to “undo folded lies,” or at least to expose the various complexities that politicians and pundits attempt to disguise from us.
SIMIC
Let’s hope so. Poetry in my view is a defense of the individual against all the forces arrayed against him. Every religion, every ideology and orthodoxy of thought and manner wants to reeducate him and make him into something else. To sing from the same sheet is the ideal. A true patriot doesn’t think for himself, they’ll tell you. I realize that there’s a long tradition in poetry of not speaking truth to power and, in fact, of being its groveling apologist. I just don’t have it in me.
INTERVIEWER
On the other hand, one of the main pleasures of your work, for me anyway, is the way it reminds us of all the ordinary pleasures of life, and urges us, or rather invites us, to enjoy them while we still can—things such as fried shrimp, tomatoes, roast lamb, red wine . . .
SIMIC
Don’t forget sausages sautéed with potatoes and onions! It’s also highly advisable to have a philosopher or two on hand. A few pages of Plato while working on a baked ham. Wittgenstein’s Tractatus over a bowl of spaghetti with littleneck clams. We think best when we bring opposites together, when we realize that all these realities, one inside the other, are somehow connected. That’s how the wonder and amazement that are so necessary to both poetry and philosophy come about. A “truth” detached and purified of pleasures of ordinary life is not worth a damn in my view. Every grand theory and noble sentiment ought to be first tested in the kitchen—and then in bed, of course.
Scriitori
INTERVIEWER
Do you think success can be damaging for a writer, not only as a distraction but because it could make him seek out easy options and compromises?
Eugen IONESCO
It depends on how you use it. I detest and despise success, yet I cannot do without it. I am like a drug addict if nobody talks about me for a couple of months I have withdrawal symptoms. It is stupid to be hooked on fame, because it is like being hooked on corpses. After all, the people who come to see my plays, who create my fame, are going to die. But you can stay in society and be alone, as long as you can be detached from the world. This is why I don’t think I have ever gone for the easy option or done things that were expected of me. I have the vanity to think that every play I have written is different from the previous ones.
INTERVIEWER
You insist in [your] early works on the natural inequality of human beings, but at the same time you lean toward socialism. How do you reconcile your social egalitarianism with the rather snobbish idea of an “aristoi” or elite few set apart from the many?
John FOWLES
This is something of an eternal torment, or split, in my life. The idea of an elite few is, of course, nowadays something no one likes to declare a belief in. On the other hand I am absolutely sure that it is a biological, if you like Darwinian, truth. So I am torn between this “cruel” but necessary truth: that some–perhaps most strikingly in the arts and sciences–are clearly better endowed or adapted than the others, and then by that other, kinder truth which asks equality and equal justice for society as a whole. In general I confess I much prefer the company of reasonably intelligent and educated people. . . .
INTERVIEWER
How long did it take you to get rid of that feeling [of persecution mania] once you landed in Austria?
Joseph BRODSKY
It’s still around, you’re cautious. In your writing, in your exchanges with people, meeting people who are in Russian affairs, Russian literature, et cetera. Because it’s all penetrated, not necessarily by the direct agents of State Security, but by those people who can be used for that.
INTERVIEWER
What do you think generally about the writer engagé? Should a writer be involved in politics, as you are?
Gore VIDAL
It depends on the writer. Most American writers are not much involved, beyond signing petitions. They are usually academics—and cautious. Or full-time literary politicians. Or both. The main line of our literature is quotidian with a vengeance. Yes, many great novels have been written about the everyday—Jane Austen and so on. But you need a superb art to make that sort of thing interesting. So, failing superb art, you’d better have a good mind and you’d better be interested in the world outside yourself. D. H. Lawrence wrote something very interesting about the young Hemingway. Called him a brilliant writer. But he added he’s essentially a photographer and it will be interesting to see how he ages because the photographer can only keep on taking pictures from the outside. One of the reasons that the gifted Hemingway never wrote a good novel was that nothing interested him except a few sensuous experiences like killing things and fucking—interesting things to do but not all that interesting to write about. This sort of artist runs into trouble very early on because all he can really write about is himself and after youth that self—unengaged in the world—is of declining interest. Admittedly, Hemingway chased after wars, but he never had much of anything to say about war, unlike Tolstoy or even Malraux. I think that the more you know the world and the wider the net you cast in your society, the more interesting your books will be, certainly the more interested you will be.
INTERVIEWER
Do you think that the picture of personal threat which is sometimes presented on your stage is troubling in a larger sense, a political sense, or doesn’t this have any relevance?
Harold PINTER
I don’t feel myself threatened by any political body or activity at all. I like living in England. I don’t care about political structures–they don’t alarm me, but they cause a great deal of suffering to millions of people . . . I’ll tell you what I really think about politicians. The other night I watched some politicians on television talking about Vietnam. I wanted very much to burst through the screen with a flamethrower and burn their eyes out and their balls off and then inquire from them how they would assess this action from a political point of view.
INTERVIEWER
What are you trying to show?
Louis-Ferdinand CELINE
Emotion. Savy, the biologist, said something appropriate: In the beginning there was emotion, and the verb wasn’t there at all. When you tickle an amoeba she withdraws, she has emotion, she doesn’t speak but she does have emotion. A baby cries, a horse gallops. Only us, they’ve given us the verb. That gives you the politician, the writer, the prophet. The verb’s horrible. You can’t smell it. But to get to the point where you can translate this emotion, that’s a difficulty no one imagines. . . . It’s ugly. . . . It’s superhuman. . . . It’s a trick that’ll kill a guy.
INTERVIEWER
Is there an ideal audience that you write for?
Saul BELLOW
I have in mind another human being who will understand me. I count on this. Not on perfect understanding, which is Cartesian, but on approximate understanding, which is Jewish. And on a meeting of sympathies, which is human. But I have no ideal reader in my head, no. Let me just say this, too. I seem to have the blind selfacceptance of the eccentric who can’t conceive that his eccentricities are not clearly understood.
INTERVIEWER
There is still quite a lot of violent anti-bourgeois England in your early things.
Lawrence DURRELL
I think part of it I may have got from my heroes of that time–Lawrence, as I said, and Aldington, and so on–but it’s more than just a fashionable thing. I think that, as I say, in England, living as if we are not part of Europe, we are living against the grain of what is nourishing to our artists, do you see? There seems to be an ingrown psychological thing about it, I don’t know why it is. You can see it reflected even in quite primitive ways like this market business now–the European Common Market. It’s purely psychological, the feeling that we are too damned superior to join this bunch of continentals in anything they do.
INTERVIWER
Your intention is just to describe?
Jorge Luis BORGES
I describe. I write. Now as for the color yellow, there is a physical explanation of that. When I began to lose my sight, the last color I saw was yellow, because it is the most vivid of colors. That’s why you have the Yellow Cab Company in the United States. At first they thought of making the cars scarlet. Then somebody found out that at night or when there was a fog that yellow stood out in a more vivid way. . . . Now when I began to lose my eyesight, when the world began to fade away from me, there was a time among my friends . . . well, they poked fun at me because I was always wearing yellow neckties. Then they thought I really liked yellow although it really was too glaring. I said, “Yes, to you, but not to me, because it is the only color I can see, practically!” I live in a grey world, rather like the silver screen world. But yellow stands out.
INTERVIEWER
Have the humanities failed to humanize? Do you still believe that literary education may ironically foster political cruelty and barbarism?
George STEINER
Nazism, communism, Stalinism have convinced me of this central paradox: bookishness–bookishness, that old English word, it’s a good one–bookishness, highest literacy, every technique of cultural propaganda and training not only can accompany bestiality and oppression and despotism but at certain points foster it. We are trained our whole life long in abstraction, in the fictive, and we develop a certain power–allegedly a power–to identify with the fictive, to teach it, to deepen it (how many children has Lady Macbeth?). Then we go into the street and there’s a scream and it has a strange unreality. The image I want to use is this: I’ve been to a very good movie early in the afternoon. It’s a bright sunny day. When I walk out of the movie into the sunshine of the city afternoon, I have very often a feeling of nausea, of a disequilibrium which is nauseating. It takes seconds, minutes, sometimes longer for me to focus again on reality.
INTERVIEWER
Yeats said famously that one must choose between the life and the work. Do you think that is true?
Susan SONTAG
As you know, he actually said that one must choose between perfection of the life and perfection of the work. Well, writing is a life–a very peculiar one. Of course, if by life you mean life with other people, Yeats’s dictum is true. Writing requires huge amounts of solitude. What I’ve done to soften the harshness of that choice is that I don’t write all the time. I like to go out–which includes traveling; I can’t write when I travel. I like to talk. I like to listen. I like to look and to watch. Maybe I have an Attention Surplus Disorder. The easiest thing in the world for me is to pay attention.
INTERVIEWER
Critics have said you have two types of heroes–one who fights against order and one who accepts it–and that the conflict between these two types is at the center of your books.
Claude SIMON
One must pose this type of question to philosophers. I am a novelist. One last time: What interests me is not the why of things but the how.
INTERVIEWER
So you don’t consider yourself a philosopher?
Claude SIMON
Certainly not. I did not even take philosophy in high school. I studied mathematics. In general, I distrust philosophy. Plato recommended chasing poets from the city; the “great” Heidegger was a Nazi; Lukacs was a Communist and J.P. Sartre wrote: “Any antiCommunist is a dog. “
INTERVIEWER
Do you have any idea what the end of a play is going to be when you begin?
Sam SHEPARD
I hate endings, just detest them. Beginnings are definitely the most exciting, middles are perplexing and endings are a disaster.
INTERVIEWER
A significant strain in your work is didactic, and I don’t mean in the pejorative sense. For instance, the title of one of your books is An Explanation of America.
Robert PINSKY
Advice and instruction have always fascinated me, partly because of their pathos–so little is transmitted in any given instance of advice or pedagogy. On the one hand, there’s the idea of the quest, that wisdomis noble. On the other, the figure of the advisor or schoolmaster is nearly always comic; even Aristotle becomes comic once he is the schoolmaster to Alexander. I think of An Explanation of America not as didactic, itself, but as a weird experiment in that vulnerable enterprise of explaining or instructing. And of thinking about the future, straining to imagine it.
INTERVIEWER
Will the poet always be the permanent dissident?
Octavio PAZ
Yes. We have all won a great battle in the defeat of the Communist bureaucracies by themselves–and that’s the important thing: they were defeated by themselves and not by the West. But that’s not enough. We need more social justice. Freesocieties produce unjust and very stupid societies. I don’t believe that the production and consumption of things can be the meaning of human life. All great religions and philosophies say that human beings are more than producers and consumers. We cannot reduce our lives to economics. If a society without social justice is not a good society, a society without poetry is a society without dreams, without words, and, most importantly, without that bridge between one person and another that poetry is. We are different from the other animals because we can talk, and the supreme form of language is poetry. If society abolishes poetry it commits spiritual suicide.
INTERVIEWER
I’d like to read you a sentence from A Way in the World: “It was that idea of the absurd never far away from us that preserved us. It was the other side of that anger and the passion that made the crowd burn the black policeman. . . .” It reminds me of the humor in your early books about Trinidad and the other side of that humor–hysteria–in the books that followed.
V.S. NAIPAUL
It’s very curious, isn’t it–the same people who burned a policeman alive would dance and sing and tell a funny story about it.
INTERVIEWER
I was particularly struck by the word us–your inclusion of yourself in that situation.
V.S. NAIPAUL
It was in Port of Spain. It has to be us because one is growing up in that atmosphere. It was our idea of the absurd, which comes out in the calypso–it’s African, this idea of the absurd. It is something in late life I have come to understand–the hysteria and the sense of the absurd.
INTERVIEWER
Do you feel, as Eliot did, that poetry is an escape from personality?
CZESLAW MILOSZ
This has been a constant problem for me. Literature is born out of a desire to be truthful–not to hide anything and not to present oneself as somebody else. Yet when you write there are certain obligations, what I call laws of form. You cannot tell everything. Of course, it’s true that people talk too much and without restraint. But poetry imposes certain restraints. Nevertheless, there is always the feeling that you didn’t unveil yourself enough. A book is finished and appears and I feel, Well, next time I will unveil myself. And when the next book appears, I have the same feeling. And then your life ends, and that’s it.
INTERVIEWER
Is there a moment in one of your plays that you really didn’t know was there?
David MAMET
Yes. I wrote this play called Bobby Gould in Hell. Greg Mosher did it on a double bill with a play by Shel Silverstein over at Lincoln Center. Bobby Gould is consigned to Hell, and he has to be interviewed to find out how long he’s going to spend there. The Devil is called back from a fishing trip to interview Bobby Gould. And so the Devil is there, the Assistant Devil is there and Bobby Gould. And the Devil finally says to Bobby Gould, “You’re a very bad man.” And Bobby Gould says, “Nothing’s black and white.” And the Devil says, “Nothing’s black and white, nothing’s black and white–what about a panda? What about a panda, you dumb fuck! What about a fucking panda!” And when Greg directed it, he had the assistant hold up a picture of a panda, kind of pan it 180 degrees to the audience at the Vivian Beaumont Theater. That was the best moment I’ve ever seen in any of my plays.
INTERVIEWER
What about the role of religion in [your work]? Is faith in God the path to true happiness, as the sheikh suggests? Is Sufism the answer the criminal is looking for?
Naguib MAHFOUZ
The Sheikh rejects life as we know it. The criminal, on the other hand, is trying to solve his immediate problems. They are in two different worlds. I love Sufism as I love beautiful poetry, but it is not the answer. Sufism is like a mirage in the desert. It says to you, come and sit, relax and enjoy yourself for a while. I reject any path which rejects life, but I can’t help loving Sufism because it sounds so beautiful . . . it gives relief in the midst of battle . . .
INTERVIEWER
You mention Neruda among the writers you admire. You were his friend. What was he like?
Mario Vargas LLOSA
Neruda adored life. He was wild about everything, painting, art in general, books, rare editions, food, drink. Eating and drinking were almost a mystical experience for him. A wonderfully likable man, full of vitality–if you forget his poems in praise of Stalin, of course. He lived in a nearworld, where everything led to his rejoicing, his sweettoothed exuberance for life. . . . I still remember what he told me then; something that has proven to be a great truth over the years. An article at the time–I can’t remember what it was about–had upset and irritated me because it insulted me and told lies about me. I showed it to Neruda. In the middle of [his birthday] party, he prophesied: “You are becoming famous. I want you to know what awaits you: the more famous you are, the more you will be attacked like this. For every praise, there will be two or three insults. I myself have a chest full of all the insults, villainies, and infamies a man is capable of withstanding. I wasn’t spared a single one: thief, pervert, traitor, thug, cuckold . . . everything! If you become famous, you will have to go through that.” Neruda told the truth; his prognosis came absolutely true. I not only have a chest, but several suitcases full of articles that contain every insult known to man.
INTERVIEWER
Auden was concerned that the quality of the English language be preserved, and he hoped to help to do that with his writing.
Primo LEVI
I think it’s nonsense. Do you think that Ausonius should have written in Burgundian? . . . Ausonius is an excellent Latin poet, who was surrounded by what he regarded as barbarous Burgundians who put butter in their hair, a characteristic that he thought foul. What he chose to do was write lovely pale imitations of Virgil. Highly successful. In a kind of Latin that almost nobody was speaking then. Few people could have appreciated how good he was. Should he have learned a Germanic language, or Burgundian? Perhaps. I’m just trying to say that whoever you are, you’ve got to start from where you are. If you’re a sailor, and only know sailor’s language, well, write in it, for God’s sake.
INTERVIEWER
So many of your books, like The Rat, The Flounder, From the Diary of a Snail or Dog Years, center on an animal. Is there some special reason for that?
Gunter GRASS
Perhaps. I have always felt we speak too much about human beings. This world is crowded with humans, but also with animals, birds, fish and insects. They were here before we were and they will still be here should the day come when there are no more human beings. There is one difference between us: in our museums we have the bones of the dinosaurs, enormous animals that lived for many millions of years. And when they died, they died in a very clean way. No poison at all. Their bones are very clean. We can see them. This will not happen with human beings. When we die there will be a terrible breath of poison. We must learn that we are not alone on the earth. The Bible teaches a bad lesson when it says that man has dominion over the fish, the fowl, the cattle and every creeping thing. We have tried to conquer the earth, with poor results.
INTERVIEWER
You’ve said that you didn’t think your books could be written in the world that existed before the Kennedy assassination.
Don DELILLO
Our culture changed in important ways. And these changes are among the things that go into my work. There’s the shattering randomness of the event, the missing motive, the violence that people not only commit but seem to watch simultaneously from a disinterested distance. Then the uncertainty we feel about the basic facts that surround the case–number of gunmen, number of shots and so on. Our grip on reality has felt a little threatened. Every revelation about the event seems to produce new levels of secrecy, unexpected links, and I guess this has been part of my work, the clandestine mentality–how ordinary people spy on themselves, how the power centers operate and manipulate. Our postwar history has seen tanks in the streets and occasional massive force. But mainly we have the individual in the small room, the nobody who walks out of the shadows and changes everything.
INTERVIEWER
You [think] that not only should a writer have enemies but that he should actually cultivate them?
Camilo JOSE CELA
Yes, so that they help him move up the ladder. I would love to be able to say what a certain powerful Spanish general of the nineteenth century once said. He was regent, a captain general, and president of the government. When he was on his deathbed, the priest who served as his confessor said, “General, do you forgive your enemies?” And the general responded, “No, no, I don’t have any enemies.” “But General,” the priest exclaimed, “what do you mean you don’t have any enemies after holding the positions of power that you have held?” The general responded, “No, I don’t have any enemies because I’ve brought them all before the firing squad.” I would love to be able to say the same thing, but no, I haven’t had the strength to do so. I’m just a poor, simple man, no?
INTERVIEWER
Have you ever been bored?
Italo CALVINO
Yes, in my childhood. But it must be pointed out that childhood boredom is a special kind of boredom. It is a boredom full of dreams, a sort of projection into another place, into another reality. In adulthood, boredom is made of repetition, it is the continuation of something from which we are no longer expecting any surprise. And I . . . would that I had time to get bored today! What I do have is the fear of repeating myself in my literary work. This is the reason that every time I must come up with a new challenge to face, I must find something to do that will look like a novelty, something a little beyond my capabilities.
INTERVIEWER
Your energy and variety of output is astonishing. One hesitates to talk about death, but it is a subject you tackle in your poetry. Is it because poetry, like love, is a way of transcending death?
Ives BONNEFOY
Death is what conceptual language represents negatively, like a hole, a void, but poetic speech can invert this, make it positive. I agree with you. Since thanks to poetry the world is closer, and its unity more perceptible, we feel more part of that unity: like the leaf of a tree, even if it falls off the branch, in an instant that is eternal. So what is death? But I have to add that all this is true only in theory. Poetry would be just that–transcending death–if it were not inaccessible; we can only try to approach it.
INTERVIEWER
Can a successful therapy ever be . . . closely allied to a reading of Freud?
Harold BLOOM
I take it that a successful therapy is an oxymoron.
INTERVIEWER
It’s always interminable?
Harold BLOOM
I do not know anyone who has ever benefited from Freudian or any other mode of analysis, except by being, to use the popular trope for it, so badly shrunk, that they become quite dried out. That is to say, all passion spent. Perhaps they become better people, but they also become stale and uninteresting people with very few exceptions. Like driedcheese, or wilted flowers.
INTERVIEWER
Some artists put such an emphasis on their work, on creating something that will last, that they put it before everything else. That line by Faulkner–“The ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”
Woody ALLEN
I hate when art becomes a religion. I feel the opposite. When you start putting a higher value on works of art than people, you’re forfeiting your humanity. There’s a tendency to feel the artist has special privileges, and that anything’s okay if it’s in the service of art. I tried to get into that in Interiors. I always feel the artist is much too revered: it’s not fair and it’s cruel. It’s a nice but fortuitous gift–like a nice voice or being leftThat you can create is a kind of nice accident. It happens to have high value in society, but it’s not as noble an attribute as courage. I find funny and silly the pompous kind of selfimportant talk about the artist who takes risks. Artistic risks are like showrisks–laughable.
INTERVIEWER
You seem to shun literary society. Why?
John UPDIKE
I don’t, do I? Here I am, talking to you. In leaving New York in 1957, I did leave without regret the literary demimonde of agents and would’be's and with-it nonparticipants; this world seemed unnutritious and interfering. Hemingway described literary New York as a bottle full of tapeworms trying to feed on each other. When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas. I think of the books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a countryish teenboy finding them, and having them speak to him.
INTERVIEWER
The supernatural keeps cropping up in practically everything you write, particularly your short stories. Why this strong concern with the supernatural? Do you personally believe in the supernatural?
Isaac Bashevis SINGER
Absolutely. The reason why it always comes up is because it is always on my mind. I don’t know if I should call myself a mystic, but I feel always that we are surrounded by powers, by mysterious powers, which play a great part in everything we are doing. I would say that telepathy and clairvoyance play a part in every love story. Even in business. In everything human beings are doing. For thousands of years people used to wear woolen clothes and when they took them off at night they saw sparks. I wonder what these people thought thousands of years ago of these sparks they saw when they took off their woolen clothes? I am sure that they ignored them and the children asked them, “Mother what are these sparks?” And I am sure the mother said, “You imagine them!” People must have been afraid to talk about the sparks . . . [but] we know now that they were real, and that what was behind these sparks was what drives our industry today.
INTERVIEWER
How come you’ve never written about Jesus? You’ve written about Buddha. Wasn’t Jesus a great guy too?
KEROUAC
I’ve never written about Jesus? In other words, you’re an insane phony who comes to my house . . . and . . . all I write about is Jesus. I am Everhard Mercurian, General of the Jesuit Army.
SAROYAN
What’s the difference between Jesus and Buddha?
KEROUAC
That’s a very good question. There is no difference.
SAROYAN
No difference?
KEROUAC
But there is a difference between the original Buddha of India, and the Buddha of Vietnam who just shaves his hair and puts on a yellow robe and is a communist agitating agent. The original Buddha wouldn’t even walk on young grass so that he wouldn’t destroy it. He was born in Gorakhpur, the son of the consul of the invading Persian hordes. And he was called Sage of the Warriors, and he had seventeen thousand broads dancing for him all night, holding out flowers, saying you want to smell it, my lord? He says Git outta here you whore. He laid a lot of them you know.
Do you think success can be damaging for a writer, not only as a distraction but because it could make him seek out easy options and compromises?
Eugen IONESCO
It depends on how you use it. I detest and despise success, yet I cannot do without it. I am like a drug addict if nobody talks about me for a couple of months I have withdrawal symptoms. It is stupid to be hooked on fame, because it is like being hooked on corpses. After all, the people who come to see my plays, who create my fame, are going to die. But you can stay in society and be alone, as long as you can be detached from the world. This is why I don’t think I have ever gone for the easy option or done things that were expected of me. I have the vanity to think that every play I have written is different from the previous ones.
INTERVIEWER
You insist in [your] early works on the natural inequality of human beings, but at the same time you lean toward socialism. How do you reconcile your social egalitarianism with the rather snobbish idea of an “aristoi” or elite few set apart from the many?
John FOWLES
This is something of an eternal torment, or split, in my life. The idea of an elite few is, of course, nowadays something no one likes to declare a belief in. On the other hand I am absolutely sure that it is a biological, if you like Darwinian, truth. So I am torn between this “cruel” but necessary truth: that some–perhaps most strikingly in the arts and sciences–are clearly better endowed or adapted than the others, and then by that other, kinder truth which asks equality and equal justice for society as a whole. In general I confess I much prefer the company of reasonably intelligent and educated people. . . .
INTERVIEWER
How long did it take you to get rid of that feeling [of persecution mania] once you landed in Austria?
Joseph BRODSKY
It’s still around, you’re cautious. In your writing, in your exchanges with people, meeting people who are in Russian affairs, Russian literature, et cetera. Because it’s all penetrated, not necessarily by the direct agents of State Security, but by those people who can be used for that.
INTERVIEWER
What do you think generally about the writer engagé? Should a writer be involved in politics, as you are?
Gore VIDAL
It depends on the writer. Most American writers are not much involved, beyond signing petitions. They are usually academics—and cautious. Or full-time literary politicians. Or both. The main line of our literature is quotidian with a vengeance. Yes, many great novels have been written about the everyday—Jane Austen and so on. But you need a superb art to make that sort of thing interesting. So, failing superb art, you’d better have a good mind and you’d better be interested in the world outside yourself. D. H. Lawrence wrote something very interesting about the young Hemingway. Called him a brilliant writer. But he added he’s essentially a photographer and it will be interesting to see how he ages because the photographer can only keep on taking pictures from the outside. One of the reasons that the gifted Hemingway never wrote a good novel was that nothing interested him except a few sensuous experiences like killing things and fucking—interesting things to do but not all that interesting to write about. This sort of artist runs into trouble very early on because all he can really write about is himself and after youth that self—unengaged in the world—is of declining interest. Admittedly, Hemingway chased after wars, but he never had much of anything to say about war, unlike Tolstoy or even Malraux. I think that the more you know the world and the wider the net you cast in your society, the more interesting your books will be, certainly the more interested you will be.
INTERVIEWER
Do you think that the picture of personal threat which is sometimes presented on your stage is troubling in a larger sense, a political sense, or doesn’t this have any relevance?
Harold PINTER
I don’t feel myself threatened by any political body or activity at all. I like living in England. I don’t care about political structures–they don’t alarm me, but they cause a great deal of suffering to millions of people . . . I’ll tell you what I really think about politicians. The other night I watched some politicians on television talking about Vietnam. I wanted very much to burst through the screen with a flamethrower and burn their eyes out and their balls off and then inquire from them how they would assess this action from a political point of view.
INTERVIEWER
What are you trying to show?
Louis-Ferdinand CELINE
Emotion. Savy, the biologist, said something appropriate: In the beginning there was emotion, and the verb wasn’t there at all. When you tickle an amoeba she withdraws, she has emotion, she doesn’t speak but she does have emotion. A baby cries, a horse gallops. Only us, they’ve given us the verb. That gives you the politician, the writer, the prophet. The verb’s horrible. You can’t smell it. But to get to the point where you can translate this emotion, that’s a difficulty no one imagines. . . . It’s ugly. . . . It’s superhuman. . . . It’s a trick that’ll kill a guy.
INTERVIEWER
Is there an ideal audience that you write for?
Saul BELLOW
I have in mind another human being who will understand me. I count on this. Not on perfect understanding, which is Cartesian, but on approximate understanding, which is Jewish. And on a meeting of sympathies, which is human. But I have no ideal reader in my head, no. Let me just say this, too. I seem to have the blind selfacceptance of the eccentric who can’t conceive that his eccentricities are not clearly understood.
INTERVIEWER
There is still quite a lot of violent anti-bourgeois England in your early things.
Lawrence DURRELL
I think part of it I may have got from my heroes of that time–Lawrence, as I said, and Aldington, and so on–but it’s more than just a fashionable thing. I think that, as I say, in England, living as if we are not part of Europe, we are living against the grain of what is nourishing to our artists, do you see? There seems to be an ingrown psychological thing about it, I don’t know why it is. You can see it reflected even in quite primitive ways like this market business now–the European Common Market. It’s purely psychological, the feeling that we are too damned superior to join this bunch of continentals in anything they do.
INTERVIWER
Your intention is just to describe?
Jorge Luis BORGES
I describe. I write. Now as for the color yellow, there is a physical explanation of that. When I began to lose my sight, the last color I saw was yellow, because it is the most vivid of colors. That’s why you have the Yellow Cab Company in the United States. At first they thought of making the cars scarlet. Then somebody found out that at night or when there was a fog that yellow stood out in a more vivid way. . . . Now when I began to lose my eyesight, when the world began to fade away from me, there was a time among my friends . . . well, they poked fun at me because I was always wearing yellow neckties. Then they thought I really liked yellow although it really was too glaring. I said, “Yes, to you, but not to me, because it is the only color I can see, practically!” I live in a grey world, rather like the silver screen world. But yellow stands out.
INTERVIEWER
Have the humanities failed to humanize? Do you still believe that literary education may ironically foster political cruelty and barbarism?
George STEINER
Nazism, communism, Stalinism have convinced me of this central paradox: bookishness–bookishness, that old English word, it’s a good one–bookishness, highest literacy, every technique of cultural propaganda and training not only can accompany bestiality and oppression and despotism but at certain points foster it. We are trained our whole life long in abstraction, in the fictive, and we develop a certain power–allegedly a power–to identify with the fictive, to teach it, to deepen it (how many children has Lady Macbeth?). Then we go into the street and there’s a scream and it has a strange unreality. The image I want to use is this: I’ve been to a very good movie early in the afternoon. It’s a bright sunny day. When I walk out of the movie into the sunshine of the city afternoon, I have very often a feeling of nausea, of a disequilibrium which is nauseating. It takes seconds, minutes, sometimes longer for me to focus again on reality.
INTERVIEWER
Yeats said famously that one must choose between the life and the work. Do you think that is true?
Susan SONTAG
As you know, he actually said that one must choose between perfection of the life and perfection of the work. Well, writing is a life–a very peculiar one. Of course, if by life you mean life with other people, Yeats’s dictum is true. Writing requires huge amounts of solitude. What I’ve done to soften the harshness of that choice is that I don’t write all the time. I like to go out–which includes traveling; I can’t write when I travel. I like to talk. I like to listen. I like to look and to watch. Maybe I have an Attention Surplus Disorder. The easiest thing in the world for me is to pay attention.
INTERVIEWER
Critics have said you have two types of heroes–one who fights against order and one who accepts it–and that the conflict between these two types is at the center of your books.
Claude SIMON
One must pose this type of question to philosophers. I am a novelist. One last time: What interests me is not the why of things but the how.
INTERVIEWER
So you don’t consider yourself a philosopher?
Claude SIMON
Certainly not. I did not even take philosophy in high school. I studied mathematics. In general, I distrust philosophy. Plato recommended chasing poets from the city; the “great” Heidegger was a Nazi; Lukacs was a Communist and J.P. Sartre wrote: “Any antiCommunist is a dog. “
INTERVIEWER
Do you have any idea what the end of a play is going to be when you begin?
Sam SHEPARD
I hate endings, just detest them. Beginnings are definitely the most exciting, middles are perplexing and endings are a disaster.
INTERVIEWER
A significant strain in your work is didactic, and I don’t mean in the pejorative sense. For instance, the title of one of your books is An Explanation of America.
Robert PINSKY
Advice and instruction have always fascinated me, partly because of their pathos–so little is transmitted in any given instance of advice or pedagogy. On the one hand, there’s the idea of the quest, that wisdomis noble. On the other, the figure of the advisor or schoolmaster is nearly always comic; even Aristotle becomes comic once he is the schoolmaster to Alexander. I think of An Explanation of America not as didactic, itself, but as a weird experiment in that vulnerable enterprise of explaining or instructing. And of thinking about the future, straining to imagine it.
INTERVIEWER
Will the poet always be the permanent dissident?
Octavio PAZ
Yes. We have all won a great battle in the defeat of the Communist bureaucracies by themselves–and that’s the important thing: they were defeated by themselves and not by the West. But that’s not enough. We need more social justice. Freesocieties produce unjust and very stupid societies. I don’t believe that the production and consumption of things can be the meaning of human life. All great religions and philosophies say that human beings are more than producers and consumers. We cannot reduce our lives to economics. If a society without social justice is not a good society, a society without poetry is a society without dreams, without words, and, most importantly, without that bridge between one person and another that poetry is. We are different from the other animals because we can talk, and the supreme form of language is poetry. If society abolishes poetry it commits spiritual suicide.
INTERVIEWER
I’d like to read you a sentence from A Way in the World: “It was that idea of the absurd never far away from us that preserved us. It was the other side of that anger and the passion that made the crowd burn the black policeman. . . .” It reminds me of the humor in your early books about Trinidad and the other side of that humor–hysteria–in the books that followed.
V.S. NAIPAUL
It’s very curious, isn’t it–the same people who burned a policeman alive would dance and sing and tell a funny story about it.
INTERVIEWER
I was particularly struck by the word us–your inclusion of yourself in that situation.
V.S. NAIPAUL
It was in Port of Spain. It has to be us because one is growing up in that atmosphere. It was our idea of the absurd, which comes out in the calypso–it’s African, this idea of the absurd. It is something in late life I have come to understand–the hysteria and the sense of the absurd.
INTERVIEWER
Do you feel, as Eliot did, that poetry is an escape from personality?
CZESLAW MILOSZ
This has been a constant problem for me. Literature is born out of a desire to be truthful–not to hide anything and not to present oneself as somebody else. Yet when you write there are certain obligations, what I call laws of form. You cannot tell everything. Of course, it’s true that people talk too much and without restraint. But poetry imposes certain restraints. Nevertheless, there is always the feeling that you didn’t unveil yourself enough. A book is finished and appears and I feel, Well, next time I will unveil myself. And when the next book appears, I have the same feeling. And then your life ends, and that’s it.
INTERVIEWER
Is there a moment in one of your plays that you really didn’t know was there?
David MAMET
Yes. I wrote this play called Bobby Gould in Hell. Greg Mosher did it on a double bill with a play by Shel Silverstein over at Lincoln Center. Bobby Gould is consigned to Hell, and he has to be interviewed to find out how long he’s going to spend there. The Devil is called back from a fishing trip to interview Bobby Gould. And so the Devil is there, the Assistant Devil is there and Bobby Gould. And the Devil finally says to Bobby Gould, “You’re a very bad man.” And Bobby Gould says, “Nothing’s black and white.” And the Devil says, “Nothing’s black and white, nothing’s black and white–what about a panda? What about a panda, you dumb fuck! What about a fucking panda!” And when Greg directed it, he had the assistant hold up a picture of a panda, kind of pan it 180 degrees to the audience at the Vivian Beaumont Theater. That was the best moment I’ve ever seen in any of my plays.
INTERVIEWER
What about the role of religion in [your work]? Is faith in God the path to true happiness, as the sheikh suggests? Is Sufism the answer the criminal is looking for?
Naguib MAHFOUZ
The Sheikh rejects life as we know it. The criminal, on the other hand, is trying to solve his immediate problems. They are in two different worlds. I love Sufism as I love beautiful poetry, but it is not the answer. Sufism is like a mirage in the desert. It says to you, come and sit, relax and enjoy yourself for a while. I reject any path which rejects life, but I can’t help loving Sufism because it sounds so beautiful . . . it gives relief in the midst of battle . . .
INTERVIEWER
You mention Neruda among the writers you admire. You were his friend. What was he like?
Mario Vargas LLOSA
Neruda adored life. He was wild about everything, painting, art in general, books, rare editions, food, drink. Eating and drinking were almost a mystical experience for him. A wonderfully likable man, full of vitality–if you forget his poems in praise of Stalin, of course. He lived in a nearworld, where everything led to his rejoicing, his sweettoothed exuberance for life. . . . I still remember what he told me then; something that has proven to be a great truth over the years. An article at the time–I can’t remember what it was about–had upset and irritated me because it insulted me and told lies about me. I showed it to Neruda. In the middle of [his birthday] party, he prophesied: “You are becoming famous. I want you to know what awaits you: the more famous you are, the more you will be attacked like this. For every praise, there will be two or three insults. I myself have a chest full of all the insults, villainies, and infamies a man is capable of withstanding. I wasn’t spared a single one: thief, pervert, traitor, thug, cuckold . . . everything! If you become famous, you will have to go through that.” Neruda told the truth; his prognosis came absolutely true. I not only have a chest, but several suitcases full of articles that contain every insult known to man.
INTERVIEWER
Auden was concerned that the quality of the English language be preserved, and he hoped to help to do that with his writing.
Primo LEVI
I think it’s nonsense. Do you think that Ausonius should have written in Burgundian? . . . Ausonius is an excellent Latin poet, who was surrounded by what he regarded as barbarous Burgundians who put butter in their hair, a characteristic that he thought foul. What he chose to do was write lovely pale imitations of Virgil. Highly successful. In a kind of Latin that almost nobody was speaking then. Few people could have appreciated how good he was. Should he have learned a Germanic language, or Burgundian? Perhaps. I’m just trying to say that whoever you are, you’ve got to start from where you are. If you’re a sailor, and only know sailor’s language, well, write in it, for God’s sake.
INTERVIEWER
So many of your books, like The Rat, The Flounder, From the Diary of a Snail or Dog Years, center on an animal. Is there some special reason for that?
Gunter GRASS
Perhaps. I have always felt we speak too much about human beings. This world is crowded with humans, but also with animals, birds, fish and insects. They were here before we were and they will still be here should the day come when there are no more human beings. There is one difference between us: in our museums we have the bones of the dinosaurs, enormous animals that lived for many millions of years. And when they died, they died in a very clean way. No poison at all. Their bones are very clean. We can see them. This will not happen with human beings. When we die there will be a terrible breath of poison. We must learn that we are not alone on the earth. The Bible teaches a bad lesson when it says that man has dominion over the fish, the fowl, the cattle and every creeping thing. We have tried to conquer the earth, with poor results.
INTERVIEWER
You’ve said that you didn’t think your books could be written in the world that existed before the Kennedy assassination.
Don DELILLO
Our culture changed in important ways. And these changes are among the things that go into my work. There’s the shattering randomness of the event, the missing motive, the violence that people not only commit but seem to watch simultaneously from a disinterested distance. Then the uncertainty we feel about the basic facts that surround the case–number of gunmen, number of shots and so on. Our grip on reality has felt a little threatened. Every revelation about the event seems to produce new levels of secrecy, unexpected links, and I guess this has been part of my work, the clandestine mentality–how ordinary people spy on themselves, how the power centers operate and manipulate. Our postwar history has seen tanks in the streets and occasional massive force. But mainly we have the individual in the small room, the nobody who walks out of the shadows and changes everything.
INTERVIEWER
You [think] that not only should a writer have enemies but that he should actually cultivate them?
Camilo JOSE CELA
Yes, so that they help him move up the ladder. I would love to be able to say what a certain powerful Spanish general of the nineteenth century once said. He was regent, a captain general, and president of the government. When he was on his deathbed, the priest who served as his confessor said, “General, do you forgive your enemies?” And the general responded, “No, no, I don’t have any enemies.” “But General,” the priest exclaimed, “what do you mean you don’t have any enemies after holding the positions of power that you have held?” The general responded, “No, I don’t have any enemies because I’ve brought them all before the firing squad.” I would love to be able to say the same thing, but no, I haven’t had the strength to do so. I’m just a poor, simple man, no?
INTERVIEWER
Have you ever been bored?
Italo CALVINO
Yes, in my childhood. But it must be pointed out that childhood boredom is a special kind of boredom. It is a boredom full of dreams, a sort of projection into another place, into another reality. In adulthood, boredom is made of repetition, it is the continuation of something from which we are no longer expecting any surprise. And I . . . would that I had time to get bored today! What I do have is the fear of repeating myself in my literary work. This is the reason that every time I must come up with a new challenge to face, I must find something to do that will look like a novelty, something a little beyond my capabilities.
INTERVIEWER
Your energy and variety of output is astonishing. One hesitates to talk about death, but it is a subject you tackle in your poetry. Is it because poetry, like love, is a way of transcending death?
Ives BONNEFOY
Death is what conceptual language represents negatively, like a hole, a void, but poetic speech can invert this, make it positive. I agree with you. Since thanks to poetry the world is closer, and its unity more perceptible, we feel more part of that unity: like the leaf of a tree, even if it falls off the branch, in an instant that is eternal. So what is death? But I have to add that all this is true only in theory. Poetry would be just that–transcending death–if it were not inaccessible; we can only try to approach it.
INTERVIEWER
Can a successful therapy ever be . . . closely allied to a reading of Freud?
Harold BLOOM
I take it that a successful therapy is an oxymoron.
INTERVIEWER
It’s always interminable?
Harold BLOOM
I do not know anyone who has ever benefited from Freudian or any other mode of analysis, except by being, to use the popular trope for it, so badly shrunk, that they become quite dried out. That is to say, all passion spent. Perhaps they become better people, but they also become stale and uninteresting people with very few exceptions. Like driedcheese, or wilted flowers.
INTERVIEWER
Some artists put such an emphasis on their work, on creating something that will last, that they put it before everything else. That line by Faulkner–“The ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”
Woody ALLEN
I hate when art becomes a religion. I feel the opposite. When you start putting a higher value on works of art than people, you’re forfeiting your humanity. There’s a tendency to feel the artist has special privileges, and that anything’s okay if it’s in the service of art. I tried to get into that in Interiors. I always feel the artist is much too revered: it’s not fair and it’s cruel. It’s a nice but fortuitous gift–like a nice voice or being leftThat you can create is a kind of nice accident. It happens to have high value in society, but it’s not as noble an attribute as courage. I find funny and silly the pompous kind of selfimportant talk about the artist who takes risks. Artistic risks are like showrisks–laughable.
INTERVIEWER
You seem to shun literary society. Why?
John UPDIKE
I don’t, do I? Here I am, talking to you. In leaving New York in 1957, I did leave without regret the literary demimonde of agents and would’be's and with-it nonparticipants; this world seemed unnutritious and interfering. Hemingway described literary New York as a bottle full of tapeworms trying to feed on each other. When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas. I think of the books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a countryish teenboy finding them, and having them speak to him.
INTERVIEWER
The supernatural keeps cropping up in practically everything you write, particularly your short stories. Why this strong concern with the supernatural? Do you personally believe in the supernatural?
Isaac Bashevis SINGER
Absolutely. The reason why it always comes up is because it is always on my mind. I don’t know if I should call myself a mystic, but I feel always that we are surrounded by powers, by mysterious powers, which play a great part in everything we are doing. I would say that telepathy and clairvoyance play a part in every love story. Even in business. In everything human beings are doing. For thousands of years people used to wear woolen clothes and when they took them off at night they saw sparks. I wonder what these people thought thousands of years ago of these sparks they saw when they took off their woolen clothes? I am sure that they ignored them and the children asked them, “Mother what are these sparks?” And I am sure the mother said, “You imagine them!” People must have been afraid to talk about the sparks . . . [but] we know now that they were real, and that what was behind these sparks was what drives our industry today.
INTERVIEWER
How come you’ve never written about Jesus? You’ve written about Buddha. Wasn’t Jesus a great guy too?
KEROUAC
I’ve never written about Jesus? In other words, you’re an insane phony who comes to my house . . . and . . . all I write about is Jesus. I am Everhard Mercurian, General of the Jesuit Army.
SAROYAN
What’s the difference between Jesus and Buddha?
KEROUAC
That’s a very good question. There is no difference.
SAROYAN
No difference?
KEROUAC
But there is a difference between the original Buddha of India, and the Buddha of Vietnam who just shaves his hair and puts on a yellow robe and is a communist agitating agent. The original Buddha wouldn’t even walk on young grass so that he wouldn’t destroy it. He was born in Gorakhpur, the son of the consul of the invading Persian hordes. And he was called Sage of the Warriors, and he had seventeen thousand broads dancing for him all night, holding out flowers, saying you want to smell it, my lord? He says Git outta here you whore. He laid a lot of them you know.
Festivalul „George Enescu“ la „ridicarea cortinei“
Anca FLOREA (din Observator cultural)
Asteptat ca o adevarata sarbatoare a muzicii, Festivalul Enescu a debutat duminica seara sub semnul omagierii maestrului care, in urma cu o jumatate de veac, a intrat in nemurire. Spoturi publicitare (in sfirsit si la TV Mezzo), afise, banere, numeroase articole au prefatat aceasta a XVII-a editie. Deschidere la care au fost prezenti presedintele
Traian Basescu, primul ministru Calin Popescu Tariceanu si alti numerosi oameni de cultura.
Cuvintul de deschidere rostit de presedintele de onoare Ioan Holender a fost urmat de creionarea concisa a personalitatii lui Enescu de catre ministrul Culturii, compozitorul Adrian Iorgulescu, cel care a realizat si programul muzical, in interpretarea Filarmonicii bucurestene sub bagheta dirijorului Horia Andreescu, program cuprinzind opusuri enesciene – Rapsodia I si Simfonia I – incadrind Triplul concert de Beethoven, solisti fiind violoncelistul Alexander Rudin, violonistul Dmitri Sitkovetski – un nume binecunoscut, dar care a dezamagit prin stridenta sunetului si lipsa totala de implicare expresiva – si pianista Brigitte Engerer, cu un tuseu rotund, dar cu un discurs fara relief. O colaborare cu un asemenea trio inegal valoric si greu de omogenizat a devenit astfel extrem de dificila pentru orchestra care a reusit totusi sa realizeze un suport echilibrat. Daca, in Rapsodie, contururile, temele si planurile contrastante nu au avut pregnanta si mai ales stralucirea dorite (poate si pentru ca instrumentistii sustineau primul concert dupa vacanta), Simfonia a rasunat mult mai dinamic, mai dens ca ideatica si cu un plus de anvergura (fiind, cu siguranta, mult mai „lucrata“ la repetitii), astfel incit aplauzele publicului au determinat oferirea unui bis consistent – Rapsodia II de Enescu, interpretata in tonuri calde, cu fluenta si frazare eleganta.
- Controversata sonorizare a Salii Palatului
Mult discutata si controversata sonorizare a Salii Palatului nu a mai generat surprize neplacute, dar probabil spaima unor excese de intensitate a determinat o estompare „vatuita“ din cauza careia parte dintre solo-urile suflatorilor (de altfel excelent realizate) abia s-au auzit si, in general, am avut sentimentul unei desfasurari orchestrale „in miniatura“, desi gestica ampla si solicitanta a dirijorului „spunea“ cu totul altceva.
Chiar din prima zi, Muzeul Enescu a gazduit vernisarea unei expozitii care, sub genericul Portrete din arhiva muzeului, alatura fotografii ale muzicianului din diverse perioade ale existentei sale, dar si figura sa atit de expresiva surprinsa in desene de Silvan Ionescu, Fortuna Brulez, Rodica Ciocirdel-Teodorescu, apoi Kern Daisy, Iuri Leonidovici Katz, H. Dimitriu, Gruia, Sean Cosmovici, picturi de F. Coman, Horea Cucerzan, Dragos Morarescu, nelipsind binecunoscutul tablou semnat de Corneliu Baba, infatisindu-l pe Enescu in frac, tinind vioara in mina, intr-o atitudine parca usor obosita. Am descoperit cu uimire, pe verso, un text de Mihail Jora scris direct pe pinza, in romana si franceza, descriind poetic acea imagine devenita simbol: „Cu capul plecat, adus putin de spate, el calca tot spre public, privindu-l ca din vis cu acea cautare adinca ce-l infatiseaza pe iluminatul ce stapineste si farmeca fiintele care-l apropie. Paseste ca pe o apa intinsa, parind ca vrea sa treaca peste capetele auditorului ascunse in umbra salii“.
Despre conceptul expozitiei, dar mai ales despre cele sase partituri enesciene inedite (cuprinzind miniaturi pentru pian sau vioara, inclusiv citeva Capricii de Paganini in „aranjament“ cu pian) lansate cu acel prilej, editate de Muzeul Enescu in colaborare cu Institutul Cultural Roman in ingrijirea violonistului Sherban Lupu, au vorbit pianista Ilinca Dumitrescu, directorul Muzeului, Tania Radu, vice-presedintele Institutului Cultural, prof. univ. dr. Grigore Constantinescu si criticul de arta Adrian Silvan Ionescu. In final, muzicologul Viorel Cosma si-a prezentat noul volum George Enescu – concertul de adio care, punctind demersurile facute de autoritatile romane si de Uniunea Compozitorilor pentru a-l convinge pe Enescu, la inceputul anilor ’50, sa revina in tara, precum si ultimele sale clipe de viata, alatura, in cele 286 de pagini, articole, ginduri si comentarii aparute in presa noastra, dar si in strainatate referitor la stingerea din viata a eminentului artist. Publicat la Editura „Fintina lui Manole“ din Rimnicu Vilcea, volumul ofera si citeva fotografii binecunoscute, precum si imagini ale cladirilor unde a locuit in acei ani de suferinta, masca mortuara, mulajul miinilor sale etc.
- Publicul s-a reintilnit cu „cel mai iubit copil“ al lui Enescu
A doua zi, la Opera Nationala din Bucuresti, publicul s-a reintilnit cu „cel mai iubit copil“ al lui Enescu – Oedip –, in versiunea regizata in 2003, la precedenta editie a Festivalului, de catre Petrica Ionescu, distributia propusa de teatru de aceasta data suferind insa o serie de modificari fata de premiera. Rolul principal a fost interpretat de Essa Ruutunen, bas-bariton finlandez care, in 2001, a debutat in dificilul rol pe aceeasi scena, reluindu-l apoi la Staatsoper Viena cu un deosebit succes. Cei care l-au reascultat luni seara au apreciat profesionalismul cu care abordeaza partitura, sobrietatea si evitarea exceselor in jocul de scena, melomanii incercind sa depaseasca senzatia de „glas batrinesc“ si de „cint pe coarda“, poate prea mult in forta, ultimul act aducind insa momente de sensibilitate frumos rezolvate.
Parteneri i-au fost Horia Sandu (Tiresias), Iordache Basalic (Creon), Florin Diaconescu (Pastorul), Stefan Schuller (Marele Preot), Pompeiu Harasteanu (Phorbas), Mihnea Lamatic (Strajerul), Mihai Lazar (Teseu), Gabriel Nastase (Laios), Gabriela Dragusin (Iocasta), Ecaterina Sutu (Sfinxul), Simonida Lutescu (Antigona), Adriana Alexandru (Meropa), Sidonia Nica (O tebana), Francisc Valkay (Batrinul orb), evoluind pe coordonatele obisnuite, cu acuratete si onestitate. La pupitru s-a aflat dirijorul Michael Boder, invitat de asemenea de la Opera vieneza, coordonind cu precizie relatia solisti-cor-orchestra, ansamblul sunind dens, unitar si in general incisiv in secventele de forta dramatica sau transparent in momentele de lirism, desi intensitatile „tari“ au dominat intreg spectacolul care ne-a convins ca, desi este prezentat doar in festivaluri sau la inceput de stagiune (din motive pe care le-am comentat anterior), isi pastreaza structura compacta, in decorurile si costumele somptuoase, completate de fum, artificii, jocuri de lumina etc., oferind o versiune de poveste a operei Oedip care, in acea seara, a fost aplaudata de un public destul de numeros, dar si de artisti de ieri si de azi care au dat cindva o stralucire inegalabila Operei bucurestene.
- Argentinian tango si o solista ce amintea de Edith Piaf si Marlene Dietrich
Inainte de ridicarea cortinei, la ONB s-a lansat volumul George Enescu – destinul unui geniu scris de Mihai Cosma. Editie bilingva, cartea este o prezentare „pe intelesul tuturor“ a vietii si creatiei enesciene. Intr-un format aparte si o grafica eleganta, insotit de fotografii, textul devine un fel de „prefata“ a CD-ului ce-l insoteste (explicind astfel si formatul simpatic, dar atipic), incluzind inregistrari istorice cu George Enescu in ipostaza de compozitor si de interpret – cele doua Rapsodii (cu Filarmonica dirijate de George Georgescu in 1942), aria Sfinxului din Oedip (solista Zenaida Pally, cintind in compania Orchestrei Operei dirijata de Mihai Brediceanu), apoi fragmente din Suita I dirijate chiar de Enescu la pupitrul aceleiasi Filarmonici bucurestene, apoi Sonatele nr. 2 si 3 pentru pian si vioara (maestrul cintind alaturi de pianistul Dinu Lipatti), secvente din Suita pentru pian op. 3 interpretata de autor si trei partituri de Bach in care ascultatorii il pot (re)descoperi pe Enescu din nou in ipostaza de violonist. Aparut la Editura Muzicala, volumul reprezinta o reverenta in fata memoriei maestrului, dar si o propunere pentru tinerii care doresc sa se apropie si sa inteleaga personalitatea sa complexa.
Dar dupa-amiaza, la Sala Mare a Teatrului National s-a derulat spectacolul Argentinian tango in care protagonista – mezzosoprana Julia Migenes –, asteptata cu nerabdare si curiozitate de publicul care a facut ca sala sa devina neincapatoare, a cintat (cu microfon) piese de Astor Piazzolla, acompaniata de o formatie instrumentala corecta dar fada, atmosfera apasatoare, tristetea impinsa pina la tragism punindu-si amprenta inca din prima clipa. Totul s-a desfasurat intr-o maniera ce amintea de Edith Piaf sau de Marlene Dietrich, cu scurte momente de canto clasic (iesite total din context). Solista a dorit sa aduca un omagiu Argentinei, tangoul propriu-zis concretizindu-se doar in doua dansuri alaturi de un partener prezentabil, dar cam fara nerv, foarte tehnic si capabil sa faca – minute intregi – combinatii ale unor „panglici cu bile“ mai apropiate de jongleriile de circ.
Chiar daca a trecut de mult de virsta tineretii, Julia Migenes arata bine, are temperament, mai are si glas, asa ca ne-am fi asteptat la un show de neuitat – nicidecum la o istorie a suferintelor si a dictaturii sau a frumusetilor tarii sud-americane, punctata cu citate din Piazzolla sau Evita, cu arborarea steagului national etc. Surprins, rezervat, contrariat, publicul a reactionat foarte diferit, dar la final aplauzele au fost indelungi, unii au oferit flori, altii au fost chiar incintati, ceea ce in fond este cel mai important intr-un festival care se adreseaza unui public cit mai larg. Sincer vorbind, cred ca vestitul musical Evita de Andrew Lloyd Weber era mai putin pate-tic-melodramatic si mai aproape de un asemenea subiect care, oricum, nu prea avea de ce sa se intituleze Argentinian tango. Am asteptat un „foc de artificii“ si am plecat tensionati si deprimati – cine si-ar fi imaginat ca seducatoarea Carmencita din filmul care, cu un deceniu in urma, a facut atitea „valuri“ ne va oferi un program de o asemenea factura, mai apropiat de un monolog actoricesc presarat cu „muzici“ nu foarte diferite intre ele?
- Duminica si luni, Zubin Mehta va dirija Filarmonica din Israel
Cine nu a reusit sa vada spectacolul cu Oedip, il poate urmari si in 9 septembrie, dar cu Stefan Ignat in rolul titular, iar cei care isi doresc sa asculte Bach se pot bucura din plin de interpretarea rafinata a Suitelor, conferita de King's’Consort in aceeasi seara, sub cupola Ateneului, in „nocturnele“ de la ora 22,00 (seara urmatoare propunind Concertele brandemburgice). In weekend, muzica romaneasca va fi „vedeta“ in matineu, la Sala Radio, in dupa-amiaza de simbata speram ca baritonul Jose Van Dam sa ne ofere un regal de lied, seara il vom aplauda pe rebelul Nigel Kennedy – un violonist care merita vazut (mai ales ca, pe linga programul anuntat, va interpreta si Concertul in re minor pentru vioara si orchestra de Bach), iar duminica la ora 16.00 vom afla, in Gala laureatilor de la Ateneu, cine sint cistigatorii Concursului – sectiunile pian, vioara si compozitie. Si, daca va era dor de Zubin Mehta, il veti aplauda cu siguranta in serile de duminca si luni, la pupitrul Filarmonicii din Israel. Dar despre toate acestea, in „episodul“ viitor…
Asteptat ca o adevarata sarbatoare a muzicii, Festivalul Enescu a debutat duminica seara sub semnul omagierii maestrului care, in urma cu o jumatate de veac, a intrat in nemurire. Spoturi publicitare (in sfirsit si la TV Mezzo), afise, banere, numeroase articole au prefatat aceasta a XVII-a editie. Deschidere la care au fost prezenti presedintele
Traian Basescu, primul ministru Calin Popescu Tariceanu si alti numerosi oameni de cultura.
Cuvintul de deschidere rostit de presedintele de onoare Ioan Holender a fost urmat de creionarea concisa a personalitatii lui Enescu de catre ministrul Culturii, compozitorul Adrian Iorgulescu, cel care a realizat si programul muzical, in interpretarea Filarmonicii bucurestene sub bagheta dirijorului Horia Andreescu, program cuprinzind opusuri enesciene – Rapsodia I si Simfonia I – incadrind Triplul concert de Beethoven, solisti fiind violoncelistul Alexander Rudin, violonistul Dmitri Sitkovetski – un nume binecunoscut, dar care a dezamagit prin stridenta sunetului si lipsa totala de implicare expresiva – si pianista Brigitte Engerer, cu un tuseu rotund, dar cu un discurs fara relief. O colaborare cu un asemenea trio inegal valoric si greu de omogenizat a devenit astfel extrem de dificila pentru orchestra care a reusit totusi sa realizeze un suport echilibrat. Daca, in Rapsodie, contururile, temele si planurile contrastante nu au avut pregnanta si mai ales stralucirea dorite (poate si pentru ca instrumentistii sustineau primul concert dupa vacanta), Simfonia a rasunat mult mai dinamic, mai dens ca ideatica si cu un plus de anvergura (fiind, cu siguranta, mult mai „lucrata“ la repetitii), astfel incit aplauzele publicului au determinat oferirea unui bis consistent – Rapsodia II de Enescu, interpretata in tonuri calde, cu fluenta si frazare eleganta.
- Controversata sonorizare a Salii Palatului
Mult discutata si controversata sonorizare a Salii Palatului nu a mai generat surprize neplacute, dar probabil spaima unor excese de intensitate a determinat o estompare „vatuita“ din cauza careia parte dintre solo-urile suflatorilor (de altfel excelent realizate) abia s-au auzit si, in general, am avut sentimentul unei desfasurari orchestrale „in miniatura“, desi gestica ampla si solicitanta a dirijorului „spunea“ cu totul altceva.
Chiar din prima zi, Muzeul Enescu a gazduit vernisarea unei expozitii care, sub genericul Portrete din arhiva muzeului, alatura fotografii ale muzicianului din diverse perioade ale existentei sale, dar si figura sa atit de expresiva surprinsa in desene de Silvan Ionescu, Fortuna Brulez, Rodica Ciocirdel-Teodorescu, apoi Kern Daisy, Iuri Leonidovici Katz, H. Dimitriu, Gruia, Sean Cosmovici, picturi de F. Coman, Horea Cucerzan, Dragos Morarescu, nelipsind binecunoscutul tablou semnat de Corneliu Baba, infatisindu-l pe Enescu in frac, tinind vioara in mina, intr-o atitudine parca usor obosita. Am descoperit cu uimire, pe verso, un text de Mihail Jora scris direct pe pinza, in romana si franceza, descriind poetic acea imagine devenita simbol: „Cu capul plecat, adus putin de spate, el calca tot spre public, privindu-l ca din vis cu acea cautare adinca ce-l infatiseaza pe iluminatul ce stapineste si farmeca fiintele care-l apropie. Paseste ca pe o apa intinsa, parind ca vrea sa treaca peste capetele auditorului ascunse in umbra salii“.
Despre conceptul expozitiei, dar mai ales despre cele sase partituri enesciene inedite (cuprinzind miniaturi pentru pian sau vioara, inclusiv citeva Capricii de Paganini in „aranjament“ cu pian) lansate cu acel prilej, editate de Muzeul Enescu in colaborare cu Institutul Cultural Roman in ingrijirea violonistului Sherban Lupu, au vorbit pianista Ilinca Dumitrescu, directorul Muzeului, Tania Radu, vice-presedintele Institutului Cultural, prof. univ. dr. Grigore Constantinescu si criticul de arta Adrian Silvan Ionescu. In final, muzicologul Viorel Cosma si-a prezentat noul volum George Enescu – concertul de adio care, punctind demersurile facute de autoritatile romane si de Uniunea Compozitorilor pentru a-l convinge pe Enescu, la inceputul anilor ’50, sa revina in tara, precum si ultimele sale clipe de viata, alatura, in cele 286 de pagini, articole, ginduri si comentarii aparute in presa noastra, dar si in strainatate referitor la stingerea din viata a eminentului artist. Publicat la Editura „Fintina lui Manole“ din Rimnicu Vilcea, volumul ofera si citeva fotografii binecunoscute, precum si imagini ale cladirilor unde a locuit in acei ani de suferinta, masca mortuara, mulajul miinilor sale etc.
- Publicul s-a reintilnit cu „cel mai iubit copil“ al lui Enescu
A doua zi, la Opera Nationala din Bucuresti, publicul s-a reintilnit cu „cel mai iubit copil“ al lui Enescu – Oedip –, in versiunea regizata in 2003, la precedenta editie a Festivalului, de catre Petrica Ionescu, distributia propusa de teatru de aceasta data suferind insa o serie de modificari fata de premiera. Rolul principal a fost interpretat de Essa Ruutunen, bas-bariton finlandez care, in 2001, a debutat in dificilul rol pe aceeasi scena, reluindu-l apoi la Staatsoper Viena cu un deosebit succes. Cei care l-au reascultat luni seara au apreciat profesionalismul cu care abordeaza partitura, sobrietatea si evitarea exceselor in jocul de scena, melomanii incercind sa depaseasca senzatia de „glas batrinesc“ si de „cint pe coarda“, poate prea mult in forta, ultimul act aducind insa momente de sensibilitate frumos rezolvate.
Parteneri i-au fost Horia Sandu (Tiresias), Iordache Basalic (Creon), Florin Diaconescu (Pastorul), Stefan Schuller (Marele Preot), Pompeiu Harasteanu (Phorbas), Mihnea Lamatic (Strajerul), Mihai Lazar (Teseu), Gabriel Nastase (Laios), Gabriela Dragusin (Iocasta), Ecaterina Sutu (Sfinxul), Simonida Lutescu (Antigona), Adriana Alexandru (Meropa), Sidonia Nica (O tebana), Francisc Valkay (Batrinul orb), evoluind pe coordonatele obisnuite, cu acuratete si onestitate. La pupitru s-a aflat dirijorul Michael Boder, invitat de asemenea de la Opera vieneza, coordonind cu precizie relatia solisti-cor-orchestra, ansamblul sunind dens, unitar si in general incisiv in secventele de forta dramatica sau transparent in momentele de lirism, desi intensitatile „tari“ au dominat intreg spectacolul care ne-a convins ca, desi este prezentat doar in festivaluri sau la inceput de stagiune (din motive pe care le-am comentat anterior), isi pastreaza structura compacta, in decorurile si costumele somptuoase, completate de fum, artificii, jocuri de lumina etc., oferind o versiune de poveste a operei Oedip care, in acea seara, a fost aplaudata de un public destul de numeros, dar si de artisti de ieri si de azi care au dat cindva o stralucire inegalabila Operei bucurestene.
- Argentinian tango si o solista ce amintea de Edith Piaf si Marlene Dietrich
Inainte de ridicarea cortinei, la ONB s-a lansat volumul George Enescu – destinul unui geniu scris de Mihai Cosma. Editie bilingva, cartea este o prezentare „pe intelesul tuturor“ a vietii si creatiei enesciene. Intr-un format aparte si o grafica eleganta, insotit de fotografii, textul devine un fel de „prefata“ a CD-ului ce-l insoteste (explicind astfel si formatul simpatic, dar atipic), incluzind inregistrari istorice cu George Enescu in ipostaza de compozitor si de interpret – cele doua Rapsodii (cu Filarmonica dirijate de George Georgescu in 1942), aria Sfinxului din Oedip (solista Zenaida Pally, cintind in compania Orchestrei Operei dirijata de Mihai Brediceanu), apoi fragmente din Suita I dirijate chiar de Enescu la pupitrul aceleiasi Filarmonici bucurestene, apoi Sonatele nr. 2 si 3 pentru pian si vioara (maestrul cintind alaturi de pianistul Dinu Lipatti), secvente din Suita pentru pian op. 3 interpretata de autor si trei partituri de Bach in care ascultatorii il pot (re)descoperi pe Enescu din nou in ipostaza de violonist. Aparut la Editura Muzicala, volumul reprezinta o reverenta in fata memoriei maestrului, dar si o propunere pentru tinerii care doresc sa se apropie si sa inteleaga personalitatea sa complexa.
Dar dupa-amiaza, la Sala Mare a Teatrului National s-a derulat spectacolul Argentinian tango in care protagonista – mezzosoprana Julia Migenes –, asteptata cu nerabdare si curiozitate de publicul care a facut ca sala sa devina neincapatoare, a cintat (cu microfon) piese de Astor Piazzolla, acompaniata de o formatie instrumentala corecta dar fada, atmosfera apasatoare, tristetea impinsa pina la tragism punindu-si amprenta inca din prima clipa. Totul s-a desfasurat intr-o maniera ce amintea de Edith Piaf sau de Marlene Dietrich, cu scurte momente de canto clasic (iesite total din context). Solista a dorit sa aduca un omagiu Argentinei, tangoul propriu-zis concretizindu-se doar in doua dansuri alaturi de un partener prezentabil, dar cam fara nerv, foarte tehnic si capabil sa faca – minute intregi – combinatii ale unor „panglici cu bile“ mai apropiate de jongleriile de circ.
Chiar daca a trecut de mult de virsta tineretii, Julia Migenes arata bine, are temperament, mai are si glas, asa ca ne-am fi asteptat la un show de neuitat – nicidecum la o istorie a suferintelor si a dictaturii sau a frumusetilor tarii sud-americane, punctata cu citate din Piazzolla sau Evita, cu arborarea steagului national etc. Surprins, rezervat, contrariat, publicul a reactionat foarte diferit, dar la final aplauzele au fost indelungi, unii au oferit flori, altii au fost chiar incintati, ceea ce in fond este cel mai important intr-un festival care se adreseaza unui public cit mai larg. Sincer vorbind, cred ca vestitul musical Evita de Andrew Lloyd Weber era mai putin pate-tic-melodramatic si mai aproape de un asemenea subiect care, oricum, nu prea avea de ce sa se intituleze Argentinian tango. Am asteptat un „foc de artificii“ si am plecat tensionati si deprimati – cine si-ar fi imaginat ca seducatoarea Carmencita din filmul care, cu un deceniu in urma, a facut atitea „valuri“ ne va oferi un program de o asemenea factura, mai apropiat de un monolog actoricesc presarat cu „muzici“ nu foarte diferite intre ele?
- Duminica si luni, Zubin Mehta va dirija Filarmonica din Israel
Cine nu a reusit sa vada spectacolul cu Oedip, il poate urmari si in 9 septembrie, dar cu Stefan Ignat in rolul titular, iar cei care isi doresc sa asculte Bach se pot bucura din plin de interpretarea rafinata a Suitelor, conferita de King's’Consort in aceeasi seara, sub cupola Ateneului, in „nocturnele“ de la ora 22,00 (seara urmatoare propunind Concertele brandemburgice). In weekend, muzica romaneasca va fi „vedeta“ in matineu, la Sala Radio, in dupa-amiaza de simbata speram ca baritonul Jose Van Dam sa ne ofere un regal de lied, seara il vom aplauda pe rebelul Nigel Kennedy – un violonist care merita vazut (mai ales ca, pe linga programul anuntat, va interpreta si Concertul in re minor pentru vioara si orchestra de Bach), iar duminica la ora 16.00 vom afla, in Gala laureatilor de la Ateneu, cine sint cistigatorii Concursului – sectiunile pian, vioara si compozitie. Si, daca va era dor de Zubin Mehta, il veti aplauda cu siguranta in serile de duminca si luni, la pupitrul Filarmonicii din Israel. Dar despre toate acestea, in „episodul“ viitor…
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