Московски метро

Kiyevsskaya Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Arbatskaya Metro Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Mayakovskaya Station, Moscow, Russia, 2014Prospekt Mira Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Taganskaya Metro Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015 Novoslobodskaya Metro Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Komsomolskaya Metro Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015Belorusskaya Station, Moscow, Russia, 2015

Све станице које сте могли видети на приложеним фотографијама налазе се у Москви. Називи станица су:

1. Ки́евская
2. Арба́тская
3. Маяковская
4. Проспе́кт Ми́ра
5. Тага́нская
6. Новослобо́дская
7. Комсомо́льская
8. Белору́сская

Фотографије начинио Дејвид Бурдени током 2014. и 2015. године. Овај фотограф рођен је у Канади 1968. године. Студирао је архитектуру и унутрашњи дизајн, што је судећи према његовим фотографијама уочљиво. Интересовање за форму и архитектуру не изостаје у његовом прецизном и строгом формалном приступу.

Метро станице нисмо навикли да гледамо као палате, оне су производ модерног доба, касног 19. века, са великим развојем у 20. веку. Московски метро у том смислу, упркос својој непорецивој лепоти, изгледа анахроно јер производи осећај као да је грађен крајем 18. или током 19. века. У питању је неокласицистички архитектонски образац из тридесетих година 20. века.

Московски метро отворен је 1935. године. Дужина тадашњих линија износила је 11 километара, метро је имао 13 станица. До 2018. године московски метро имао је 224 станице и руту дугу 381 километар. Овај метро спада у пет најдужих на свету. Најдубља возна секција је 84 метра под земљом. Московским метроом дневно се превезе у просеку 6.99 милиона људи а 26. децембра 2014. године метроом се превезло чак 9.71 миллион људи!

Николај Васиљев, историчар архитектуре, у интервјуу за онлајн магазин City Lab, на питање о неокласицистичком изгледу московског метроа рекао је следеће: 

The first order of construction was primarily designed in a Soviet version of Art Deco, with some remains of avant-garde forms. Parts of the second and third orders, which opened in 1938 and 1943, are like this as well. Stations built from that point until the end of the 1950s can be described as Neoclassical with Empire-style motifs, usually for post-war projects treated as war memorials. These make up a little less than a quarter of the total stations in the system, but they are the most visited ones in the center and main line interchanges. Only 44 of total 214 stations are listed as historical monuments, including a few from the ‘50s and nothing since.

Poezija posvećena grčkoj boginji Persefoni

Kore from the Acropolis, 6th century BCE, marble. New Acropolis Museum, Athens.


Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be;
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell, – Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, „My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here.“



Where we go when he closes my eyes
and under what country:
some blue darkness, farther than hell;
a landscape of absence and root and stone.
There are no bodies here,
we dream shapeless dreams –
a constant, cloudless storm.

Mother, I’ll never wake up from him,
I have already traveled too far.
My mouth is the color of his mouth
and his arms are no longer his arms;
they’re mute as smoke, as my first white dress,
and the spear of his name, once ferocious,
dissolves on my tongue
like sugar, like birdsong, I whisper it:



I asked Persephone,

„How could you grow to love him?
He took you from flowers to a kingdom
where not a single living thing can grow.“

Persephone smiled,

„My darling, every flower on your earth withers.
What Hades gave me was a crown
made for the immortal flowers in my bones.“



When Hades decided he loved this girl
he built for her a duplicate of earth,
everything the same, down to the meadow,
but with a bed added.

Everything the same, including sunlight,
because it would be hard on a young girl
to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness

Gradually, he thought, he’d introduce the night,
first as the shadows of fluttering leaves.
Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars.
Let Persephone get used to it slowly.
In the end, he thought, she’d find it comforting.

A replica of earth
except there was love here.
Doesn’t everyone want love?

He waited many years,
building a world, watching
Persephone in the meadow.
Persephone, a smeller, a taster.
If you have one appetite, he thought,
you have them all.

Doesn’t everyone want to feel in the night
the beloved body, compass, polestar,
to hear the quiet breathing that says
I am alive, that means also
you are alive, because you hear me,
you are here with me. And when one turns,
the other turns.

That’s what he felt, the lord of darkness,
looking at the world he had
constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind
that there’d be no more smelling here,
certainly no more eating.

Guilt? Terror? The fear of love?
These things he couldn’t imagine;
no lover ever imagines them.

He dreams, he wonders what to call this place.
First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden.
In the end, he decides to name it
Persephone’s Girlhood.

A soft light rising above the level meadow,
behind the bed. He takes her in his arms.
He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you

but he thinks
this is a lie, so he says in the end
you’re dead, nothing can hurt you
which seems to him
a more promising beginning, more true.



You bring the light clasped round you, and although
I knew you’d bring it, knew it as I waited,
Knew as you’d come that you’d come cloaked in light
I had forgotten what light meant, and so
This longed for moment, so anticipated,
I stand still, dazzled by my own delight.

I see you, and you see me, and we smile
And your smile says you are as pleased as me
With everything and nothing still to say
All that we’ve saved and thought through all this time
Boils down to affirmation now as we
Stand here enlightened in my realm of grey.

Cerberus wags his solitary tail,
And though the dust of Hell lies round our feet
Your flowers are already sprouting through.
“You came,” “I said I would,” “You didn’t fail,”
“And you’re still here,” “Of course. We said we’d meet.”
“Yes,” “Yes!” “You’re really here! “And so are you!”

We don’t say yet that you will have to go
And Hell return inevitably black
Your flowers fade when parted from your tread
Though this is something we both surely know,
As certain as you come, you must go back,
And I remain alone among the dead.

They say I snatched you from the world above
Bound you with pomegranates, cast a spell
Bribed you with architecture. It’s not so.
Friendship is complicated, life is, love,
Your work the growing world, my task is Hell
You come back always, always have to go.

But here and now, this moment, we can smile,
Speak and be heard, this moment we can share
And laugh, and help each other to be great,
And talk aloud together, all worthwhile,
Our work, our worlds, and all we really care,
Each word shines golden, each thought worth the wait.

And Hell’s poor souls whirl round us as they glide
Off up to Lethe to begin again,
On to new lives, new dawns beyond Hell’s night.
We walk among your flowers, side by side,
Such joys we share are worth a little pain.
You come back. And you always bring the light.



One narcissus among the ordinary beautiful
flowers, one unlike all the others! She pulled,
stooped to pull harder—
when, sprung out of the earth
on his glittering terrible
carriage, he claimed his due.
It is finished. No one heard her.
No one! She had strayed from the herd.

(Remember: go straight to school.
This is important, stop fooling around!
Don’t answer to strangers. Stick
with your playmates. Keep your eyes down.)
This is how easily the pit
opens. This is how one foot sinks into the ground.

Izvor poezije: Pinterest, Poetry Foundation

Slika: Mermerna sklptura Kore (devojke), 6. vek pre nove ere, Atina.

A . A . A u antologiji „Somehow“

Novosadski dizajnerski studio Peter Gregson osmislio je koncept za časopis (antologiju) koji bi sadržao eseje, poeziju, studije, odlomke. Švajcarski proizvođač nameštaja Woak podržao je ovu ideju.

Na sajmu nameštaja u Kelnu, koji je u toku, kupci i posetioci izlagačkog prostora ovog proizvođača moći će da dobiju knjigu, u kojoj sam i ja participirala jednim tekstom. Antologija je nazvana Somehow i sadrži dvanaest priloga koji su na engleskom jeziku.

Na preporuku prijateljice napisala sam esej o holandskoj mrtvoj prirodi, slikarskom fenomenu 17. veka. Ponosna sam, zahvalna i srećna! Već osećam energiju svog nepoznatog, dalekog čitaoca. Esej ću uskoro objaviti i na blogu, na srpskom jeziku, u okviru serije tekstova pod nazivom Barok nedeljom.

Isprva sam za potrebe antologije napisala dva eseja, od kojih je jedan prihvaćen. Drugi je, takođe, o holandskoj umetnosti 17. veka, s tim što je u fokusu tog rada prikaz egzotičnih ptica na platnima nekoliko holandskih i flamanskih slikara toga doba. Taj rad ću objaviti, isto tako, u okviru serije objava pod nazivom Barok nedeljom

Zamislila sam četri eseja kao četri različita platna u tamnoj sobi. Bio je to moj mali, privatni muzej. U formi tetraptiha bih holandsku umetnost zlatnog doba povezala sa istorijskim, ekonomskim i građanskim tekovinama koje su je uslovile i oblikovale. Posmatrač bi u tu sobu ušao i, krenuvši s leva na desno, kretao bi se ovako: prvo krilo tetraptiha su Rembrantovi ženski portreti, preciznije haljine Rembrantovih portretisanih. Drugo krilo su egzotične ptice u izmaštanim vrtovima koje su na ogromnim platnima bile deo enterijera prve moderne evropske građanske klase. Treće krilo je ovo o kome je reč: mrtva priroda, mnoštvo hrane i predmeta na stolovima u tamnim sobama. Četvrto krilo, još uvek „nenaslikano“, biće esej o kabinetima kurioziteta, o sobama i škrinjama mnogobrojnih ličnosti koje nalikuju Šekspirovom Prosperu. To su sobe putnika, kolekcionara i ezoterika, sakupljača, fetišista, zaljubljenika u materijalno, u predmete, ali ne u onakve kakve viđamo na platnima mrtve prirode, već bizarne, neobične, „kuriozitetne“. Sobe pune prepariranih životinja, korala, lobanja, predmeta iz prirode, ali odvojenih iz svog prirodnog staništa i stavljenih u potpuno novi kontekst.

Esej o haljinama Rembrantovih portretisanih je objavljen na blogu A . A . A. Sledeći na redu za objavljivanje, u okviru pomenute serije Barok nedeljom, jeste esej o egzotičnim pticama. Zatim ću objaviti ovaj esej o mrtvoj prirodi (na srpskom jeziku, samo za ovu priliku je objavljen na engleskom) i, najzad, esej o kabinetima kurioziteta koji ću, u međuvremenu, napisati. On će se poklopiti sa mojim doktorskim istraživanjima koja se tiču nekih Šekspirovih drama, naročito „Bure“.

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Intervju: Silvija Plat i Ted Hjuz

Intervju naslovljen Two of a Kind: Poets in Partnership snimljen je 18. januara 1961. godine, a emitovan 31. januara iste godine. BBC novinar bio je Oven Liming. Ovaj interesantan razgovor može doprineti razumevanju odnosa dva pesnika, ali i razumevanju pojedinačnih stvaralačkih ličnosti kao što su bili Silvija Plat i Ted Hjuz.


Dajana Midlbruk, autorka knjige Her Husband: Hughes and Plath – A Marriage (2003), piše da su fotografije nastale u trenutku kada je par imao raspravu pa su rezultat prekinutih čarki kojima je prisustvovao fotograf Hans Beham.

Fotografije su nastale 25. jula 1960. godine u okviru projekta za portfolio koji je trebalo da predstavi savremene britanske autore. Fotograf je kasnije čitav susret ovako opisao:

Bili su neraspoloženi. Hjuz je bio grub. Želeo je da privuče više pažnje od Silvije. Njoj se to nije dopalo. U jednom trenutku pozvao me je napolje i rekao mi da on prezire fotografe. Hjuz je nekako želeo da Platovu drži po strani. Ipak, prema njegovoj želji, fotografisao sam ih zajedno.

Hans Beham se ponovo susreo sa Hjuzom, nakon nekoliko godina od opisanog događaja, kada mu je pesnik priznao da su oboje tom prilikom bili poprilično zlovoljni, a da se on sam ponašao „svirepo“.

Džon Boven o romanu „Orkanski visovi“


Profesor engleske književnosti, Džon Boven, o kome je bilo reči u tekstu O tri engleska gotik romana ovoga puta govori o elementima specifičnog prostora koji se uklapa u gotski senzibilitet romana Orkanski visovi. O romanu sam pisala i ja, iz ugla teme kojom se već dugo bavim, a koja se tiče različitih oblika koje junaci dati kao putnici u književnosti 18. i 19. veka zadobijaju. Tim povodom pisala sam o Hitklifu, junaku romana Emili Bronte, u tekstu pod nazivom Putnik Hitklif.

Na sajtu The British Library piše:

Professor John Bowen considers Emily Brontë’s combination of fantasy and reality in Wuthering Heights and the way in which fairy tale and Gothic elements „haunt the edges“ of the novel.

O tri engleska gotik romana

Ova objava donosi dva znanja: jedno je profesora Džona Bovena o ključnim motivima gotik žanra, izloženog kroz priloženi video, kratak uvod o fenomenu književnosti nastale u 18. veku; drugo je profesora Džona Mulana koje je izloženo u pisanom obliku. Odlomci priloženi u nastavku objave, kao i fotografije prvih izdanja knjiga, preuzete su sa sajta British Library i nalaze se u okviru članka The Origins of the Gothic koji je napisao profesor Džon Mulan.

Odlomci na engleskom jeziku deo su pomenutog teksta i ukratko opisuju neke od osnovnih odlika prvih gotskih romana koji su se pojavili u Engleskoj sredinom 18. veka. U pitanju su dela „Zamak Otranto“ Horasa Volpola, „Misterije Udolfa“ En Redklif i „Monah“ Metju Luisa. U Mulanovom tekstu pominju se i drugi romani koji pripadaju tradiciji gotskog žanra poput dela „Northangerska opatija Džejn Ostin, „Frankenštajn“ Meri Šeli, „Orkanski visovi“ Emili Bronte, kao i kasnije napisanim knjigama – „Velika očekivanja“ Čarlsa Dikensa, „Drakula“ Brema Stokera ili „Doktor Džekil i mister Hajd“ R. L. Stivensona.

Generally regarded as the first Gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto was first published in 1764. Its author is Horace Walpole (1717-97), but it purports to be a translation of a work printed in Naples in 1529 and newly discovered in the library of ‘an ancient Catholic family in the north of England’. The novel relates the history of Manfred, the prince of Otranto, who is keen to secure the castle for his descendants in the face of a mysterious curse. At the beginning of the work Manfred’s son, Conrad, is crushed to death by an enormous helmet on the morning of his wedding to the beautiful princess Isabella. Faced with the extinction of his line, Manfred vows to divorce his wife and marry the terrified Isabella himself. The novel had a major effect on the reading public throughout Europe, with the poet Thomas Gray commenting to Walpole that it made ‘some of us cry a little, and all in general afraid to go to bed o’nights.’

The Mysteries of Udolpho is a Gothic novel by Ann Radcliffe, published in 1794. It was one of the most popular novels of the late 18th and early 19th centuries. It was then and continues to be widely regarded as a key text in the development of the Gothic genre.

The Mysteries of Udolpho is set in France and Italy in the late 16th century. The main character is Emily St. Aubert, a beautiful and virtuous young woman. When her father dies, the orphaned Emily goes to live with her aunt. Her aunt’s husband, an Italian nobleman called Montoni, tries to force Emily to marry his friend. Montoni is a typical Gothic villain. He is violent and cruel to his wife and Emily, and locks them in his castle. Eventually Emily escapes, and the novel ends happily with Emily’s marriage to the man she loves.

Like other Gothic novels, The Mysteries of Udolphocontains ruined castles, beautiful countryside, a virtuous heroine and a villain. There are a number of strange occurrences in the novel which seem to be supernatural, but which are revealed to have rational explanations. This too is a common theme in Gothic novels, although other examples of the genre (such as Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto and Matthew Lewis’s The Monk) do feature the genuinely supernatural.

Matthew Lewis’s novel The Monk (1796) marked a turning point in the history of Gothic literature. With its emphasis firmly on the horrific and the shocking, the book moved Gothic away from the gentle terrors of earlier authors such as Horace Walpole and, instead, confronted readers with an onslaught of horror in the form of spectral bleeding nuns, mob violence, murder, sorcery and incest. Unsurprisingly the book met with outrage and condemnation from critics. Equally unsurprisingly it was hugely popular with the public.

With its twin themes of erotic obsession and the corrupting influence of power, The Monk deals with important issues and contains moments of impressive psychological insight. At heart, however, it remains a morality tale about one man’s fall from grace through greed, pride and lust.

Izvor: British Library

Gotski roman na blogu A . A . A

Klavirski virtuoz Frederik Šopen

Listova muzika opčinjava duh a Šopenova govori srcu. Ako inspiracija kod jednog ne ide uvek u korak sa čudnom lakoćom izražavanja, kod drugog ona nikad ne izneverava. Rođen u Želazova-Volja, kod Varšave, 1810. godine, Frederik je po ocu poreklom Francuz. Virtuoz od svoje osme godine, on preduzima, kao List turneje koncerata po Evropi. Napušta Varšavu 1830. i odlazi u Pariz, gde ga primaju oni koji zapažaju u njemu više nego običan talenat. Posećuje Lista, Berlioza, Hajnea, Majerbera, i radije izvodi svoja dela u užem krugu publike. Posle jednog putovanja u Drezden, gde se upoznaje s Marijom Vodžinskom, koju ne može da dobije za ženu, on odlazi u Lajpcig, gde nalazi u Klari Vik idealnog interpretatora svojih dela. Zaljubljuje se u Žorž Sand (1836) sa kojom odlazi da provede zimu na Balearskim ostrvima. Ali Šopen, nagrižen bolešću koja ne oprašta, vraća se samo još više bolestan. Ljubavnici žive u Parizu, ili u Noanu, do dana raskida (1847). Posle putovanja u Englesku i Škotsku, Šopen se vraća u Pariz, i tu, sasvim zahvaćen tuberkulozom, umire ubrzo (1849).

Njegova klavirska dela odaju brižnog umetnika koji pati. Nesumnjivo je da se u njima mogu naći mnogobrojne reminiscencije iz njegovog rodnog kraja, izvesna slovenska nostalgija, ritam u osnovi poljski. Ali ima i nečeg više: prisna veza između umetnika, sanjalice, i njegovog omiljenog instrumenta, klavira. Čovek čija je osetljivost neobično utančana crpe iz svoje ljubavi prema Sandovoj stvaralačke snage koje mu inspirišu najslavnija dela: Etide, Preludije, Sonate, Balade, Berseze, dva Koncerta. Romantičar po imaginaciji, neki put klasičar po oblicima koje obrađuje, često inspirisan igrom, ovaj pesnik klavira govori svojim jezikom, sa osetljivošću i prefinjenošću tako ličnom da njegovo celokupno delo, kao kod Baha ili Mocarta, dostiže od prve krajnju granicu lepote. Ima u njegovim Valcerima, Mazurkama, Polonezama, onoliko poezije koliko i u njegovim Impromptima, Nokturnima. Svaka etida, svaki preludij sačinjava jedan potpun i savršen svet. Emocija je izvor njegove umetnosti, a zvučan izraz je njen krajnji cilj. Izrazita melodija, sa svojom osobenom figuracijom, novim ukrasima, koji zahvataju često više oktava, veoma retko osećanje za modulaciju, izvesna tendencija da se insistira na nekom motivu na kome pisac voli da se zadržava, arpeđirani akordi, to su karakteristične osobine ove muzike, u isto vreme i bujne i prijatne, diskretne i strasne, čežnjive i snažne, koja nosi pečat genijalnosti.


I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.

U nastavku sledi jedno pismo poljskog kompozitora, na engleskom, upućno nepoznatoj osobi koje otkriva umetnikov senzibilitet, uklopiv u raspoloženja romantičarskih junaka. Ovi crteži, zajedno sa prepiskom i mazurkama, predstavljaju kuriozitet za istraživanje ovog umetničkog i intelektualnog pokreta, ali i za ljubitelje klasične muzike.

Poetski citat na početku koji je floberovski, ako smem impresionistički da ostavim svoj utisak, a bez odgovarajućih dokaza, svedoči o odnosu umetnika i njegovog instrumenta. Za pisca je to papir, za pijanistu klavir, za slikara platno, za skulptora kamen ili glina. Tako klavir postaje dnevnički zapisnik, najbliži poverenik, deo tela.

How strange! This bed on which I shall lie has been slept on by more than one dying man, but today it does not repel me! Who knows what corpses have lain on it and for how long? But is a corpse any worse than I? A corpse too knows nothing of its father, mother or sisters or Titus. Nor has a corpse a sweetheart. A corpse, too, is pale, like me. A corpse is cold, just as I am cold and indifferent to everything. A corpse has ceased to live, and I too have had enough of life….

Why do we live on through this wretched life which only devours us and serves to turn us into corpses? The clocks in the Stuttgart belfries strike the midnight hour. Oh how many people have become corpses at this moment! Mothers have been torn from their children, children from their mothers – how many plans have come to nothing, how much sorrow has sprung from these depths, and how much relief!…

Virtue and vice have come in the end to the same thing! It seems that to die is man’s finest action – and what might be his worst? To be born, since that is the exact opposite of his best deed. It is therefore right of me to be angry that I was ever born into this world! Why was I not prevented from remaining in a world where I am utterly useless? What good can my existence bring to anyone? …

But wait, wait! What’s this? Tears? How long it is since they flowed! How is this, seeing that an arid melancholy has held me for so long in its grip? How good it feels – and sorrowful. Sad but kindly tears! What a strange emotion! Sad but blessed. It is not good for one to be sad, and yet how pleasant it is – a strange state…

Citat: Norbert Dufourcq, Mala istorija muzike u Evropi, preveo Mirko G. Avakumović, Nardona prosvjeta, Sarajevo, 1959.

Izvor: SlikaPismo

Intervju za „Parisku reviju“: Maja Angelou

U nastavku slede neki od najzanimljivijih odlomaka iz intervjua koji je američka književnica Maja Angelou dala za časopis The Paris Review. Autor intervjua bio je Džordž Plimton, osnivač i dugo godina glavni i odgovorni urednik tog lista. Intervju je dobro polazište za otkivanje biografskih detalja i stvaralačkih rituala ove umetnice. Boca šerija, Biblija i hotelska soba neki su od neophodnih detalja pre početka rada na jeziku.


You once told me that you write lying on a made-up bed with a bottle of sherry, a dictionary, Roget’s Thesaurus, yellow pads, an ashtray, and a Bible. What’s the function of the Bible?


The language of all the interpretations, the translations, of the Judaic Bible and the Christian Bible, is musical, just wonderful. I read the Bible to myself; I’ll take any translation, any edition, and read it aloud, just to hear the language, hear the rhythm, and remind myself how beautiful English is. Though I do manage to mumble around in about seven or eight languages, English remains the most beautiful of languages. It will do anything.


When you are refreshed by the Bible and the sherry, how do you start a day’s work?


I have kept a hotel room in every town I’ve ever lived in. I rent a hotel room for a few months, leave my home at six, and try to be at work by six-thirty. To write, I lie across the bed, so that this elbow is absolutely encrusted at the end, just so rough with callouses. I never allow the hotel people to change the bed, because I never sleep there. I stay until twelve-thirty or one-thirty in the afternoon, and then I go home and try to breathe; I look at the work around five; I have an orderly dinner—proper, quiet, lovely dinner; and then I go back to work the next morning. Sometimes in hotels I’ll go into the room and there’ll be a note on the floor which says, Dear Miss Angelou, let us change the sheets. We think they are moldy. But I only allow them to come in and empty wastebaskets. I insist that all things are taken off the walls. I don’t want anything in there. I go into the room and I feel as if all my beliefs are suspended. Nothing holds me to anything. No milkmaids, no flowers, nothing. I just want to feel and then when I start to work I’ll remember. I’ll read something, maybe the Psalms, maybe, again, something from Mr. Dunbar, James Weldon Johnson. And I’ll remember how beautiful, how pliable the language is, how it will lend itself. If you pull it, it says, OK.” I remember that and I start to write. Nathaniel Hawthorne says, “Easy reading is damn hard writing.” I try to pull the language in to such a sharpness that it jumps off the page. It must look easy, but it takes me forever to get it to look so easy. Of course, there are those critics—New York critics as a rule—who say, Well, Maya Angelou has a new book out and of course it’s good but then she’s a natural writer. Those are the ones I want to grab by the throat and wrestle to the floor because it takes me forever to get it to sing. I work at the language. On an evening like this, looking out at the auditorium, if I had to write this evening from my point of view, I’d see the rust-red used worn velvet seats and the lightness where people’s backs have rubbed against the back of the seat so that it’s a light orange, then the beautiful colors of the people’s faces, the white, pink-white, beige-white, light beige and brown and tan—I would have to look at all that, at all those faces and the way they sit on top of their necks. When I would end up writing after four hours or five hours in my room, it might sound like, It was a rat that sat on a mat. That’s that. Not a cat. But I would continue to play with it and pull at it and say, I love you. Come to me. I love you. It might take me two or three weeks just to describe what I’m seeing now.


How much revising is involved?


I write in the morning and then go home about midday and take a shower, because writing, as you know, is very hard work, so you have to do a double ablution. Then I go out and shop—I’m a serious cook—and pretend to be normal. I play sane—Good morning! Fine, thank you. And you? And I go home. I prepare dinner for myself and if I have houseguests, I do the candles and the pretty music and all that. Then after all the dishes are moved away I read what I wrote that morning. And more often than not if I’ve done nine pages I may be able to save two and a half or three. That’s the cruelest time you know, to really admit that it doesn’t work. And to blue pencil it. When I finish maybe fifty pages and read them—fifty acceptable pages—it’s not too bad. I’ve had the same editor since 1967. Many times he has said to me over the years or asked me, Why would you use a semicolon instead of a colon? And many times over the years I have said to him things like: I will never speak to you again. Forever. Goodbye. That is it. Thank you very much. And I leave. Then I read the piece and I think of his suggestions. I send him a telegram that says, OK, so you’re right. So what? Don’t ever mention this to me again. If you do, I will never speak to you again. About two years ago I was visiting him and his wife in the Hamptons. I was at the end of a dining room table with a sit-down dinner of about fourteen people. Way at the end I said to someone, I sent him telegrams over the years. From the other end of the table he said, And I’ve kept every one! Brute! But the editing, one’s own editing, before the editor sees it, is the most important.


So you don’t keep a particular reader in mind when you sit down in that hotel room and begin to compose or write. It’s yourself.


It’s myself . . . and my reader. I would be a liar, a hypocrite, or a fool—and I’m not any of those—to say that I don’t write for the reader. I do. But for the reader who hears, who really will work at it, going behind what I seem to say. So I write for myself and that reader who will pay the dues. There’s a phrase in West Africa, in Ghana; it’s called “deep talk.” For instance, there’s a saying: “The trouble for the thief is not how to steal the chief’s bugle but where to blow it.” Now, on the face of it, one understands that. But when you really think about it, it takes you deeper. In West Africa they call that “deep talk.” I’d like to think I write “deep talk.” When you read me, you should be able to say, Gosh, that’s pretty. That’s lovely. That’s nice. Maybe there’s something else? Better read it again. Years ago I read a man named Machado de Assis who wrote a book called Dom Casmurro. Machado de Assis is a South American writer—black father, Portuguese mother—writing in 1865, say. I thought the book was very nice. Then I went back and read the book and said, Hmm. I didn’t realize all that was in that book. Then I read it again, and again, and I came to the conclusion that what Machado de Assis had done for me was almost a trick: he had beckoned me onto the beach to watch a sunset. And I had watched the sunset with pleasure. When I turned around to come back in I found that the tide had come in over my head. That’s when I decided to write. I would write so that the reader says, That’s so nice. Oh boy, that’s pretty. Let me read that again. I think that’s why Caged Bird is in its twenty-first printing in hardcover and its twenty-ninth in paper. All my books are still in print, in hardback as well as paper, because people go back and say, Let me read that. Did she really say that?

Full Interview

T. S. Eliot o Ezri Paundu

Intervju sa umetnikom je relevantan književni žanr. On nam može poetički i biografski, stvaralački i na nivou dnevnih rituala približiti pisca. U nastavku sledi odlomak iz intervjua koji je T. S. Eliot dao za magazin The Paris Review. Iz njega sam izdvojila deo koji se odnosi na intervenciju Ezre Paunda nad Eliotovom poemom Pusta zemlja.


Do you remember the circumstances of your first meeting with Pound?


I think I went to call on him first. I think I made a good impression, in his little triangular sitting room in Kensington. He said, “Send me your poems.” And he wrote back, “This is as good as anything I’ve seen. Come around and have a talk about them.” Then he pushed them on Harriet Monroe, which took a little time.


You have mentioned in print that Pound cut The Waste Land from a much larger poem into its present form. Were you benefited by his criticism of your poems in general? Did he cut other poems?


Yes. At that period, yes. He was a marvelous critic because he didn’t try to turn you into an imitation of himself. He tried to see what you were trying to do.


Does the manuscript of the original, uncut Waste Land exist?


Don’t ask me. That’s one of the things I don’t know. It’s an unsolved mystery. I sold it to John Quinn. I also gave him a notebook of unpublished poems, because he had been kind to me in various affairs. That’s the last I heard of them. Then he died and they didn’t turn up at the sale.


What sort of thing did Pound cut from The Waste Land? Did he cut whole sections?


Whole sections, yes. There was a long section about a shipwreck. I don’t know what that had to do with anything else, but it was rather inspired by the Ulysses canto in The Inferno, I think. Then there was another section which was an imitation Rape of the Lock. Pound said, “It’s no use trying to do something that somebody else has done as well as it can be done. Do something different.”


Did the excisions change the intellectual structure of the poem?


No. I think it was just as structureless, only in a more futile way, in the longer version.

Full Interview

Dokumentarni film o T. S. Eliotu

Dokumentarni film o američkom pesniku Tomasu Sternsu Eliotu donosi relevantan izbor podataka i vizuelnih predložaka za jednu biografsku priču koja obuhvata različite faze i na dobar način, kako to inače važi za BBC dokumentarne filmove, približava i predstavlja datu ličnost. Na sajtu BBC radija o ovom ostvarenju piše sledeće:

For the first time on television, Arena tells the whole story of the life and work of T. S. Eliot including the happiness he found in the last years of life in his second marriage. His widow Valerie Eliot has opened her personal archive, hitherto unseen, including the private scrapbooks and albums in which Eliot assiduously recorded their life together.

Arena brings an unprecedented insight into the mysterious life of one of the 20th century’s greatest poets, and re-examines his extraordinary work and its startling immediacy in the world today. Thomas Stearns Eliot materialises as banker, critic, playwright, children’s writer, churchwarden, publisher, husband and poet.

Slikarstvo Džordžije O’ Kif

Georgia O’Keeffe is much more extraordinary than even I had believed. In fact I don’t believe there has ever been anything like her. Mind and feeling very clear, spontaneous and uncannily beautiful – absolutely living every pulse beat. – Alfred Stieglitz

Američka umetnica Džordžija O’Kif (Georgia O’Keeffe) poznata je po svojim apstraktnim pejsažima, predstavljenim iz ptičije perspektive, predstavama mrtve prirode (uglavnom, reč je o talasastim oblicima cveća koji lako mogu podsetiti na spoljašnji izgled ženskih genitalija), slikama njujorških nebodera predstavljenim, za razliku od pejsaža, iz mišje perspektive (ima li simbolike, u ovom slučaju, u načinu predstavljanja, uglu iz koga se predmeti i pojave posmatraju?), po slikanju kostiju i lobanja bizona na području Novog Meksika gde je, pored Njujorka, umetnica imala svoj atelje. Takođe, Džordžija O’Kif bila je poznata i po mnogobrojnim akvarelima ženskih aktova.

Džordžija O’Kif je bila poznata kao muza i životna saputnica pionira umetnosti fotografije, Alfreda Stiglica, osnivača magazina Camera Work koji je prvi okupljao u svom studiju na Menhetnu modernističku elitu mlade Amerike. Stiglic je voleo da fotografiše Džordžijino lice koje bi bilo istaknuto neobičnim položajem njenih ruku, gordost njenog pogleda i oštrinu njene brade koju bi oči bezpogovorno podržale u ponosnom držanju. Sa njenim delom sam se susrela jednog maja kada sam kupila monografiju koja joj je bila posvećena. Kasnije, klupko se dodatno odmotalo kada sam saznala za časopis Camera Work, s obzirom na moje sve veće interesovanje za fotografiju, kao i za knjigu pisama koje su ona i Stiglic razmenjivali tokom mnogih godina njihove burne veze.

Tonight I walked into the sunset — to mail some letters — the whole sky — and there is so much of it out here — was just blazing — and grey blue clouds were riding all through the holiness of it — and the ugly little buildings and windmills looked great against it…

The Eastern sky was all grey blue — bunches of clouds — different kinds of clouds — sticking around everywhere and the whole thing — lit up — first in one place — then in another with flashes of lightning — sometimes just sheet lightning — and some times sheet lightning with a sharp bright zigzag flashing across it –. I walked out past the last house — past the last locust tree — and sat on the fence for a long time — looking — just looking at — the lightning — you see there was nothing but sky and flat prairie land — land that seems more like the ocean than anything else I know — There was a wonderful moon.

Well I just sat there and had a great time all by myself — Not even many night noises — just the wind —

It is absurd the way I love this country… I am loving the plains more than ever it seems — and the SKY — Anita you have never seen SKY — it is wonderful —

Preporuka: 1, 2, 3

Izvor citata: Brain Pickings

Umetnik i njegov pas: Emili Dikinson


Rano ustanem – Psa povedem –
U posjet moru krenem –
Iz Prizemlja su – da vide mene –
Izišle sve Sirene.

Fregate – s prvog sprata – ruke
Kudeljne ispružale –
Misleći da sam Miš nasukan –
Na pjeskovite žale –

No ne makoh se – dok mi Plima –
Cipelu prostu ne prođe –
I moju Kecelju – i moj Pojas –
I Steznik moj – takođe –

Ko da je htjelo – cijelu mene –
Da proguta ko Rosu
Što se rukavom Maslačka osu –
A potom – i ja krenem –

Išlo je za mnom – tik uz mene –
Moji Gležnjevi ćute –
Srebrnu Petu mu – a Cipele mi
Biserjem obasute –

Kod Tvrdog Grada više nikog
Znanog mu nije bilo –
Pa uz naklon – i uz mig oka –
More se povlačilo –


I started early, took my dog,
And visited the sea;
The mermaids in the basement
Came out to look at me,

And frigates in the upper floor
Extended hempen hands,
Presuming me to be a mouse
Aground, upon the sands.

But no man moved me till the tide
Went past my simple shoe,
And past my apron and my belt,
And past my bodice too,

And made as he would eat me up
As wholly as a dew
Upon a dandelion’s sleeve—
And then I started too.

And he—he followed close behind;
I felt his silver heel
Upon my ankle,—then my shoes
Would overflow with pearl.

Until we met the solid town,
No man he seemed to know;
And bowing with a mighty look
At me, the sea withdrew.


Izvor: Emili Dikinson, Poezija, preveli Jasna Levinger i Marko Vešović, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, 1988.

Source: Poetry Foundation  |  Preporuka: Robin Ekiss

Pesma pod rednim brojem 520.

Jedna pesma Meri Šeli

Mary Shelley’s handwritten poem “Absence”

Rukopis pesme “Absence” Meri Šeli


Ah! he is gone — and I alone;
How dark and dreary seems the time!
‘Tis Thus, when the glad sun is flown,
Night rushes o’er the Indian clime.

Is there no star to cheer this night
No soothing twilight for the breast?
Yes, Memory sheds her fairy light,
Pleasing as sunset’s golden west.

And hope of dawn — Oh! brighter far
Than clouds that in the orient burn;
More welcome than the morning star
Is the dear thought — he will return!

Pesma je napisana na dan smrti njenog supruga, engleskog pesnika Persija Biš Šelija. Sve se desilo u Italiji, leta 1822. godine. Posle viđanja sa Bajronom i Li Hantom, po olujnoj noći, Persi je odlučio da se čamcem vrati k svom prebivalištu. Udavio se u zalivu La Spezia koji se nalazi u severo-zapadnom delu Italije, u blizini Đenove.

„The paper fell from my hands. I trembled all over“, napisala je Meri kada je pročitala pismo Li Hanta, upućeno Persiju, koje je stiglo pre njega. Meri je pričitavši Hantovo pismo shvatila da nešto nije u redu i počela je sa potragom za Persijem. U Livornu su joj rekli da su ga videli kako u čamcu napušta obalu. Upozoravanja meštana o nadolazećoj oluji pesnik nije uzimao za ozbiljno.

Persi je Bajrona i Hanta napustio u ponedeljak a nije se pojavljivao do petka, dana kada je Meri i primila Hantovo pismo. Narednog dana joj je javljeno da su olupine nekog čamca pronađene u blizini obale, ali ne i telo. Ono je isplivalo tek nakon dve nedelje od potonuća čamca. Meri je posle ovog događaja, prethodno sudbinski najavljenog smrću njihovog deteta u Veneciji od dizenterije, septembra 1818, u pismu prijateljici napisala: „The scene of my existence is closed“.

Preporuka: British Library Blog

Prazan tron: Van Gog i sudbina umetnika 19. veka

Vinsent van Gog, "Vinsentova stolica", 1888.

Vinsent van Gog, „Vinsentova stolica“, 1888.

Vinsent van Gog, "Gogenova stolica", 1888.

Vinsent van Gog, „Gogenova stolica“, 1888.

U nastavku slede dva odlomka Inga F. Valtera, nemačkog istoričara umetnosti, rođenog 1940. godine u Berlinu, koji je poznat zahvaljujući izdavačkoj kući Taschen čija su se izdanja mogla pronaći u ovoj zemlji. U prvom odlomku, koji je na srpskom jeziku, možete pročitati Valterovo posmatranje dve čuvene Van Gogove slike koje su priložene u ovoj objavi. Drugi citat, koji je na engleskom, smešta Van Goga u istorijski kontekst i posmatra poziciju umetnika u 19. veku.

Na Vinsentove oči nestaje san o umetničkoj komuni koju je želeo da ostvari sa Gogenom. Slike njegove i Gogenove stolice (desno) iz decembra su simboli usamljenosti. Obe stolice su prazne, kao metafora odsustva umetnika i nemogućnosti međusobne komunikacije. Skromna Van Gogova stolica, sa luloom i duvanskom kesicom kao njegovim osnovnim simbolima, u kontrastu je sa nešto raskošnijom Gogenovom naslonjačom na kojoj stoje sveća i knjiga, simboli učenosti i ambicije. Van Gog je naslikao svoju stolicu žutim i ljubičastim bojama, koje su u to vreme bile znak svetlosti i nade. Nasuprot tome, Gogenovu stolicu je naslikao crvenim i zelenim kontrastima, znacima tame i beznađa. Dan i noć stoje jedan naspram drugog, kao i dva umetnika, kao predskazanje njihove budućnosti.

U nastavku sledi odlomak iz monografije posvećene delima i životu Vinsenta van Goga na osnovu koga se može obaviti pokušaj razumevanja pozicije, uloge i karakteristika mnogih umetnika 19. veka.

Yet van Gogh naturally remained a child of his age. He grew up in a century when people for the first time saw their own existence as everything, with no transcendental support system – a century that produced many odd and even self-destructive characters.

The Austrian art historian Hans Sedlmayr gives the title ‘The vacant throne’ to the final chapter of his essay in cultural criticism, „The Loss of the Centre“ [Verlust der Mitte]. Sedlmayr writes: „It must be added that the artists have been among those who suffered the most in the 19th and 20th centuries, the very people whose task it has been to render the Fall of Mann and of his world visible in their terrible visions. In the 19th century there was an altogether new type of suffering artist: the lonely, lost, despairing artist on the bank of insanity. It was type that previously only occured in isolated instances, if that. The 19th century artists, great and profound minds, often have the character of sacrificial victims, of victims who sacrifice themselves. From Hoelderlin, Goya, Friedrich, Runge and Kleist through Daumier, Stifter, Nietze and Dostoyevky to van Gogh, Strindberg and Trakl there was a line of solidarity in suffering at the hands of the times. All of them suffered frim the fact that God was remote, and ‘dead’, and Man debased.“

Van Gogh’s chairs constitute a metaphor of the crisis of the entirs century, a metaphor that correspondents to the somewhat forced pathos of Sedlmayr’s account. We cannot graspvan Gogh’s own via dolorosa, through to his fits of madness and final suicide, in isolation from the century he lived in. Van gogh’s ailment was maladie du siecle, the self-fulfilling Weltschmertz, that Sedlmayr attempts to explain by the loss of belief in God.

Izvor: Ingo F. Walther, „Van Gogh“ (Complete Paintings), Tashen, Koln, 2006.

Jedno pismo Hajnriha fon Klajsta

Hajnrih von Klajst

Hajnrih von Klajst

Hajnrih fon Klajst, jedan od najznačajnijih predstavnika nemačkog romantizma, ostao je najviše upamćen po pripovetci Mihail Kolhas i drami Pentesileja. Krajem jula 1801. Klajst je upitio pismo prijateljici Vilhelmini fon Cenge, koje ovde prenosim u prevodu na engleski jezik, gde piše o pojedincu i njegovom položaju nasuprot nužnosti(ma) života. Deset godina kasnije Klajst je sa Henrijetom Fogel izvršio samoubistvo.

Kleist’s letter to Vilhelmine von Zenge:

Whoever loves life excessively, he is already morally dead; for his highest vital power, namely his ability to sacrifice it, molders even as he cultivates it. And yet—O, how incomprehensible the will that rules over us! This enigmatic thing that has been given to us, we know not from whom; that leads us on, we know not whither; that belongs to us, we do not know with what rights of possession; a property that is worth nothing if it is worth anything at all; a thing paradoxical, shallow and deep, barren and rich, honorable and contemptible, meaningful and inscrutable, a thing that anyone might throw aside like an unintelligible book: are we not obligated by a law of Nature to love it? We must tremble at annihilation, which could not be the torment that existence often is; and while many a man bewails this sad gift of life, he must nourish it with food and drink, and protect the flame, although it affords him neither heat nor light. That sounded rather dark? Patience—it will not be always thus, and I long for the day as the stag for the river at the heat of noon, to plunge myself into it. But patience!—Patience? Can Heaven ask it of its creatures, having itself given them such hearts? *

Kubistički postupak Vilijama Foknera

Pablo Picasso - Figure dans un Fauteuil (Seated Nude, Femme nue assise), 1909-10.

Pablo Pikaso, Ženski portret, 1910.

Just as Picasso and Braque fragment their canvases in an attempt to capture the subject from many perspectives at once, Faulkner shifts his narrative voice from one character to another, surrounding the plot from all sides while interrupting its flow. – Lindsay Gellman

Nedavno sam naišla na članak Lindzi Gelman koji je objavljen u Pariskoj Reviji u kome autorka termin „sintetički kubizamn“ transponuje  sa slikarstva na literaturu. Kao što su slikari poput Braka i Pikasa kombinovali različite tehnike i materijale da bi stvorili novu perspektivu posmatranja, tako je, prema autorki, i američki pisac Vilijamn Fokner postupio u literaturi kroz narativne tokove i tehnike, stvarajući karaktere koji bi, baš kao i portreti Brakovbih i Pikasovbih figura, imali razbijenu tekstualnu strukturu. U nastavku slede neki od najzanimljivijih delova teksta Lindzi Gelman.

Faulkner himself had an eye for art and a flair for visual expression; he drew and painted as a young man. And Picasso’s (and his contemporary Georges Braque’s) cubist project resonated with him. Beginning roughly after Picasso’s revolutionary „Les Demoiselles d’Avignon in 1907 and ending about 1912, Picasso and Braque mainly produced paintings now classified as analytic cubism, representing a subject from multiple perspectives simultaneously. In May of 1912, Picasso glued a piece of oilcloth, printed with a pattern of woven chair caning, onto a canvas he had painted with a still life. Synthetic cubism—the incorporation of found objects in a work to create a modernist collage—was born. (It died two years later.)

Some critics argue that Faulkner deliberately modeled the structure of his earlier works, like „The Sound and the Fury“ and „As I Lay Dying“ along analytic-cubist lines. Just as Picasso and Braque fragment their canvases in an attempt to capture the subject from many perspectives at once, Faulkner shifts his narrative voice from one character to another, surrounding the plot from all sides while interrupting its flow. But little attention has been paid to whether Faulkner continues to trace the cubist trajectory in his later work (or, put differently, whether cubism remains a helpful interpretive framework for Faulkner’s mature fiction). Was he a synthetic cubist, too?

Albert Gleizes - Man on a Balcony (Portrait of Dr. Théo Morinaud), 1912.

Albert Gleizes,Muškarac na balkonu, 1912.

Albert Gleizes, Portrait de Jacques Nayral, 1911.

Albert Gleizes, Portret muškarca, 1911.

Intervju za „Parisku reviju“: Simon de Bovoar

Simone de Beauvoir

Simone de Beauvoir

U nastavku sledi intervju sa francuskom književnicom Simon de Bovoar čiji su priloženi delovi preuzeti iz američkog književnog časopisa Pariska revija (The Paris Review) u kome ona govori o svom univerzitetskom iskustvu, o radnim navikama, o tome da li je dobro rano objaviti knjigu, o svom doživljaju vremena i osećaju da je oduvek bila stara, o ženama kakve jesu (u njenim romanima) i ženama kakve bi trebalo da budu (Drugi pol).

Više puta sam pominjala i insistirala na činjenici da je intervju sa umetnikom veoma značajna književna forma. Ona može teorijski i kritički biti pogodna za dalju analizu umetnika i njegovog rada, ali može po sebi imati odlike umetničkog kvaliteta. Takvi su Ekermanovi razgovori sa Geteom, kao prvi u ovom žanru, a takvi su i mnogi drugi čiji je sadržaj moguće naći u brojevima pomenutog časopisa, ali i, svakako, van njega.


What do you think about college and university education for a writer? You yourself were a brilliant student at the Sorbonne and people expected you to have a brilliant career as a teacher.


My studies gave me only a very superficial knowledge of philosophy but sharpened my interest in it. I benefited greatly from being a teacher—that is, from being able to spend a great deal of time reading, writing and educating myself. In those days, teachers didn’t have a very heavy program. My studies gave me a solid foundation because in order to pass the state exams you have to explore areas that you wouldn’t bother about if you were concerned only with general culture. They provided me with a certain academic method that was useful when I wrote The Second Sex and that has been useful, in general, for all my studies. I mean a way of going through books very quickly, of seeing which works are important, of classifying them, of being able to reject those which are unimportant, of being able to summarize, to browse.


Were you a good teacher?


I don’t think so, because I was interested only in the bright students and not at all in the others, whereas a good teacher should be interested in everyone. But if you teach philosophy you can’t help it. There were always four or five students who did all the talking, and the others didn’t care to do anything. I didn’t bother about them very much.


You had been writing for ten years before you were published, at the age of thirty-five. Weren’t you discouraged?


No, because in my time it was unusual to be published when you were very young. Of course, there were one or two examples, such as Radiguet, who was a prodigy. Sartre himself wasn’t published until he was about thirty-five, when Nausea and The Wall were brought out. When my first more or less publishable book was rejected, I was a bit discouraged. And when the first version of She Came to Stay was rejected, it was very unpleasant. Then I thought that I ought to take my time. I knew many examples of writers who were slow in getting started. And people always spoke of the case of Stendhal, who didn’t begin to write until he was forty.


People say that you have great self-discipline and that you never let a day go by without working. At what time do you start?


I’m always in a hurry to get going, though in general I dislike starting the day. I first have tea and then, at about ten o’clock, I get under way and work until one. Then I see my friends and after that, at five o’clock, I go back to work and continue until nine. I have no difficulty in picking up the thread in the afternoon. When you leave, I’ll read the paper or perhaps go shopping. Most often it’s a pleasure to work.

Simone de Beauvoir

Simone de Beauvoir


Do your writer friends have the same habits as you?


No, it’s quite a personal matter. Genet, for example, works quite differently. He puts in about twelve hours a day for six months when he’s working on something and when he has finished he can let six months go by without doing anything. As I said, I work every day except for two or three months of vacation when I travel and generally don’t work at all. I read very little during the year, and when I go away I take a big valise full of books, books that I didn’t have time to read. But if the trip lasts a month or six weeks, I do feel uncomfortable, particularly if I’m between two books. I get bored if I don’t work.


In The Blood of Others and All Men Are Mortal you deal with the problem of time. Were you influenced, in this respect, by Joyce or Faulkner?


No, it was a personal preoccupation. I’ve always been keenly aware of the passing of time. I’ve always thought that I was old. Even when I was twelve, I thought it was awful to be thirty. I felt that something was lost. At the same time, I was aware of what I could gain, and certain periods of my life have taught me a great deal. But, in spite of everything, I’ve always been haunted by the passing of time and by the fact that death keeps closing in on us. For me, the problem of time is linked up with that of death, with the thought that we inevitably draw closer and closer to it, with the horror of decay. It’s that, rather than the fact that things disintegrate, that love peters out. That’s horrible too, though I personally have never been troubled by it. There’s always been great continuity in my life. I’ve always lived in Paris, more or less in the same neighborhoods. My relationship with Sartre has lasted a very long time. I have very old friends whom I continue to see. So it’s not that I’ve felt that time breaks things up, but rather the fact that I always take my bearings. I mean the fact that I have so many years behind me, so many ahead of me. I count them.


In every one of your novels we find a female character who is misled by false notions and who is threatened by madness.


Lots of modern women are like that. Women are obliged to play at being what they aren’t, to play, for example, at being great courtesans, to fake their personalities. They’re on the brink of neurosis. I feel very sympathetic toward women of that type. They interest me more than the well-balanced housewife and mother. There are, of course, women who interest me even more, those who are both true and independent, who work and create.


None of your female characters are immune from love. You like the romantic element.


Love is a great privilege. Real love, which is very rare, enriches the lives of the men and women who experience it.

Simone de Beauvoir

Simone de Beauvoir


You’ve never created an independent and really free female character who illustrates in one way or other the thesis of The Second Sex. Why?


I’ve shown women as they are, as divided human beings, and not as they ought to be.


Some people think that a longing for God underlies your works.


No. Sartre and I have always said that it’s not because there’s a desire to be that this desire corresponds to any reality. It’s exactly what Kant said on the intellectual level. The fact that one believes in causalities is no reason to believe that there is a supreme cause. The fact that man has a desire to be does not mean that he can ever attain being or even that being is a possible notion, at any rate the being that is a reflection and at the same time an existence. There is a synthesis of existence and being that is impossible. Sartre and I have always rejected it, and this rejection underlies our thinking. There is an emptiness in man, and even his achievements have this emptiness. That’s all. I don’t mean that I haven’t achieved what I wanted to achieve but rather that the achievement is never what people think it is. Furthermore, there is a naïve or snobbish aspect, because people imagine that if you have succeeded on a social level you must be perfectly satisfied with the human condition in general. But that’s not the case.

“I’m swindled” also implies something else—namely, that life has made me discover the world as it is, that is, a world of suffering and oppression, of undernourishment for the majority of people, things that I didn’t know when I was young and when I imagined that to discover the world was to discover something beautiful. In that respect, too, I was swindled by bourgeois culture, and that’s why I don’t want to contribute to the swindling of others and why I say that I was swindled, in short, so that others aren’t swindled. It’s really also a problem of a social kind. In short, I discovered the unhappiness of the world little by little, then more and more, and finally, above all, I felt it in connection with the Algerian war and when I traveled.

Full Interview 

O pesmama Nika Kejva i putovanjima

Fotografija katedrale Notr Dam iz 1853. godine

Poezija Nika Kejva uvek mi se nametala, spontano i bez plana, kada bih negde putovala. Vožnja bi bila duga tako da bi ostajalo dovoljno vremena za detaljno preslušavanje svih pesama sa većine albuma koje sam imala sa sobom. Potom, vrativši se sa puta, opet bih se vraćala Kejvu, pokušavajući da posredstvom muzike evociram utiske, sećanja, i da napustim realno postojeće prostor i vreme i mišlju budem negde, izvan. Na primer, u Francuskoj iz doba katedrala, baš kao na priloženoj slici.

Kejvova muzika je pogodna za evokaciju davnog i dalekog, misterioznog, romanesknog, avanturističkog jer je u većini slučajeva narativna, kazuje priču od početka do kraja, obično podrazumeva likove, izvesnu radnju, tok koji je uzročno-posledičan i čini da slušalac zapravo gleda film. Muzika je takva da podstiče slušaoca da sam stvara spoljašnje elemente koje Kejvov scenarij podrazumeva ili tek nagoveštava. Opšta mesta svetske književnosti u njoj mogu biti prepoznta i na taj način dobro ju je slušati, naročito, kada se putuje.

Tokom putovanja Francuskom, posle obilaska mesta gde je Leonardo da Vinči navodno sahranjen, tokom dugog putovanja tokom noći, slušala sam dve neogotik pesme koje su, uz jamena stvorenja na katedralama koja se keze na svoje posmatrače, u potpunosti obeležila moje tadašnje utiske i sva sećanja koja su potom usledila. Dve pesme se izdvajaju: Ain’t gonna rain anymore i Do you love me 2.

Intervju za „Parisku reviju“: Toni Morison

Toni Morrison

Toni Morrison

U intervjuu koji je američka nobelovka Toni Morison neposredno po dobijanju Nobelove nagrade dala za Parisku reviju (The Paris Review) možemo čitati o njenim ritualima pred pripremu za pisanje, od kakvog je značaja uloga urednika u životu pisca, zašto je teško pisati o seksu, zašto je oduvek želela da bude čitalac pre nego pisac i zašto je najčešće pisala pre svitanja.


You have said that you begin to write before dawn. Did this habit begin for practical reasons, or was the early morning an especially fruitful time for you?


Writing before dawn began as a necessity—I had small children when I first began to write and I needed to use the time before they said, Mama—and that was always around five in the morning. Many years later, after I stopped working at Random House, I just stayed at home for a couple of years. I discovered things about myself I had never thought about before. At first I didn’t know when I wanted to eat, because I had always eaten when it was lunchtime or dinnertime or breakfast time. Work and the children had driven all of my habits . . . I didn’t know the weekday sounds of my own house; it all made me feel a little giddy.

I was involved in writing Beloved at that time—this was in 1983—and eventually I realized that I was clearer-headed, more confident and generally more intelligent in the morning. The habit of getting up early, which I had formed when the children were young, now became my choice. I am not very bright or very witty or very inventive after the sun goes down.

Recently I was talking to a writer who described something she did whenever she moved to her writing table. I don’t remember exactly what the gesture was—there is something on her desk that she touches before she hits the computer keyboard—but we began to talk about little rituals that one goes through before beginning to write. I, at first, thought I didn’t have a ritual, but then I remembered that I always get up and make a cup of coffee while it is still dark—it must be dark—and then I drink the coffee and watch the light come. And she said, Well, that’s a ritual. And I realized that for me this ritual comprises my preparation to enter a space that I can only call nonsecular . . . Writers all devise ways to approach that place where they expect to make the contact, where they become the conduit, or where they engage in this mysterious process. For me, light is the signal in the transition. It’s not beingin the light, it’s being there before it arrives. It enables me, in some sense.

I tell my students one of the most important things they need to know is when they are their best, creatively. They need to ask themselves, What does the ideal room look like? Is there music? Is there silence? Is there chaos outside or is there serenity outside? What do I need in order to release my imagination?


Who was the most instrumental editor you’ve ever worked with?


I had a very good editor, superlative for me—Bob Gottlieb. What made him good for me was a number of things—knowing what not to touch; asking all the questions you probably would have asked yourself had there been the time. Good editors are really the third eye. Cool. Dispassionate. They don’t love you or your work; for me that is what is valuable—not compliments. Sometimes it’s uncanny; the editor puts his or her finger on exactly the place the writer knows is weak but just couldn’t do any better at the time. Or perhaps the writer thought it might fly, but wasn’t sure. Good editors identify that place and sometimes make suggestions. Some suggestions are not useful because you can’t explain everything to an editor about what you are trying to do. I couldn’t possibly explain all of those things to an editor, because what I do has to work on so many levels. But within the relationship if there is some trust, some willingness to listen, remarkable things can happen. I read books all the time that I know would have profited from not a copy editor but somebody just talking through it. And it is important to get a great editor at a certain time, because if you don’t have one in the beginning, you almost can’t have one later. If you work well without an editor, and your books are well received for five or ten years, and then you write another one—which is successful but not very good—why should you then listen to an editor?


Did you know as a child you wanted to be a writer?


No. I wanted to be a reader. I thought everything that needed to be written had already been written or would be. I only wrote the first book because I thought it wasn’t there, and I wanted to read it when I got through. I am a pretty good reader. I love it. It is what I do, really. So, if I can read it, that is the highest compliment I can think of. People say, I write for myself, and it sounds so awful and so narcissistic, but in a sense if you know how to read your own work— that is, with the necessary critical distance—it makes you a better writer and editor. When I teach creative writing, I always speak about how you have to learn how to read your work; I don’t mean enjoy it because you wrote it. I mean, go away from it, and read it as though it is the first time you’ve ever seen it. Critique it that way. Don’t get all involved in your thrilling sentences and all that . . .


You mentioned getting permission to write. Who gave it to you?


No one. What I needed permission to do was to succeed at it. I never signed a contract until the book was finished because I didn’t want it to be homework. A contract meant somebody was waiting for it, that I had to do it, and they could ask me about it. They could get up in my face and I don’t like that. By not signing a contract, I do it, and if I want you to see it, I’ll let you see it. It has to do with self-esteem. I am sure for years you have heard writers constructing illusions of freedom, anything in order to have the illusion that it is all mine and only I can do it. I remember introducing Eudora Welty and saying that nobody could have written those stories but her, meaning that I have a feeling about most books that at some point somebody would have written them anyway. But then there are some writers without whom certain stories would never have been written. I don’t mean the subject matter or the narrative but just the way in which they did it—their slant on it is truly unique.


Why do writers have such a hard time writing about sex?


Sex is difficult to write about because it’s just not sexy enough. The only way to write about it is not to write much. Let the reader bring his own sexuality into the text. A writer I usually admire has written about sex in the most off-putting way. There is just too much information. If you start saying “the curve of . . .” you soon sound like a gynecologist. Only Joyce could get away with that. He said all those forbidden words. He said cunt, and that was shocking. The forbidden word can be provocative. But after a while it becomes monotonous rather than arousing. Less is always better. Some writers think that if they use dirty words they’ve done it. It can work for a short period and for a very young imagination, but after a while it doesn’t deliver. When Sethe and Paul D. first see each other, in about half a page they get the sex out of the way, which isn’t any good anyway—it’s fast and they’re embarrassed about it—and then they’re lying there trying to pretend they’re not in that bed, that they haven’t met, and then they begin to think different thoughts, which begin to merge so you can’t tell who’s thinking what. That merging to me is more tactically sensual than if I had tried to describe body parts.

Full Interview

Silvija Plat čita pesme iz zbirke „Arijel“

Sylvia Plath

Silvija Plat

Zbirka Arijel američke pesnikinje Silvije Plat objavljena je 1965. godine, dve godine posle pesnikinjine smrti. Tridesetog oktobra 1960. godine, tri dana posle svog tridesetog rođendana, Silvija Plat čitala je pesme koje su tonski zabeležene onim redosledom po kome se pojavljuju u zbirci.

Pored romana Stakleno zvono (1963), Silvija Plat napisala je i dve zbirke poezije, Kolos (1960) i Arijel (1965). Takođe, sačuvana su i objavljena njena pisma, kao i dnevnici. O njoj je objavljeno i mnoštvo knjiga čije su teme njena privatna situacija, njena ličnost, njeno delo.



Ljiljana Đurđić, prevodilac Silvije Plat na srpski jezik, u tekstu Silvija Plat – Superstar, napisala je sledeće:

Pre svog spektakularnog „ranog odlaska“ Silvija Plat nije bila nepoznata pesnikinja, ali ne i neko na koga će pasti opklada za pesnika veka. Jedna zbirka poezije, „Kolos“, i autobiografski roman „Stakleno zvono“, objavljen pred samu smrt pod imenom Viktorija Luka, nisu bili dovoljni da joj obezbede književni rejting koji je u tom trenutku već uživao njen muž, engleski pesnik Ted Hjuz. Njen uspon počinje posle njene smrti i predstavlja neku vrstu literarnog uskrsnuća ne tako čestog u istoriji književnosti.

Više nego književni, Silvija Plat danas predstavlja sociološki fenomen koji je lako objašnjiv u okvirima filma, pop muzike i drugih medija ali ne i u književnosti. Književne zvezde koje traju su retkost, da bi se to postiglo moraju se zadovoljiti barem četiri uslova: stvarno medijski prihvatljivo biće, stvarni dar, lična tragedija i želja da se ona učini javnim dobrom, i konačno, spremnost da se za sve to umre. Silvija Plat je ispunila sve uslove, ispisavši u groznici svojih poslednjih dana svoje literarno zaveštanje, zbirku poezije „Arijel“, koje će joj, uz pomoć Teda Hjuza, središnje figure njene poezije i veštog književnog agenta lično zainteresovanog za celu stvar, obezbediti večnost i slavu za kojom je tako žudela u svom kratkom životu.

Izvor: Silvija Plat, Rani odlazak. Izabrane pesme, prevela Ljiljana Đurđić, Paideia, Beograd, 2010.