Prostori stvaranja: Maštarije u sobi, maštarije u kafeu

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„Café de Flore“, kultni pariski kafe, sastajalište umetnika i filozofa, naročito pedesetih godina 20. veka. Na obe fotografije možemo videti poznati par filozofa Žan-Pol Sartra i Simon de Bovoar. Oboje je fotografisao umetnik u egzilu, Gula Brassai, poznat po fotografijama bistroa, dnevnog i noćnog života grada.

Institucija kafea oduvek mi je delovala privlačno, kako po pitanju društvenog života, tako i u pogledu mogućnosti za stvaranje, naročito kada je u pitanju književnost. Kafei nisu za neobavezno ćaskanje. Pre svega, u pitanju je mogućnost za kontemplaciju. Sesti pored prozora i posmatrati prolaznike, fasadu prekoputa, kapi kiše kako mokre trotoar ili svetlost koja osvaja prostor i sužava senku.

Ljudi koji sede ispred kafea, u bašti, po sunčanom danu, ako se posmatraju iznutra deluju poput plišanih lutki. Ljudi koji sede u kafeu, naročito po lošem vremenu, zanimljivi su ukoliko imaju ritmičan odnos ramena i brade, ako uočim koliko često istu uvlače pod kragnu rolke i gde su im dlanovi – da li na drški šolje ili su, kako bi ih ugrejali, obavijeni oko njih. Kako gledaju sagovornika?

Ali sve drugo, sve spolja, zadržava pažnju oka, bljesne kroz utisak, ali na kratko. Spolja i iznutra, bez ikakve kontradikcije, pojavljuju se poput ogledala i svojevrsnom svetlošću doprinose da jedno bude prepoznato kroz drugo. Tako nastaju utisci i nova polazišta, kontemplacija koju sam pomenula.

Odlazak u kafe mogućnost je za tok misli potpuno drugačiji od onog koji se odvija u sopstvenoj sobi. U sobi, čovek je sam, vrata su zatvorena. U zavisnosti od položaja kuće ili zgrade u kojoj je, u njoj može biti tiho, ili ne mora, ali svakako je nepomično. To je ono što je bitno. Čestica u cevi zraka, nalik apstraktnoj misli, čini se nevidljivom, a zapravo se koluta u mestu, svo vreme prisutna.

Samoća usmerava na drugačiji tok osećanja. Dinamika, ma koliko neprimetna, oduvek je prisutna, naročito u formi epifanije. Zapravo, treba koristiti množinu, u pitanju su epifanije. Božanstva se pojavljuju u oblicima sećanja ili nekada davno proživljenih trenutaka, misli i asocijacija koje su figurativne, lebdeće slike sećanja na san. Nisam sigurna da je takva vrsta pomešane lucidnosti sa nežnošću moguća u javnim prostorima.

Malo šta nam može u toj meri naškoditi u životu kao vlastite sanjarije i fantazije. Takođe, retko ko ostane nekažnjen zbog verovanja, recimo, u postojanje romantične ljubavi. Ali, sanjarije osamljenog šetača (o tome u nekom od narednih tekstova) i osamljenog posmatrača (u kafeu) bile bi izneverene, svet bi bio nepodnošljivo mračan, bilo bi isuviše bolno, kada bismo ono što nas dovodi u zabludu svesno ostavljali po strani, prepuštajući se razumu, postajući njegova žrtva (Sacrificium intellectus).

Zato, ja sam svuda bila, i mnogo toga sam videla, a da nisam morala da napustim sobu. Ali, to nije preporuka, a ni jemstvo da iz iste ne treba izlaziti i da zaista ne treba putovati. Ostajanje u sobi (unutrašnja dinamika) i putovanja (spoljašnja dinamika koja unutrašnju povlači sa sobom), dva su različita oblika iste egzistencije, iako su dijametralno suprotna.

Zato, kada god pokazujem onima koji me posećuju svoje fotografije sa putovanja u istom albumu držim i fotografije svoje sobe. Na mapi sveta ona ima značajno mesto. U pitanju je intimna topografija. Atlas i dnevnik putovanja, kao i fotografski album i dnevnik svakodnevnih utisaka, za mene su oduvek bili kao prvi i drugi tom iste knjige.

Nalik srednjevekovnim mirakulima, predamnom bi se stvarala bića, događaji, neočekivana blaženost u neznanju, lucidnost zbog koje sam retko kad ostajala nekažnjena. To je bila moja soba i svet u njoj. Meni je to trebalo. Sa druge strane, i tu se vraćamo na početak teksta, odlasci u kafe podrazumevali bi drugačije utiske.

To mesto koje volim da obilazim ima tamne zelene tapete, usko je a relativno dugačko. Ono poseduje starinski izlog, „sobicu“ u kojoj vlasnici smeštaju lutke ili cveće, a dvokrilni drveni prozori po sredini imaju jednu tanku daščicu i podsećaju na prozore srednjeevropskih kuća sa ramom, za nijansu isturenijim u odnosu na spoljašnji zid.

Unutra miriše na jaku prženu kafu i topljenu čokoladu. Omiljeni recept? U čašicu, nalik one za rakiju (u stvari, neznatno dublju) staviti kornfleks debljine prsta i politi ga gustom topljenom čokoladom a ostatak dopuniti jakom crnom kafom. Ponekad, padne mi na pamet da pitam gospođicu u crnoj suknji i prsluku za kap ruma. Tu je i jedan pas koji me podseća na Firencu, a crvena daska kojom su pojedini delovi zida obloženi na rečenicu: „Pariz je san koji nam pomaže da izdržimo čamotinju gradova na koje smo doživotno osuđeni.“

Žan-Pol Sartr je rekao „Osuđeni smo da budemo slobodni“, a ja se pitam je li moguće onda biti osuđen na neki grad? Je li to stvar predestinacije ili stvar izbora? Izgovor? Gde se stvara grad? Šta je sloboda, zašto ne odem? Ima li stvarnost ikakvih veza sa našim doživljajem ili je sve prepušteno unutrašnjoj alhemiji? Eto, recimo, nekih od maštarija u prostorima koje sam pomenula.

Sobe bivale bi svetovi iza sunca a kafei njihove bašte. Reč je o unutrašnjem enterijeru i unutrašnjem eksterijeru. Jednom, padala je kiša. Prazan vremenski sled trebalo je osmisliti. Otišla sam u kafe I čitala jednu tanku knjižicu o zabranjenoj ljubavi (“Aleksis” – Margerit Jursenar). Tek poneko ušao bi da naruči kafu i čim bi ista bila na pultu, dotična osoba žurno bi uzimala okrugli karton, stavljala ga oko oboda čaše i užurbano odlazila. To su one coffee to go. Bezveze. Ti proizvodi obesmislili su ritual i njegovo značenje. Simboli su bitni. Otkrivaju se svakog dana. Čak i onda kada pada kiša.

Lakoća, pre svega. Akvarel tananog aleksandrijskog Sunca koje zalazi, a koje se, za razliku od Sunca u Kairu, drugačije oslikava. Je li papir isti? Čovek koji žuri nije više čovek. Bar ne ono što se od njega očekuje. Potrebna je aleksandrijska dokolica, tek potom vreva Kaira. Prva je kontemplacija, druga je olovka. Koliko je samo glasova koje treba stići, potom i prevesti. Polako. Potrebno je razumeti boje i oblike zahvaljujući mirnom posmatranju. Kapi koje imaju istu moć kao DA I NE pomoći će. Onaj koji degustira ih – crne kao što je crna duša koju tlače – zar nije on poput Šekspirovog maga? Sve je moguće. Papir nije prazan, papir je otvoren.

Ali, ovo nije esej, bar ne onaj koji teži da bude konkretan I zaokružen –  mada, metod je, sledimo li dekartovsku intenciju literature, bitan – o crnim kapima već o dva prostora koja dopunjuju umetnikove prazne fioke. Prazne, a otvorene, da ponovim. Krov nad glavom, fioka nad papirom. Večnost sinegdohe nad umetnošću. Soba i kafe u kojima čitam ili pišem, jesu Aleksandrija i Kairo, dva različita papira, dva različita Sunca, na kraju krajeva. Može li vreme biti prazno kao što su prazna dva lista koja nosim sa sobom? Oba žele da po njima olovka ostavi par mrlja, tanak ožiljak sećanja na radost. Na svim mapama sveta, jasno se vidi naša soba, veličine je kontinenta. Reljef je naše sećanje, a boje utisci. Svako carstvo naše je lice. Svaki ispisan papir moje ogledalce iz džepa veličine kosmosa.

Stvaranje je blagoslov. Hvala sobama i samoći. Hvala lutanju i glasovima. Hvala Suncu i kiši. Hvala gradovima, hvala prolaznicima. Oni pišu moju knjigu, oni je prepisuju čitajući je. Na svoj način, na večni način. Ne možeš dva puta ući u istu reku, ne možeš dva puta ugledati isto sunce.“Što se srdiš?”, često se pitam. “Nećeš li biti mio, kad dobro činiš?”, odzvanja u mom sećanju jedna rečenica. Tako je kada me obuzme želja za putovanjem, za kretanjem po sopstvenom gradu, po kontinentu i, najzad, po papiru. Jednostavnost. Lahor koji se igra sa listovima i površinom kafe u šolji. Pogled se gubi u daljini. Da ponovim – malo šta mi može naškoditi kao vlastite sanjarije, ali malo šta me može učiniti srećnom kao vlastite sanjarije.

Ana Arp
Beograd, 23. jul 2015.

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.

INTERVIEWER

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.

DE BEAUVOIR

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.

INTERVIEWER

Were you a good teacher?

DE BEAUVOIR

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.

INTERVIEWER

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

DE BEAUVOIR

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.

INTERVIEWER

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?

DE BEAUVOIR

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

INTERVIEWER

Do your writer friends have the same habits as you?

DE BEAUVOIR

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.

INTERVIEWER

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?

DE BEAUVOIR

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.

INTERVIEWER

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

DE BEAUVOIR

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.

INTERVIEWER

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

DE BEAUVOIR

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

INTERVIEWER

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?

DE BEAUVOIR

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

INTERVIEWER

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

DE BEAUVOIR

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