The new opus century literary project to Czeslaw Milosz. With the support of International Network of Literary Centres "Halma" and The European Cultural Foundation.
There comes a moment, and it's finally happening. The idea that warms you for so long, it becomes empty and cold.
Picture in the comic. The waste material. Fun for a fool.
For Europe — we shouted at the end of the eighties, breaking through boundaries and cordoning off through the barbed wire on the other side of reality.
There, behind barbed wire, it was all that we hold dear: Prague scenery of Kafka, Joyce and Irish tower Yates,
never he had seen the coast of the Seine, on which there were cute ghosts of books Cortazar. There have been some reason Chuang Tzu with Patanjali yes Lee Bo Salinger, although they are, in geographical logic, should lead us in other directions.
But we knew it was not about geography.
Europe, we then called metaphysical landscape in which our souls grow. And we broke through the cordon to themselves.
We invented themselves as a utopia, and in search of his name come across this word: Europe.
For Europe — we shouted at the end of the nineties, resisting the dictatorship splyvannyu to Eurasia, but also the new boundaries that separated us from our brothers and sisters from Vilnius and Bialystok, Lublin and Daugavpils.
Europe became suddenly and suspiciously real.
Once we read Kundera, and together with the heroes of his essays were ready to give their lives for it.
Now it's different.
We re-read and Deborah Zhyzheka yes skeptical watching the dance of peripheral capitalism.
We have become part of the show, finally coincided with the world,
took his place on one of the pages of the world of comics. Even today, many shouting for Europe. It is predominantly a copywriter who invent and sell slogans. Not so much where — for a new hypermarket, or for a new movement for democracy.
Europe has become a brand, and a pretty respectable.
It expanded and turned into this book has lots of pictures.
They do not necessarily Kafka and Joyce. Mostly museums and shopping centers. In Vilnius, one of the oldest and most beautiful is called: Europe.
In such a "Europe" allowed everyone. You can walk endlessly in her clear, beautiful galleries, contemplating marketyzavanuyu variety of Western civilization in its late stage of development. This is a special joy and a special, almost Buddhist serenity. In no other place do not understand so well that samsara and nirvana are aligned under the roof of our good, peaceful, tolerant, and indeed common fatherland.
Not immediately, and not all realize that this is kitsch. That there is no death, no suffering, no memory. So there is no life. What is the only picture in the comic book, which, like butterflies on fire, zlyatayutstsa greedy souls from all over the world. Or, conversely, tired and znyaveranyya.
Although there is not. Death and suffering is still there, but they are well hidden, removed and disposed of. They hid in the suburbs, in the refugee camps in the squat and cheap shelters. They have non-European entity.
My family, home death lies on the very edge of the picture, near the town of Horashch under Bialystok. There, in the hospital of German POW camp in the late spring of 1942, my grandfather died Gregory.
Information about his death was for a long time. A very long time.
Time to die grandmother Eve
that life did not believe what he was missing. The Soviet Union has had time to die, leaving a huge hole — in space and time. Managed to die a lot of ideas, hopes, utopias. So far in 2009 has not come a copy of the camp map, where, apart from the various personal data has been entered modest verstorben 31.5.42.
We do not need your Europe, we are talking to someone with his mother standing in line for a visa.
We have ours.
— We are the ones who are still trying to think of — here and now, on the edge of the world of comics.
We — those who resist.
Here, too, everything has changed. To write, to think and to resist becoming almost a friend.
We have learned to find each other. Razroznivats its own — and different, from ideologues, fanatics managers. From public entities that are inflated by a media event. Of freaks and magicians that you fill in the foreground.
Fire — not by language and not by blood. I did not even place of residence. Fire — in the form of the soul.
There are a lot of those who surrendered, who at some point decided supastsi with the picture. Agreed not to ask stupid questions that most likely there is no clear-cut answers.
They now reign, feel in their own time,
in their places. Former dissidents and secretaries, intelligence colonel and popzorki. They all dance, dance in general, under the new Muzychko new miserable time.
I simply do not have another play, tells us the era. As with other viewers. Other sites. This is all that remains.
Who directed in this matter? What is the point of all? And what will happen after, when all disperse? We ask from somewhere out of the balcony.
We have so little that it seems that we are not at all. Here and now, in Eastern Europe.
Milos — with us.
This phrase is encrypted intellectual history of the last two centuries — not only in Belarus.
When Larry Wolfe published in 1994, Inventing Eastern Europe, he prudently wrote in the preface: this is a book about the West that comes up is for himself SMAD Other.
At the end of the book, he expresses the hope that someone will write about the answers — on behalf of the Other.
The answer really was a lot.
This Mickiewicz, who at the Paris pavement looking for ways to explain the West some of the forgotten truth.
This Abdiralovich who writes in Vilnius, 1921goda, on the East and West, of liyuchuyusya form and non-alignment.
This Kundera, a strange exile, who changed the language and homeland, but only in order to further furiously persist in Central Europe, inaccurate space of small cultures, stories of outsiders.
It is well, and Milos, who all his life trying to explain and educate the local tradition, to see it from a distance, to awaken and to pass on to other.
Milos remained faithful to this space.
And I, like a mantra, repeated the words of his late eighties with the Earth Ulrich. The fact that no matter how far we had not recorded the destiny, we must not forget its small homeland. Its Wales and their Catalonia. It is only there we have a chance to stay.
Then we sat in Sejny, in 1994, he was nice and old, and I, a young poet "from the East". I pretended to write down the interview, even though he knew — th
e recorder does not work. Asked questions, and he himself passed on answers and explanations. And not because he was so ill-mannered.
I wanted to explain to him pyapyaredne many things without understanding that it simply could not take place. And I needed just a conversation, not a banal journalistic interview with nabelistam.
For him, Belarus was of a different reality. Geographically close, but socially and culturally distant.
Silent uncle interwar Vilna fairs, without which, however, can not do, but which is not allowed if a decent gentry houses on the kitchen. What you can say to them? They were unable to even clear answer to the question of who they are. Mumbled something unintelligible, that they are here, in this land. What are the local.
For us, in our time, Belarus was not sentimental picture land full of milk and honey. But something much more radical, even menacing.
Belarus held the empire through and came out on the other side.
And now these men of the fair, which has finally hit
in the whole world, had to be like everyone else. I mean, think about identity. Search mask. Reinvent, to reconstruct their tradition. Exposing reflection, calls into question the fact that the inside, and the fact that out.
Belarus became the project and utopia. And there may be pure metaphysics.
How unfair, I told Milos that you are the one who is responsible for all — and have not found her a place in his time. You shared a tradition of over three: Poland, Lithuania and Ukraine-Rus bit. We have excluded from the general conversation.
For such things, sooner or later have to pay.
And now you are afraid of the men of the fair. Just because I do not know what to do with them. And what are they going to do with you. And with the fear of repeating as Ventslova, meaningless formulas about the weakness and absence. The fact that Belarus has not been, and probably is not now. And not it be better to forget it all, give this space of Russia, on the final Russification to not suffered.
He replied something about the local know about the tradition, about the dangers of nationalism, but me with my questions, it seems, did not see.
In the summer, the first elections of the president. I returned to Minsk, and he knew that I was waiting for that guy with the fair, which was afraid of Milos.
Belarusians are a mystery to me, says Milos at the Family Europe, describing the inter-war Vilna, before he went on a journey to the West.
And then speaks about the strange and unfortunate people who has to exist between the Russification and polonization as between a rock and a hard place.
They hide, trying not to see, not allowed on the front.
Fire smoke in the villages, poisoned Chernobyl.
They say in important books that they died long ago.
And they just smile and walk away from the scene.
The silent, subtle, self-sufficient. Or, conversely, hamovatye and rough. Different.
Still not a mystery in themselves,
and in particular the optical illusions of those who try to see something in these spaces.
Tries — and can not.
There is a lack of imagination? Metaphysical sense?
Or, on the contrary, too much pride? Snobbery?
The very European snobbery that loves to play the game "find Barbara in the East."
Belarus — is a project of exceptions in modern European comics.
Adgortvaesh page 19, you see the inscription — in all European languages (except Belarus, of course).
Inscription reads — the page would be Belarus, if it is — for us Europeans there.
We have learned to live with our neprysutnastsyu.
Learned a friendly smile when Euronews shows a map of Europe, with the border between Poland and Russia.
Learned not to be negastsinnymi if someone wants to go "to you on the East."
Initially thought to explain something else.
And then sat back and took its place in Europe as a con, as a value, and even as a way of thinking.
Missing, however, is not such a bad place. With a good metaphysical pedigree. It goes unnoticed, it allows you to see and much to see. For example, a.
"Great nations urged
themselves that they are able to prevail over the totality of existence itself — and over time.
Small — suffer from their own nerealnastsi.
Small cultures and given a sense of krohkastsi lyatuchastsi world.
Understanding that all of this could not be, or it could be different.
Brutal confidence in its I — what could be more alien to this fragile pavprysutnastsi? "
"Belarus — a country without a cultural alibi.
The community does not believe in the reality itself. A nation at the break between being and non-being. It is on this very clearly perceived fault hallucinogenic nature of what is called "reality."
Sometimes it seems like a desperate attempt prysnits sleeping together under the title of Belarus and therefore does not stretch out, you do not want to leave this fault, this milestone. Do not want to be like everyone else. "
But my letter to Milos — if someone promised to pass it to the other side — would not neprysutnasts about Belarus. And it is not about fighting for the right to enter into a separate comic book page. I'm not talking about the right to invent the most signatures — under the pictures.
Not about the offense and dreams.
And not even a farewell to Europe as a lived utopia.
Which is now dead and adbyvshayasya, quietly shines — from their distant depths.
My letter would be an awakening and divnasts world. On the masks that we are chosen and the responsibility for the chosen.
It would be a letter of poetry.
Milos last verse.
The incredible sincerity and simplicity, when pushed all the conventions and only the distribution of grants and loans.
So it's important: look and collect its own, and not
wander the lighted and no interesting scenes … It made perfect ovens, his books are filled with portraits of non-random people that are important for him, he thought. It forms the soul.
Those he knew who listavavsya who believed.
You read and think how life has been filled with this great hermit, who cried in despair almost every minute.
It did, and Milos.
He is infinitely recalls says cute names. Large and small. Friends and acquaintances. The names of the rivers and lakes, tracts and small towns.
Nobel — is us less he writes in a journeyman.
We are smaller, stumble on the surface, become famous, some are even famous. At some point begins atsverazenne: we understand that nailed to the pictures, planted on a chain. And all that we are now allowed — fit or do not fit — the image.
9;s a little jealous of the unknown who received the gift of the heavenly things to say.
I am an ordinary, almost shouting it in the last verse. Old, weak, immersed in despair. Screams, realizing that the concentration took place, and it lies in the temple, famous, cool, revered. How mummified dead turtle, in the parable of Chuang Tzu.
The only thing that remains is: conversations with spirits. To those who remember it to others alive.
And they come back.
Tamashunas, Sagatsis, Osipovich. Economy
Vatskonis. Nina and funny gentleman Anusevich. Uncle Oscar and Čareja and Dr. Thomas Aquinas. The poet William Blake. Others.
He writes: If there is no God, then we are gods.
Turns a person remembers name.
And finally, the most important thing.
Belarus should come up with that on these spaces could be at least something to love.