"Still life with a balloon" by Wistawa Szymborska

The following poem by Wistawa Szymborska was included in a collection of poems published in 1957 under the title “Calling out to Yeti”. A "still life" in painting, is a work of art depicting mostly inanimate subject matter, typically ordinary objects which may be either natural or man-made. Here we have a poem that is a still life. The canvas laid out before us is life itself as we look at it from a certain distance. The poet does not use memories to paint this canvas. For memories are deceitful, fabricated with old age or suppressed on purpose. They contain colours that cannot withstand the passing of time and fade away. But objects; our life is full of them. They come and they go. They contain fragments of our character, our age, our self. We can assemble the pieces in the puzzle. We can faithfully retrace a path with objects. Like Hansel’s little white pebbles we will look back and find our way. But if in the end we find ourselves still staring at a dark canvas, there is hope. Hope in the lost objects. The ones that got away. The forsaken ones. And they will lead us back in time faithfully. They might even show us an alternative ending or beginning. Like “Rosebud” in Citizen Cane, the balloon in this poem will be the object that will ring the bell of truth and will eventually liberate the poet.  


STILL LIFE WITH A BALLOON by Wistawa Szymborska

Returning memories?

No, at the time of death

I’d like to see lost objects

return instead

Avalanches of gloves,

coats, suitcases, umbrellas -

come, and I’ll say at last:

What good’s all this?

Safety pins, two odd combs,

a paper rose, a knife,

some string-come, and I’ll say

at last: I haven’t missed you.

Please turn up, key, come out,

wherever you’ve been hiding,

in time for me to say:

You’ve gotten rusty, my friend!

Downpours of affidavits,

permits and questionnaires,

rain down and I will say:

I see the sun behind you.

My watch, dropped in a river,

bob up and let me seize you-

then, face to face, I’ll say:

Your so-called time is up. 

And lastly, toy balloon

once kidnapped by the wind-

come home, and I will say:

There are no children here.

Fly out the open window

and into the wide world;

let someone else shout “Look!”

and I will cry.

(The poem can be found in the book Wistawa Szymborska “Poems new and collected 1957-1997” translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh, Harcourt editions. Thank you John Sortix for this wonderful gift) 

Complicité’s performance of “The Master and Margarita"

"...'It was like this’, the prisoner began talking  eagerly. 'The evening before last, near the temple, I made the acquaintance of a young  man who called himself Judas, from the town of Kiriath. He invited me to his place in the Lower City and treated me to...'
     'A good man?' Pilate asked, and a devilish fire flashed in his eyes.
     'A very good man and an inquisitive one,' the prisoner confirmed. ‘He showed the greatest  interest in my thoughts and received me very cordially...'
     'Lit the lamps...' Pilate spoke through his teeth, in the same tone as the prisoner, and his eyes glinted.
     Yes,' Yeshua went on, slightly surprised that  the procurator was so well informed, 'and asked me to give my view of state authority. He was extremely interested in this question.'
     'And what did you say?' asked Pilate.'Or are you going to reply that you've forgotten what you said?' But there was already hopelessness in Pilate's tone.
     `Among other things,' the prisoner recounted,`I said that all authority is violence over people, and that a time will come when there will be no authority of the Caesars, nor any other authority. Man will pass into the kingdom of truth and justice, where generally there will be no need for any authority.'
     'Go on!'
     'I didn't go on,' said the prisoner. 'Here men ran in, bound me, and took me away to prison.’...”

Extract from the novel “The Master and Margarita” by Mikhail Bulgakov     

The British theatre group “Complicité” is one of the most exciting theatre groups in the world today. Their amazing performance of Bulgakov’s masterpiece “ The Master and Margarita” left the audience stunned. Incorporating moving cameras projected on the screen, shadow play, puppets, miming, microphones and superb acting throughout they did much better justice to the play than Pontius Pilate would ever hope for if he could turn back the time. All hail Simon McBurney! Next performances are scheduled for 15 March 2012 - 7 April 2012 / 19:15, 14:00 at the Barbican Theatre in London. Don’t miss it for the world.
  

Ο Καιόμενος του Τάκη Σινόπουλου

Ο Καιόμενος
Το ποίημα ανήκει στη συλλογή Μεταίχμιο Β (1957)

Κοιτάχτε μπήκε στη φωτιά! είπε ένας από το πλήθος.

Γυρίσαμε τα μάτια γρήγορα. Ήταν
στ’ αλήθεια αυτός που απόστρεψε το πρόσωπο, όταν του
μιλήσαμε. Και τώρα καίγεται. Μα δε φωνάζει βοήθεια.


Διστάζω. Λέω να πάω εκεί. Να τον αγγίξω με το χέρι μου.
Είμαι από τη φύση μου φτιαγμένος να παραξενεύομαι.


Ποιος είναι τούτος που αναλίσκεται περήφανος;
Το σώμα του το ανθρώπινο δεν τον πονά;


Η χώρα εδώ είναι σκοτεινή. Και δύσκολη. Φοβάμαι.
Ξένη φωτιά μην την ανακατεύεις, μου είπαν.


Όμως εκείνος καίγονταν μονάχος. Καταμόναχος.
Κι όσο αφανίζονταν τόσο άστραφτε το πρόσωπο.


Γινόταν ήλιος.


Στην εποχή μας όπως και σε περασμένες εποχές
άλλοι είναι μέσα στη φωτιά κι άλλοι χειροκροτούνε.


Ο ποιητής μοιράζεται στα δυο.

“ We are all fools. Let’s all go home."

Philip Gibbs was dispatched to the Western front during the First World war as an official war correspondent and in the process he became a novelist. He consciously decided to report the truth about the great war and not shy behind cheap patriotic articles and newspaper propaganda sensationalism. Soon enough, he found out that this was not acceptable by the establishment. The War Office in London decided to intervene and 'manage' popular reporting of the war. Censorship became widespread and Gibbs was denied permission to remain on the Western Front. Stubbornly refusing to return, Gibbs was duly arrested and sent home. This small excerpt from his book “The Realities of War”, published after the armistice, could have the title “The Devil’s trap”:       

“... That thought of war's futility inspired an episode which was narrated throughout the army in that winter of '15, and led to curious conversations in dugouts and billets. Above a German front-line trench appeared a plank on which, in big letters, was scrawled these words:


"The English are fools."


"Not such bloody fools as all that!" said a sergeant, and in a few minutes the plank was smashed to splinters by rifle-fire.


Another plank appeared, with other words:


"The French are fools."


Loyalty to our allies caused the destruction of that board.


A third plank was put up:


"We're all fools. Let's all go home."


That board was also shot to pieces, but the message caused some laughter, and men repeating it said: "There's a deal of truth in those words. Why should this go on? What's it all about? Let the old men who made this war come and fight it out among themselves, at Hooge. The fighting-men have no real quarrel with one another. We all want to go home to our wives and our work."


But neither side was prepared to "go home" first. Each side was in a trap--a devil's trap from which there was no escape. Loyalty to their own side, discipline, with the death penalty behind it, spell words of old tradition, obedience to the laws of war or to the caste which ruled them, all the moral and spiritual propaganda handed out by pastors, newspapers, generals, staff-officers, old men at home, exalted women, female furies, a deep and simple love for England and Germany, pride of manhood, fear of cowardice--a thousand complexities of thought and sentiment prevented men, on both sides, from breaking the net of fate in which they were entangled, and revolting against that mutual, unceasing massacre, by a rising from the trenches with a shout of, "We're all fools! . . . Let's all go home!”..."

Polly Jean Harvey has come up with a stunning album inspired by the above folly of armed conflict from the First world war to Afghanistan and Iraq. Taking a huge risk and changing musical direction, she even changed her vocal style to suit the material. What a far cry this is from all the “censored” music being produced these days. Maybe she should also be arrested... 

Listen to:

P.J.Harvey - Let England shake

The extended exposure times of Eugène Atget

It was in the mid 1890s that Eugène Atget settled in Paris and bought himself a camera. He would get up in the first light of dawn, anticipating by a few hours the invasion of the madding crowds of the awakening metropolis and the hustle and bustle of everyday traffic. His idea was to capture Paris unaware, still asleep if possible, to be able to get a clean frame with only the subject and no interference. He had decided to document the Paris of his time, a city that was rapidly changing as the 19th century was coming to an end. He would photograph the buildings and the cobbled streets, the workers, the tradesmen and the professions  that slowly disappeared as the industrial revolution turned individual and manual labour into standardised and impersonal, mass produced commodity. The old shops were closing down one after the other replaced by “les grandes surfaces”. Atget decided that these “façades”, these shops, these tradesmen selling their wares and services in the street, were worth saving.

But at that hour of the day, the city of light, ironically, did not do justice to its name. To compensate for the absence of light, Atget used extended exposure times. A photograph became almost a short film. And there, when the photographs were developed, appeared the blurred ghost figures of the owners, the waiters, the customers or the odd passer-by who would move or pass through the frame as the photograph was being taken. They appear in the picture as if to reclaim their way of life, their way of making business, to defend their world as they knew it. Eugène Atget was more than pleased for that interference. Under the dark cloth, he absorbed the passing of time and his long exposure times extended the magical sepia world of this haunting, dream-like Paris into the present and beyond.

The Curriculum Vitae of Samuel Menashe

Curriculum Vitae by Samuel Menashe (1925-2011)

1

Scribe out of work

At a loss for words

Not his to begin with,

The man life passed by

Stands at the window

Biding his time

2

Time and again

And now once more

I climb these stairs

Unlock this door—

No name where I live

Alone in my lair

With one bone to pick

And no time to spare

An invitation for tea

Not Waving but Drowning (1957) by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

In November 1962, Sylvia Plath wrote a letter to Mrs Stevie Smith. "I better say straight out that I am an addict of your poetry, a desperate Smith addict.” The letter went on to say that she was planning to move to London and as soon as she would settle in, she wanted to invite Smith to come over for a cup of tea. Stevie Smith was not familiar with the work of Plath but accepted the invitation. The days passed, became months and still Mrs Smith was waiting for that invitation that never materialised. In fact this young new poet from the other side of the world had waved for the last time in February 1963. If only Stevie had known that she was not waving but drowning...
  

Cet espace gris de 2:06 dans “Le Samouraï" de Jean-Pierre Melville

« Il n’y a pas de plus profonde solitude que celle du Samouraï si ce n’est celle d’un tigre dans la jungle... peut-être… »

"Le Samouraï" de Jean-Pierre Melville est sorti dans les salles de Paris le 25 Octobre 1967. En pleine période psychédélique, voici un film sorti de la grisaille, de l’austérité et du minimalisme d’une autre époque. Les seules couleurs qu’on souvient du film ce n’est que le regard bleu glacial d’Alain Delon et le gris de la chambre qui loue. L’incarnation parfaite de Jef Costello. Un tueur professionnel, une gabardine au col relevé, un visage comme une masque sans aucune expression sous un beau chapeau. La solitude n’était jamais stylistiquement si parfaite.

Mais ce surtout la scène du début du film qui nous marquent pour toujours. La scène contient déjà les deux principaux protagonistes du film: Jef et le bouvreuil. Dans cette chambre figée dans le temps, pas un mot est prononcé. Les seules épreuves de vie sont le gazouillement de l’oiseau et la fumée d’une cigarette qui monte vers le plafond. “... Fumée... ne pas penser... Je ne veux pas penser... Je pense que je ne veux pas penser. Il ne faut pas que je pense que je ne veux pas penser. Parce que c’est encore une pensée. On n'en finira donc jamais?...” (extrait de la “Nausée” de Sartre) 

Delon va se lever et il était une fois un samedi 4 avril, 6 heures du soir... Le visage de Delon dans le miroir, sans expression, moitié caché dans l’ombre me rappelle un extrait du livre de Yukio Mishima "Les Bruits des vagues" de 1954: “ ... Chiyoko était certaine des avantages d’avoir un visage si laid comme elle pensé que c’était le sienne: si un tel visage pourrais s’endurcir d’avantage dans son moule, il cacherais des sentiments beaucoup plus efficacement qu’un beau visage...”. 


C’est ainsi que la beauté et la froideur de Jef ne suffisent pas à cacher la pesanteur de la nausée. Quand il ferme la porte derrière lui à la fin de cette magnifique séquence, la musique de François De Roubaix s’éteint et le film commence. Mais tout a déjà était dit dans cet espace gris de 2 minutes et 6 secondes.     

The Invocation of Satan (1909) by Josef Váchal

Josef Váchal (1884-1969) was a multi-talented Czech artist, writer, graphic designer and printer.  In this incredible painting which he finished in 1909, he assimilates the influence and takes the decadence of the Vienna Secession to another more sinister level. This is a symphony of evil, a celebration of everything pagan, dark and haunting. The gold sky contrasts sharply with the darkness of the earth from which figures emerge, lost in a sinister wilderness where trees bare heads and skulls instead of fruit. Strange fruit indeed (only to reappear in the words sung in 1939 by Billie Holiday in another, all too real, context). But these desperate figures here, are attracted by the striking blood red silhouette that stands on higher ground. As the essence of its red color permeates and spoils the purity of the gold sky, they are hypnotized and stare with empty, black eyes towards the viewer. The subject is too powerful and unsettling to be confined on canvas. It spills over and poisons also the frame which seems to have been made from the trunks of these ghastly trees that carry a remembrance of forbidden rituals and a symbolism dominated by sin and orchestrated by the demon himself. Josef Váchal's "Invocation of Satan" seems to be stuck in time and we suddenly become alert to the fact that our viewing may in fact be stirring up something that has been frozen for centuries. 


The last owner of this painting didn’t fail to notice the change when he hanged the painting on the wall for the first time. At first there was a strange shadow visible at all hours of the day. A kind of extension of the frame. With time, the frame no longer contained the picture. It was all one. And at certain hours of the day, the wall would reflect, as if in liquid, the painted scenes. In fact, the owner insisted that very soon after, he was under the impression that the whole wall was covered with a strange kind of moving tapestry. Watching the painting became as absorbing as watching a film. When the neighbours called the police because of the sounds coming from the house on that fateful night of December, the owner was nowhere to be found. The painting was hanging on the wall. It would take a really observant viewer, who knew the original painting well, to notice that the dark figures between the cursed trees had increased by one.

Άραγε διαβάζει κανείς αυτό το μπλογκ;

                               Κλέος πενιχρόν του Ρεϊμόν Κενό

                                                   Απόδοση: Γιάννης Στρίγκος

Το διήγημα αυτό, στην παρούσα μετάφραση, δημοσιεύτηκε στο λογοτεχνικό περιοδικό « Το Δέντρο », τεύχος 173-174, Χειμώνας 2009-2010. Αποτελεί μέρος μιας συλλογής διάσπαρτων, «ήσσονος σημασίας», κειμένων του Κενό, που δημοσιεύτηκε για πρώτη φορά το 1981 υπό τον τίτλο Ιστορίες και λεγόμενα (Contes et propos).

Για τον Μι Γάμα στάθηκε αρκετά δύσκολο να αποκτήσει κάρτα εισόδου για την Εθνική Βιβλιοθήκη, εφόσον δεν είχε καμία ιδιότητα που να δικαιολογεί το αίτημά του, ούτε διεξήγε κάποια έρευνα που να του το επιτρέπει. Ήταν, όμως, πραγματικά το μοναδικό μέρος απ’όπου μπορούσε να πετύχει το στόχο του. Οποιοδήποτε άλλο εγχείρημα θα απέβαινε μάταιο και αναποτελεσματικό, εξαρτώμενο από μεγάλο αριθμό τυχαίων πιθανοτήτων. Έτσι ο Μι Γάμα πέρασε ένα ολόκληρο καλοκαίρι  χωρίς να μπορέσει να εκπληρώσει το ζητούμενό του, όταν μια φθινοπωρινή μέρα, περνώντας μπροστά από ένα χώρο επίσημων αφισοκολλήσεων, το μάτι του έπεσε πάνω σε μια ανακοίνωση για τη Σχολή του Λούβρου. Κατάλαβε, έγινε μαθητής της σχολής, αν κι ως τότε δεν είχε δείξει ποτέ κανένα ενδιαφέρον γι’ αυτό το είδος σπουδών, μελέτησε την τέχνη τού Μεσαίωνα και την επιγραφική και, τέλος, ως διπλωματούχος, μπόρεσε να αποκτήσει κάρτα αναγνώστη, η οποία θα του επέτρεπε την πρόσβαση στην Αίθουσα Εργασίας.

Την πρώτη μέρα που μπήκε εκεί, κάθισε κάπου τυχαία· ήταν πριν απ’τον πόλεμο, σε μια εποχή όπου μπορούσε ακόμη κανείς να διαλέξει τη θέση του. Κι έπειτα, κοίταξε γύρω του, προσανατολίστηκε κι έμαθε τον τρόπο λειτουργίας ετούτης της μεγάλης μηχανής. Πιο συγκεκριμένα, υπήρχαν οι κατάλογοι, που έπρεπε να ξέρει κανείς πώς να τους χειριστεί, πολυάριθμοι κατάλογοι, άλλοι τυπωμένοι, άλλοι γραμμένοι στο χέρι, άλλοι πάλι φωτογραφικοί, οι μεν εγγεγραμμένοι σε καρτέλες, οι δε όχι, με αλφαβητική σειρά ή ταξινομημένοι ανάλογα με το περιεχόμενο: εν ολίγοις, μια ολόκληρη μαθητεία. Όταν ο Μι Γάμα κατανόησε, λοιπόν, λίγο τη λειτουργία, το πρώτο του μέλημα υπήρξε το να αναζητήσει το όνομά του στο γενικό κατάλογο· το βρήκε, κι αυτό του προκάλεσε μεγάλη συγκίνηση και έντονη χαρά. Με το χέρι του να κρατά ανοιχτό τον τόμο 48 στη συγκεκριμένη σελίδα και τα μάτια ανασηκωμένα στο ταβάνι, ονειρεύτηκε για λίγο, χαμογελώντας. Συμπεριλαμβάνονταν και τα τρία έργα που είχε εκδώσει, με πλήρη αναφορά των στοιχείων τους: Η αναγέννησις της γης διά της απαγορευτικής αρχής του Νεύτωνος, Λιόν, Λανγκλιμέ, 1841, in-8o VIII-246 σελ., R.24111, Το έσχατον σημείον των ουρανών αναχθέν εις την ακριβήν του μορφήν, Λιόν, Λανγκλιμέ, in-8o IX-351 σελ., R.24112 και Η νύχτα του Νεύτωνος καλύπτουσα έως τώρα την Γην και από τούδε διαψευσθείσα εκ της λάμψεως της Αληθείας, Καν, Λεντουαγιέν, 1859, in-8o XL-674 σελ., R.26700.

Ο Μι Γάμα δεν χόρταινε να διαβάζει και να ξαναδιαβάζει ετούτες τις λιγοστές βιβλιογραφικές γραμμές – ό,τι δόξα είχε απομείνει όλη κι όλη από 'κείνον πάνω σε τούτη τη Γη, αφού σε όποιο λεξικό ή κατάλογο ταξινόμησης κι αν είχε ανατρέξει δεν είχε βρει κανένα ίχνος ούτε του ονόματός του ούτε του έργου του, όπως άλλωστε και σε κανένα εγχειρίδιο, σε κανένα ιστορικό κείμενο.

Το δεύτερο μέρος τού προγράμματος του εκτελέστηκε με τον ακόλουθο τρόπο: συμπλήρωσε τις τρείς απαραίτητες καρτέλες και ζήτησε να του φέρουν τα τρία αυτά βιβλία προς ανάγνωση. Μετά από μια ώρα περίπου, ήρθε πράγματι κάποιος υπάλληλος και του τα έφερε. Τα βιβλία ήσαν κατάμαυρα απ’τη σκόνη. Ο Μι Γάμα τα τίναξε και στη συνέχεια διαπίστωσε πως κανείς ως τώρα δεν τα είχε ανοίξει ποτέ: οι σελίδες τους ήταν ακόμα άκοπες. Ο Μι Γάμα κατέβασε βαριά το κεφάλι ξεφυλλίζοντας αφηρημένα τα βιβλία του. Ώστε, λοιπόν κανείς δεν τον είχε διαβάσει ποτέ – τουλάχιστον εδώ. Αλλά πόσες ελπίδες είχε να τον έχει διαβάσει κάποιος άλλος κάπου αλλού; Κανείς δεν είχε ενδιαφερθεί ποτέ για τα παραληρηματικά του πονήματα – κι όμως, θυμόταν τις ιδιοφυείς στιγμές που είχαν λαμπρύνει τις ημέρες τής διαμονής του  στη Λιόν και στην Καν, το πάθος με το οποίο έγραφε, το φλογερό του ενθουσιασμό. Κι έπειτα, μετά τη δημοσίευση, η πλήρης αποτυχία, η σιωπή. Τότε ο Μι Γάμα είχε πεθάνει, ελπίζοντας τουλάχιστον σε κάποια μετά θάνατον αναγνώριση για την αιωνιότητα. Αλλά τώρα έβλεπε πως και η αιωνιότητα δεν είχε δώσει ποτέ δεκάρα για ΄κείνον.

Εκείνη τη μέρα, βγήκε απ’την Εθνική Βιβλιοθήκη γεμάτος απογοήτευση και απελπισία. Περιπλανήθηκε όλη τη νύχτα, σκεπτόμενος τι έπρεπε να κάνει. Τα σκοτάδια των Παρισίων τον είδαν σε διάφορες συνοικίες να μονολογεί αναζητώντας λύση στο πρόβλημα του. Το πρωί, την ώρα που άνοιγε η Βιβλιοθήκη, βρισκόταν κιόλας εκεί. Μπήκε και άρχισε να παρατηρεί. Η παρατήρησή του υπήρξε μεθοδική και διήρκεσε κάμποσες ημέρες, εβδομάδες, μήνες. Ήταν τόσο διακριτικός, που κανείς δεν αντιλήφθηκε το τι έψαχνε. Για ποιο θέμα, άραγε, να ενδιαφερόταν ετούτος ο γηραιός κύριος με τη γενειάδα; Για το θάνατο του Λουδοβίκου του 16^ου. Κι ετούτη η ξανθιά κοπέλα; Για τον Ιανσενισμό. Κι ετούτος; Κι εκείνος; Κι ο άλλος; Ουδείς λόγιος και ουδεμία λογία δεν έδειχναν να έχουν κατά νου κάτι, στο οποίο θα μπορούσε να συναφθεί ή να παρεισφρήσει η μιγαμική φιλολογία. Πέρασαν μήνες. Ο Μι Γάμα εξακολουθούσε να επιτηρεί με μάτι άγρυπνο την πνευματική ζωή τής Αίθουσας Εργασίας.

Ένας θαμώνας τής Βιβλιοθήκης τού κίνησε, εντούτοις, την περιέργεια, επειδή ο Μι Γάμα δεν έβρισκε καμία σχέση ανάμεσα στους διαφορετικούς συγγραφείς που τον έβλεπε να ψάχνει στους καταλόγους. Δεν μπορούσε, όμως, και να τον περάσει για κάποιον που διάλεγε στην τύχη, ανάμεσα στη πληθώρα τής βιβλιογραφίας, διότι έδειχνε πως όντως η έρευνα, που διεξήγε, ήταν απόλυτα συγκεκριμένη. Μετά από κάποιο χρονικό διάστημα, ο Μι Γάμα διαπίστωσε πως οι συγγραφείς αυτοί ήσαν όλοι Γάλλοι τού 19^ου αιώνα και πως, απ΄όσο του επέτρεπαν οι ικανότητες του να κρίνει, ήσαν κι αυτοί παντελώς άγνωστοι. Δίστασε για λίγο καιρό ακόμα, συνέχισε να τον παρακολουθεί και κατέληξε στο συμπέρασμα πως ο ίδιος είχε πιθανότητες να προκαλέσει τον ενδιαφέρον τού άγνωστου αναγνώστη, καθότι Γάλλος, αεροφουσκοφυσικολόγος και – αλίμονο! – άγνωστος. Όσο για το θέμα των βιβλίων του, ήταν εξίσου αξιοπρεπές με τα θέματα των άλλων. Το άτομο έδειχνε να ενδιαφέρεται για όλες τις επιστήμες.

Έπρεπε, λοιπόν, τώρα να τον γνωρίσει. Και για να το πετύχει, σκαρφίστηκε τα ακόλουθα.

Ακολούθησε το άτομο, παρατήρησε τη συμπεριφορά του, κατέγραψε τις συνήθειες του, αξιολόγησε τον τρόπο σκέψης του, έβγαλε συμπεράσματα για τις προτιμήσεις του. Τον παρακολούθησε στενά. Ο άλλος δεν είχε καθόλου φίλους και είχε ελάχιστους γνωστούς. Ο Μι Γάμα προσκολλήθηκε σ’ έναν απ’ αυτούς, ο οποίος κάποια μέρα τους γνώρισε. Κουβέντιασαν. Ο Μι Γάμα, έχοντας πάρει τα πάνω του που έφτασε στο στόχο του, οδήγησε τη συζήτηση και μετά από λίγο ο άλλος τού αποκάλυψε τη φύση τής μελέτης του: ένα σύγγραμμα εξακοσίων περίπου σελίδων, μαζί με τη βιβλιογραφία και όλα τα σχετικά, που θα ασχολείτο απεραντολογικά με τους αφανείς Γάλλους του 19^ου αιώνα, θέμα ανεξάντλητο. Και τότε ο Μι Γάμα τού είπε συγκινημένος:

-       - Γνωρίζετε τον Μι Γάμα;

Ο άλλος δεν τον γνώριζε.

-       - Συνέγραψε το τάδε και το τάδε βιβλίο, του είπε ο Μι Γάμα, αναφέροντας τους τίτλους.

-       - Όχι, δεν τον γνωρίζω, είπε ο άλλος, δεν τον γνωρίζω. Πολύ ενδιαφέρον, ψιθύρισε.

Και έβγαλε απ’ την τσέπη του ένα μπλοκάκι, για να κρατήσει σημειώσεις. Έγραψε το όνομα και τους τίτλους των βιβλίων.

Ο Μι Γάμα, τις μέρες που ακολούθησαν, ένιωσε ευτυχής. Αλλά την επόμενη φορά που συνάντησε τον λόγιο, εκείνος του είπε:

-       - Πώς είπατε ότι τον έλεγαν εκείνον τον τύπο που έγραψε τα βιβλία; Έχασα τις σημειώσεις μου, να φανταστείτε.

Ο Μι Γάμα, δυσαρεστημένος, του ξανάδωσε τις πληροφορίες.

Την επόμενη φορά που συνάντησε τον λόγιο, εκείνος του είπε:

-       - Ενδιαφέρων ο τύπος, ενδιαφέρων. Θα του αφιερώσω περίπου τέσσερις με πέντε σελίδες τού βιβλίου μου.

Και ο Μι Γάμα ένιωσε και πάλι ευτυχής. Έτσι λοιπόν, δεν θα πέθαινε εντελώς! Το όνομα του θα έμενε ανάμεσα στους ανθρώπους όχι μονάχα ως μια απλή εγγραφή στον κατάλογο της Εθνικής Βιβλιοθήκης, αλλά και υπό τη μορφή μιας απόλυτα τιμητικής αναφοράς, ειδικά σ’ εκείνον, από ένα αξιότιμο λόγιο σε κάποιο σημαντικότατο σύγγραμμα. Ένιωσε ευτυχής. Θα ζούσε για πάντα, ή τουλάχιστον για πάρα πολύ καιρό – πάρα, μα πάρα πολύ καιρό. Δεν ήθελε να σκέφτεται τόσο μακροπρόθεσμα. Αλλά παρ’ όλα αυτά, η υστεροφημία του θα μπορούσε να διαρκέσει εκατοντάδες, ίσως και χιλιάδες χρόνια. Άλλωστε, μήπως δεν βρίσκει κανείς τυχαία στους καταλόγους, ανάμεσα σε άλλα ονόματα, και διάφορους έλληνες συγγραφείς, απ’ τους οποίους δεν έχει διασωθεί ούτε μία γραμμή; Γιατί όχι κι αυτός, λοιπόν! Ας υποθέσουμε πως όλος αυτός ο πολιτισμός εξαφανίζεται και πως, ολότελα μοιραία, δεν σώζεται παρά μονάχα το κομμάτι μιας σχισμένης σελίδας απ’ τον όγκο τού βιβλίου τού επιστήμονα και πως το κομμάτι αυτό είναι εκείνο που αναφέρεται στον Μι Γάμα. Στην περίπτωση αυτή, θα είναι ο μόνος που θα επιβιώσει. Γιατί όχι! Ένιωσε ευτυχής.

Έκτοτε, κάθε φορά που συναντιόταν με τον λόγιο, τον ρωτούσε πώς πήγαινε το βιβλίο του. Το σύγγραμμα προχωρούσε, σε λίγο καιρό θα τελείωνε. Σύντομα, δεν έμειναν παρά μονάχα μερικά σημεία, που έπρεπε να λάβουν την τελική τους μορφή. Ήταν έτοιμο για το τυπογραφείο, όταν ο συγγραφέας του έχασε το χειρόγραφο. Αποκαρδιωμένος, εγκατέλειψε τις έρευνες και αποσύρθηκε σε κάποιο εξοχικό που είχε κάπου έξω απ’ το Παρίσι.

Ο Μι Γάμα τον επισκέφθηκε κάμποσες φορές, για να τον ενθαρρύνει να συνεχίσει. Εξακολουθούσε να ελπίζει πως ο άλλος θα ξανάρχιζε. Όμως όχι, ο άλλος δεν ήθελε, δεν ήθελε ούτε να το ακούει. Ο Μι Γάμα, βλέποντας να εξαφανίζεται κάθε πιθανότητα να επιβιώσει στο πνεύμα των ανθρώπων, άρχισε να εξασθενεί λίγο-λίγο και να αποσυντίθεται. Μέσα στην ύψιστη οργή για τον επικείμενο ολοκληρωτικό του θάνατο, μάζεψε τις λιγοστές δυνάμεις που του είχαν απομείνει και έπνιξε τον λόγιο, ο οποίος και πέθανε. Όσο για τον Μι Γάμα, διαλύθηκε σιγά-σιγά, εξανεμίστηκε, δεν έμεινε τίποτα από ΄κείνον, ένα φάντασμα, άλλωστε, δεν μπορεί να γίνει φάντασμα. (Είναι βέβαιο αυτό;)
                             

“In Praise Of Cities” A poem by Thom Gunn

I
Indifferent to the indifference that conceived her,
Grown buxom in disorder now, she accepts
- Like dirt, strangers, or moss upon her churches -
Your tribute to the wharf of circumstance,
Rejected sidestreet, formal monument…
And, irresistible, the thoroughfare.


You welcome in her what remains of you;
And what is strange and what is incomplete
Compels a passion without understanding,
For all you cannot be.


II
                            Only at dawn
You might escape, she sleeps then for an hour:
Watch where she hardly breathes, spread out and cool,
Her pavements desolate in the dim dry air.


III
You stay. Yet she is occupied, apart.
Out of a mist the river turns to see
Whether you follow still. You stay. At evening
Your blood gains pace even as her blood does.


IV
Casual yet urgent in her love making,
She constantly asserts her independence:
Suddenly turning moist pale walls upon you
- Your own designs, peeling and unachieved -
Or her whole darkness hunching in an alley.
And all at once you enter the embrace
Withheld by day while you solicited.
She wanders lewdly, whispering her given name,
Charing Cross Road, or Forty Second Street:
The longest streets, desire that never ends,
Familiar and inexplicable, wearing
Cosmetic light a fool could penetrate.
She presses you with her hard ornaments,
Arcades, late movie shows, the piled lit windows
Of surplus stores. Here she is loveliest;
Extreme, material, the work of man.

Waiting for the night to fall in Arles

It’s September. September 1888. The night is falling in Arles. Vincent Van Gogh takes a small walk from the Hôtel-Restaurant Carrel towards the banks of the Rhône river. There he sets up his easel, the box with the brushes and the paints he lays on the grass. One by one the gas lamps lighten and in Van Gogh's mind the new emerging colors that he will need start to reveal themselves: "...The sky is aquamarine, the water is royal blue, the ground is mauve. The town is blue and purple. The gas is yellow and the reflections are russet gold descending down to green-bronze. On the aquamarine field of the sky the Great Bear is a sparkling green and pink, whose discreet paleness contrasts with the brutal gold of the gas."

When darkness descends, the canvas absorbs the wet paint, layer upon layer. Colors mix, transform, then change again. A part is left to rest, another continues this seemingly endless process of transformation. And gradually as the hours pass, the night and the canvas of Van Gogh begin to share. This is no pictorial love affair, no pre-arranged marriage. It's an essential exchange, a violent take over and in the small hours of the morning when the night withdraws defeated, the canvas of Vincent Van Gogh remains victorious having captured for eternity that specific moment in time when the night had fallen in Arles.  

Listen to
Depeche Mode - Waiting for the night to fall

Revisiting the dream sequence from Stalker (1979) by Andrei Tarkovsky

A man is lying down flat on the grass as if listening to the earth’s heartbeat. He soon falls into a dream. The dream can be imagined as a state of mind underwater. A voice is heard reciting a passage from the Bible about the end of the world as if it was a fairy tale. As the liquid sonic environment prepares the viewer, the camera begins its journey underwater. Everything now begins to swim in ochre, the color of rust and of time gone by. The first discernible object that appears is a syringe. Man’s addictions. Man is tied to the ground. A slave to his passions. A metallic bowl glitters in the reflected light of the sun rays that manage to penetrate this shallow stream of consciousness. Nature is reflected upside down. This is not the nature that we are part of. It is the nature as we see it. It is our work. A few fish swim as in a fish bowl. They seem to prefer the confined space of the fish bowl even if they are in an endless stream. We are accustomed to our confined spaces. Vast expanses frighten us. A box with coins and tools, a bottle. We have to work through our life and in the end we don’t live, we work. An old picture of a saint and coins. Religion with its not so otherworldly considerations. A machine gun. War and violence have always been present in the history of mankind. Rusty mechanical parts, a spring, barbed wire appear as remnants of an industrial age gone wrong or turned sinister. And then a torn page from a table calendar signifying the passing of days and a piece of string as if we are tied to this endless repetition of patterns. The camera moves slowly against the small current of the stream and we are surprised when the hand of the dreaming man appears slowly lying in a puddle of water. The way this hand emerges into our view so suddenly but also so fluidly dragging us out of this reverie is a masterful stroke unequaled in cinema. The black shadow delineates the contour of the hand in the liquid ochre and the dream is over.

Peter Hammill

The audience of Peter Hammill is listening. And it will continue to do so as long as Peter charts the unknown waters of uncompromising composition, improvisation and expression. This real chameleon of music, has provided a changing palette of colors and moods that has influenced artists from Bowie to Lydon. He sailed through musical genres and labels discarding empty shells and commercial aspirations. His music has become the soundtrack of our lives.


Peter Hammill is clean. His voice like a trembling candle has stirred as away from the opaque darkness that comes out of the black holes of entertainment. Devoid of embellishments, musical smalltalk and conventional structures, it resonates truth at every turn of phrase, at every whisper. 


And somehow you can never get a hold of Peter. His image fades away as soon as you think you've put it down on print. Any solid mould that you've made from listening to an album, becomes grains of sand and slips through your fingers in his next release. The sharper the image he cuts the more he disappears. That's why he will always be close to us. 

Listen to
Peter Hammill - Sharply Unclear 

Η έναστρη φωτεινότητα του Νίκου Καρούζου

Ο άνθρωπος που εισόρμησε πια στην απώτερη θλίψη
με δίχως έστω ένα τριαντάφυλλο
μ' εκείνα τ' ακατέργαστα στην ώχρα μεινεσμένα μάτια
στο μισοσκέπαστο ερημόκκλησο σέρνοντας
τη μεγάλη ανάπηρη σιωπή στο καροτσάκι της ομιλίας
ανέκαθεν ήξερε την άσωστη κατάσταση-: πως είμαστε
καθημαγμένοι ερασιτέχνες του Πραγματικού
μ' ένα μυστήριο που βεβηλώνει τη διάνοια διχάζοντας
πριν η δορά της θάλασσας σηκώσει το ανάστημα του Άδη.

Πολύκρουνη η θύελλα σπάζει τα ματογυάλια της κι ο μέγας
τρόμος αδράχνει τα μελλούμενα
σχηματίζοντας αποστήματα στη μνήμη.
Κατάχαμα της ασίγαστης σιγής ένα κινούμενο
κειμήλιο-σκουλήκι.

Η ζωή που μικραίνει: η μεγάλη αλήθεια.
Στον οπού πιάνει το τσαπί γίνεται τσάπισμα
στον οπού πίνει το νερό γίνεται πιόμα.
Έρχεται έαρ αειπάρθενο προφέροντας αρώματα
κρατεί μια κατάμαυρη λεπτότατη κλωστή
στα ύπαιθρα της νύχτας
το σημείο του γκιώνη που είν' άγνωστο πέρα...

Araby By James Joyce

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed, and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: 'O love! O love!' many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going toAraby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she would love to go.

'And why can't you?' I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

'It's well for you,' she said.

'If I go,' I said, 'I will bring you something.'

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:

'Yes, boy, I know.'

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I felt the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high, cold, empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old, garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

'I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.'

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

'The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,' he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

'Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is.'

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' He asked me where I was going and, when I told him a second time, he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.

'O, I never said such a thing!'

'O, but you did!'

'O, but I didn't!'

'Didn't she say that?'

'Yes. I heard her.'

'O, there's a... fib!'

Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

'No, thank you.'

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.


From "Dubliners", a collection of short stories by James Joyce published in 1914.