Talk about the weather with Marin Sorescu on a Lorry

The vinyl spins and the red lorry, or yellow lorry, I can’t remember now, tries to start its engine. It takes a crackle here and a few thundery gasps of oil and gasoline there, and we are on the move. The track playing on the radio is "Talk about the weather” by this post-punk group with the strange name. What a coincidence then that the battered book with the fading cover on the side seat, is also called "Let’s talk about the weather... and other poems” (1985) by Marin Sorescu. An important Romanian poet and a leading literary figure of his generation, Sorescu was the master of the sarcastic and the awkward. His existentialist themes worked well both at a universal and subjective level and his irony and sense of the absurd were brought forward in a simple and accessible language. The Nobel writer Seamus Heaney pointed out in his introduction to Sorescu's "Hands Behind My Back" (1991), that behind the author's subversive "throwaway charm and poker-faced subversiveness, ... there is a persistent solidarity with the unregarded life of the ordinary citizen, a willingness to remain at eye-level and on speaking terms with common experience”. Sorescu's words had the power to penetrate beyond all veils and curtains transparent or iron. The following three poems are gems in a treasure filled chest that is worth rediscovering. 


Getting used to your name
(Translated by Gabriela Dragnea, Stuart Friebert and Adriana Varga)


After you've learned to walk,
Tell one thing from another,
Your first care as a child
Is to get used to your name.
What is it?
They keep asking you.
You hesitate, stammer,
And when you start to give a fluent answer
Your name's no longer a problem.


When you start to forget your name,
It's very serious.
But don't despair,
An interval will set in.


And soon after your death,
When the mist rises from your eyes,
And you begin to find your way
In the everlasting darkness,
Your first care (long forgotten,
Long since buried with you)
Is to get used to your name.
You're called--just as arbitrarily--
Dandelion, cowslip, cornel,
Blackbird, chaffinch, turtle dove,
Costmary, zephyr--or all these together.
And when you nod, to show you've got it,
Everything's all right:
The earth, almost round, may spin
Like a top among stars.


It's Been a Day
(Translated by C. Iliescu)


You're coming home
A bit worn out,
But satisfied.
Satisfied as a tram ticket
Showed to the collector
And punched exactly in the right place.


You've been unwinding generously
During the whole day,
And now you gather again, little by little,
You are waiting to rewind
And you return, you return from everywhere,
You return and you're never ending.


It's been a day like any other,
Full of achievements,
No sooner did you arrive at work,
Than you began to spread your own activity
On table, chairs, and telephone
And all surrounding objects meant for that.


You also faced some other tasks:
You asked for and you offered cigarettes,
You shook hands with at least one hundred fellows
Anticipating questions like «How are you?»
Before they had the possibility to ask you,
Thus managing to place them
In a position of inferiority.
And obviously you spoke all day, as usual,
Within the limits of the Current Romanian Language Dictionary,
Five thousand words or so.


And now while you are picking up the rust
From the key you forgot in your pocket,
The pebbles which got into your shoes,
Have now, one by one, slunk also in your soul.
And are so strangely jingling there,
Thus, now your children will have one more toy to rattle.


Even your nerves
Which have been so artistically twisted
All day long,
Will be in such a glorious way used by them
As a new buzzer for the paper kite.
In a few minutes, the kite will be joyfully hoisted
Over your house,
Signalling to the Cosmos that still,
Life does exist on Earth in spite of all,
and it's exploited to the maximum.


Perpetuum Mobile
(Translated by C. Iliescu)


Between people's ideals and their fulfillment
There will always exist a difference in level,
Which surpasses the highest waterfall.


Nevertheless we can use rationally
This fall of expectations by building on it
Something like a hydroelectric power station.
With the energy obtained this way,
Even if we can't do more than light our cigarettes,
Still, this is quite something,
As while we smoke,
We can seriously,
Think of even greater ideals.

Listen to:

Red Lorry Yellow Lorry - Talk about the weather

John Fowles and the last sentence

John Fowles (1926-2005) wrote “The French Lieutenant’s Woman” in 1969. The novel, which begins with a Thomas Hardy veneer and a Victorian feel to it, soon mutates into an existentialist exercise with a modernist choice of alternative endings. It catches you almost unprepared as it lifts the boundaries, blending the past and the present and suddenly all is swept away and what remains is a distilled perception of the human condition. For example, in a sudden epiphany moment, Charles realises that man has in fact entrapped himself in a vicious cycle of his own making. Existentialist writing was never so thrillingly engaging and poetic:
       
“In a vivid insight, a flash of black lightning, he saw that all life was parallel: that evolution was not vertical, ascending to a perfection, but horizontal. Time was a great fallacy; existence was without history, was always now, was always this being caught in the same fiendish machine. All those painted screens erected by man to shut out reality - history, religion, duty, social position, all were illusions, mere opium fantasies." 


And exactly like that, like a flash of black lightning, certain passages in the book leap out by their sheer beauty and philosophical insight. John Fowles ends the novel with the following sentence. A last sentence that is supposed to bring closure. But in the hands of a great novelist this closure is all encompassing and we are left with the sense that the novel ends with a grand opening. Here it is: 


“ He walks towards an imminent, self-given death?  I think not; for he has at last found an atom of faith in himself, a true uniqueness, on which to build; has already begun, though he would still bitterly deny it, though there are tears in his eyes to support his denial, to realize that life, ... is not a symbol, is not one riddle and one failure to guess it, is not to inhabit one face alone or to be given up after one losing throw of the dice; but is to be, however inadequately, emptily, hopelessly into the city’s iron heart, endured. And out again, upon the unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea."        

“Απόντες” (1996) του Νίκου Γραμματικού

Από τις καλύτερες ταινίες του νεώτερου Ελληνικού κινηματογράφου, η ταινία “Απόντες” του Νίκου Γραμματικού, γυρισμένη το 1996, καταφέρνει αβίαστα να χαρτογραφήσει μια γενιά με τις ανησυχίες, τα απατηλά της όνειρα και τη χαμένη της αθωότητα. Μέσα σε ένα χρονικό διάστημα μιας επταετίας που οριοθετείται από δύο διαμετρικά αντίθετα αθλητικά γεγονότα, η ταινία παρακολουθεί τις σποραδικές συναντήσεις στη Σαλαμίνα έξι στενών σχολικών φίλων. Από την περίφημη νίκη της Ελληνικής ομάδας μπασκετ επί της Γιουγκοσλαβίας το καλοκαίρι του 1987 στον ημιτελικό του Ευρωμπάσκετ, η ταινία καταλήγει χρονικά στη συντριβή της Ελληνικής ομάδας ποδοσφαίρου το καλοκαίρι του 1994 στο Μουντιάλ. Μεταφορικά λοιπόν ξεκινάμε από μια νίκη που μας γεμίζει προσδοκία και όνειρα και καταλήγουμε στην ήττα και την κοινωνική ένταξη. Με το πέρασμα του χρόνου θα επέλθει η φθορά στις σχέσεις, θα χαθεί η επαφή και η δυνατότητα επικοινωνίας. “... Κάθε φορά που οι φίλοι «επιστρέφουν» στο νησί, κουβαλάνε - αναπόφευκτα - τα ίχνη των προσωπικών επιλογών τους, αλλά και της σύγχρονης ελληνικής πραγματικότητας. Μιας πραγματικότητας, που - αργά αλλά σταθερά - τους αλλάζει και τους διαβρώνει. Το τέλος της εποχής των συλλογικών οραμάτων θα τους βρει σκορπισμένους, αντιμέτωπους με την αυγή μιας εποχής στην οποία κυριαρχούν οι ατομικές λύσεις και επιδιώξεις."

Το 1996, η εφημερίδα «Το Βήμα» έκανε ένα αφιέρωμα στην ταινία με αφορμή τη βράβευσή της. Ο Γιώργος Ευγενικός, ένας από τους εξαιρετικούς ηθοποιούς που προσωπικά υποδυόταν τον Μανώλη στην παρέα των έξη φίλων, είχε αναφέρει τότε τα εξής: 

«Ο Νίκος (Γραμματικός) μάς είπε: "Αναζητήστε την αλήθεια του ρόλου...". Βούτηξα στον ήρωα που θα υποδυόμουν. Στον Μανώλη που άφησε τη φωτογραφία για να ασχοληθεί με τους κομπιούτερ και την πληροφορική. Στον ορθολογιστή Μανώλη, που γύρεψε τη σιγουριά στο επάγγελμα, στον γάμο, στην εξάρτηση από τους άλλους πάντα. Λέει σε μια στιγμή της ταινίας στον αδελφό του: "Μην ξεχάσεις τα τάπερ, η μαμά όλο εμένα βρίζει...". Τον αγάπησα και ας μη μοιάζει σε μένα». 

Ένας άλλος “φίλος”, ο ηθοποιός Τάσος Νούσιας, είπε με τη σειρά του στο ίδιο αφιέρωμα: «Μας έδωσε την παρτιτούρα και εμείς αυτοσχεδιάσαμε...». Παιδί της γενιάς του '90, βρήκε και ο ίδιος εικόνες δικές του στην ταινία. «Είμαστε η γενιά που μεγάλωσε με την καραμέλα του τέλους των ιδεολογιών. Να, μια σκηνή από την ταινία που μου έκανε εντύπωση και δίνει και ένα στίγμα: γύρω από το τραπέζι είναι μαζεμένοι όλοι και μιλούν σε μια "χάβρα". Ο καθένας λέει σημαντικά πράγματα, αλλά όλοι μαζί τίποτα. Λέει ο ένας: "Αν αφήναμε έτσι τα πράγματα, θα μας πνίγανε οι Κοσκωτάδες". Και ο άλλος: "Εεε, λίγα τα λόγια σου για τον Ντέταρι..."».

Ο Βασίλης Ραφαηλίδης, στο βιβλίο του «Πέρα από τον κινηματογράφο» γράφει για τους “Απόντες”:

“... Ενώ, όντας έφηβος στην Ελλάδα ετοιμάζεσαι μεθοδικά να δράσεις, σιγά σιγά, καθώς μεγαλώνεις, περνάς στην αδράνεια, είτε μέσα από έναν αδρανή γάμο, είτε μέσα από έναν αδρανή διορισμό στο αδρανές Δημόσιο, είτε γράφοντας αδρανή ποιήματα, που δεν θα εκδοθούν ποτέ από πνευματικά αδρανείς εκδότες. Μην τολμήσεις να ωριμάσεις στην Ελλάδα, γιατί πριν προλάβεις να ωριμάσεις, σάπισες κιόλας. Η ταινία καταγράφει την πορεία επτά εφήβων προς το ίδιο τέλμα, από διαφορετικούς για τον καθένα δρόμους..." 

Σήμερα, μετά από πολλά χρόνια, μπορεί κανείς να διαπιστώσει σε τι οδήγησε τελικά αυτή η αδράνεια την Ελλάδα. Ο Ανδρέας, που συμβολίζει στην ταινία τη φωνή της συνείδησης, της παιδικής αθωότητας, της ακεραιότητας και της αντίστασης στη φθορά, θα χαθεί. Μαζί του χάνεται και ένα κομμάτι της ψυχής των υπόλοιπων φίλων της παρέας. Κάποιοι όμως απ΄αυτούς έχουν τόσο πολύ αλλοιωθεί και απορροφηθεί από το σύστημα που δεν θα νιώσουν σχεδόν τίποτα.     

Η ταινία βραβεύτηκε στο διεθνές φεστιβάλ Θεσσαλονίκης το 1996 με τα βραβεία καλύτερης ταινίας, σκηνοθεσίας, σεναρίου και β' ανδρικού ρόλου που μοιράστηκε και στους έξη “φίλους”.

Α.. ναι.. παραλίγο να το ξεχάσω. Ένα από τα πολύ δυνατά στοιχεία της ταινίας είναι βέβαια και η μουσική. Κατά τη διάρκεια της ταινίας ακούγονται κομμάτια των Van Der Graaf Generator, Pink Floyd, Joy Division, Nick Cave, Supertramp και άλλων εξαιρετικών συγκροτημάτων που σημάδεψαν τη συγκεκριμένη εποχή. Όσοι μεγάλωσαν ακούγοντας αυτά τα κομμάτια, είμαι σίγουρος ότι θα συγκινηθούν διπλά από αυτήν την εξαιρετική ταινία.  

Listen to:

Van Der Graaf Generator - Killer

La Chambre de Lautréamont

Que l’histoire commence. Que la réalité et la fiction se rejoignent. Paris 1871. Un Paris qui lèche encore les plaies de sa Commune éloignée à jamais, un Paris qui s’effondre comme les ruines de ses immeubles incendiés à la rue Royale. Un pari perdu. Dans le sombre labyrinthe de ses ruelles et le sourire en coin de ses pavés édentés, un certain Auguste Bretagne loue un appartement dans lequel l'ancien locataire a laissé des objets mystérieux et personnels. Cet ancien locataire de la rue du Faubourg-Montmartre, était nul autre que Monsieur Isidore Ducasse, alias Comte de Lautréamont, auteur des délirantes et sombres "Chants de Maldoror". 


L’insaisissable fantôme de Ducasse plane sur les pages de cette fascinante bande dessinée en compagnie de Rimbaud, Verlaine, Baudelaire, les frères Cros ainsi que d'autres sacrés personnages du cycle des poètes maudits. Entre rêve et hallucination, enquête policière et farce mystique, Edith (dessin) et Corsal (scénario) nous plongent dans un récit dense, plein de surprises. Sinistres colis et étranges inventions, un piano qui parle, une écriture révélée par le feu..., en tournant les pages de cette bande dessinée, on a envie de relire cet œuvre exaltant et sulfureux qui fut "Les Chants de Maldoror". Le premier Chant a été publié à compte d'auteur en 1868, et l'œuvre complète a été imprimée en Belgique un an plus tard, pour le compte d'un editeur qui a refusé de mettre l'ouvrage en vente, par crainte de poursuites judiciaires. Le livre n'a rien perdu aujourd'hui de sa force et de sa conviction provocatrice.
   

Dans le "Chants de Maldoror", le Comte de Lautréamont dit à un certain moment:

"Je soulevai avec lenteur mes yeux spleenétiques, cernés d'un grand cercle bleuâtre, vers la concavité du firmament et j'osai pénétrer, moi, si jeune, les mystères du ciel..." 

Quelles paroles prophétiques... D'après tout, Isidore Ducasse est mort le 24 novembre 1870, à 24 ans. Son corps fut jeté dans la fosse commune du cimetière de Montmartre mais sa légende et son âme restent vivantes et éternelles à travers ses écrits et des ouvrages comme celui-ci.   

Listen to:
Charles Trénet - L’âme des poètes

"Sunbeam" by Charles Bukowski

The following poem can be found in the book "The Flash Of Lightning Behind The Mountain" by Charles Bukowski. Published in 2005 by Ecco (Harper Collins), this book contains previously uncollected poetry and prose from his later years. From January 1949 to March 1951, Bukowski worked at the "Sunbeam Lightning Co" in Los Angeles, packing lighting fixtures for shipment. It was certainly not an easy job and the repetitive nature of work on the assemly line combined with intolerable working conditions strictly controlled by the foreman, pushed the workers to the limit. Bukowski didn't take long to spoil these ideal conditions for reaching the productivity targets set by the company. Here is how it all started... 

Sunbeam
By Charles Bukowski

sometimes when you are in hell
and it is continuous
you get a bit giddy
and then when you are tired beyond being
tired
sometimes a crazy feeling gets a hold of
you.

the factory was in east L.A.
and of the 150 workers
I was one of only two white men
there.
the other had a soft job.
mine was to wrap and tape 
the light fixtures
as they came off the assembly line and
as I tried
to keep pace the
sharp edges of the tape
cut through my gloves and into my
hands.
finally
the gloves had to be thrown
away
because
they were cut to shreds
and then my hands were completely exposed
each new slice like an electric
shock.

I was the big dumb white boy
and as the others
worked to keep pace
all eyes were watching to see
if I would
fall behind.

I gave up on my hands
but I didn't give up.

the pace seemed impossible
and then something snapped in my
brain and I screamed
out the name of the firm we were all slaving
for, "SUNBEAM!"

at once
everybody laughed
all the girls on the assembly line and
all the guys too although
we still had to struggle to keep up with
the work flow.

then I yelled it
again:
"SUNBEAM!"

it was a total release for me.

then one of the girls on the
assembly line yelled back,
"SUNBEAM!"

and we all
laughed
together.

and then as we continued
to work
a new voice
would suddenly call out from
somewhere,
"SUNBEAM!"

and each time we
laughed until
we were all drunk with
laughter.

then the foreman,
Morry,
came in from the other
room.

"WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON IN
HERE? THAT SCREAMING HAS GOT
TO STOP!"

so then, we stopped.

and as Morry turned away we saw that the
seat of his pants was jammed up in the crack of
his ass, that fool in control of
our universe!

I lasted about 4 months there
and I will always remember that day,
that joy, the madness, the mutual
magic of our
many voices
one at a time
screaming
"SUNBEAM!"

sometimes when you are in
a living hell
long enough
things like that sometimes happen
and then
you're in a kind of heaven
a heaven which might not seem to be
very much at all 
to most folks
but which is good enough
especially when you can
watch someone like Morry
walk away with the seat of his pants
jammed up in the crack of his
ass.

"Démasquée" by Akseli Gallen-Kallela

The Finnish painter Akseli Gallen-Kallela came to Paris in 1884. He soon found himself dragged into the midst of the bohemian lifestyle of artists living and working in the Quartier Latin and Monmartre. At cafés such as the "Momus" or the "Brasserie des Martyrs" he would meet other famous artists and writers of the time who were opposed to every form of conventionality in life and in art. In the smoke filled rooms, discussions and exchanges of views and ideas, fueled by excessive absinthe consumption, would drag on to the early hours of the morning.  


One of his paintings, inspired by that period in Paris, is a painting called "Démasquée" (Unmasked). In a bohemian styled room, which could be Gallen-Kallela's own rented premises in Paris at the time, a model sits on a canape covered with a Finnish ryijy weaved rug. She is staring back at us, with a cigarette in her hand, smoking. A guitar is lying next to her feet on the carpet which partially covers the parquet floor. A skull can also be seen in the background behind the floor vase with the milk white lilies. The El Greco paleness of the model's body is in tune with the faded tapestry colors surrounding her. The enigmatic expression in her face almost hypnotises the viewer or, as someone put it, it's a "fin-de-siecle expression of playful exhaustion and nervous vividness." There is a hint of a smile there. A kind of dark, calm Mona Lisa playfulness that is also reflected in the mysteriously languid eyes.


Akseli Gallen-Kallela managed in this painting to capture the essence of this bohemian way of life. Revolt and decadence are both present as the masks of propriety fall. Beneath the façades and veneer of society's norms stands nakedness and fragile beauty revealed by the artist. The brevity of life that should be enjoyed to the full.   

Listen to:

Charles Aznavour - La Bohéme

"The Man Who Planted Trees" by Frédéric Back

In 1987, Frédéric Back, a Canadian artist and film Director, created a stunning 30 minute animated short film based on Jean Giono’s 1953 tale. It earned a number of awards including an Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film. With a beautiful narration in the English language version by Christopher Plummer, the film makes Giono’s characters spring into life. Back's pure and poetic  drawings that blend into one another, his pastel colors  and his silver smooth direction, transport the viewer in the world of a certain Elzéard Bouffier. Now Jean Giono insisted that the man was just a figment of his imagination. That he never really existed. But seeing Frédéric Back’s short film we understand that in the end, it makes no difference if Mr Bouffier was real or not. This story and the film that faithfully captures the essence of it, have already planted their acorns of hope in our mind. And that’s real.        

In Byron's Circean Palace

In a passage from "The Odyssey", Book X, Homer describes Odysseas and his companions arriving in Circe's island. There, in a clearing in the middle of a dense forest, they find her enchanted palace. They are surprised by what they see...  

"...εὗρον δ᾽ ἐν βήσσῃσι τετυγμένα δώματα Κίρκης [210]
ξεστοῖσιν λάεσσι, περισκέπτῳ ἐνὶ χώρῳ·
ἀμφὶ δέ μιν λύκοι ἦσαν ὀρέστεροι ἠδὲ λέοντες,
τοὺς αὐτὴ κατέθελξεν, ἐπεὶ κακὰ φάρμακ᾽ ἔδωκεν.
οὐδ᾽ οἵ γ᾽ ὡρμήθησαν ἐπ᾽ ἀνδράσιν, ἀλλ᾽ ἄρα τοί γε
οὐρῇσιν μακρῇσι περισσαίνοντες ἀνέσταν. [215]
ὡς δ᾽ ὅτ᾽ ἂν ἀμφὶ ἄνακτα κύνες δαίτηθεν ἰόντα
σαίνωσ᾽, αἰεὶ γάρ τε φέρει μειλίγματα θυμοῦ,
ὣς τοὺς ἀμφὶ λύκοι κρατερώνυχες ἠδὲ λέοντες
σαῖνον· τοὶ δ᾽ ἔδεισαν, ἐπεὶ ἴδον αἰνὰ πέλωρα.
ἔσταν δ᾽ ἐν προθύροισι θεᾶς καλλιπλοκάμοιο, [220]
Κίρκης δ᾽ ἔνδον ἄκουον ἀειδούσης ὀπὶ καλῇ,
ἱστὸν ἐποιχομένης μέγαν ἄμβροτον, οἷα θεάων
λεπτά τε καὶ χαρίεντα καὶ ἀγλαὰ ἔργα πέλονται..."

In a forest clearing they found Circe's house— [210]
built of polished stone, with views in all directions.
There were mountain wolves and lions round it,
all bewitched by Circe's wicked potions.
But these beasts made no attack against my men.
No. They stood on their hind legs and fawned,
wagging their long tails. Just as dogs will beg
around their master when he comes from dinner— [215]
since he keeps bringing scraps to please their hearts—
that's how the wolves and sharp-clawed lions there
kept fawning round those men, who were afraid
just looking at those fearful animals.
They stood in fair-haired Circe's gateway [220]
and heard her sweet voice singing in the house,
as she went back and forth before her loom,
weaving a huge, immortal tapestry,
the sort of work which goddesses create,
finely woven, luminous, and beautiful.

(Translated by Ian Johnston)

The poet Percy Bysshe Shelley was similarly surprised many years later when he visited Lord Byron's home in Ravenna. In a letter to Thomas Love Peacock on the 10th of August 1821, Shelley describes Byron's unusual lifestyle at his Circean palace:


"...Lord Byron gets up at two. I get up, quite contrary to my usual custom... at 12. After breakfast we sit talking till six. From six to eight we gallop through the pine forest which divides Ravenna from the sea; we then come home and dine, and sit up gossiping till six in the morning. I don't suppose this will kill me in a week or fortnight, but I shall not try it longer. Lord B.'s establishment consists, besides servants, of ten horses, eight enormous dogs, three monkeys, five cats, an eagle, a crow, and a falcon; and all these, except the horses, walk about the house, which every now and then resounds with their unarbitrated quarrels, as if they were the masters of it...


P.S. After I have sealed my letter, I find that my enumeration of the animals in this Circean Palace was defective, and that in a material point, I have just met on the grand staircase five peacocks, two guinea hens, and an Egyptian crane. I wonder who all these animals were before they were changed into these shapes..."

Nathaniel Hawthorn seemed to know the answer of who they were and what to do with them having dug deep in the original tale of Homer:


“...As for the lions, tigers, and wolves (though Circe would have restored them to their former shapes at his slightest word), Ulysses thought it advisable that they should remain as they now were, and thus give warning of their cruel dispositions, instead of going about under the guise of men, and pretending to human sympathies, while their hearts had the blood- thirstiness of wild beasts. So he let them howl as much as they liked, but never troubled his head about them...” (taken from "Circe’s Palace" found in his "Tanglewood Tales" of 1853)


But in the end those beasts were not all that bad. As a matter of fact, a few of them, with the help of Circe, refined their howling and eventually produced some very beautiful music. Judge for yourselves...     


Listen to:

Wild Beasts - Lion’s share

Η αραχνούφαντη ποίηση του Γιώργου Σαραντάρη

Διαβάζοντας κανείς σήμερα την ποίηση του Γιώργου Σαραντάρη, είναι σαν να ξεκινάει ένα ευγενικό, φανταστικό ταξίδι σε αναζήτηση λεπτοτάτων αποχρώσεων και αισθημάτων διάφανων σαν την πούδρα στα φτερά της πεταλούδας. Τα είπανε "παράξενα" τα ποιήματά του. Και τον υπερευαίσθητο αυτόν άνθρωπο τον αποκαλέσανε αργόσχολο και τον έστειλαν στην πρώτη γραμμή του χιονισμένου Αλβανικού μετώπου να πολεμήσει και να σκοτώσει. Λίγο πριν τον πόλεμο, ο Σαραντάρης είχε πει σε ένα φίλο του: “...αισθάνομαι αγωνία, όχι μήπως σκοτωθώ αλλά μόνο μήπως είμαι αναγκασμένος να σκοτώσω”.  Έμενε σε ένα νεοκλασσικό σπίτι, που δεν ξέρω αν σώζεται σήμερα στην Αθήνα, Κοδριγκτώνος 42. Στις τέσσερις μικρές συλλογές ποιημάτων που κατάφερε να εκδόσει ο Σαραντάρης ("Οι αγάπες του χρόνου" - Αθήνα 1933, "Τα ουράνια" - Αθήνα 1934, “Αστέρια" - Αθήνα 1935, "Στους φίλους μιας άλλης χαράς" - Αθήνα 1940), έρχονται να προστεθούν δοκίμια και φιλοσοφικές μελέτες που βρέθηκαν ανάμεσα στα χαρτιά του και που τον καθιστούν πρόδρομο του Υπαρξισμού πολύ πριν η ναυτία κυριέψει τις λέξεις. Ακολουθούν δύο παραδείγματα αυτής της αραχνούφαντης, λιτής ποίησης παρμένα από τη συλλογή "Οι αγάπες του χρόνου", 1933:    

ΑΥΡΙΟ 

Και αίσθημα και αίσθηση αφήσανε 

οι ανεπαίσθητοι ουρανοί 

χαϊδεύοντας τις επιφάνειες.

ΑΝΥΠΑΡΞΙΑ

Η θάλασσα, πάνε θλιμμένα χρόνια,

επέθανε

γύρω της κλείνουνε στεριές

και ορίζοντες.

Δεν είναι δύσκολο να φανταστεί κανείς πως εξελίχθηκε το τελευταίο κεφάλαιο της σύντομης ζωής του Σαραντάρη. Αρρώστησε από τύφο στην πρώτη γραμμή του πολέμου και πέθανε λίγο μετά τον γυρισμό του στην Αθήνα στις 25 Φεβρουαρίου 1941, σε ηλικία 32 ετών. Ο Οδυσσέας Ελύτης, που τον είχε γνωρίσει προσωπικά, παρέχει περισσότερα στοιχεία για το τραγικό τέλος του στα "Ανοιχτά χαρτιά". Μπορεί να έσπασαν τα μυωπικά του γυαλιά και να εξαυλώθηκε ο ποιητής μέσα σε αυτή τη τρέλλα της κατάρρευσης όλων των αξιών. Μπορεί, όπως λέει και ο Prospero του Shakespeare, όλα να έχουν ένα τέλος και ο ύπνος να έπνιξε το όνειρο του Σαραντάρη:


"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.”                                   The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

Εμείς όμως μένουμε εδώ να ακολουθήσουμε τα χνάρια που άφησε ο ποιητής στο χιόνι, να συνεχίσουμε να θέτουμε τα ίδια καίρια και διαχρονικά ερωτήματα. Μα τελικά την απάντηση ίσως να την έχει ήδη δώσει ο Σαραντάρης όταν έγραφε σε ένα άλλο του ποίημα:


"Όπου και αν πηγαίνουμε μας υποδέχεται η μουσική
αλλά δεν είμαστε, δεν γινήκαμε ακόμα όνειρα και
συνεπώς απορούμε."

Αξίζει να δείτε ένα ενδιαφέρον ντοκυμαντέρ για τον ποιητή και να ακολουθήσετε το link απο κάτω για να βρείτε περισσότερα ποιήματα του Σαραντάρη:



Εποχές και συγγραφείς: Γιώργος Σαραντάρης from Αντίφωνο (antifono.gr) on Vimeo.

Ιστοσελίδα με ποιήματα του Γ. Σαραντάρη

Lovelock and the perfect race

John ("Jack") Edward Lovelock (5 January 1910 – 28 December 1949) was a New Zealand runner who specialised in the 1500 metres. In 1936 he took part in the nazi organised Olympic games held in Berlin. The best athletes from around the world converged in the German capital to compete. The stakes were high as the athletes battled not only for personal fame and glory but for ideas and beliefs that were of worldwide importance at the time. Jesse Owens of course would go on to win four gold medals delivering a message of defiance and black pride in front of Hitler but also in the face of his home country, the United States, where segregation and racism were rampant. 

And then there was also the 1500 metre race. The final turned out to be one of the most memorable events in athletics history. On the starting line there were:
- Glenn Cunningham, the American mile world record holder, 
- Bill Bonthron the 1932 Olympic Games 1500m champion, 
- Luigi Beccali, the Italian champion, 
- Sydney Wooderson, the emerging English champion,
- John 'Jerry’ Cornes, silver medalist in Los Angeles,
- Erik Ny, the Swedish champion, 
- Phil Edwards and Gene Venzke, both outstanding Canadian and American athletes. And finally, there was Lovelock. 

The above 1992 New Zealand short film was written by Stuart Hoar, produced by Bruce Sheridan and directed by David Robertson. It brilliantly portrays the way Lovelock decided to surprise the other runners by running a seemingly impossible race. He trained hard to be able to start his sprint early and on the day managed to run the perfect race. Shot in black and white with effective cutting and a lot of atmosphere, this little gem is well worth watching.    

On the 28 of December 1949, Lovelock was hit by a New York city subway train after falling on the tracks.