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Knausgaard în română

Knausgaard în română

Am trecut aseară pe la Gaudeamus și, în afară de niște cărți – Pessoa, Kolakowski și câțiva ruși contemporani (m-a afectat probabil propaganda aia despre care tot vorbesc specialiștii în incendii), am mai rămas cu ceva.

O imagine: un poet bătrân la o lansare pe culoar rostindu-și versurile în fața a trei oameni stabili și în lateralul altor zeci care treceau de la stand la stand. Omul declama convins la microfon alimentând cacofonia aia tembelă care trece probabil drept energie și pitoresc la toate întâmplările numite la București „târg de carte”.

Sau „bâlci de carte”, după cum a explicat serios un copil de șase ani ale cărui percepții sunt încă proaspete.

Îmi tot promit că evit târgurile de carte (am Kindle de niște ani), însă nu prea reușesc. O să îmi mai ia o vreme.

Însă altul e motivul pentru m-am apucat să scriu acum: insist să puneți pe listă, mâine sau poimâine când dați tura regulamentară pe la Gaudeamus, cel puțin o carte.


Recunosc sincer că m-am mirat cât de repede a fost tradusă și publicată în română. În general, editurile noastre merg pe harrypotteri, urzelialetronurilor și alte gume de mestecat. Bune și alea, dar nu acoperă chiar tot ce e important. Și, din punctul meu de vedere, Knausgaard e cel mai important nume apărut în ultimii zece ani.

Despre roman nu am să spun prea mare lucru decât că a provocat un scandal uriaș în Norvegia, a provocat frisoane peste tot din cauza numelui (Mein Kampf, anyone?) și este, de departe, cartea de care m-am simțit cel mai aproape în ultimii patru-cinci ani.

Insist să o luați, discutăm subiectul după aceea. Sau, dacă sunteți prudenți, căutați cronicile apărute deja în română, dar, din ce am citit, niciuna nu reușește să îl cuprindă  mulțumitor.

Pe post de bombonică (dark side here :D) un fragment dintr-un speech al norvegianului:

Perhaps the foremost characteristic of our age, what sets it apart from all others before it, is that the sheer volume of images of the world—not just the world of the past, but also, and perhaps especially, that of the present, the world of which we are a part—is so massive. Any event, anywhere on the planet—an earthquake, a plane crash, an act of terrorism—will be available for us to view only moments later, in on-the-scene images we see and consider as we go about our day-to-day lives, stuck in our tailbacks of traffic, as we make our coffee, visit the bathroom, wash our clothes, prepare our meals, set our tables. Usually, we keep these different levels of reality apart, or at least I do. Even the worst disasters are something I merely register, with varying degrees of horror, as if the world outside were a film, a play, a performance, of concern to me only in the most superficial manner. At the same time, and more profoundly, such images provide a release insofar as they allow me the freedom of never having to be entirely present in my actual surroundings, in the routine state of boredom they constantly threaten to dull me with, since one’s attention is continuously being directed toward something else, to what is happening right now: the occurrence, the event, the news item.

But then, occasionally, albeit remarkably seldom, what happens is that the two levels of reality converge and become one. Last time it happened was this autumn. After months of news reports depicting the flow of refugees crossing the Mediterranean, boats sinking, people drowning, which to me was like a steady murmur in the background, not that different from the constant reports of car bombs in Iraq or school shootings in the United States, I suddenly saw the image of a little boy, no more than perhaps three years old, lying prone on a beach, his face in the sand. He was dead, and all of a sudden I understood what death meant. All of a sudden, I understood that the people coming across the sea were not people in the plural, but in the singular. This I understood because I myself have children. I saw their deaths in his death. The image thereby penetrated my defenses, broke through the murmur and appeared to me as what it was: an image of reality. The boy was real, and his death was a real death. The horror of seeing that, and thinking the thought of it, for a while transformed all other images likewise: they, too, left the film, the play, the performance, and became part of reality.

I mention this not to enter into the debate going on in Europe at present, about how best to deal with the refugee crisis, how the problems of immigration may most fruitfully be solved, but rather to point toward the mechanism in our societies that turns people into a mass, how ordinary that is and how closely bound up with the media, which by its very nature creates remoteness, its narrative structures rendering every event equal, every occurrence identical, thereby dissolving the particular, the singular, the unique, in that way lying to us, or, put differently, fictionalizing our reality. It is a mechanism barely discernible to us insofar as images are always, on one level, images of reality, and it becomes apparent only on those rare occasions where remoteness dissolves, as in the case of the dead little boy on the beach.

 And then reality comes as a shock.

Are people dying?