Joanne Monte

The Betrayal

Today the drapes, for once, have been drawn and, at last, the sun has lit up the pine-dark interiors of that day you poured me wine at supper, I need now acknowledge.
I had failed to notice then, how subtly your fingers had lifted the knife to skin the lamb, how unconscionably you had cut through the leanest part of the bone, the precious flesh ripped open and steaming.  I had failed to notice how the table’s solid sheet of maple reflected the sharp glimmer of the blade and the rapid gutting, and how, afterward, you devoured the rare meat, wanting to strip everything clean, the wine spilling over like blood.  It was your last supper,
the room abandoned and the drapes drawn, but still clinging to the one ray of light in the window as though it could reach into those dark corners and deflect the desire for vengeance.

Elizabeth Barret Browning- How Do I Love Thee

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Salman Rushdie- The Ground Beneath Her Feet

Whenever someone who knows you disappears, you lose one version of yourself. Yourself as you were seen, as you were judged to be. Lover or enemy, mother or friend, those who know us construct us, and their several knowings slant the different facets of our characters like diamond-cutter’s tools. Each such loss is a step leading to the grave, where all versions blend and end.

The Ground Beneath Her Feet

For a long while I have believed – this is perhaps my version of Sir Darius Xerxes Cama’s belief in a fourth function of outsideness – that in every  generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed, who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, if you like, without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race; that there may even be millions, billions of such souls, as many non-belongers as belongers, perhaps; that, in sum, the phenomenon may be as “natural” a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that has been mostly frustrated, throughout human history, by lack of opportunity.

And not only by that: for those who value stability, who fear transience, uncertainly, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform, we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities beneath the false skins of those identities which bear the belongers’ seal of approval.

But the truth leaks out in our dreams; alone in our beds (because we are all alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly, we flee.  And in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks.

What we forbid ourselves we pay good money to watch, in a playhouse or a movie theater, or to read about between the secret covers of a book.  Our libraries, our palaces of entertainment tell the truth.  The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the thief, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil, the sinner, the traveler, the gangster, the runner, the mask: if we did not recognize in them our least-fulfilled needs, we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time.

Milorad Pavic- Dictionary of the Khazars

“It is not I who mix the colors but your own vision,’ he answered. ‘I only place them next to one another on the wall in their natural state; it is the observer who mixes the colors in his own eye, like porridge. Therein lies the secret. The better the porridge, the better the painting, but you cannot make good porridge from bad buckwheat. Therefore, faith in seeing, listening, and reading is more important than faith in painting, singing, or writing.’

He took blue and red and placed them next to each other, painting the eyes of an angel. And I saw the angel’s eyes turn violet.

‘I work with something like a dictionary of colors,’ Nikon added, ‘and from it the observer composes sentences and books, in other words, images. You could do the same with writing. Why shouldn’t someone create a dictionary of words that make up one book and let the reader himself assemble the words into a whole?”

William Shakespeare- Sonnet 99

The forward violet thus did I chide:

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair:

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair;

A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both

And to his robbery had annex’d thy breath;

But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth

A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

   More flowers I noted, yet I none could see

But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee.

Charles Bukowsk…

Charles Bukowski- The Miracle Is the Shortest Time

you know
it was very good
it was
better than
anything

it was like
something
we could
pick up
hold
look at
and then laugh
about.

we were on the
moon
we were in the
god damned moon,
we had it

we were in the garden
we were in the
endless pit

never such a place
as that

it was deep
and
it was light
and
it was high

it got so near
to insanity
we laughed so
hard

your laughter
and
mine

I remember when
your eyes
said love
loudly

now
as these walls
so quietly
shift.

K. Gibran- Ljusture i sustine

Kad god sam popio gorku casu, imala je talog meda. Kad god sam savladao neku sumovitu prepreku, dospio sam u zelenu ravnicu. Kad god sam izgubio prijatelja u nebeskoj izmaglici, nasao sam ga u osvitu jutra.

Koliko puta sam svoj bol i jad pokrivao trpeljivoscu nadajuci se da za to slijedi nagrada! Ali, kad bih ih otkrio, vidio bih da se bol u radost preobrazio i da je jad bodrost postao. Koliko puta sam sa prijateljem prolazio pojavnim svijetom misleci da je glup i nerazuman, ali sam uvijek u tajnome svijetu sebe smatrao tiranom i nasilnikom, a njega mudrim i pronicljivim.

Koliko puta sam, opijen nektarom vlastite duse, sebe i svoga sagovornika smatrao jagnjetom i vukom, a kada bih dosao k sebi vidio bih da smo obojica ljudi. I ja i vi, ljudi, ocarani smo onim sto se iz nas javno ispoljava, a prenebregavamo sustinu u nama skrivenu. Ako neko od nas posrne, kazemo da pada; ako polako ide, kazemo da je slabic koji propada; ako zamuca, kazemo da je nijem; ako uzdahne, kazemo da je u samrtnom ropcu i da umire.

I ja i vi strasni smo poklonici ljustura koje zovemo ” ja ” i povrsnosti zvanih ”vi ” – zato ne vidimo tajne duha u svome ” ja ”, niti tajne duha u ” vi ”. Sta mozemo uciniti kada smo, zbog vlastite uobrazenosti, nemarni prema istini u nama?

Kazem vam, a mozda su moje rijeci veo koji prekriva lice istine u meni, kazem i vama i sebi: Ono sto vidimo ocima samo je oblak koji nam zaklanja ono sto treba da vidimo dusama; ono sto cujemo usima samo je buka koja zaglusuje ono sto treba da usvojimo srcima. Ako vidimo policajca kako hapsi covjeka, ne treba da mi sudimo ko je od njih prestupnik. Ako vidimo covjeka oblivena krvlju, a drugoga okrvavljenih ruku, razumno je da ne presudjujemo ko je ubica, a ko zrtva. Ako cujemo covjeka kako pjeva, a drugoga kako place, valja da se strpimo dok ne utvrdimo koji od njih je veseo.

Ne, brate, ne sudi o istini u covjeku prema onome sto on ispoljava, niti uzimaj njegove rijeci ili neko djelo kao simbol njegove nutrine. Jer, ima mnogo onih koje omalovazavas zbog njihovog teskog jezika i oskudna govora, iako su prepuni umnosti i osjecanja. Takodje je mnogo onih koje nipodastavas zbog ruzna izgleda i nedolicna zivota, a oni su jedan od nebeskih darova, jer u ljudima ima bozanskog daha.

Katkada u jednome danu posjetis i dvorac i stracaru. Iz prvoga izlazis zadivljen, iz drugoga tuzan, ali kada bi mogao zanemariti pojavnosti koje culima opazas, tvoje divljenje ne bi bilo tako veliko, vec bi se u tugu pretvorilo, a na drugoj strani bi se tvoja tuga do divljenja vinula.

U toku dana mozes sresti dva covjeka. Jedan ti se obraca glasom sto lici na bijes oluje i pokretima kao u vojnika dostojna strahopostovanja, a drugi ti govori bojazljivo i stidljivo, drhtavim glasom i isprekidanim recenicama. Ali, kada bi ih mogao vidjeti na iskusenjima, ili u cinu zrtvovanja u ime principa, znao bi da napadna plahovitost nije hrabrost i da nemušta stidljivost nije isto sto i bojazljivost.

Katkada pogledas kroz prozor i medju prolaznicima ugledas monahinju kako ide na jednu stranu i prostitutku koja ide na drugu stranu te odmah pomislis: Koliko li je dostojanstvena jedna, a koliko li je ruzna druga. Ali, kada bi zatvorio oci i za trenutak oslusnuo, cuo bi saputanje u vazduhu: Jedna se za me moli, a druga mi bol zeli; u dusi svake od njih je sjenka Duha.

Katkada ides svijetom tragajuci za onim sto se zove civilizacija i razvijenost te udjes u grad sa velelepnim palatama, divnim hramovima i sirokim ulicama. Narod u njemu hita na sve strane: neki kao da bi kroz zemlju prodrijeli, neki kao da bi poletjeli, neki kao da bi munju uhvatili, neki kao da bi sami vjetar dohvatili, a svi su u prelijepoj odeci, sa sjajnom dugmadi – kao da im je praznik ili festival.

Poslije izvesnog vremena, put te dovede u drugi grad sa bijednim kucama i tijesnim sokacima koji, kada kisa padne, pretvore se u glinena ostrva u moru blata. Kada ih sunce ogrije, pretvore se u oblake prasine. Mjestani su prosti i jednostavni, kao tetiva na luku: idu lagano, rade polako, gledaju te kao da kroz tebe gledaju negdje daleko te napustas njihovu zemlju osjecajuci odvratnost i ogavnost, govoreci: Razlika izmedju onog sto vidjeh u jednom i u drugom gradu je kao razlika izmedju zivota i smrti. U prvom gradu je snaga na vrhuncu, a u drugom krajnja nemoc; u prvom je proljecna i ljetnja mladost, a u drugom jesenja i zimska apatija; u prvom je upornost mladosti razigrane u vrtovima, a u drugom je staracka nemoc sto iscezava u pepelu.

Ali, kada bi oba grada mogao pogledati bozijim ocima, vidio bi da su oni kao dva srodna stabla u jednoj basti. Kada bi tako mogao duze pronicati u njihovu sustinu, vidio bi da ono sto ti se cinilo naprednim u jednome samo su kratkotrajni, sjajni mjehurici, a da ono sto si smatrao apatijom u drugome je nevidljiva, postojana vrednost.

Ne, zivot se ne sastoji od svojih pojavnosti, vec od onoga sto se ne vidi; sav vidljivi svijet nije sadrzan u svojim ljusturama, vec u sustinama; o ljudima ne treba suditi po licima, vec po srcima.

Ni vjera nije sadrzana u izgledu bogomolja, u onome sto grade svestenici i tradicija, vec u onome sto se krije u dusama i sto postoji u namjerama.

Ni umjetnost nije u onome sto cujes usima, bilo da je to tiho zvucanje pesama, zvonjava rijeci u kasidama, ili linije i boje koje na slici opazas ocima. Umjetnost je u onim nemustim, treperavim distancama izmedju tonova u pesmama; u onome sto do tebe dospijeva posredstvom kaside, a sto je u dusi pjesnika ostalo neizgovoreno, mirno, samotno; u onome cime te slika nadahnjuje, gledajuci je, vidis nesto dalje i ljepse od nje.

Ne, brate, ni dani ni noci nisu sadrzani u svojim pojavnostima; ni ja, koji sam samo putnik u vremenu, nisam sadrzan u ovim rijecima koje ti izgovaram, osim tek toliko koliko su rijeci u stanju da ti prenesu moju mirnu nutrinu.

Zato me ne smatraj neznalicom prije nego sto dokucis moje tajno bice, a ne smatraj me ni genijem prije nego sto oslobodis moje bice onoga sto sam od drugih preuzeo. Ne reci: On je skrtica tijesne ruke, prije nego sto moje srce sagledas, ili da sam plemenit i blagodaran prije nego sto saznas sta me podstice na plemenitost i blagodarnost. Ne smatraj me ni zaljubljenikom dok ti se moja ljubav ne objavi u svoj svojoj svjetlosti i zaru, niti me smatraj praznim dok ne dotaknes moje krvave rane.

The Angel’s Game

Envy is the religion of the mediocre. It comforts them, it soothes their worries, and finally it rots their souls, allowing them to justify their meanness and their greed until they believe these to be virtues. Such people are convinced that the doors of heaven will be opened only to poor wretches like themselves who go through life without leaving any trace but their threadbare attempts to belittle others and to exclude – and destroy if possible – those who, by the simple fact of their existence, show up their own poorness of spirit, mind, and guts. Blessed be the one at whom the fools bark, because his soul will never belong to them.

Karlos Ruis Safon- Igra andjela

Zavist je religija mediokriteta. Ona im vraca snagu, ona je odgovor na nemire koji ih izjedaju i, na kraju krajeva rastoci im dusu i dopusti im da opravdavaju svoju bijedu i svoju pohlepu dok ne povjeruju da su to vrline i da ce se vrata raja otvoriti samo nesrecnicima kao sto su oni, koji kroz zivot prolaze ne ostavljajuci drugog traga do namjere da omalovaze ostale i iskljuce, i ako je moguce uniste , one koji samom cinjenicom da postoje i da su takvi kakvi su, ukazuju na njihovo siromastvo duha, uma i snage. Srecan je onaj na koga laju kreteni jer im njihova dusa nece nikad pripadati.
Bili ste u pravu-rekao sam.
Obicno jesam – Odgovorio je Koreli. To je navika koja mi rijetko donosi ikakvo zadovoljstvo. Ponekad mislim da nema mnogo stvari koje bi me vise obradovale nego da budem siguran da sam pogrijesio.
Pravda je pitanje perspektive a ne univerzalna vrijednost.