Всеки нощен жираф е версия на стопанина си. Когато създадеш несъществуващ животински вид в свой текст, поемаш цялата отговорност за неговите радости и тъги. Когато Жожо е самотен, когато му липсва интимност, това е само отражение на климата в мен – облаците, есен в пролетта, тъмна вечер в ранните часове. И тогава някак неусетно започвам да създавам светове и герои, да пиша, за да не съм сам.Защото винаги, когато пиша, всъщност искам да пиша на теб.
It is lonely behind these boundaries. Some people-particularly those whom psychiatrists call schizoid-because of unpleasant, traumatizing experiences in childhood, perceive the world outside of themselves as unredeemably dangerous, hostile, confusing and unnurturing. Such people feel their boundaries to be protecting and comforting and find a sense of safety in their loneliness. But most of us feel our loneliness to be painful and yearn to escape from behind the walls of our individual identities to a condition in which we can be more unified with the world outside of ourselves. The experience of falling in love allows us this escapetemporarily. The essence of the phenomenon of falling in love is a sudden collapse of a section of an individual's ego boundaries, permitting one to merge his or her identity with that of another person. The sudden release of oneself from oneself, the explosive pouring out of oneself into the beloved, and the dramatic surcease of loneliness accompanying this collapse of ego boundaries is experienced by most of us as ecstatic. We and our beloved are one! Loneliness is no more! In some respects (but certainly not in all) the act of falling in love is an act of regression. The experience of merging with the loved one has in it echoes from the time when we were merged with our mothers in infancy. Along with the merging we also reexperience the sense of omnipotence which we had to give up in our journey out of childhood. All things seem possible! United with our beloved we feel we can conquer all obstacles. We believe that the strength of our love will cause the forces of opposition to bow down in submission and melt away into the darkness. All problems will be overcome. The future will be all light. The unreality of these feelings when we have fallen in love is essentially the same as the unreality of the two-year-old who feels itself to be king of the family and the world with power unlimited. Just as reality intrudes upon the two-year-old's fantasy of omnipotence so does reality intrude upon the fantastic unity of the couple who have fallen in love. Sooner or later, in response to the problems of daily living, individual will reasserts itself. He wants to have sex; she doesn't. She wants to go to the movies; he doesn't. He wants to put money in the bank; she wants a dishwasher. She wants to talk about her job; he wants to talk about his. She doesn't like his friends; he doesn't like hers. So both of them, in the privacy of their hearts, begin to come to the sickening realization that they are not one with the beloved, that the beloved has and will continue to have his or her own desires, tastes, prejudices and timing different from the other's. One by one, gradually or suddenly, the ego boundaries snap back into place; gradually or suddenly, they fall out of love. Once again they are two separate individuals. At this point they begin either to dissolve the ties of their relationship or to initiate the work of real loving.
Странно е, че всички грешки свършват еднакво, че винаги ги повтаряме и продължаваме с нови надежди. Цяла нощ хапем устни, хълцаме във възглавницата с безпомощен гняв и твърдо се заклеваме да останем самотни, а щом съмне, поднасяме душата си като нежен балон от цъфнало глухарче на насрещните ветрове на живота и те го ронят и разнасят. Ала който спаси само едно малко пухче и го внесе на завет, той е спасил цялата си душа. Това е горчива работа, но който не обръща нежното цвете на душата си към ветровете на изпитанията, дори цялото да го спаси и да го пренесе докрай, той не може да почувства, че изобщо някога го е имал.
The Loneliness of the Military HistorianConfess: it's my professionthat alarms you.This is why few people ask me to dinner,though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary.I wear dresses of sensible cutand unalarming shades of beige,I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's:no prophetess mane of mine,complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters.If I roll my eyes and mutter,if I clutch at my heart and scream in horrorlike a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene,I do it in private and nobody seesbut the bathroom mirror.In general I might agree with you:women should not contemplate war,should not weigh tactics impartially,or evade the word enemy,or view both sides and denounce nothing.Women should march for peace,or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery,spit themselves on bayonetsto protect their babies,whose skulls will be split anyway,or,having been raped repeatedly,hang themselves with their own hair.There are the functions that inspire general comfort.That, and the knitting of socks for the troopsand a sort of moral cheerleading.Also: mourning the dead.Sons,lovers and so forth.All the killed children.Instead of this, I tellwhat I hope will pass as truth.A blunt thing, not lovely.The truth is seldom welcome,especially at dinner,though I am good at what I do.My trade is courage and atrocities.I look at them and do not condemn.I write things down the way they happened,as near as can be remembered.I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same.Wars happen because the ones who start themthink they can win.In my dreams there is glamour.The Vikings leave their fieldseach year for a few months of killing and plunder,much as the boys go hunting.In real life they were farmers.The come back loaded with splendour.The Arabs ride against Crusaderswith scimitars that could seversilk in the air.A swift cut to the horse's neckand a hunk of armour crashes downlike a tower. Fire against metal.A poet might say: romance against banality.When awake, I know better.Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters,or none that could be finally buried.Finish one off, and circumstancesand the radio create another.Believe me: whole armies have prayed ferventlyto God all night and meant it,and been slaughtered anyway.Brutality wins frequently,and large outcomes have turned on the inventionof a mechanical device, viz. radar.True, valour sometimes counts for something,as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right -though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition,is decided by the winner.Sometimes men throw themselves on grenadesand burst like paper bags of gutsto save their comrades.I can admire that.But rats and cholera have won many wars.Those, and potatoes,or the absence of them.It's no use pinning all those medalsacross the chests of the dead.Impressive, but I know too much.Grand exploits merely depress me.In the interests of researchI have walked on many battlefieldsthat once were liquid with pulpedmen's bodies and spangled with explodedshells and splayed bone.All of them have been green againby the time I got there.Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day.Sad marble angels brood like hensover the grassy nests where nothing hatches.(The angels could just as well be described as vulgaror pitiless, depending on camera angle.)The word glory figures a lot on gateways.Of course I pick a flower or twofrom each, and press it in the hotel Biblefor a souvenir.I'm just as human as you. But it's no use asking me for a final statement.As I say, I deal in tactics.Also statistics:for every year of peace there have been four hundredyears of war.
آیا مقصودم نوشتن وصیت نامه است ؟ هرگز. چون نه مال دارم که دیوان بخورد و نه دین دارم که شیطان ببرد، و ان گهی چه چیزی روی زمین می تواند برایم کوچک ترین ارزش را داشته باشد. آنچه زنده گی بوده است از دست داده ام، گذاشتم و خواستم از دستم برود و بعد از آن که من رفتم ، بدرک ، می خواهد کسی کاغذ پاره های مرا بخواند، می خواهد هفتاد سال سیاه هم نخواند. من فقط برای این احتیاج نوشتم که عجالتاً برایم ضروری شده است، می نویسم؛ من محتاجم، بیش از پیش محتاجم که افکار خودم را به موجود خیالی خودم، به سایۀ خودم ارتباط بدهم. این سایه ی شومی که جلو روشنایی پیه سوز روی دیوار خم شده و مثل این است آنچه می نویسم به دقت می خواند و می بلعد. این سایه حتماً بهتر از من می فهمد! فقط با سایه ی خودم خوب می توانم حرف بزنم، اوست که مرا وادار به حرف زدن می کند، فقط او میتواند مرا بشناسد، او حتماً می فهمد ... می خواهم عصاره، نه شراب تلخ زنده گی خودم را چکه چکه در گلوی خشک سایه ام چکانیده به او بگویم «این زنده گی من است!»
С внезапна решителност тя става от леглото; вече не плаче; права, обърната към него, му казва, не сантиментално, а с изненадваща агресивност: -Целуни ме!Той остава да лежи, колебайки се. Неподвижна, тя го чака, взирайки се в него с цялата тежест на един живот без бъдеще. Неспособен да понесе погледа й, той се предава: става, приближава се, поставя устни върху нейните. Тя вкусва целувката му, измерва степента на студенината й и казва: - Лош си! После се обръща към чантата си, оставена върху нощната масичка. Изважда от нея малък пепелник и му го показва. -Позна ли го? Той взима пепелника и го поглежда. -Позна ли го? – строго повтаря тя. Не знае какво да каже. -Погледни надписа!Име на пражки бар. Но то нищо не му говори и той мълчи. Тя наблюдава объркването му съсредоточено и с все по-враждебно недоверие. Той се чувства смутен под този поглед, но в същия миг, съвсем за кратко, пред него се мярва прозорец, на който има саксия до запалена лампа. Ала образът изчезва и той отново вижда враждебните очи. Тя разбира всичко: не само е забравил срещата им в бара, истината е по-лоша: той не знае коя е! Не я познава! В самолета не е знаел с кого разговаря. А после внезапно осъзнава: той нито веднъж не се бе обърнал към нея на име. -Ти не знаеш коя съм! -Моля! – казва той отчайващо неловко. Тя му говори като следовател: -Хайде, кажи ми името! Той мълчи. -Как е името ми? Кажи ми името! -Имената не са от значение! -Никога не си ме наричал по име! Ти не ме познаваш!-Моля! -Къде се запознахме? Коя съм аз?...Тя не го слуша. Лежи по корем, тялото й е разтърсвано от конвулсии, а в главата й е единствено самотата, която я очаква.
