"Jó napot, pacák" Which, as somebody here must surely know, means "What's up, guys?" in Magyar, that peculiar non-Indo-European language spoken by Hungarians for which, given the fact that cognitive diversity is at least as threatened as biodiversity on this planet, few would have imagined much of a future even a century or two ago. But there it is: "Jó napot, pacák" I said somebody here must surely know, because despite the fact that there aren't that many Hungarians to begin with, and the further fact that, so far as I know, there's not a drop of Hungarian blood in my veins, at every critical juncture of my life there has been a Hungarian friend or mentor there beside me. I even have dreams that take place in landscapes I recognize as the landscapes of Hungarian films, especially the early movies of Miklos Jancso.
„Yo napot, pacak!“ Što, vjerojatno netko od vas ovdje zna, znači „Što ima, ljudi?“ na mađarskom, tom jedinstvenom ne-indoeuropskom jeziku koji govore Mađari i za koji, s obzirom na činjenicu da je spoznajna raznovrsnost najmanje ugrožena kao biološka raznolikost na ovom planetu, bi rijetki mogli zamisliti bilo kakvu budućnost prije stoljeće ili dva. Ali eto ga: „Yo napot, pacak!“ Rekao sam da netko ovdje zasigurno zna unatoč činjenici da nema toliko mnogo Mađara ovdje, a sljedeća činjenica je da s obzirom na to koliko znam do sada, nema ni kapi mađarske krvi u mojim venama, u svakom je kritičnom trenutku moga života pokraj mene bio prijatelj ili mentor mađarske nacionalnosti. Čak imam i snove koji su smješteni na mjestima koja prepoznajem kao mjesta iz mađarskih filmova, posebno ranih filmova Miklosa Jancsoa.
So, how do I explain this mysterious affinity? Maybe it's because my native state of South Carolina, which is not much smaller than present-day Hungary, once imagined a future for itself as an independent country. And as a consequence of that presumption, my hometown was burned to the ground by an invading army, an experience that has befallen many a Hungarian town and village throughout its long and troubled history. Or maybe it's because when I was a teenager back in the '50s, my uncle Henry -- having denounced the Ku Klux Klan and been bombed for his trouble and had crosses burned in his yard, living under death threat -- took his wife and children to Massachusetts for safety and went back to South Carolina to face down the Klan alone. That was a very Hungarian thing to do, as anyone will attest who remembers 1956. And of course, from time to time Hungarians have invented their own equivalent of the Klan.
Dakle, kako objašnjavam ovu misterioznu sklonost? Možda je to zbog moje rodne države Južne Karoline koja nije mnogo manja od trenutne Mađarske, a nekad je zamišljala da će u budućnosti biti zasebna i neovisna država. I kao posljedica te pretpostavke moj je rodni grad spaljen do temelja od vojske koja je nasilno ušla u njega, iskustvo koje je zadesilo mnoge mađarske gradove i sela u njihovoj dugoj i problematičnoj povijesti. Ili je to možda zato što, dok sam bio adolescent, tamo negdje 50-ih godina, moj je ujak Henry istupio iz Ku Klux Klana i nakon toga bio bombardiran zbog svog problema i paljeni su mu križevi u dvorištu – živeći pod prijetnjama smrću odveo je ženu i djecu u Massachusetts zbog sigurnosti te se vratio natrag u Južnu Karolinu da bi se suočio s Klanom nasamo. To je bila stvar koju bi vrlo vjerojatno Mađari napravili, kao što će bilo tko potvrditi tko se sjeća 1956. godine. I naravno, s vremena na vrijeme Mađari su imali vlastiti ekvivalent Klanu.
Well, it seems to me that this Hungarian presence in my life is difficult to account for, but ultimately I ascribe it to an admiration for people with a complex moral awareness, with a heritage of guilt and defeat matched by defiance and bravado. It's not a typical mindset for most Americans, but it is perforce typical of virtually all Hungarians. So, "Jó napot, pacák!"
Pa, čini mi se da je ovu mađarsku prisutnost u mom životu teško objasniti, ali naposljetku pripisujem je divljenju ljudima sa složenom moralnom svijesti – s nasljeđem krivnje i poraza u paru s prkosom i razmetanjem hrabrošću. To nije tipično razmišljanje za većinu Amerikanaca. Ali je silom okolnosti tipično za gotovo sve Mađare. Dakle, „Yo napot, pacak!“
I went back to South Carolina after some 15 years amid the alien corn at the tail end of the 1960s, with the reckless condescension of that era thinking I would save my people. Never mind the fact that they were slow to acknowledge they needed saving. I labored in that vineyard for a quarter century before making my way to a little kingdom of the just in upstate South Carolina, a Methodist-affiliated institution of higher learning called Wofford College. I knew nothing about Wofford and even less about Methodism, but I was reassured on the first day that I taught at Wofford College to find, among the auditors in my classroom, a 90-year-old Hungarian, surrounded by a bevy of middle-aged European women who seemed to function as an entourage of Rhinemaidens.
Otišao sam natrag u Južnu Karolinu nakon nekih 15 godina među strancima, na samom kraju 60-ih s nemarnim prijezirom te ere, misleći kako mogu spasiti svoje ljude. Bez obzira na činjenicu da su bili veoma spori u priznavanju da im treba spas. Radio sam u tom vinogradu četvrt stoljeća prije no što sam otputovao u malo kraljevstvo pravednosti na sjeveru Južne Karoline, metodistički orijentiranu ustanovu višeg školovanja zvanu fakultet Wofford. Ništa nisam znao o Woffordu i još manje o metodizmu, ali ohrabrio sam se prvog dana kada sam došao predavati na fakultet Wofford kada sam među slušateljima u svojoj predavaonici našao devedesetogodišnjeg Mađara okruženog „jatom“ Europljanki srednjih godina za koje se činilo da funkcioniraju kao pratnja Rininih kćeri.
His name was Sandor Teszler. He was a puckish widower whose wife and children were dead and whose grandchildren lived far away. In appearance, he resembled Mahatma Gandhi, minus the loincloth, plus orthopedic boots. He had been born in 1903 in the provinces of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, in what later would become Yugoslavia. He was ostracized as a child, not because he was a Jew -- his parents weren't very religious anyhow -- but because he had been born with two club feet, a condition which, in those days, required institutionalization and a succession of painful operations between the ages of one and 11. He went to the commercial business high school as a young man in Budapest, and there he was as smart as he was modest and he enjoyed a considerable success. And after graduation when he went into textile engineering, the success continued. He built one plant after another. He married and had two sons. He had friends in high places who assured him that he was of great value to the economy.
Njegovo ime bilo je Sandor Teszler. Bio je nestašni udovac čiji su žena i djeca umrli, a unučad je živjela veoma daleko. Na prvi pogled sličio je Mahatmi Gandhiju – bez tkanine oko kukova, ali s ortopedskim čizmama. Rođen je 1903. u staroj Austro-Ugarskoj provinciji koja je kasnije postala Jugoslavija. Prognan je kao dijete, ne zato što je bio Židov – njegovi roditelji ionako nisu bili pretjerano religiozni – nego zato što je rođen s dva kriva stopala, a to je stanje koje je u to doba zahtjevalo institucionalizaciju i niz bolnih operacija između prve i jedanaeste godine života. Kao mladić išao je u komercijalnu poslovnu srednju školu u Budimpešti. I tamo je bio pametan i skroman te je uživao znatan uspjeh. Nakon što je maturirao, kada je upisao tekstilno inženjerstvo, uspjeh se nastavio. Gradio je tvornice jednu za drugom. Oženio se i dobio dva sina. Imao je prijatelje na visokim pozicijama koji su ga uvjeravali da je jako važan za ekonomiju.
Once, as he had left instructions to have done, he was summoned in the middle of the night by the night watchman at one of his plants. The night watchman had caught an employee who was stealing socks -- it was a hosiery mill, and he simply backed a truck up to the loading dock and was shoveling in mountains of socks. Mr. Teszler went down to the plant and confronted the thief and said, "But why do you steal from me? If you need money you have only to ask." The night watchman, seeing how things were going and waxing indignant, said, "Well, we're going to call the police, aren't we?" But Mr. Teszler answered, "No, that will not be necessary. He will not steal from us again."
Jednom, nakon što je naredio što se sve treba napraviti, noćni ga je čuvar pozvao usred noći u jednu od njegovih tvornica. Čuvar je uhvatio zaposlenika koji je krao čarape – to je bila tvornica čarapa i on je jednostavno parkirao kamion na pristanište za utovar i zgrtao je hrpetine čarapa. Gospodin Teszler otišao je do tvornice i suočio se s lopovom i rekao: „Ali zašto kradeš od mene? Ako trebaš novac, samo trebaš zamoliti.“ Noćni čuvar je, vidjevši kako se stvari odvijaju, ogorčeno rekao: „Pa, morat ćemo zvati policiju, zar ne?“ Ali gospodin Teszler je odgovorio: „Ne, to neće biti potrebno. Neće ponovo ukrasti od nas.“
Well, maybe he was too trusting, because he stayed where he was long after the Nazi Anschluss in Austria and even after the arrests and deportations began in Budapest. He took the simple precaution of having cyanide capsules placed in lockets that could be worn about the necks of himself and his family. And then one day, it happened: he and his family were arrested and they were taken to a death house on the Danube. In those early days of the Final Solution, it was handcrafted brutality; people were beaten to death and their bodies tossed into the river. But none who entered that death house had ever come out alive. And in a twist you would not believe in a Steven Spielberg film -- the Gauleiter who was overseeing this brutal beating was the very same thief who had stolen socks from Mr. Teszler's hosiery mill. It was a brutal beating. And midway through that brutality, one of Mr. Teszler's sons, Andrew, looked up and said, "Is it time to take the capsule now, Papa?" And the Gauleiter, who afterwards vanishes from this story, leaned down and whispered into Mr. Teszler's ear, "No, do not take the capsule. Help is on the way." And then resumed the beating.
Pa, možda je bio previše povjerljiv zato što je ostao tamo gdje je bio dugo nakon nacističkog pripajanja Austrije i čak nakon što su počela uhićenja i protjerivanja u Budimpešti. Kao jednostavnu predostrožnost uzeo je kapsule cijanida smještene u medaljone koje su nosili svi članovi njegove obitelji uključujući i njega. I onda se jednog dana dogodilo: on i njegova obitelj uhićeni su i odvedeni su u kuću smrti na Dunavu. U tim ranim danima Konačnog Rješenja stvari su se rješavale brutalno – ljude su tukli do smrti i njihova tijela su bacana u rijeku – ali nitko od onih koji su ušli u kuću smrti nije izašao van živ. I u raspletu, u koji ne biste povjerovali ni u Spielbergovom filmu, dogodilo se da je Gauleiter koji je nadgledao ovo brutalno mlaćenje bio baš onaj pljačkaš koji je krao čarape iz tvornice gospodina Teszlera. Bilo je to brutalno premlaćivanje. I usred te brutalnosti jedan od sinova gospodina Teszlera, Andrew, pogledao je prema gore i rekao: „Je li je sada vrijeme da uzmemo kapsulu, tata?“ I Gauleiter koji kasnije nestaje iz ove priče nagnuo se i šapnuo na uho gospodinu Teszlera: „Ne, nemojte uzeti kapsulu. Stiže pomoć.“ I onda je nastavio tući.
But help was on the way, and shortly afterwards a car arrived from the Swiss Embassy. They were spirited to safety. They were reclassified as Yugoslav citizens and they managed to stay one step ahead of their pursuers for the duration of the War, surviving burnings and bombings and, at the end of the War, arrest by the Soviets. Probably, Mr. Teszler had gotten some money into Swiss bank accounts because he managed to take his family first to Great Britain, then to Long Island and then to the center of the textile industry in the American South. Which, as chance would have it, was Spartanburg, South Carolina, the location of Wofford College. And there, Mr. Teszler began all over again and once again achieved immense success, especially after he invented the process for manufacturing a new fabric called double-knit.
A pomoć je bila na putu i ubrzo nakon toga stigao je auto iz švicarske ambasade. Odvedeni su na sigurno. Reklasificirani su kao jugoslavenski državljani i uspjeli su ostati korak ispred svojih progonitelja svo vrijeme trajanja rata preživljavajući paleže i bombardiranja i na kraju rata Sovjeti su ih uhitili. Gospodin Teszler je vjerojatno imao nešto novaca na računima švicarske banke jer je uspio odvesti svoju obitelj u Veliku Britaniju zatim na Long Island i onda u središte tekstilne industrije na američkom jugu. To središte sasvim je slučajno bio grad Spartanburg u Južnoj Karolini, mjesto fakulteta Wofford. I tamo je gospodin Teszler počeo ispočetka i opet je doživio ogroman uspjeh, pogotovo nakon što je stvorio postupak za proizvodnju nove tkanine nazvane duplo pletenje.
And then in the late 1950s, in the aftermath of Brown v. Board of Education, when the Klan was resurgent all over the South, Mr. Teszler said, "I have heard this talk before." And he called his top assistant to him and asked, "Where would you say, in this region, racism is most virulent?" "Well, I don't rightly know, Mr. Teszler. I reckon that would be Kings Mountain." "Good. Buy us some land in Kings Mountain and announce we are going to build a major plant there." The man did as he was told, and shortly afterwards, Mr. Teszler received a visit from the white mayor of Kings Mountain. Now, you should know that at that time, the textile industry in the South was notoriously segregated. The white mayor visited Mr. Teszler and said, "Mr. Teszler, I trust you’re going to be hiring a lot of white workers." Mr. Teszler told him, "You bring me the best workers that you can find, and if they are good enough, I will hire them." He also received a visit from the leader of the black community, a minister, who said, "Mr. Teszler, I sure hope you're going to hire some black workers for this new plant of yours." He got the same answer: "You bring the best workers that you can find, and if they are good enough, I will hire them." As it happens, the black minister did his job better than the white mayor, but that's neither here or there. Mr. Teszler hired 16 men: eight white, eight black.
I onda u kasnim pedesetima nakon posljedica tužbe Brown protiv Odbora za obrazovanje, kada je Klan ponovo oživio posvuda po Jugu, gospodin Teszler je rekao: „Čuo sam već prije ovaj govor.“ I pozvao je svog najboljeg asistenta i pitao ga: „Što bi ti rekao, gdje je u ovoj regiji rasizam najrasprostanjeniji?“ „Pa ne bih točno znao, gospodine Teszler. Mislim da je u Kings Mountainu.“ „Dobro. Kupi nam neku zemlju u Kings Mountainu i objavi da ćemo tamo graditi veliku tvornicu.“ Čovjek je učinio kako mu je rečeno i ubrzo nakon toga gospodina Teszlera je posjetio gradonačelnik Kings Mountaina, bijelac. Moram vam reći da je u to vrijeme tekstilna industrija na Jugu bila zloglasno izdvojena. Gradonačelnik bijelac je posjetio gospodina Teszlera i rekao mu: „Gospodine Teszler, vjerujem da ćete zapošljavati mnogo bijelih radnika.“ Gospodin Teszler mu je odgovorio: „Dovedite mi najbolje radnike koje možete pronaći i ako su dovoljno dobri, zaposlit ću ih.“ Također ga je posjetio i vođa crnačke zajednice, svećenik, koji je rekao: „Gospodine Teszler, nadam se da ćete zaposliti nešto crnih radnika u toj svojoj novoj tvornici.“ Dobio je isti odgovor: „Dovedite mi najbolje radnike koje možete pronaći i ako su dovoljno dobri, zaposlit ću ih.“ S obzirom na to kako se dogodilo, crni je svećenik napravio bolji posao od bijeloga gradonačelnika, ali nije bilo ni na jednu stranu niti na drugu. Gospodin Teszler zaposlio je 16-ero ljudi, osam bijelaca, osam crnaca.
They were to be his seed group, his future foremen. He had installed the heavy equipment for his new process in an abandoned store in the vicinity of Kings Mountain, and for two months these 16 men would live and work together, mastering the new process. He gathered them together after an initial tour of that facility and he asked if there were any questions. There was hemming and hawing and shuffling of feet, and then one of the white workers stepped forward and said, "Well, yeah. We’ve looked at this place and there's only one place to sleep, there's only one place to eat, there's only one bathroom, there's only one water fountain. Is this plant going to be integrated or what?" Mr. Teszler said, "You are being paid twice the wages of any other textile workers in this region and this is how we do business. Do you have any other questions?" "No, I reckon I don't." And two months later when the main plant opened and hundreds of new workers, white and black, poured in to see the facility for the first time, they were met by the 16 foremen, white and black, standing shoulder to shoulder. They toured the facility and were asked if there were any questions, and inevitably the same question arose: "Is this plant integrated or what?" And one of the white foremen stepped forward and said, "You are being paid twice the wages of any other workers in this industry in this region and this is how we do business. Do you have any other questions?"
Oni su bili njegova matična grupa, njegovi budući nadzornici. Postavio je tešku opremu za svoj novi program u napuštenom skladištu u blizini Kings Mountaina i dva mjeseca je ovih šesnaestero ljudi živjelo i radilo zajedno, savladavajući novi program. Okupio ih je zajedno nakon početnog obilaska postrojenja i pitao ih imaju li kakvih pitanja. Bilo je kašljucanja, meškoljenja i lupkanja nogama i onda je jedan od bijelih radnika prišao naprijed i rekao: „Pa, da. Pogledali smo ovo mjesto – i tu je samo jedna prostorija za spavanje, jedna prostorija za jelo, jedna kupaonica, jedno vodocrpilište. Hoće li ova tvornica biti integrirana ili što?“ Gospodin Teszler je rekao: „Plaćeni ste duplo više nego bilo koji tekstilni radnik u regiji, a mi ovdje ovako radimo. Imate li drugih pitanja?“ „Ne, mislim da nemam.“ I dva mjeseca kasnije kada se glavna tvornica otvorila i kada se stotine novih radnika, crnih i bijelih, sručilo da vide postrojenje po prvi puta, susreli su se sa šesnaestero nadzornika, crnih i bijelih, kako stoje jedan do drugoga. Obišli su postrojenje i upitani su imaju li ikakvih pitanja. I neizbježno, pojavilo se isto pitanje: „Hoće li ovo postrojenje biti integrirano ili što?“ Jedan od bijelih nadzornika je prišao naprijed i rekao: „Plaćeni ste duplo više nego ijedan drugi radnik u ovakvoj industriji na ovom području i tako ćemo raditi. Imate li kakvih drugih pitanja?“
And there were none. In one fell swoop, Mr. Teszler had integrated the textile industry in that part of the South. It was an achievement worthy of Mahatma Gandhi, conducted with the shrewdness of a lawyer and the idealism of a saint. In his eighties, Mr. Teszler, having retired from the textile industry, adopted Wofford College, auditing courses every semester, and because he had a tendency to kiss anything that moved, becoming affectionately known as "Opi" -- which is Magyar for grandfather -- by all and sundry. Before I got there, the library of the college had been named for Mr. Teszler, and after I arrived in 1993, the faculty decided to honor itself by naming Mr. Teszler Professor of the College -- partly because at that point he had already taken all of the courses in the catalog, but mainly because he was so conspicuously wiser than any one of us. To me, it was immensely reassuring that the presiding spirit of this little Methodist college in upstate South Carolina was a Holocaust survivor from Central Europe. Wise he was, indeed, but he also had a wonderful sense of humor. And once for an interdisciplinary class, I was screening the opening segment of Ingmar Bergman's "The Seventh Seal." As the medieval knight Antonius Block returns from the wild goose chase of the Crusades and arrives on the rocky shore of Sweden, only to find the specter of death waiting for him, Mr. Teszler sat in the dark with his fellow students. And as death opened his cloak to embrace the knight in a ghastly embrace, I heard Mr. Teszler's tremulous voice: "Uh oh," he said, "This doesn't look so good." (Laughter)
I nije ih bilo. U jednom naletu, gospodin Teszler je ujedinio tekstilnu industriju u tom dijelu Juga. To je bilo dostignuće dostojno Mahatme Gandhija, provedeno s lukavošću odvjetnika i idealizmom sveca. U svojim osamdesetima gospodin je Teszler, nakon što je otišao u mirovinu iz tekstilne industrije, upisao fakultet Wofford – slušajući predmete svaki semestar. I s obzirom da je imao tendenciju ljubiti sve što se micalo, postao je poznat kao Opi – što na mađarskom znači djed – po svemu raznovrsan. Kada sam došao tamo, knjižnica fakulteta nazvana je po gospodinu Teszleru, a kada sam se vratio 1993., fakultet se odlučio počastiti imenujući gospodina Teszlera fakultetskim profesorom. Djelomično zato što je u tom trenu već odslušao sve smjerove iz kataloga, ali uglavnom zato što je bio toliko evidentno pametniji od bilo koga od nas. Za mene je bilo neizmjerno ohrabrujuće to što je predsjedajuća duša ovog malog metodističkog fakulteta u sjevernoj Južnoj Karolini bila žrtva holokausta iz srednje Europe. Bio je zaista mudar, ali je također imao odličan smisao za humor. I jednom, na interdisciplinaron predavanju, prikazivao sam otvoreni segment Sedmog pečata Ingmara Bergmana. Kako se srednjovjekovni vitez Antonius Blok vratio s potjere za divljim guskama i stigao na kamenu obalu Švedske samo da bi pronašao predosjećaj smrti koja ga čeka, gospodin Teszler je sjedio u mraku sa svojim prijateljima studentima. I kako je smrt otvorila svoj plašt da bi prigrlila viteza u mrtvački zagrljaj, čuo sam drhtavi glas gospodina Teszlera: „Oh, oh“, rekao je, „To baš ne izgleda dobro.“
But it was music that was his greatest passion, especially opera. And on the first occasion that I visited his house, he gave me honor of deciding what piece of music we would listen to. And I delighted him by rejecting "Cavalleria Rusticana" in favor of Bela Bartok's "Bluebeard's Castle." I love Bartok's music, as did Mr. Teszler, and he had virtually every recording of Bartok's music ever issued. And it was at his house that I heard for the first time Bartok's Third Piano Concerto and learned from Mr. Teszler that it had been composed in nearby Asheville, North Carolina in the last year of the composer's life. He was dying of leukemia and he knew it, and he dedicated this concerto to his wife, Dita, who was herself a concert pianist. And into the slow, second movement, marked "adagio religioso," he incorporated the sounds of birdsong that he heard outside his window in what he knew would be his last spring; he was imagining a future for her in which he would play no part. And clearly this composition is his final statement to her -- it was first performed after his death -- and through her to the world. And just as clearly, it is saying, "It's okay. It was all so beautiful. Whenever you hear this, I will be there."
Ali glazba je bila njegova velika strast, posebno opera, i prvi puta kada sam mu došao u posjet, dao mi je čast da odaberem koji ćemo glazbeni komad slušati. I oduševio sam ga odbijajući „Cavalerriu Rusticanu“ u zamjenu za Bluebeard's Castle Bele Bartoka. Volim Bartokovu glazbu, kao što je volio i gospodin Teszler i doslovno je imao svaku snimku Bartokovih skladbi koja je ikada objavljena. I u njegovoj sam kući po prvi puta čuo Bartokov Treći koncert za klavir i naučio od gospodina Teszlera da je to skladao pokraj Ashevill-a u Sjevernoj Karolini u zadnjim danima života. Umirao je od leukemije i znao je to, i posvetio je taj koncert svojoj ženi Diti koja je i sama bila koncertni pijanist. I u polaganom, drugom pokretu naznačio adagio religioso, pripojio je zvukove ptičjeg pjeva, koje je čuo kroz prozor, u nešto za što je znao da će biti njegovo posljednje proljeće. Zamišljao je budućnost za nju, a u kojoj njega neće biti. I jasno, jasno je da ova kompozicija daje konačni iskaz njoj – prvi puta je izvedena nakon njegove smrti – i kroz nju prema svijetu. I kao da jasno kaže – „U redu je. Sve je bilo tako divno. Kad god ovo čuješ, bit ću tu.“
It was only after Mr. Teszler's death that I learned that the marker on the grave of Bela Bartok in Hartsdale, New York was paid for by Sandor Teszler. "Jó napot, Bela!" Not long before Mr. Teszler’s own death at the age of 97, he heard me hold forth on human iniquity. I delivered a lecture in which I described history as, on the whole, a tidal wave of human suffering and brutality, and Mr. Teszler came up to me afterwards with gentle reproach and said, "You know, Doctor, human beings are fundamentally good." And I made a vow to myself, then and there, that if this man who had such cause to think otherwise had reached that conclusion, I would not presume to differ until he released me from my vow. And now he's dead, so I'm stuck with my vow. "Jó napot, Sandor!"
Tek nakon smrti gospodina Teszlera saznao sam da je oznaku na grobu Bele Bartoka u Hartsdaleu u New Yorku platio Sandor Teszler. „Yo napot, Bela!“ Nedugo prije smrti gospodina Teszlera u devedeset i sedmoj godini, čuo me kako javno govorim o ljudskoj grešnosti. Držao sam predavanja u kojem sam opisao prošlost u cijelosti kao plimni val ljudske patnje i brutalnosti i gospodin Teszler mi je nakon toga prišao i rekao: „Znate doktore, ljudska bića su u osnovi dobra.“ I zakleo sam se sam sebi, tada tamo, ako ovaj čovjek koji je imao svo pravo misliti drugačije, zaključio to, ja neću pretpostavljati drugačije sve dok me ne oslobodi zakletve. I sad je mrtav, a ja sam zapeo sa svojom zakletvom. „Yo napot, Sandor!“
I thought my skein of Hungarian mentors had come to an end, but almost immediately I met Francis Robicsek, a Hungarian doctor -- actually a heart surgeon in Charlotte, North Carolina, then in his late seventies -- who had been a pioneer in open-heart surgery, and, tinkering away in his garage behind his house, had invented many of the devices that are standard parts of those procedures. He's also a prodigious art collector, beginning as an intern in Budapest by collecting 16th- and 17th-century Dutch art and Hungarian painting, and when he came to this country moving on to Spanish colonial art, Russian icons and finally Mayan ceramics. He's the author of seven books, six of them on Mayan ceramics. It was he who broke the Mayan codex, enabling scholars to relate the pictographs on Mayan ceramics to the hieroglyphs of the Mayan script.
Mislio sam da je došao kraj mojim mađarskim mentorima, ali ubrzo nakon toga sam upoznao Francisa Robicseka, mađarskog doktora, zapravo kardiokirurga u Charlotteu u Sjevernoj Karolini koji je tada bio u svojim kasnim sedamdesetima i bio je pionir u otvorenim operacijama srca i krpajući u svojoj garaži iza kuće izumio je mnoge uređaje koju su standardni dijelovi ovih postupaka. Također je i čudnovat skupljač umjetnina, koji je započeo kao pripravnik u Budimpešti skupljajući nizozemske i mađarske slike iz šesnaestog i sedamnaestog stoljeća i kada je došao u ovu zemlju prešao je na španjolsku kolonijalnu umjetnost, ruske ikone i na posljetku keramiku Maya. Autor je sedam knjiga, šest od njih o keramici Maya. On je dešifrirao Mayanski kodeks, omogućujući učenjacima da povežu oznake na keramici Maya s hijeroglifima Mayanskih spisa.
On the occasion of my first visit, we toured his house and we saw hundreds of works of museum quality, and then we paused in front of a closed door and Dr. Robicsek said, with obvious pride, "Now for the piece De resistance." And he opened the door and we walked into a windowless 20-by-20-foot room with shelves from floor to ceiling, and crammed on every shelf his collection of Mayan ceramics. Now, I know absolutely nothing about Mayan ceramics, but I wanted to be as ingratiating as possible so I said, "But Dr. Robicsek, this is absolutely dazzling." "Yes," he said. "That is what the Louvre said. They would not leave me alone until I let them have a piece, but it was not a good one." (Laughter)
Kada sam ga prvi puta posjetio, proveo me kroz kuću i vidjeli smo stotine radova muzejske kvalitete i zaustavili se ispred zatvorenih vrata i doktor Robicsek je rekao s očiglednim ponosom: „Sada komad otpora.“ I otvorio je vrata i ušli smo u veliku prostoriju bez prozora s policama od stropa do poda napunjenim njegovom kolekcijom keramike Maya. Nisam pojma imao o keramici Maya, ali želio sam biti što umiljatiji. Pa sam rekao: „Ali doktore Robicsek, ovo je totalno zaslijepljujuće.“ „Da“, rekao je, „to su mi rekli iz Louvra. Nisu me puštali na miru sve dok im nisam dopustio da dobiju komad, ali nije bio dobar.“
Well, it occurred to me that I should invite Dr. Robicsek to lecture at Wofford College on -- what else? -- Leonardo da Vinci. And further, I should invite him to meet my oldest trustee, who had majored in French history at Yale some 70-odd years before and, at 89, still ruled the world's largest privately owned textile empire with an iron hand. His name is Roger Milliken. And Mr. Milliken agreed, and Dr. Robicsek agreed. And Dr. Robicsek visited and delivered the lecture and it was a dazzling success. And afterwards we convened at the President's House with Dr. Robicsek on one hand, Mr. Milliken on the other. And it was only at that moment, as we were sitting down to dinner, that I recognized the enormity of the risk I had created, because to bring these two titans, these two masters of the universe together -- it was like introducing Mothra to Godzilla over the skyline of Tokyo. If they didn't like each other, we could all get trampled to death.
Učinilo mi se da bih trebao pozvati doktora Robicseka na predavanje na fakultetu Wofford, o čemu drugome nego o Leonardu Da Vinciju. I dalje, trebao sam ga pozvati da upozna mog najstarijeg pratitelja koji je diplomirao francusku povijest na Yale-u prije nekih 70-ak godina i u 89-oj je još uvijek sa željeznom rukom upravljao najvećim privatnim tekstilnim carstvom. Ime mu je Roger Milliken. I gospodin Milliken se složio, a složio se i doktor Robicsek. I doktor Robicsek je došao i održao predavanje i to je bio fantastičan uspjeh. I nakon toga smo se našli u predsjednikovoj kući s doktorom Robicsekom na jednoj strani i gospodinom Millikenom na drugoj. I baš u trenu kad smo sjedili za stolom i večerali, prepoznao sam nevjerojatnost rizika koji sam stvorio. Jer spojiti ovu dvojicu velikana, ovu dvojicu gospodara svemira zajedno je poput predstavljanja Mothre Godzilli iznad Tokya. Ako se ne svide jedan drugome, mogli bismo svi biti nasmrt pregaženi.
But they did, they did like each other. They got along famously until the very end of the meal, and then they got into a furious argument. And what they were arguing about was this: whether the second Harry Potter movie was as good as the first. (Laughter) Mr. Milliken said it was not. Dr. Robicsek disagreed. I was still trying to take in the notion that these titans, these masters of the universe, in their spare time watch Harry Potter movies, when Mr. Milliken thought he would win the argument by saying, "You just think it's so good because you didn't read the book." And Dr. Robicsek reeled back in his chair, but quickly gathered his wits, leaned forward and said, "Well, that is true, but I'll bet you went to the movie with a grandchild." "Well, yes, I did," conceded Mr. Milliken. "Aha!" said Dr. Robicsek. "I went to the movie all by myself." (Laughter) (Applause)
Ali jesu. Svidjeli su se jedan drugome. Izvrsno su se slagali sve do kraja obroka kad su zapeli u užasnoj prepirci. A prepirali su se o tome je li drugi dio filma Harry Potter jednako dobar kao i prvi. Gospodin Milliken je rekao da nije. Doktor Robicsek se nije složio. Još uvijek sam pokušavao shvatiti da ovi velikani, ovi gospodari svemira u svoje slobodno vrijeme gledaju Harryja Pottera, a tada je gospodin Milliken pomislio da će pobijediti u prepirci s argumentom poput ovog: „Misliš tako samo zato što nisi pročitao knjigu.“ I doktor Robicsek se nagnuo unazad na svojoj stolici, ali se brzo snašao, nagnuo naprijed i rekao: „Pa, to je točno, ali kladim se da si ti išao gledati film s unucima.“ „Pa jesam,“ priznao je gospodin Milliken. „Aha!“ rekao je doktor Robicsek. „Ja sam išao u kino sasvim sam.“
And I realized, in this moment of revelation, that what these two men were revealing was the secret of their extraordinary success, each in his own right. And it lay precisely in that insatiable curiosity, that irrepressible desire to know, no matter what the subject, no matter what the cost, even at a time when the keepers of the Doomsday Clock are willing to bet even money that the human race won't be around to imagine anything in the year 2100, a scant 93 years from now. "Live each day as if it is your last," said Mahatma Gandhi. "Learn as if you'll live forever." This is what I'm passionate about. It is precisely this. It is this inextinguishable, undaunted appetite for learning and experience, no matter how risible, no matter how esoteric, no matter how seditious it might seem. This defines the imagined futures of our fellow Hungarians -- Robicsek, Teszler and Bartok -- as it does my own. As it does, I suspect, that of everybody here.
I shvatio sam u tom trenutku otkrivenja da su ova dvojica muškaraca otkrili tajnu svog izvanrednog uspjeha, svatko na svoj način. I ležao je točno u toj nezasitnoj znatiželji, toj nezadrživoj želji za znanjem – bez obzira na to što je tema, bez obzira na to kolika je cijena, čak i u vrijeme kad su čuvari Sata sudnjeg dana voljni napraviti okladu da ljudska rasa neće moći doživjeti 2100. godinu, oskudne 93 godine od sada. „Živi svaki dan kao da ti je posljednji.“ rekao je Mahatma Ghandi. „Uči kao da ćeš vječno živjeti.“ U vezi toga sam strastven. Baš zbog toga. To je nešto što je nemoguće ugasiti, neustrašiv apetit za učenjem i iskustvom bez obzira koliko smiješno, koliko ezoterično ili buntovno izgleda. To definira zamišljene budućnosti naših prijatelja mađara, Robicseka i Teszlera i Bartoka, kao i moju. A vjerujem i svih vas ovdje.
To which I need only add, "Ez a mi munkank; es nem is keves." This is our task; we know it will be hard. "Ez a mi munkank; es nem is keves. Jó napot, pacák!" (Applause)
Čemu jedino moram dodati: "Ez a mi munkank; es nem is keves." „Ovo je naš zadatak. Znamo da će biti težak.“ "Ez a mi munkank; es nem is keves." Yo napot, pacak!