Sóc escriptora. Escriure llibres és la meua professió, però és molt més que això, evidentment. També ha sigut sempre el gran amor de la meua vida i la meua fascinació. I no espere que això canvie mai. Però, dit açò, fa poc em va passar una cosa peculiar, en la meua vida i la meua carrera, que m'ha fet recalibrar tota la meua relació amb aquest treball. I aquest fet peculiar és que fa poc vaig escriure un llibre, unes memòries anomenades "Menjar, Resar, Estimar", les quals, a diferència dels meus llibres anteriors, ven veure la llum per algun motiu i es van convertir en una obra que va causar una gran sensació i va ser supervendes internacional. De resultes, allà on vaig la gent em tracta com si m'hagueren llançat un malefici. De veritat: un malefici! Se m'acosten, tots preocupats, i em diuen: "No tens por... no tens por de no poder superar-ho mai? No tens por de seguir escrivint tota la vida i no crear mai més un llibre que importe a algú, qui siga, ni un poc mai més?
I am a writer. Writing books is my profession but it's more than that, of course. It is also my great lifelong love and fascination. And I don't expect that that's ever going to change. But, that said, something kind of peculiar has happened recently in my life and in my career, which has caused me to have to recalibrate my whole relationship with this work. And the peculiar thing is that I recently wrote this book, this memoir called "Eat, Pray, Love" which, decidedly unlike any of my previous books, went out in the world for some reason, and became this big, mega-sensation, international bestseller thing. The result of which is that everywhere I go now, people treat me like I'm doomed. Seriously -- doomed, doomed! Like, they come up to me now, all worried, and they say, "Aren't you afraid you're never going to be able to top that? Aren't you afraid you're going to keep writing for your whole life and you're never again going to create a book that anybody in the world cares about at all, ever again?"
És tranquilitzador, us ho imagineu. Però podria ser pitjor, resulta que recorde que fa uns 20 anys, quan vaig començar a dir a la gent --quan era una adolescent-- que volia ser escriptora, em trobava amb la mateixa reacció de por. I la gent em deia: "No tens por de no tindre mai èxit? No tens por que la humiliació del rebuig t'acabe matant? No tens por de treballar tota la vida en aquest art i que mai no done cap fruit i que acabes morint sola en una pila de deixalles de somnis frustrats amb la boca plena de les amargues cendres del fracàs? (Riuen) Tal qual, ja m'enteneu.
So that's reassuring, you know. But it would be worse, except for that I happen to remember that over 20 years ago, when I was a teenager, when I first started telling people that I wanted to be a writer, I was met with this same sort of fear-based reaction. And people would say, "Aren't you afraid you're never going to have any success? Aren't you afraid the humiliation of rejection will kill you? Aren't you afraid that you're going to work your whole life at this craft and nothing's ever going to come of it and you're going to die on a scrap heap of broken dreams with your mouth filled with bitter ash of failure?" (Laughter) Like that, you know.
La resposta... la resposta abreviada a totes aquestes preguntes és "Sí". Sí, tinc por de totes aquestes coses. Sempre n'he tingut. I tinc por de moltes, moltes, moltes altres coses que la gent no podria ni imaginar. Com les algues marines i altres coses que fan por. Però, quan es tracta d'escriure, el que he pensat últimament, i al que he fet voltes últimament, és: per què? Ja sabeu: és racional? És lògic que s'espere que algú tinga por del treball que sent que li ha estat destinat? Sabeu? Què passa en concret amb les aventures creatives que sembla que ens posen molt nerviosos sobre la salut mental dels altres d'una manera que no passa amb altres professions? Com el meu pare, per exemple; era enginyer químic i no recorde ni una vegada en els seus 40 anys d'enginyeria química que ningú li preguntara si tenia por de ser enginyer químic. Ningú li deia: "com portes el bloqueig de l'enginyer químic, John?". Simplement, no es donava el cas, sabeu? Però, la veritat, els enginyers químics, com a grup, no s'han guanyat al llarg dels segles la fama de ser uns alcohòlics maniac-depressius. (Riuen)
The answer -- the short answer to all those questions is, "Yes." Yes, I'm afraid of all those things. And I always have been. And I'm afraid of many, many more things besides that people can't even guess at, like seaweed and other things that are scary. But, when it comes to writing, the thing that I've been sort of thinking about lately, and wondering about lately, is why? You know, is it rational? Is it logical that anybody should be expected to be afraid of the work that they feel they were put on this Earth to do. And what is it specifically about creative ventures that seems to make us really nervous about each other's mental health in a way that other careers kind of don't do, you know? Like my dad, for example, was a chemical engineer and I don't recall once in his 40 years of chemical engineering anybody asking him if he was afraid to be a chemical engineer, you know? "That chemical-engineering block, John, how's it going?" It just didn't come up like that, you know? But to be fair, chemical engineers as a group haven't really earned a reputation over the centuries for being alcoholic manic-depressives. (Laughter)
Els escriptors sí que tenim més o menys aquesta reputació, i no només els escriptors, sinó que la gent creativa de diversos gèneres sembla que també tenen la fama de ser d'allò més inestables mentalment. I tot el que heu de fer és mirar la nefasta llista de morts, només en el segle XX, de ments creatives realment magnífiques que van morir joves, sovint a les seues mans. I fins i tot aquests que no es van suïcidar literalment sembla que estan realment destrossats pel seu do. Norman Mailer, just abans de morir, a la seua última entrevista, digué: "Cadascun dels meus llibres m'ha matat un poc més". Una afirmació extraordinària a fer sobre el treball de la teua vida. Però ni tan sols ens immutem quan sentim que algú diu açò, perquè hem sentit aquestes coses des de fa tant de temps i d'alguna manera hem assumit completament i acceptat col·lectivament la noció que la creativitat i el patiment estan, d'alguna manera, units inherentment i que l'art, al final, ens conduirà en última instància a l'angoixa.
We writers, we kind of do have that reputation, and not just writers, but creative people across all genres, it seems, have this reputation for being enormously mentally unstable. And all you have to do is look at the very grim death count in the 20th century alone, of really magnificent creative minds who died young and often at their own hands, you know? And even the ones who didn't literally commit suicide seem to be really undone by their gifts, you know. Norman Mailer, just before he died, last interview, he said, "Every one of my books has killed me a little more." An extraordinary statement to make about your life's work. But we don't even blink when we hear somebody say this, because we've heard that kind of stuff for so long and somehow we've completely internalized and accepted collectively this notion that creativity and suffering are somehow inherently linked and that artistry, in the end, will always ultimately lead to anguish.
I la pregunta que vull fer a tots els presents avui ací és: a tots vos sembla bé la idea? Hi esteu còmodes...?, perquè si es mira ni que siga des de poca distància.. ja m'enteneu... Jo no estic gens còmoda amb aquest pressupòsit. Crec que és detestable. I també pense que és perillós, i no el vull veure perpetuat en el pròxim segle. Crec que és millor si encoratgem les nostres grans ments creatives a viure.
And the question that I want to ask everybody here today is are you guys all cool with that idea? Are you comfortable with that? Because you look at it even from an inch away and, you know -- I'm not at all comfortable with that assumption. I think it's odious. And I also think it's dangerous, and I don't want to see it perpetuated into the next century. I think it's better if we encourage our great creative minds to live.
I definitivament sé que, en el meu cas --en la meua situació-- seria molt perillós començar a davallar a poc a poc per aquest fosc camí de pressuposicions, sobretot atesa la circumstància en què em trobe ara en la meua carrera. Que és --ja sabeu, mireu-me-- que sóc bastant jove, només tinc uns 40 anys. Encara em queden potser unes quatre dècades de treball. I és extremadament probable que qualsevol cosa que escriga a partir d'ara siga jutjat pel món com l'obra posterior a l'inusual èxit del meu últim llibre, no? Ho hauria de dir sense embuts, perquè ara ja som tots amics ací: el més probable és que el meu èxit més gran ja haja passat. Déu meu, quina idea! És la classe d'idea que podria fer que algú començara a beure ginebra a les nou del matí, i no vull anar per aquest camí. (Riuen) Preferiria seguir fent aquest treball que estime.
And I definitely know that, in my case -- in my situation -- it would be very dangerous for me to start sort of leaking down that dark path of assumption, particularly given the circumstance that I'm in right now in my career. Which is -- you know, like check it out, I'm pretty young, I'm only about 40 years old. I still have maybe another four decades of work left in me. And it's exceedingly likely that anything I write from this point forward is going to be judged by the world as the work that came after the freakish success of my last book, right? I should just put it bluntly, because we're all sort of friends here now -- it's exceedingly likely that my greatest success is behind me. So Jesus, what a thought! That's the kind of thought that could lead a person to start drinking gin at nine o'clock in the morning, and I don't want to go there. (Laughter) I would prefer to keep doing this work that I love.
Llavors, la pregunta és: com? I llavors, em sembla, després de reflexionar-hi molt, que la manera en què he de treballar ara, per a poder seguir escrivint, és que he de crear alguna espècie de constructe psicològic protector, veritat? He de trobar alguna manera de tenir una distància de seguretat entre mi, mentre escric, i la meua angoixa, tan natural, sobre quina serà la reacció sobre el que escric a partir d'ara. I, mentre he buscat durant l'últim any models per com fer-ho, d'alguna manera he mirat al llarg del temps i he intentat trobar altres societats per a veure si ells tenien idees millors i més assenyades que les nostres sobre com ajudar la gent creativa a controlar els riscos emocionals inherents de la creativitat.
And so, the question becomes, how? And so, it seems to me, upon a lot of reflection, that the way that I have to work now, in order to continue writing, is that I have to create some sort of protective psychological construct, right? I have to sort of find some way to have a safe distance between me, as I am writing, and my very natural anxiety about what the reaction to that writing is going to be, from now on. And, as I've been looking, over the last year, for models for how to do that, I've been sort of looking across time, and I've been trying to find other societies to see if they might have had better and saner ideas than we have about how to help creative people sort of manage the inherent emotional risks of creativity.
I aquesta recerca m'ha portat a la Grècia antiga i a la Roma antiga. Quedeu-vos amb mi, perquè aquesta idea és circular i tornarem a aquest punt. A la Grècia antiga i a la Roma antiga, la gent no pensava que la creativitat vinguera dels éssers humans en aquella època, d'acord? La gent pensava que la creativitat era un esperit guardià diví que venia als humans des d'algun origen llunyà i desconegut, per motius llunyans i desconeguts. Se sap que els grecs anomenaven aquests esperits guardians de la creativitat "dimonis". És també conegut que Sòcrates pensava que tenia un dimoni que li transmetia paraules de saviesa des de la distància. Els romans teníen la mateixa idea, però anomenaven aquesta espècie d'esperit creatiu incorpori "geni". El que és genial, perquè els romans, de fet, no pensaven que un geni fóra un individu esspecialment intel·ligent. Pensaven que un geni era aquesta espècie d'entitat divina màgica, que es pensava que literalment vivia entre les parets de l'estudi d'un artista, una espècie de Dobby, l'elf domèstic de Harry Potter, i que apareixeria i, de manera invisible, ajudaria l'artista amb el seu treball. i donaria forma al resultat d'aquest treball.
And that search has led me to ancient Greece and ancient Rome. So stay with me, because it does circle around and back. But, ancient Greece and ancient Rome -- people did not happen to believe that creativity came from human beings back then, OK? People believed that creativity was this divine attendant spirit that came to human beings from some distant and unknowable source, for distant and unknowable reasons. The Greeks famously called these divine attendant spirits of creativity "daemons." Socrates, famously, believed that he had a daemon who spoke wisdom to him from afar. The Romans had the same idea, but they called that sort of disembodied creative spirit a genius. Which is great, because the Romans did not actually think that a genius was a particularly clever individual. They believed that a genius was this, sort of magical divine entity, who was believed to literally live in the walls of an artist's studio, kind of like Dobby the house elf, and who would come out and sort of invisibly assist the artist with their work and would shape the outcome of that work.
Brillant, ací ho teniu, justament açò, aquesta distància de què parlava, aquesta construcció psicològica per a protegir-vos dels resultats del vostre treball. I tots sabien com funcionava, veritat? De manera que els artistes clàssics estaven protegits de determinades coses, com, per exemple, el narcicisme excessiu, veritat? Si la teua obra era brillant, no podies penjar-te'n totes les medalles, tots sabien que tenies aquest geni incorpori que t'havia ajudat. Si el teu treball fracassava, no era completament culpa teua, m'enteneu? Tothom sabia que el teu geni no era una llumenera. I així va veure la gent la creativitat a Occident durant molt de temps.
So brilliant -- there it is, right there, that distance that I'm talking about -- that psychological construct to protect you from the results of your work. And everyone knew that this is how it functioned, right? So the ancient artist was protected from certain things, like, for example, too much narcissism, right? If your work was brilliant, you couldn't take all the credit for it, everybody knew that you had this disembodied genius who had helped you. If your work bombed, not entirely your fault, you know? Everyone knew your genius was kind of lame. (Laughter)
And this is how people thought about creativity in the West
I llavors arribà el Renaixement i tot va canviar, i tinguérem una idea genial, i la idea genial fou: posem l'ésser humà al centre de l'univers per damunt de tots els déus i misteris, i no hi ha més lloc per a les criatures místiques que rebien els dictats divins. I aquest és el principi de l'humanisme racional, i la gent començà a creure que la creativitat provenia completament del mateix individu. Per primera vegada en la història, es va sentir a la gent referir-se a aquest o aquell artista com que era un geni en lloc de dir que tenia un geni.
for a really long time. And then the Renaissance came and everything changed, and we had this big idea, and the big idea was, let's put the individual human being at the center of the universe above all gods and mysteries, and there's no more room for mystical creatures who take dictation from the divine. And it's the beginning of rational humanism, and people started to believe that creativity came completely from the self of the individual. And for the first time in history, you start to hear people referring to this or that artist as being a genius, rather than having a genius.
I us he de dir que crec que fou un enorme error. Deixar que algú, una simple persona pense que ell o ella és el receptacle, la font i l'essència i l'origen de tot els misteris divins, creatius, que no es poden conéixer, i eterns és massa responsabilitat per a posar sobre una fràgil psique humana. És com demanar a algú que es menge el sol. Simplement perverteix i distorsiona els egos, i crea totes aquestes expectatives incontrolables sobre el rendiment. I crec que aquesta pressió ha matat els nostres artistes els últims 500 anys.
And I got to tell you, I think that was a huge error. You know, I think that allowing somebody, one mere person to believe that he or she is like, the vessel, you know, like the font and the essence and the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile, human psyche. It's like asking somebody to swallow the sun. It just completely warps and distorts egos, and it creates all these unmanageable expectations about performance. And I think the pressure of that has been killing off our artists for the last 500 years.
I, si açò és cert, i crec que ho és, la pregunta és: i ara què? Ho podem fer d'una altra manera? Potser, tornar a un enteniment més clàssic sobre la relació entre els humans i el misteri creatiu. Potser no. Potser no podem esborrar 500 anys de pensament humanístic racional en una conferència de 18 minuts. I potser hi ha gent entre el públic present que plantejaria recels científics molt vàlids sobre la noció, bàsicament, que hi ha fades que segueixen la gent i apliquen poció de fada a tots els seus projectes i materials. Probablement, no us convenceré d'açò.
And, if this is true, and I think it is true, the question becomes, what now? Can we do this differently? Maybe go back to some more ancient understanding about the relationship between humans and the creative mystery. Maybe not. Maybe we can't just erase 500 years of rational humanistic thought in one 18 minute speech. And there's probably people in this audience who would raise really legitimate scientific suspicions about the notion of, basically, fairies who follow people around rubbing fairy juice on their projects and stuff. I'm not, probably, going to bring you all along with me on this.
Però la pregunta que vull plantejar és: per què no? Per què no veure-ho així? Perquè té molt més sentit que cap altra cosa que haja sentit mai per a explicar la naturalesa tan tremendament capriciosa del procés creatiu. Un procés que, com sabrà qualsevol que haja intentat mai fer alguna cosa --que sou bàsicament tots els presents-- no sempre funciona de manera racional. I, de fet, de vegades pot paréixer francament paranormal.
But the question that I kind of want to pose is -- you know, why not? Why not think about it this way? Because it makes as much sense as anything else I have ever heard in terms of explaining the utter maddening capriciousness of the creative process. A process which, as anybody who has ever tried to make something -- which is to say basically everyone here --- knows does not always behave rationally. And, in fact, can sometimes feel downright paranormal.
Fa poc, vaig conéixer l'extraordinària poetessa americana Ruth stone, que té ara una 90 anys, però que ha sigut poetessa tota la vida, i em va dir que, quan va créixer a la Virgínia rural, treballava al camp, i deia que podia tocar i sentir un poema que venia cap a ella des del paisatge. I digué que era com un tren d'aire ensordidor. I que baixava a gran velocitat cap a ella pel paisatge. I que el sentia acostar-se, perquè sacsejava la terra sota els peus. Ella sabia que només podia fer una cosa arribat aquell punt, que, en les seues paraules, era "córrer com una boja". I corria com una boja cap a casa i la perseguia el poema, i ella havia d'afagar un paper i un bolígraf prou ràpid perquè quan el poema la travessara amb gran enrenou, l'agafara i l'atrapara en el paper. I altres vegades no era bastant ràpida, de manera que corria i corria i corria, i no arribava a la casa i el poema la travessava ràpidament i se li escapava i diu que el poema continuava pel paisatge buscant, com deia ella, "un atre poeta". I també hi havia vegades --mai no oblidaré aquesta part--, hi havia vegades que quasi el perdia. De manera que, corria cap a la casa i buscava un paper i el poema la travessava i agafava un bolígraf just quan l'estava travessant i diu que llavors allargava l'altre braç i l'atrapava. Agafava el poema per la cua i l'estirava cap arrere novament cap al seu cos mentre transcrivia en la pàgina. I en aquests moments, el poema apareixia en la pàgina perfecte i intacte, però a la inversa, des de l'última paraula fins a la primera. (Riuen)
I had this encounter recently where I met the extraordinary American poet Ruth Stone, who's now in her 90s, but she's been a poet her entire life and she told me that when she was growing up in rural Virginia, she would be out working in the fields, and she said she would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape. And she said it was like a thunderous train of air. And it would come barreling down at her over the landscape. And she felt it coming, because it would shake the earth under her feet. She knew that she had only one thing to do at that point, and that was to, in her words, "run like hell." And she would run like hell to the house and she would be getting chased by this poem, and the whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper and a pencil fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. And other times she wouldn't be fast enough, so she'd be running and running, and she wouldn't get to the house and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it and she said it would continue on across the landscape, looking, as she put it "for another poet." And then there were these times -- this is the piece I never forgot -- she said that there were moments where she would almost miss it, right? So, she's running to the house and she's looking for the paper and the poem passes through her, and she grabs a pencil just as it's going through her, and then she said, it was like she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it. She would catch the poem by its tail, and she would pull it backwards into her body as she was transcribing on the page. And in these instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact but backwards, from the last word to the first. (Laughter)
I quan vaig sentir açò, vaig pensar: que estrany, el meu procés creatiu és exactament igual. (Riuen)
So when I heard that I was like -- that's uncanny, that's exactly what my creative process is like. (Laughter)
No s'assembla en absolut al meu procés creatiu, no sóc cap canonada! Sóc com les mules i la meua manera de treballar és alçar-me cada dia a la mateixa hora, i suar i esforçar-me i esforçar-m'hi com puc. Però, fins i tot jo, en la meua tossuderia de mula, fins i tot jo he lluitat contra això, de vegades. I imagine que molts de vosaltres també. Ja sabeu, fins i tot jo he tingut obres o idees que m'han vingut d'una font que, sincerament, no puc identificar. I què és aquesta cosa? I com ens hi entendrem de manera que no perdem el cap sinó que, de fet, ens ajude a no perdre el seny?
That's not at all what my creative process is -- I'm not the pipeline! I'm a mule, and the way that I have to work is I have to get up at the same time every day, and sweat and labor and barrel through it really awkwardly. But even I, in my mulishness, even I have brushed up against that thing, at times. And I would imagine that a lot of you have too. You know, even I have had work or ideas come through me from a source that I honestly cannot identify. And what is that thing? And how are we to relate to it in a way that will not make us lose our minds, but, in fact, might actually keep us sane?
I, per a mi, el millor exemple contemporani que tinc de com fer-ho és el músic Tom Waits, a qui vaig entrevistar fa uns anys per una encomanda d'una revista. I vam parlar d'açò, i ja sabeu, Tom, la major part de la seua vida ha estat la personificació de l'artista turmentat contemporani modern, que intenta controlar i dominar aquesta espècie d'impulsos creatius incontrolables que tenia totalment interioritzats.
And for me, the best contemporary example that I have of how to do that is the musician Tom Waits, who I got to interview several years ago on a magazine assignment. And we were talking about this, and you know, Tom, for most of his life, he was pretty much the embodiment of the tormented contemporary modern artist, trying to control and manage and dominate these sort of uncontrollable creative impulses that were totally internalized.
Però es va fer major, es va calmar, i un dia conduïa per l'autopista de Los Angeles, em va dir, i fou quan tot canvià per a ell. I anava a gran velocitat, i, de sobte, sent part d'una melodia que li ve al cap com ve sovint la inspiració, difícil d'atrapar, temptadora, i la vol, i és preciosa, i la desitja, però no té manera d'aconseguir-la. No té paper, no té bolígraf, no té una gravadora.
But then he got older, he got calmer, and one day he was driving down the freeway in Los Angeles, and this is when it all changed for him. And he's speeding along, and all of a sudden he hears this little fragment of melody, that comes into his head as inspiration often comes, elusive and tantalizing, and he wants it, it's gorgeous, and he longs for it, but he has no way to get it. He doesn't have a piece of paper, or a pencil, or a tape recorder.
Comença a sentir aquella ansietat de sempre que li creix a dins de l'estil de "Perdré aquesta cançó, i em perseguirà tota la vida. No sóc suficientment bo, no ho puc fer". I, en lloc de deixar-se envair pel pànic, es va aturar. Va parar aquell procés mental™ i va fer una cosa completament novedosa. Va mirar el cel i va dir: "Perdona, que no veus que estic conduint?". (Riuen) "Et sembla que puc escriure una cançó ara mateix? Si de veritat vols existir, torna en un moment més oportú, quan puga ocupar-me de tu. Si no, vés a destorbar algú altre hui. Vés a destorbar Leonard Cohen".
So he starts to feel all of that old anxiety start to rise in him like, "I'm going to lose this thing, and I'll be be haunted by this song forever. I'm not good enough, and I can't do it." And instead of panicking, he just stopped. He just stopped that whole mental process and he did something completely novel. He just looked up at the sky, and he said, "Excuse me, can you not see that I'm driving?" (Laughter) "Do I look like I can write down a song right now? If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment when I can take care of you. Otherwise, go bother somebody else today. Go bother Leonard Cohen."
I el seu mètode de treball canvià completament després d'allò. No les obres, les obres encara eren sovint tan fosques com sempre. Però el procés, la intensa ansietat que l'envoltava es va alliberar quan es va traure el geni de dins, on només causava problemes, i el va alliberar i el va tornar al lloc d'on provenia, i es va adonar que no havia de ser aquella cosa turmentada, interioritzada. Podia ser una col·laboració estranya, meravellosa, estrambòtica; una espècie de conversa entre Tom i aquella cosa estranya i externa que no era ben bé Tom.
And his whole work process changed after that. Not the work, the work was still oftentimes as dark as ever. But the process, and the heavy anxiety around it was released when he took the genie, the genius out of him where it was causing nothing but trouble, and released it back where it came from, and realized that this didn't have to be this internalized, tormented thing. It could be this peculiar, wondrous, bizarre collaboration, kind of conversation between Tom and the strange, external thing that was not quite Tom.
De manera que quan vaig sentir la història, vaig començar a canviar un poc la meua manera de treballar, i aquest fet ja m'ha salvat una vegada. Aquesta idea em va salvar quan estava escrivint "Menjar, resar, estimar" i vaig caure en un d'aquells pous de desesperació en què solem caure quan treballem en una cosa i no resulta i comencem a pensar que serà un desastre, aquest serà el pitjor llibre que s'ha escrit mai. No simplement dolent, sinó el pitjor llibre que s'ha escrit mai. I vaig començar a pensar que hauria d'abandonar aquest projecte. Però, llavors, vaig recordar Tom parlant al cel i ho vaig intentar. De manera que vaig alçar el cap del manuscrit i vaig adreçar els meus comentaris a un racó buit de l'habitació. I vaig dir en veu alta: "Escolta, cosa, tu i jo sabem que si aquest llibre no és brillant no és del tot culpa meua, veritat? Perquè veus que hi estic posant tot el que tinc, no tinc més que açò. De manera que, si vols que siga millor, has d'aparéixer i fer la teua part del tracte. D'acord. Però si no ho fas, saps què?, tant fa. Pense seguir escrivint igualment perquè és el meu treball. I, per favor, m'agradaria que constara en acta que hui jo m'he presentat per a fer la meua part del treball. (Riuen)
When I heard that story, it started to shift a little bit the way that I worked too, and this idea already saved me once. It saved me when I was in the middle of writing "Eat, Pray, Love," and I fell into one of those sort of pits of despair that we all fall into when we're working on something and it's not coming and you start to think this is going to be a disaster, the worst book ever written. Not just bad, but the worst book ever written. And I started to think I should just dump this project. But then I remembered Tom talking to the open air and I tried it. So I just lifted my face up from the manuscript and I directed my comments to an empty corner of the room. And I said aloud, "Listen you, thing, you and I both know that if this book isn't brilliant that is not entirely my fault, right? Because you can see that I am putting everything I have into this, I don't have any more than this. If you want it to be better, you've got to show up and do your part of the deal. But if you don't do that, you know what, the hell with it. I'm going to keep writing anyway because that's my job. And I would please like the record to reflect today that I showed up for my part of the job." (Laughter)
Perquè... (Aplaudeixen) al cap i a la fi és així, oi? fa segles, en els deserts de l'Àfrica del Nord, la gent solia reunir-se a la llum de la lluna per a fer danses sagrades i música que duraven hores i hores fins que es feia de dia. I sempre eren magnífiques, perquè els ballarins eren professionals i eren genials, veritat? Però, de tant en tant, molt poques vegades, passava alguna cosa, i un d'aquests artistes esdevenia transcendent. I sé que sabeu de què parle, perquè sé que tots heu vist, en algun moment de la vostra vida, una actuació així. Com si el temps es detinguera, i el ballarí d'alguna manera travessara una espècie de portal i no estiguera fent res diferent del que ha fet anteriorment, 1.000 nits abans, però tot s'alineara. I, de sobte, deixava de semblar merament humà. S'il·luminava des de l'interior, i des de baix i tot s'encenia com un foc amb divinitat.
Because -- (Applause) Because in the end it's like this, OK -- centuries ago in the deserts of North Africa, people used to gather for these moonlight dances of sacred dance and music that would go on for hours and hours, until dawn. They were always magnificent, because the dancers were professionals and they were terrific, right? But every once in a while, very rarely, something would happen, and one of these performers would actually become transcendent. And I know you know what I'm talking about, because I know you've all seen, at some point in your life, a performance like this. It was like time would stop, and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal and he wasn't doing anything different than he had ever done, 1,000 nights before, but everything would align. And all of a sudden, he would no longer appear to be merely human. He would be lit from within, and lit from below and all lit up on fire with divinity.
I quan açò passava, en aquells temps, la gent sabia per què era, tenien un nom per anomenar-ho, ajuntaven les mans i començaven a cantar: "Al·là, Al·là, Al·là, Déu, Déu, Déu". Això és Déu. Un apunt històric curiós: quan els àrabs envaïren el sud d'Espanya, importaren aquest costum i la pronunciació canvià al llarg dels segles d'"Al·là, Al·là, Al·là" a "Olé, olé, olé", que encara se sent en les corregudes de bous i en els balls flamencs. A Espanya, quan un artista ha fet alguna cosa impossible i màgica, li diuen "Al·là, olé, olé, magnífic, bravo", incomprensible, ahí ho teniu: una fugaç visió de Déu. La qual cosa és genial, perquè ho necessitem.
And when this happened, back then, people knew it for what it was, you know, they called it by its name. They would put their hands together and they would start to chant, "Allah, Allah, Allah, God, God, God." That's God, you know. Curious historical footnote: when the Moors invaded southern Spain, they took this custom with them and the pronunciation changed over the centuries from "Allah, Allah, Allah," to "Olé, olé, olé," which you still hear in bullfights and in flamenco dances. In Spain, when a performer has done something impossible and magic, "Allah, olé, olé, Allah, magnificent, bravo," incomprehensible, there it is -- a glimpse of God. Which is great, because we need that.
Però la part delicada ve al matí següent, per al propi ballarí, quan es desperta i troba que és dimarts a les 11 del matí, i que ja no és una fugaç visió de Déu. Que simplement és un mortal envellit amb molt de mal de genolls, i que potser no tornarà a arribar tan alt mai més. I potser mai ningú no tornarà a cantar el nom de Déu mentre ell fa voltes, i, llavors, què ha de fer ell la resta de la seua vida? És dur. És una de les reconciliacions més doloroses que s'han de fer en la vida creativa. Però potser no ha d'estar tan ple d'angoixa si no creus mai, en primer lloc, que els aspectes més extraordinaris del teu ésser vénen de tu mateix. Sinó, potser, si simplement creus que te'ls havia prestat una font inimaginable per a una exquisida part de la teua vida per a passar-la, quan hi acabes, a algú altre. I, ja sabeu, si ho veiem d'aquesta manera, tot comença a canviar.
But, the tricky bit comes the next morning, for the dancer himself, when he wakes up and discovers that it's Tuesday at 11 a.m., and he's no longer a glimpse of God. He's just an aging mortal with really bad knees, and maybe he's never going to ascend to that height again. And maybe nobody will ever chant God's name again as he spins, and what is he then to do with the rest of his life? This is hard. This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make in a creative life. But maybe it doesn't have to be quite so full of anguish if you never happened to believe, in the first place, that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you. But maybe if you just believed that they were on loan to you from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you're finished, with somebody else. And, you know, if we think about it this way, it starts to change everything.
Jo he començat a pensar així, i certament és com he pensat els últims mesos mentre he treballat en el llibre que es publicarà prompte, el que serà la continuació tan espantosament esperada del meu èxit fora mida.
This is how I've started to think, and this is certainly how I've been thinking in the last few months as I've been working on the book that will soon be published, as the dangerously, frighteningly over-anticipated follow up to my freakish success.
I el que he de dir-me a mi mateixa quan m'obsessione aquest tema és: no tingues por. No et sentes intimidada. Limita't a fer el teu treball. Continua presentant-te per a la teua part del treball, siga quin siga. Si el teu treball és ballar, balla. Si el geni diví i malgirbat que han assignat al teu cas decideix deixar que es puga entreveure un cert astorament un instant gràcies als teus esforços, llavors "Olé!". I si no, tu balla igualment. I "Olé" per a tu, igualment. Ho crec i sent que ho hem d'ensenyar. "Olé!" per a tots vosaltres, igualment, simplement per tenir l'amor humà i la simple tenacitat per a seguir presentant-vos al treball.
And what I have to sort of keep telling myself when I get really psyched out about that is don't be afraid. Don't be daunted. Just do your job. Continue to show up for your piece of it, whatever that might be. If your job is to dance, do your dance. If the divine, cockeyed genius assigned to your case decides to let some sort of wonderment be glimpsed, for just one moment through your efforts, then "Olé!" And if not, do your dance anyhow. And "Olé!" to you, nonetheless. I believe this and I feel that we must teach it. "Olé!" to you, nonetheless, just for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up.
Gràcies. (Aplaudeixen) Gràcies. (Aplaudeixen)
Thank you. (Applause) Thank you. (Applause)
June Cohen: Olé! (Aplaudeixen)
June Cohen: Olé! (Applause)