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?"
Idazle bat naiz Liburuak idaztea nire lanbidea da baina hori baino gehiago ere bai, noski Nire bizitzako maitasun handia eta gauza liluragarria ere bada Eta ez dut hori inoiz aldatuko denik espero Baina, hori esanda, duela gutxi berezia izan den zerbait gertatu da nire bizitzan eta nire karreran nire lanbidearekin nuen harremana aldarazi duen zerbait Gauza berezi hori da duela gutxi liburu bat idatzi nuela, “Eat, Pray, Love” (“Jan, Errezatu, Maitatu”) delako memoria hau idatzi ditudan beste liburuekin alderatuz arrazoiren bategatik munduratu zen eta nazioarteko arrakasta izugarri eta mega-liluragarria lortu duen liburua da Honen emaitza da, edonora joanda jendeak etsita egongo banintz bezala tratatzen nauela Serioski – etsita, etsita! Adibidez, nigana gerturatzen dira, oso arduratuta eta ondorengoa esaten didate “Ez duzu beldurrik, ez diozu beldurrik inoiz arrakasta gainditu ezinari? Ez diozu beldurrik bizitza guztia idazten pasatzeari eta inoiz liburu bat sortzeari inoiz norbaiti interesatuko zaion liburu bat ez sortzeari, inoiz ez?
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?"
Beraz, hori lasaigarria da, badakizue Baina okerrago izan liteke, baina oroitzen dut nire gaztaroan, duela 20 urte baino gehiago idazlea izan nahi nuela esaten hasi nintzenean jendeak beldurrean oinarritutako antzeko erreakzioa izan zuela. Jendeak ondorengoa galdetzen zidan “Ez duzu inoiz arrakasta lortuko ez duzun beldurrik? Ez diozu beldurrik ukazioaren umilazioak eraginda hiltzeari? Ez diozu beldurrik bizitza guztia arte honetan lanean pasa eta hortik ezer ez ateratzeari eta amets multzo baten gainean ahoa errauts zaporez beteta hiltzeari?
(Laughter)
(Algarak)
Like that, you know.
Horrelako zerbait, badakizue
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.
Erantzuna, galdera guzti horien erantzuna motza da, “Bai”. Bai, gauza guzti horien beldur naiz. Eta beti izan naiz Eta gauza askoren beldur naiz jendeak asma ez ditzakeen gauza askori diet beldur Algei esaterako eta beldurra ematen duten beste hainbat gauzari Baina, idazteaz dihardugunean azken aldian pentsatzen aritu naizena, eta nire buruari galdetu diodana, zera da, zergatik? Badakizue, arrazionala da? Logikoa da norbaitek sentizea lan horregatik muduratu dela eta lan horren beldur izatea? Badakizue, eta sormena oinarri duten lanetan gabiltzanon ezaugarria da dirudienez horrek besteen osasun mentalaren inguruan urduritzen gaitu beste lanbide batzuk egiten ez duten moduan, badakizue? Nire aita bezala esaterako, ingeniari kimikoa zen eta ez dut oroitzen behin ere bere ingeniari kimikoko 40 urteko bizitzan inork ingeniari kimiko izateari beldur zion galdetu zionik, badakizue? Hori ez zen gertatzen -- ingeniari kimiko hori, John, zer moduz dabil? Besterik gabe ez zen gertatzen, badakizue? Baina justuak izateko, ingeniari kimikoen taldeak ez du irabazi mendeetan zehar alkoholiko maniatiko-depresibo erreputazioa
(Laughter)
(Algarak)
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.
Guk idazleok,erreputazio hori dugu, eta ez soilik idazleok, baita mota ezberdinetako sormen munduko jendeak ere mentalki egonkortu gabeak izateko erreputazioa dugu. Eta egin behar duzun guztia zera da, hildakoen zerrenda etsigarria irakurri 20. mendean soilik, sormen bikaina zutenen hildakoen zerrenda gazte eta askotan beren buruaz beste eginda heriotza aurkitu zutenena. Eta suizidatu ez zirenak ere, euren dohaiak ezin kudeatu zenbiltzan. Norman Mailerrek, hil aurretik egin zuen azken elkarrizketan ondorengoa esan zuen “Nire liburu bakoitzak pittin bat gehiago hil nau” Bere lan bizitzaren inguruko azalpen izugarriak, badakizue? Baina norbait horrelako zerbait esaten entzuten dugunean ez ditugu begiak kliskatu ere egiten horrelako gauza asko azken aldian entzun ditugulako eta modu batera barneratu eta taldean ideia hori onartu dugulako da sormena eta sufrimendua batera doazela eta arteak, azkenean, beti eramango gaitu etsipenera.
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.
Eta gaur zuei guztioi egin nahi dizuedan galdera ondorengoa da zuek gustura zaudete ideia horrekin? Gustura sentitzen zarete ideia horrekin? distantzia txikira ikusten duzuelako, badakizue Ni ez naiz gustura sentitzen susmo horrekin. Gorrotagarria dela uste dut Eta arriskutsua dela ere uste dut eta ez dut datorren mendean jarraitzen duela ikusi nahi Gure adimen sormentsuak bizitzea nahi dut.
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.
Eta baietz uste dut nire kasuan oso arriskutsua izango litzateke susmoen bide ilunean sartzea, batez ere gaur egun nire ibilbidean nagoen unea ikusita Zuek badakizue beno, nahiko gaztea naiz, 40 urte inguru ditut soilik. Agian oraindik beste lau hamarkada pasako ditut lanean Oso posiblea da hemendik aurrera idazten dudan oro munduan arrakasta izan zuen liburu horren ondorengo moduan zabaltzea, ezta? zuzenean esan beharko nuke, guztiok hemen lagunak garelako oso posiblea da nire arrakasta handiena pasa izana Ene Jesus, a ze ideia! Badakizue pentsamendu hori dela pertsona bat goizeko bederatzietan ginebra edatera bultzatzen duena eta nik ez dut hori egin nahi.
(Laughter)
(Barreak)
I would prefer to keep doing this work that I love.
Nahiagoko nuke maite dudan lan hori egiten jarraitu.
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.
Beraz, galdera itzultzen da, nola? Niri iruditzen zait, asko pentsatu ondoren, orain lanean jarraitu behar dudan modua, idazten jarraitzeko, babes psikologikoa duen zerbait sortu behar dudala, ezta? Nire barnean distantzia bat egoteko modua aurkitu behar dut nire idazle izaeraren eta hemendik aurrera idazten dudan guztiaren erreakzioaren aurrean izango dudan ansiedade naturalaren artean. Eta, bitartean aurreko urtean egin nahi nuen horren adibideak bilatzen aritu naiz, eta beste gizarte batzuk begiratzen aritu naiz sortzaileei laguntzeko moduei buruz ideia hobe eta egokiagoak zituzten begiratuz, sormenaren emozio arriskutsuak administratzeko.
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.
Eta bilaketa horrek Grezia eta Erroma zaharrera eraman nau. Beraz mantendu zaitezte nirekin, honek bira osoa emango duelako. Baina, Grezia eta Erroma zaharrean jendeak ez zuen uste sormena gizakitik zetorrenik, bai? Jendeak uste zuen sormena gizakiarengana joaten zen espiritu izugarri bat zela, distantea eta ezezaguna, arrazoi distante eta ezezagunen ondorioz. Grekoek sormen espiritu zoragarri horiei “daimones” deitu zioten Garaiko jendeak uste zuen Sokratesek daimon bat zuela eta jakintasun handiz urrutitik hitz egiten ziola.
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.
Erromatarrek ideia bera zuten, baina hauek espirituari “incorporeo jeinua” deitzen zioten. Hori izugarria zen, Erromatarrek ez zutelako uste jeinu bat zerbait majikoa eta jainkotarra zela. Bera bazela uste zuen, bizi zela, literalki, artisten estudioan, Dobby elfo domestikoa izango balitz bezala, eta atera eta inbisible izanik artistarengana joaten zela bere lanarekin eta lanari forma ematen ziola.
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.
Hain bikaina – hortxe dago hortxe hain justu hitz egiten ari naizen tartea— lanaren emaitzatik babesteko egoera psikologikoa. Guztiek zekiten horrela funtzionatzen zuela, ezta? Horrela antzinako artista hainbat gauzetatik babestuta zegoen, esaterako, nartzisismo gehiegi ezta? Zure lana liluragarria bazen ezin zenuen meritu guztia zure gain hartu. Bere ordez, guztiek zekiten jeinu horrek lagundu zintuela. Zure lanak porrot egiten bazuen, ez zen guztiz zure errua, badakizue? Guztiek zekiten zure jeinua nahiko ahula zela.
(Laughter)
Eta hori da denbora luzez mendebaldeko jendeak pentsatu zuena.
And this is how people thought about creativity in the West 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.
Eta orduan iritxi zen Errenazimendua eta dena aldatu zen, eta izugarrizko ideia handia izan genuen ideia izugarri hori gizakia munduaren erdian jartzea izan zen jainko eta misterio guztien gainean eta ez dago leku gehiago jainkotarretik diktaketa hartzen duten izaki mistikoentzat Gizaki arrazionalaren hastapena, eta jendea sinesten hasi zen sormena gizakitik zetorrela. Eta historian lehen aldiz, artista jeinu bat bezala kontsideratu zen, norbaitek jeinu bat zuela esan beharrean.
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.
Eta esan behar dizuet, hori nire aburuz hutsegite handia izan zela. Badakizue, nire ustez norbaiti, pertsona sinple bati, bera ontzia eta iturria dela eta jatorria eta esentzia, jainkotiar misterio oro, sormenezkoa, ezezaguna dela esatean gizakiaren adimenerako responsabilidade handiegia dela uste dut. Norbaiti eguzkia irenstea eskatzea bezala da. Deformatu eta distortsionatu egiten ditu egoak eta errendeminduaren inguruko itxaropen jasan ezinak sortzen ditu. Nire ustez presio hori gure artistak hiltzen aritu da azken 500 urteetan .
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.
Eta, hori egia bada, eta uste dut egia dela galdera itzultzen da, orain zer? Hau modu desberdinean egin dezakegu? Agian jendearen arteko erlazioa eta sormenaren misioak lehen ulertzen zituzten moduan ulertzera itzuli beharko ginateke. Agian ez. Agian ezin ditugu besterik gabe gizakiak 500 urtetan izan dituen pentsamendu arrazionalaren diskurtsoak 18 minututan ezabatu Eta seguruenik audientzia honetan bada maitagarriak existitzen diren susmo zientifikoak dituenik, maitagarrien zumoa jendeari proiektuetan igurtzen dizkietela eta horrelakoak. Ez dut guztiak nirekin ados egotea lortuko.
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.
Baina azaldu nahi dudan galdera, zergatik ez? da zergarik ez dugu gure modura pentsatuko? Entzun dudan beste edozeren beste zentzu bait du zoramenezko, ausazko faktore hauek azaltzeko, sormen prozesuaren faktoreak alegia. Sormen prozesu hau, zeozer sortzen saiatu diren guztiek dakiten bezala, ---hau da, hemen gauden guztiok— ez da beti arrazionalki portatzen. Eta gainera, batzuetan guztiz paranormala izan daiteke.
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.
Duela gutxi Rutg Stonen poetisa amerikarr izugarriarekin aurktiu nintzen, jada 90 urte ditu, baina poetisa bat izan da bizitza osoan zehar eta esan zidan, gaztetan Viriginian bizi zenean bera landan lanean ari zenean, poemak sentitu eta entzun egiten zituela esan zuen beregana zuzen zioazen poemak landen gainetik Eta esan zidan airezko tren baten modukoa zela. Eta beragana paisaiatik kontrolik gabe etorriko zela. Eta etortzen sentitzen zuela, lurrak bere hanken azpian mugitzea eragiten baitzuen. Berak bazekien une horretan gauza bat soilik egin behar zuela, eta zera zen, bere hitzetan “deabru baten moduan korrika egitea” Eta korrika egiten zuen etxera bidean eta poemak bere atzetik jarraituko zion. eta paper eta arkatz batez baliatuz paperean harrapatu behar zuen eta azkar egin behar izaten zuen, barnean azaltzen zitzaion hori hartu eta orrialdean arrapatzeko Eta batzuetan ez zen behar bezain azkarra, bera korrika eta korrika arituko zen eta ez zen etxera iritxiko eta poemak arrapatu egingo zuen eta galdu egingo zen betiko paisain zehar aldenduz berak esan bezala “beste poeta” baten bila. Eta berak zioen – ez dut zati hori inoiz ahaztuko- batzuetan, poema galtzear zegoenean etxera korrika ziztu bizian eta paper baten bila eta justu poema bere paretik pasatzen zenean berak arkatza hartzen zuela esku batekin eta beste eskua luzatu egiten zuen eta orduan poema harrapatu, juxtu juxtu. Poema buztanetik harrapatzen zuen, eta atzeraka tiratzen zuen bere gorputzaren barnerantz paperean idazten zuen bitartean. Eta batzuetan, poema bikain eta garbi azaltzen zen paperean baina alderantziz agertzen zen, azken hitza lehenengoa.
(Laughter)
(Barreak)
So when I heard that I was like -- that's uncanny, that's exactly what my creative process is like.
Beraz, entzun nuenean pentsatu nuen – ze arraroa, horrela da hain justu nire sormen prozesua.
(Laughter)
(Barreak)
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?
Hori ez da nire sormen prozesu osoa- Ez naiz tuberia! Inozoa naiz, nik lan egiteko modua zera da, egunero ordu berean esnatu, eta izerditu eta lan egin eta guzti honetatik modu traketsean pasa. Baina oraindik ni, nire txorakerian, ni gauza horrekin marruskatu naiz batzuetan. Eta zuetako asko ere, imajinatzen dut. Badakizue, baditut lan edo ideiak nigana iturri intzo identifikagarria ez den batetik iristen direnak. Eta zer da gauza hori? Eta nola erlaziona gaitezke berekin burua galtzea eragin gabe, baina, gainera, zuzen edo zentzudun matendu gaitezan?
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.
Niretzako, adibide garaikide onena Tom Waits musikariarena da, duela urte batzuk aldizkari baterako elkarrizketatu nuena. Eta honi buruz ari ginen hizketan eta badakizue, Tom, bere bizitzaren zati handienean artista garaikide moderno oinazetsuaren adibide izan da, guztiz barneratuak ditugun sormen inpultso kontrolaezin horiek kontrolatu, erabili eta menderatzen saiatzen.
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.
Baina, ordurako zahartu egin zen, lasaitu, eta egun batean autopistan gidatzen ari zen, Los Angelesen esan zidanez, eta bapatean guztia aldatu zen beretzako Gidatzen ari da eta bat-batean burura etortzen zaion melodia honen soinua entzuten du, bere burura inspirazio moduan etortzen da askotan, ihesbide eta iradokitzaile, eta nahi du, zuek badakizue, polita da eta faltan botatzen du, baina ez du lortzeko aukerarik. Ez du paper zatirik, ez du arkatzik, ez du grabadora bat.
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?"
Beraz, ansiedadea handitzen joaten da, “Gauza hau galduko dut, eta orduan kanta honek betiko atsekabetuko nau. Ez naiz behar bezain ona, ezin dut egin" Beldurrak jaten utzi beharrean geratu egin zen. Prozesu mentala geratu zuen eta guztiz berria zen zerbait egin zuen. Zerura begiratu zuen soilik, eta ondorengoa esan zuen “Barkatu, ez duzu gidatzen ari naizela ikusten?”
(Laughter)
(Barreak)
"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."
“Kantu bat orain idatzi dezakedala uste duzu? Benetan existitu nahi baduzu, itzuli momentu egokiago batean, zutaz arduratzeko aukera dudanean. Bestela, joan zaitez beste norbait eragoztera. Joan zaitez Leonard Cohen eragoztera”
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.
Eta bere lanerako modua guztiz aldatu zen honen ondoren. Ez lana, askotan ordura arte bezain iluna zen. Baizik eta prozesua, eta hain astuna zen ansiedadea askatua izan zen jeinua hartu zuenean eta bere barnetik atera zuenean, bertan arazoak soilik sortzen zituen, eta askatu egin zuen etorri zen lekura itzuliz, eta orduan konturatu zen ez zuela barneratutako zerbait izan behar, oinazetsua. Kolaboratzaile berezi bat izan zitekeen, bikaina, apartekoa, Tom eta kanpoan zegoen gauza horren arteko harremana, Tom ez zena.
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."
Beraz, istorio hori entzun nuenean hasi zen pittin bat aldatzen nire lan egiteko modua, eta behin salbatu ninduen. Ideia honek salbatu ninduen “Eat, Pray, Love” idatzen ari nintzenean eta zerbaitetan lanean ari zarenean eta funtzionatzen ez duenean eta pentsatzen hasten zarenean desastre bat izango dela eta inoiz idatzi den liburu okerrena izango dela Une horietako batean, desesperazio zulo batean erori nintzen. Ez txarra soilik, inoiz idatzi zen okerrena. Proiektua utzi behar nuela pentsatzen hasi nintzen. Baina Tom aireari hitz egitenez oroitu nuen orduan e ta saiatu egin nintzan. Beraz, burua eskuizkributiktik altsatu nuen eta nire hitzak gelako leku hutsera bidali nituen. Eta ahots gora ondorengoa esan nuen: “Ei zu, gauza, entzun, biok dakigu liburu hau bikaina ez bada ez dela soilik nire errua, ezta? Nire gogo guztiak jartzen ari naizela ikusten baituzu, ez dut ezer gehiago. Beraz, hobea izatea nahi baduzu, azaldu eta tratuaren zure zatia bete behar duzu. Bale. Baina egiten ez baduzu, badakizu, pikutara honekin- Idazten jarraituko dut nire lana delako. Eta gaur hemen egon naizela nire tratuaren zatia betetzeko islatzea nahi dut.”
(Laughter)
(Algarak)
Because --
Zeren
(Applause)
(Txaloak)
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.
azken finean horrelako zerbait da, bai. duela mende batzuk Afrikar Iparraldeko desertuetan jendea bildu egiten zen musikarekin ilargiaren argitan dantzatzeko eta orduak eta orduak pasatzen zituzten horrela, egunsentiraino. Eta beti ziren izugarriak, dantzariak profesionalak eta izugarriak zirelako ezta? Baina noizean behin, oso gutxitan, zerbait gertatzen zen, eta antzezleet akore bat garrantzitsua egiten zen. Eta nik badakit zuek badakizuela zertaz ari naizen hizketan, guztiok noizbait ikusi duzuelako horrelako zerbait. Denbora geratuko balitz bezala zen, dantzaria portal moduko batetik pasatzen zen eta ez zuen beste mila gauetan egin zuenetik desberdintzen zuen ezer egiten baina guztia lerrokatzen zen. Eta bat-batean, ez zirudien gizaki sinple bat. Argizkatua zegoen barnetik eta azpitik eta guztia argiztatua zegoen jainkotartasunez.
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.
Eta hau gertazten zenean, garai horietan, jendeak bazekien zer zen, badakizue, eta bere izenez deitzen zuten. Eskuak elkartu eta kantatzen hastzen ziren "Allah, Allah, Allah, Jainkoa, Jainkoa, Jainkoa." Hori da jainkoa badakizue? Datu historiko bitxi bat - Moroek Espainiar hegoaldea inbaditu zutenean, eurekin eraman zuten ohitura hau eta ahoskera aldatu zioten mendeen poderioz, “Allah, Allah, Allah" "Olé, olé, olé,"izatera pasatu zen. Gaur egun zezen plazatan eta dantza flamenkoetan entzuten da. Espainian norbaitek ezinezko edo majikoa den zerbait egiten duenean “Allah, Allah, Allah" a "Olé, olé, olé, bravo" esaten dute, ulertezina, hor dago jainkoaren irudia. Barregarria dena, behar dugulako.
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.
Baina, zati zaila hurrengo goizean iristen da, dantzariarentzat berarentzat, esnatu eta ikusten duenean asteatrea dela eta goizeko 11ak eta jada bera ez dela jainkoaren irudia. Belaunak gaizki dituen gizakia dela soilik ikusten duenean eta agian ez du inoiz lortuko berriro ere maila horretara heltzea. Eta agian inoiz gehiago inork ez du Jainkoaren izena esango birak ematen dituen bitartean, eta zer egingo du bere bizitzan gertatzen den beste guztiarekin? Hau zaila da. Sortzailearen bizitzako adiskidetze mingarrienetako bat da. Baina agian ez luke larritasunez betea egon behar, zuek ez bazenuteke lehenengo pentsatuko ezaugarri izugarrienak zuengandik etorriak direla. Baina agian sinetsiko bazenute iturri imajinaezin baten mailegua dela zure bizitzaren zati bat norbaiti amaitzean entregatu beharrekoa dela. Badakizue, horrela pentsatzen badugu, guztia aldatzen hasten da.
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.
Horrela hasi naiz pentsatzen, eta laster arriskutsu, nire arrakasta arraroaren aurrerapen beldurgarri bezala kaleratuko den nire liburuan azken hilabeteetan lanean aritu naizenean ere horrela pentsatu dut.
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.
Eta nire buruari esan behar diodana benetan urduri jartzen naizenean zera da, ez eduki beldurrik. Ez larritu. Zure lana egin soilik. Jarraitu zure burua aurkezten zure zatia egiteko, dena delakoa izanda. Zure lana dantza egitea bada, egin zure dantza. Jainkotiarra bada, zure kasuan lanean ari den geinu zentzugabeak gauza miragarrirenbat begiztatzen badu, nahiz eta une batean soilik izan zure indarretatik egitne badu Ole! Eta bestela, egin ezazu zure dantza halere. Eta Ole! Zuretzako modu guztietan. Honetan sinesten dut eta erakutsi behar dugula sentitizen dut. Ole! Zuri, modu guztietan, maitasuna edukitzeagatik soilik eta saiatzen jarraitzeko gizaki irmotasuna.
Thank you.
Eskerrik asko
(Applause)
(Txaloak)
Thank you.
Eskerrik asko
(Applause)
(Txaloak)
June Cohen: Olé!
June Cohen: Ole!
(Applause)
(Txaloak)