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?"
Spisateljica sam. Pisanje knjiga moj je poziv i puno više od toga, naravno. Ujedno je velika, doživotna ljubav i strast. Ne vjerujem da će se to ikada promijeniti. No nedavno se dogodilo nešto neobično u mom životu i karijeri, zbog čega sam iznova morala procijeniti odnos prema svom radu. Ne tako davno napisala sam knjigu, memoare pod naslovom "Jedi, moli, voli". Za razliku od svih mojih prijašnjih knjiga ova je iz nekog razloga po izlasku postala veliki hit, mega senzacija i međunarodni bestseler. Kamo god sada pođem gledaju me kao da sam osuđena na propast. Ozbiljno! Kao da mi se sprema slom. Ljudi mi prilaze vrlo zabrinuti i kažu: "Zar te nije strah da nećeš to moći nadmašiti? Ne bojiš li se da ćeš pisati do kraja života a da nikada više nećeš napisati knjigu do koje će ljudima biti stalo... ikada... više?"
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?"
To je zbilja ohrabrujuće. Ali moglo bi biti i gore, jer sjećam se da kada sam prije 20 godina kao tinejdžerica prvi puta pričala da želim biti spisateljica, susretala sam se s istom reakcijom, zasnovanom na strahu. Znali bi mi reći: "Zar te nije strah da nećeš uspjeti? Ne bojiš li se da će te poniženje i odbijanje ubiti? Ne plašiš li se da ćeš uložiti cijeli svoj život u to umijeće i da od njega neće biti ništa pa ćeš umrijeti srca slomljena neostvarenim snovima i usta punih gorkog pepela neuspjeha?"
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
Like that, you know.
Tako nešto.
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.
Kratak odgovor na sva ta pitanja je "Da". Da, sve me to plaši. I oduvijek me plašilo. Bojim se i mnogih drugih stvari koje ne možete ni naslutiti, poput morskih trava i drugih grozota. Što se tiče pisanja u zadnje vrijeme razmišljam i pitam se - pa zašto? Ima li to ikakvog smisla? Je li logično da bi se od bilo koga trebalo očekivati da se boji rada za koji osjeća da je stvoren? Što nas to u kreativnim poduhvatima tjera da nervozno propitkujemo svoje i tuđe mentalno zdravlje dok ljudi drugih profesija to ne čine? Na primjer, moja tata je inženjer kemije. Ne sjećam se da ga je itko u njegovih 40 godina karijere upitao boji li se biti inženjerom kemije. Ta strašna kemičarska blokada... pa, John, kako ti ide? Toga jednostavno nema. Ali, ako ćemo pravo, inženjeri kemije nisu tijekom stoljeća zaradili reputaciju maničnih depresivaca i alkoholičara.
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
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.
Nas pisce bije taj glas. Ne samo pisce, već kreativce općenito. Čini se da nas gledaju kao mentalno izrazito nestabilne. Pogledajte samo tu tužnu statistiku dvadesetog stoljeća. Koliko je izvanrednih kreativnih umova umrlo prerano, često i od svoje ruke. Čak i one koji nisu doslovno počinili samoubojstvo kao da je dotukao vlastiti dar. Norman Mailer, u svom posljednjem intervjuu, tik prije smrti, rekao je: "Svaka moja nova knjiga pomalo me ubila." Kakva nevjerojatna izjava! Tako se izraziti o svom životnom djelu... No, čak ni ne trepnemo kad čujemo takvu izjavu jer smo toliko često čuli, u potpunosti usvojili i kolektivno prihvatili ideju da su kreativnost i patnja nerazdvojno povezani i da će nas umjetnički put nedvojbeno dovesti do stradanja i propasti.
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.
Pitanje koje danas svima vama želim postaviti jest... je li vama to stvarno prihvatljiva ideja? Je li vam to skroz u redu? Jer kad se makar malo odmaknete od nje... Ja uopće nisam zadovoljna tom pretpostavkom. Ja mislim da je grozna! I još k tome opasna. Ne želim da se ponavlja i u narednom stoljeću. Mislim da je bolje izvanredne, kreativne umove ohrabrivati da žive.
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.
Sa sigurnošću mogu reći, u mojoj bi situaciji bilo vrlo opasno da krenem padati niz mračnu stazu te pretpostavke, osobito u ovom razdoblju moje karijere. Pogledajte me... još sam prilično mlada, tek mi je četrdesetak. Predamnom je možda još 4 desetljeća rada. I vrlo je vjerojatno da će što god da napišem, od ovog trenutka na dalje, biti ocijenjeno kao djelo nastalo nakon zastrašujućeg uspjeha moje prošle knjige. Reći ću to izravno, jer smo svi ovdje više-manje prijatelji, prilično je vjerojatno da je moj najveći uspjeh iza mene. Zaboga, kakva pomisao! To je baš ona vrsta misli koja vas može dovesti do toga da počnete piti džin u devet sati ujutro. A ja ne bih tim putem.
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
I would prefer to keep doing this work that I love.
Radije bih nastavila s poslom koji volim.
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.
Što dovodi do pitanja - kako? Nakon mnogo razmišljanja, čini mi se da kako bih nastavila pisati moram osmisliti neku vrstu psihološke zaštite. Pronaći neku vrstu distance koja će me štititi i koju ću, dok pišem, postaviti između mene i moje prirodne tjeskobe koja brine o reakciji na moj budući rad. Prošle sam godine tražila uzore prema kojima bih to učinila. Kao da sam pretraživala povijest i pokušavala pronaći drukčija društva koja su možda imala bolje i zdravije zamisli od onih koje mi imamo o tome kako pomoći kreativcima da se nose s neizbježnim emotivnim rizicima kreativnosti.
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.
Potraga me dovela u antičko doba: u Grčku i Rim. Pratite me, jer priča ide u širinu i napravit će puni krug. Dakle... u antičko doba ljudi nisu vjerovali da kreativnost dolazi od ljudskih bića. Vjerovali su da je kreativnost božanski, zaštitnički duh koji je ljudskom biću prišao iz dalekog i nespoznatljivog izvorišta, zbog dalekih i nespoznatljivih razloga. Stari Grci ta su božanska bića, zaštitnike kreativnosti nazivali "demonima". Sokrat je bio poznat po tome što je vjerovao da ima demona koji mu je šaptao mudrost u uho iz daljina.
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.
Stari Rimljani dijelili su istu ideju, no oni su te bestjelesne duhove kreativnosti nazivali "genijima". To je odličan primjer, jer Rimljani zapravo nisu vjerovali da je genij neka osobito pametna osoba. Vjerovali su da je genij neko magično božansko biće koje doslovno živi u zidovima umjetnikovog studija, poput kućnog vilenjaka, koje izlazi van, nevidljivo pomaže umjetniku pri poslu i tako oblikuje krajnji ishod djela.
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.
I eto, odlično! To je upravo ta distanca o kojoj govorim, ta psihološka barijera koja nas štiti od rezultata našeg rada. I svi su znali da to tako funkcionira. Pa je antički umjetnik bio zaštićen od, primjerice, previše narcizma. Ako bi tvoje djelo bilo izvrsno, ne bi mogao sve zasluge pripisati sebi. Svi su znali da imaš bestjelesnog genija koji ti je pomagao. A ako ti je djelo bilo bez veze to nije bila samo tvoja greška. Svi su znali da je tvoj genij ispao bezveznjak.
(Laughter)
Dugo su vremena i ljudi Zapada o kreativnosti promišljali na taj način.
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.
Onda je stigla renesansa i sve se promijenilo. Dobili smo veliku ideju. A ona glasi: "Haj'mo staviti ljudsku osobu u središte svemira, ponad svih bogova i misterija". Pa više nije bilo mjesta za mistična bića koja prenose božanski diktat. Bio je to početak racionalizma i ljudi su počeli vjerovati da kreativnost u potpunosti proizlazi iz osobnosti ljudskog bića. Po prvi puta u pisanoj povijesti mogli ste čuti da o se nekom umjetniku govori kao da jest genij, umjesto da neki umjetnik ima genija uza sebe.
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.
Iskreno, mislim da je to bila velika greška. Dopustiti nekome, jednoj običnoj osobi da vjeruje da je posuda, i izvorište, i srž, i izvor sveprisutne božanske, stvaralačke, nespoznatljive, vječne misterije... To kao da je mrvicu prevelika odgovornost za krhku ljudsku psihu. Otprilike kao da nekoga tražite da proguta sunce. To sasvim iskrivljuje i izobličuje ego i stvara sva ta nebulozna očekivanja rezultata. Smatram da je taj strašan pritisak ubijao naše umjetnike posljednih 500 godina.
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.
Ako je to točno, a ja mislim da jest, postavlja se pitanje - što sad? Možemo li što promijeniti? Možda bismo se mogli vratiti drevnom shvaćanju odnosa između ljudskih bića i stvaralačke misterije. A možda i ne. Možda ne možemo obrisati 500 godina racionalističke filozofije u jednom 18-minutnom govoru. U publici se zasigurno nalaze ljudi koji će, znanstveno sasvim legitimno, podići obrvu na spomen vila i vilenjaka koji naokolo slijede ljude posipajući im čarobni prah po projektima. Najvjerojatnije neću uspjeti baš sve vas zainteresirati za tu ideju.
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.
No, pitanje koje bih rado postavila je... Zašto da ne? Zašto ne bismo o tome razmišljali na taj način? Jer ima jednako smisla kao i sva ostala objašnjenja koja sam čula za krajnje izluđujuću hirovitost kreativnog procesa. Procesa koji se, kao što znaju svi koji su probali nešto stvoriti - a rekla bih da su to svi ovdje prisutni - ne ponaša uvijek predvidljivo i racionalno. Ponekad je to skoro pa paranormalno iskustvo.
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.
Nedavno sam imala priliku sresti izvanrednu američku pjesnikinju Ruth Stone. Ušla je u devedesete i cijeloga je života pjesnikinja. Ispričala mi je kako je odrastajući u ruralnom dijelu Virginije često radila u polju. Osjetila bi i čula pjesmu kako joj dolazi u susret s druge strane horizonta. Kaže da je to bilo poput gromkog zračnog vala koji bi se stuštio preko polja prema njoj. Po podrhtavanju tla znala je da pjesma stiže. Znala je da u takvim trenucima jedino što može jest, prema njenim riječima, "pojuriti kao da ju vrag goni". I tako bi mahnito trčala prema kući dok ju je pjesma gonila jer valjalo je zgrabiti papir i olovku dovoljno brzo da stigne uhvatiti pjesmu dok tutnji kroz nju, da bi je prenijela na papir. Znalo se događati da ne uspije trčati dovoljno brzo iako je davala sve od sebe jureći niz polja. Kad ne bi stigla na vrijeme do kuće, pjesma bi samo projurila kroz nju, neuhvaćena. Tada bi se nastavila kotrljati niz polja tražeći, kako Ruth kaže, "nekog drugog pjesnika". A ponekad bi - ovaj dio priče neću nikada zaboraviti - ponekad bi se dogodilo da ju skoro ne uhvati. Dok bi trčala kući, tražeći komad papira a pjesma bi kroz nju tutnjala, ugrabila bi olovku baš u trenutku kad bi pjesma kroz nju prošla i ona bi pružila drugu ruku i posegnula za njom da ju uhvati. Tako bi uhvatila pjesmu za rep i povukla je natraške u svoje tijelo dok bi ju zapisivala na stranicu. U tim slučajevima, pjesma bi se pojavila na papiru, savršena i neoštećena no zapisana natraške, od posljednje riječi prema prvoj.
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
So when I heard that I was like -- that's uncanny, that's exactly what my creative process is like.
Kad sam to čula... ma nevjerojatno! Baš tako izgleda i moj kreativni proces.
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
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?
Ma ne. Moje stvaralaštvo nije takvo - ja nisam cjevovod! Ja sam mazga. Moj način rada zahtijeva da ustajem u isto vrijeme svako jutro znojim se i napinjem i probijam se na kojekakve nezgodne načine. No, pa čak i ja, u svojoj mazgovitosti, čak sam i ja to dotakla, ponekad. Vjerujem da ste i vi to iskusili. Čak su i meni djela i ideje stizale s izvora kojeg, iskreno, ne mogu razabrati. Što je to? I kako se prema tome možemo odnositi tako da ne izgubimo razum, već, dapače, da nam pomogne kako bismo ostali bistre glave?
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.
Najbolji suvremeni primjer na kojeg sam naišla je glazbenik Tom Waits. Intervjuirala sam ga prije nekoliko godina za jedan časopis. I tako smo razgovarali o tome, a znate da je Tom cijeloga života bio pravo utjelovljenje izmučenog suvremenog umjetnika koji pokušava upravljati, kontrolirati i dominirati tim neukrotivim kreativnim impulsima koji su mu potpuno iznutra.
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.
S vremenom, s godinama, postajao je sve smireniji i jednog dana vozio je auto cestom kroz Los Angeles, kaže, i tada se sve promijenilo. Dok je stiskao gas, iznenada začuje djelić melodije koja mu se pojavila u umu, kako to inspiracija često dođe, nedostižna i nadražujuća i on ju želi, predivna je, čezne za njom, ali nema je kako uhvatiti. Nema komad papira, nema olovku, nema diktafon.
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?"
Osjeti kako ga preplavljuje dobro mu poznata tjeskoba nešto u stilu: "Dođavola, izgubit ću ju i onda će me ta pjesma zauvijek progoniti. I sve drugo što napišem, neće biti dovoljno dobro." Umjesto da se prepusti navali panike, zaustavio se. Prekinuo je cijeli taj mentalni slijed u svojoj glavi i napravio nešto sasvim drugačije. Nešto novo. Pogledao je prema nebu i rekao: "Oprosti, zar ne vidiš da vozim?"
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
"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."
"Da li ti izgledam kao da sad mogu zapisati melodiju? Ako doista želiš postojati, vrati se u nekom prikladnijem trenutku kad se mogu pobrinuti za tebe. Ako baš moraš danas, odi gnjaviti nekog drugog. Idi gnjavi... Leonarda Cohena."
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.
Nakon tog događaja njegov se kreativni proces promijenio. Ne njegov rad, djela su mu često mračna kao i inače, već kreativni proces. Grozna tjeskoba koja ga je pratila nestala je kada je duh genija izvadio iz samog sebe, gdje je samo stvarao probleme, i vratio ga tamo odakle je stigao shvativši da stvaralaštvo ne mora biti unutarnji, mučenički proces. Zašto ne bi radije bilo čudnovata, čudesna, neuobičajena suradnja? Neka vrsta razgovora između Toma i nepoznate, izvanjske sile koja nije u potpunosti Tom.
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."
Kad sam čula tu priču, i sama sam napravila pomak u načinu na koji sam stvarala i to me već jednom spasilo. Ta zamisao me spasila usred pisanja "Jedi, moli, voli". Pala sam u jednu od onih provalija očajanja u koji svi upadamo kad radimo na nečemu, a nikako da nam krene pa počnemo misliti: "To će biti prava katastrofa." Najgora knjiga ikad napisana. Ne samo loša, već najgora knjiga svih vremena! Kad sam počela razmišljati trebam li odustati, sjetila sam se Toma kako priča zraku i odlučila pokušati isto. Podigla sam pogled s rukopisa i izravno se obratila praznom kutu sobe. Rekla sam na glas: "Slušaj ti... nešto, ti i ja vrlo dobro znamo da ukoliko knjiga ne ispadne sjajno to neće biti sasvim moja greška. I sam možeš vidjeti da dajem sve od sebe. Više od toga nemam. Pa ako želiš da knjiga bude bolja, izvoli se pojaviti i napraviti svoj dio posla. U redu? Ali ako nećeš, nema veze. Ja ću nastaviti pisati jer to je moj posao. I molim neka uđe u zapisnik da sam se danas uredno pojavila i odradila svoj dio.
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
Because --
Jer...
(Applause)
(Pljesak)
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.
na kraju krajeva, to je ovako... Prije nekoliko stoljeća, u pustinjama sjeverne Afrike ljudi su se okupljali i plesali svete plesove pod mjesečinom plesali su satima i satima, sve do zore. Uvijek su bili prekrasni! Plesači su bili profesionalci. Plesali su izvanredno. Tu i tamo, ne baš često, dogodilo bi se nešto neobično i jedan od izvođača nadišao bi sebe. Znate o čemu govorim, jer svi ste u nekom trenutku svog života vidjeli takvu izvedbu. Vrijeme kao da stane a plesač kao da zakorači kroz neki tajni prolaz i čini sve isto kao što je činio već tisuću puta prije no, sada se sve povezalo. I najednom, skoro pa da ne izgleda kao čovjek. Kao da iz njega zrači svjetlost, iznutra i izvana. Obasjan je svjetlošću božanskoga.
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.
Kada bi se to dogodilo, u ono drevno vrijeme ljudi su znali što se zbiva. Imali su ime za to. Spojili bi ruke i počeli zazivati: "Allah, Allah, Allah! Bog, Bog, Bog!" To je Bog! Zanimljiva povijesna fusnota... kad su Mauri okupirali južnu Španjolsku, donijeli su sa sobom i taj običaj. Izgovor se tijekom stoljeća promijenio iz :"Allah, Allah, Allah!" u "Olé, Olé, Olé!", što i danas čujete na borbama bikova i pri plesanju flamenka. U Španjolskoj, kad izvođač napravi nešto nemoguće i čudesno, čuje se "Allah, Olé, Olé, Allah, veličanstveno, bravo, nespoznatljivo, evo ga - tračak samog Boga." To je predivno. Svima nam to treba.
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.
Nezgodno postaje jutro poslije, za samog plesača. Kad se probudi i shvati da je danas utorak, 11 sati ujutro, i da on više nije tračak Boga. Već smrtnik koji stari i bole ga koljena i možda nikad više neće doseći te vrhunce. Možda nikad nitko više neće zazivati Boga dok on pleše. I što da sad radi s ostatkom života? Teško je to. To je nešto najbolnije s čime se trebamo pomiriti u svom životu stvaratelja. No možda to ne bi bilo tako zahtjevno i tjeskobno kada ne bismo, za početak, vjerovali da najizvrsniji dijelovi našeg bića dolaze od nas samih. Zašto ne bismo vjerovali da ih samo posuđujemo od nekog nezamislivog izvora, tijekom veličanstvenog dijela svog života a kad završimo, onda ih proslijedimo dalje, nekom drugom. Kada bismo počeli tako razmišljati, to bi promijenilo sve.
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.
Tako sam ja počela razmišljati, pogotovo zadnjih nekoliko mjeseci dok sam radila na knjizi koja će uskoro ugledati svjetlo dana kao zastrašujući, totalno preočekivani nastavak mog jezovitog uspjeha.
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.
Moram si to govoriti i dalje kad izludim od svega. "Ne boj se." "Ne plaši se." "Samo radi svoj posao." Samo nastavi redovito dolaziti. Odradi svoj dio posla, ma kakav bio. Ako je tvoje da plešeš, pleši. Ako božanski, prevrtljivi genij dodijeljen tvom slučaju odluči da se na trenutak tračak božanstvenosti nazre baš kroz tvoj trud, tada "Olé!" Ako ne, samo nastavi plesati. I "Olé!" tebi, bez obzira. Vjerujem to. Osjećam da to moramo podučavati. "Olé!" tebi, bez obzira. Zbog čiste ljudske ljubavi i tvrdoglavosti da se pojaviš.
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Pljesak)
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Pljesak)
June Cohen: Olé!
June Cohen: "Olé!"
(Applause)
(Pljesak)