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?"
Es esmu rakstniece. Grāmatu rakstīšana ir mana profesija, bet tas, protams, ir kas vairāk. Tā ir arī mana lielā mūža mīlestība un aizraušanās. Un es nedomāju, ka tas jelkad mainīsies. Tomēr nesen ir noticis kaut kas nedaudz īpatnējs manā dzīvē un karjerā, kas ir licis man pārdomāt visas savas attiecības ar šo darbu. Un šis īpatnējais ir tas, ka es nesen sarakstīju grāmatu, šo memuāru, kas saucas "Ēd, lūdzies, mīli", kas pavisam droši, atšķirībā no visām manām iepriekšējām grāmatām, kaut kāda iemesla dēļ izgāja pasaulē un kļuva par milzīgu megasensāciju, starptautisku bestselleru. Tā rezultātā visur, kur tagad parādos, pret mani izturas kā pret nolemto. Nopietni – nolemto, nolemto! Tagad man nāk klāt un ar rūpjpilnu izteiksmi jautā: "Vai jūs nebaidāties, ka nekad to nespēsiet pārspēt? Vai nebaidāties, ka visu mūžu turpināsiet rakstīt un nekad vairs neuzrakstīsiet tādu grāmatu, kas kādam pasaulē šķistu svarīga? Nu, nekad vairs?"
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?"
Tas iedrošina, ziniet. Bet mēdz būt vēl ļaunāk, izņemot to, ka es kaut kā atceros, ka pirms 20 gadiem, pusaudža gados, kad sāku apkārtējiem stāstīt, ka vēlos kļūt par rakstnieci, es sastapos ar to pašu bailēs sakņoto reakciju. Un man mēdza teikt: "Vai tu nebaidies, ka nekad negūsi panākumus? Vai nebaidies, ka nevarēsi izturēt atteikuma pazemojumu? Vai nebaidies, ka strādāsi šajā arodā visu mūžu un no tā nekas neiznāks, un tu nomirsi uz sabrukušu sapņu drupu kaudzes ar zaudējuma pelnu rūgto garšu mutē?" (Smiekli)
(Laughter)
Like that, you know.
Apmēram tā.
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.
Atbilde, īsā atbilde, uz šiem jautājumiem ir: "Jā." Jā, es no tā visa baidos un vienmēr esmu baidījusies. Es arī baidos no daudzām citām lietām, ko citi pat nevar iedomāties, piemēram, ūdenszālēm un citām biedējošām lietām. Bet, ja runā par rakstīšanu, tas, par ko pēdējā laikā esmu domājusi un prātojusi, ir: kāpēc? Vai tas ir racionāli? Vai tas ir loģiski, ka kādam būtu jābaidās no darba, ko jūt kā savu sūtību šajā pasaulē? Un kas tieši radošajos darbos ir tas, kas liek uztraukties par mūsu garīgo veselību? Jo citās karjerās tā īsti nav. Mans tēvs, piemēram, bija ķīmijas inženieris, un es neatceros, ka jelkad viņa 40 gadu ilgajā ķīmijas inženiera karjerā kāds viņam būtu prasījis, vai viņam ir bail būt ķīmijas inženierim. "Kā veicas, Džon, ar to ķīmiskās inženierijas bloku?" Šādu jautājumu vienkārši nekad neuzdeva. Bet, godīgi sakot, ķīmijas inženieri kopumā nav gadsimtu garumā izpelnījušies ar depresiju apsēstu alkoholiķu slavu.
(Laughter)
(Smiekli)
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.
Mums, rakstniekiem, šķiet, šāda slava piemīt, un ne tikai rakstniekiem, bet gan visu žanru radošajiem cilvēkiem mēdz būt garīgi ārkārtīgi nestabilu ļaužu reputācija. Atliek tikai palūkoties uz lielo skaitu nelāgā nāvē mirušo, patiešām apbrīnojamo radošo prātu 20. gadsimtā vien, kas miruši jauni un bieži vien pašnāvībā. Un pat tos, kas nav izdarījuši pašnāvību burtiski, šķiet, ir pieveicis pašu talants. Normans Meilers īsi pirms nāves pēdējā intervijā teica: "Katra mana grāmata ir mani mazliet nogalinājusi." Neparasta atziņa par savas dzīves darbu. Bet mēs pat nepamirkšķinām ne acu, kad dzirdam kādu tā sakām, jo esam tādas lietas dzirdējuši pārāk ilgi un kolektīvi kaut kā pilnībā pieņēmuši šo uzskatu, ka radošums un ciešanas ir kaut kā nenovēršami saistīti un ka mākslinieciskums galu galā vienmēr noved pie mokām.
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.
Jautājums, ko es visiem gribu šodien uzdot, ir: vai jūs ar šo domu esat mierā? Vai jūs tas apmierina? Jo, ja uz to paskatās pat no sprīža attāluma, mani šis pieņēmums neapmierina nemaz. Es domāju, ka tas ir riebīgs un arī bīstams, un es negribu, ka tas tā turpinās arī nākamajā gadsimtā. Es domāju, ka ir labāk, ja mēs iedrošinām savus lieliskos radošos prātus dzīvot.
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.
Un es noteikti zinu, ka manā gadījumā, manā situācijā, būtu ļoti bīstami sākt soli pa solītim doties pa šo tumšo pieņēmumu taku, sevišķi ņemot vērā manas karjeras pašreizējos apstākļus. Tas ir, es esmu diezgan jauna, man ir tikai ap 40 gadu, man priekšā ir, iespējams, vēl 40 darba gadu, un arvien ticamāk šķiet, ka visu, ko nākotnē uzrakstīšu, pasaule uzlūkos kā darbu pēc manas pēdējās grāmatas nenormālajiem panākumiem, vai ne? Man tas jāpasaka skaidri un gaiši, jo mēs te visi esam kā draugi. Arvien ticamāk šķiet, ka mani lielākie panākumi ir man aiz muguras. Jēziņ! Kas par domu! Tādas domas var novest cilvēku pie džina dzeršanas deviņos no rīta, (Smiekli)
(Laughter)
un es nevēlos pie tā nonākt.
I would prefer to keep doing this work that I love.
Es vēlētos turpināt darīt šo darbu, kas man patīk,
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.
tāpēc rodas jautājums: kā? Pēc ilgām pārdomām man šķiet, ka veids, kā man tagad jāstrādā, lai turpinātu rakstīt, ir kaut kāda psiholoģiskās aizsardzības mehānisma radīšana, vai ne? Man jāatrod kaut kāda droša distance starp manu rakstīšanu un dabisko nemieru par to, kā uz manis rakstīto nākotnē reaģēs. Pēdējā gada laikā meklējot veidus, kā to paveikt, esmu pārskatījusi dažādus laikmetus un mēģinājusi atrast citas sabiedrības, kas varētu sniegt par mūsējām labākas un saprātīgākas idejas, kā palīdzēt radošiem cilvēkiem tikt galā ar radošumam raksturīgajiem emocionālajiem riskiem.
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.
Un šie meklējumi mani noveda antīkajā Grieķijā un Romā. Sekojiet manai domai, jo tā šaudīsies šurpu turpu. Antīkajā Grieķijā un Romā cilvēki neuzskatīja, ka radošums nāk no pašiem cilvēkiem. Ļaudis ticēja, ka radošums ir dievišķs pavadošais gars, kas pie cilvēkiem atnāk no kādas tālas un nezināmas vietas, tālu un nezināmu iemeslu vadīts. Grieķi šos radošumu pavadošos garus sauca labi zināmajā vārdā par "dēmoniem". Sokrāts, kā zināms, ticēja, ka viņam piemita dēmons, kas viņu mācīja no tālienes.
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.
Romiešiem bija tāda pati doma, bet viņi šo bezķermenisko radošo garu dēvēja par ģēniju, kas ir lieliski, jo romieši patiesībā neuzskatīja, ka ģēnijs ir kāds sevišķi gudrs cilvēks. Viņi ticēja, ka ģēnijs ir tāda kā maģiska dievišķa būtne, kas, viņuprāt, burtiski dzīvoja mākslinieka darbnīcas sienās kā tāds Dobijs, mājas elfs, un kas nāk ārā un neredzami palīdz māksliniekam viņa darbā, un ietekmē šī darba rezultātu.
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.
Brīnišķīgi! Te nu tas ir! Tieši tā distance, par ko es runāju, tas psiholoģiskais mehānisms, kas aizsargā no darba iznākuma. Un visi zināja, ka tas tā ir. Tāpēc antīkais mākslinieks bija pasargāts no noteiktām lietām, piemēram, pārāk liela narcisisma. Ja darbs bija lielisks, jūs nevarējāt piesavināties visus nopelnus, jo visi zināja, ka jums ir šis gaisīgais ģēnijs, kas jums palīdzējis. Ja darbs nekam neder, tā nav tikai jūsu vaina. Visi zināja, ka jūsu ģēnijs bijis drusku neveikls.
(Laughter)
(Smiekli)
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.
Un tā ļaudis Rietumos domāja par radošumu ļoti ilgu laiku. Tad nāca renesanse, un viss mainījās, un mums radās varena doma, un varenā domā bija: noliksim cilvēku Visuma centrā, pāri visiem dieviem un mistērijām, un mistiskiem, dievišķā vadītiem radījumiem vairs nebija vietas. Tas bija racionālā humānisma sākums, un cilvēki sāka ticēt, ka radošums pilnībā nāk no paša cilvēka, un pirmo reizi vēsturē sāka dēvēt to vai citu mākslinieku par ģēniju, nevis kādu, kam ir ģēnijs.
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.
Jāsaka, ka, manuprāt, tā bija milzīga kļūda. Es domāju, ka atļaut kādam, vienam cilvēkam, ticēt, ka viņš vai viņa ir kā trauks, kā avots un esence, un pirmsākums visai dievišķajai, radošajai, nezināmajai, mūžīgajai mistērijai, nozīmē uzlikt mazliet par daudz atbildības trauslajai cilvēka psihei. Tas ir kā likt kādam aprīt sauli. Tas pilnībā pārvērš un izkropļo ego, un rada visas šīs nepiepildāmās cerības uz panākumiem. Es domāju, ka šis spiediens ir nāvējis mūsu māksliniekus pēdējo 500 gadu garumā.
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.
Ja tas tā ir, – un es domāju, ka tā ir –, rodas jautājums: ko darīt? Vai mēs varam kaut ko mainīt? Varbūt atgriezties pie kādas senākas saprašanas par attiecībām starp cilvēkiem un radošo mistēriju. Varbūt ne. Varbūt nevaram vienkārši izdzēst 500 racionālā humānisma gadus ar 18 minūšu garu runu. Un šajā auditorijā droši vien ir cilvēki, kas izteiktu zinātniski ļoti pamatotas aizdomas par tādām idejām kā fejas, kas visur seko cilvēkam un iesmērē tā projektus un ieceres ar savu brīnumziedi. Es droši vien nevarēšu līdz galam par to pārliecināt.
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.
Bet jautājums, ko es vēlos uzdot, ir: ziniet, kāpēc gan ne? Kāpēc to neuztvert šādi? Jo tas ir tikpat saprotami kā jebkas cits, ko jelkad esmu dzirdējusi kā skaidrojumu absolūti tracinošajai radošā procesa kaprizitātei. Šī procesa, kas, kā ikviens, kas jelkad mēģinājis kaut ko radīt, – principā visi klātesošie –, zina, ne vienmēr ir racionāls. Un patiesībā tas dažreiz liekas gluži vai paranormāls.
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.
Nesen es tikos ar neparasto amerikāņu dzejnieci Rutu Stounu, kas nu ir vairāk nekā 90 gadu veca, bet visu dzīvi bijusi dzejniece, un viņa man teica, ka, augot Virdžīnijas lauku apvidū, dažreiz strādājot uz lauka, viņa jutusi un dzirdējusi dzejoli nākam pie viņas pār laukiem. Viņa teica, ka tas tuvojies kā pērkona negaiss. Tas brāzies pār laukiem viņai pretim. Un, jūtot to nākam, – jo zeme zem kājām drebējusi –, viņa zinājusi, ka tobrīd viņai atliek tikai viens, un tas, viņas vārdiem, bijis "skriet, ko kājas nes." Viņa skrējusi, ko kājas nes, uz mājām, un dzejolis viņai dzinies pa pēdām, un viss, kas viņai bijis jādara, bija jādabū papīrs un zīmulis, lai paspētu to savākt kopā un pierakstīt, kad tas dārdēs viņai cauri. Dažreiz viņa nebijusi gana ātra, viņa skrējusi un skrējusi, bet nepaspējusi uz mājām, un dzejolis izdārdējis caur viņu, un viņa to palaidusi garām. Viņa teica, ka tas aizgājis tālāk pāri laukiem, viņas vārdiem, "meklēt citu dzejnieku". Un dažreiz esot bijis tā, – šo vietu es nekad neaizmirsīšu –, viņa teica, ka dažreiz viņa gandrīz to palaidusi garām. Viņa skrējusi uz mājām un meklējusi papīru, un dzejolis gājis viņai cauri, un viņa tvērusi zīmuli tieši tobrīd, kad tas gājis caur viņu. Tas bijis tā, it kā viņa pasniegtos ar otru roku un noķertu to. Viņa noķērusi dzejoli aiz astes un vilkusi to atpakaļ sevī, pierakstīdama uz papīra. Un šādās reizēs uzrakstīts dzejolis izdevies perfekts un nevainojams, bet no otras puses, lasot no pēdējā vārda uz sākumu.
(Laughter)
(Smiekli)
So when I heard that I was like -- that's uncanny, that's exactly what my creative process is like.
To dzirdot, es nodomāju: "Tas ir baismīgi, tas ir tieši tā, kā notiek mans radošais process."
(Laughter)
(Smiekli)
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?
Tas it nemaz nelīdzinās manam procesam, es neesmu tāda caurule. Es esmu darba zirgs, un man jāstrādā tā, ka jāceļas katru rītu vienā laikā un jāsvīst, un jāstrādā, un jānopūlas grūtā darbā. Bet pat es, ar savu darba zirga dabu, pat es esmu ar to dažreiz sadūrusies un domāju, ka daudzi no jums arī. Pat man ir bijuši darbi vai domas, kas iet man cauri no kāda avota, ko es, godīgi sakot, nespēju noteikt. Un kas tas īsti ir? Un kā lai mēs pret to attiecamies tā, lai nesajuktu prātā, bet gan gluži otrādi paliktu pieskaitāmi?
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.
Manā skatījumā labākais mūsdienu piemērs, kā to paveikt, ir mūziķis Toms Veitss, ko intervēju pirms dažiem gadiem kāda žurnāla uzdevumā. Mēs par to runājām, un, ziniet, Toms lielāko daļu savas dzīves ir bijis gluži vai iedvesmas plosīta mūsdienu mākslinieka iemiesojums, kas mēģina kontrolēt, vadīt un pārvaldīt šos it kā nekontrolējamos radošos impulsus, kas ir pilnībā saplūduši ar viņu.
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.
Bet tad viņš kļuva vecāks, rāmāks, un kādu dienu, braucot pa Losandželosas lielceļu, viss viņā mainījās. Viņš traucas uz priekšu un pēkšņi dzird īsu melodijas fragmentu, kas iešaujas viņa prātā, kā to bieži dara iedvesma, nenotverami un mokoši. Viņš to grib, tā ir lieliska, un viņš pēc tās tīko, bet nekādi nevar to dabūt. Viņam nav ne papīra, ne zīmuļa, ne diktofona.
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?"
Tā nu viņš sajūt atkal sakāpjam veco nemieru: "Es to pazaudēšu, un šī dziesma mani vajās mūžīgi. Es neesmu pietiekoši labs, es to nespēju." Un tā vietā, lai kristu panikā, viņš apstājās. Viņš apturēja visu šo prāta procesu un izdarīja kaut ko pilnīgi jaunu. Viņš vienkārši paraudzījās debesīs un teica: "Atvaino, vai neredzi, ka es esmu pie stūres?"
(Laughter)
(Smiekli)
"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."
"Vai tad izskatās, ka es tagad varu pierakstīt dziesmu? Ja tu tiešām vēlies eksistēt, atnāc kādā piemērotākā brīdī, kad es varu par tevi parūpēties. Ja ne, tad ej un uzmācies kādam citam! Ej, uzmācies Leonardam Koenam!"
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.
(Smiekli) Un viss viņa darba process kopš tā brīža mainījās. Ne pats darbs – pats darbs bieži vien arvien bija tikpat tumšs kā iepriekš. Bet process un ar to saistītais smagnējais nemiers bija atbrīvots, kad viņš šo džinu, ģēniju bija izlaidis no sevis, kur tas tikai traucēja, un palaidis to atpakaļ, no kurienes tas nācis, un sapratis, ka tam nav jāmīt viņā iekšā un jāmoka. Tā var būt šī savādā, brīnumainā, dīvainā sadarbība, it kā saruna starp Tomu un svešo, ārējo, kas nav gluži Toms.
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 dzirdēju šo stāstu, tas sāka mazliet mainīt arī to, kā es pati strādāju, un reiz šī doma mani paglāba. Tā mani paglāba, kad biju pusē ar "Ēd, lūdzies, mīli" un iekritu vienā no tām izmisuma bedrēm, kur mēs visi iekrītam, kad pie kaut kā strādājam un tas nepadodas, un tu sāc domāt, ka tas būs šausmīgi, tā būs sliktākā jebkad uzrakstītā grāmata. Ne tikai slikta, bet pati sliktākā jebkad uzrakstītā grāmata. Es sāku domāt, ka man jāatmet šis projekts. Bet tad es atcerējos Tomu, kas runāja uz debesīm, un es pamēģināju to. Es vienkārši pacēlu galvu no manuskripta un uzrunāju tukšu istabas kaktu. Es skaļi teicu: "Klau, tu, kaut kas, mēs abi zinām, ja šī grāmata nebūs lieliska, tad tā nebūs tikai mana vaina. Jo tu redzi, ka es tajā ieguldu visu, kas man ir, man nav nekā vairāk. Ja gribi, lai tā būtu labāka, tev jāierodas un jādara savs darbs. Bet, ja tu to nedarīsi, zini ko, pie velna to visu! Es turpināšu rakstīt tik un tā, jo tas ir mans darbs. Un es gribētu, lūdzu, atzīmēt, ka es savu darba daļu šodien esmu izdarījusi."
(Laughter)
(Smiekli)
Because --
Jo...
(Applause)
(Aplausi)
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.
Jo galu galā tas ir tā... pirms vairākiem gadsimtiem Ziemeļāfrikas tuksnešos cilvēki mēdza sanākt uz mēnesnīcas dejām, kas bija rituālas dejas un mūzika. Tās ilga stundām ilgi līdz rītausmai. Tās vienmēr bija krāšņas, jo dejotāji bija profesionāļi un viņi bija lieliski. Bet šad tad, ļoti reti, kaut kas notika, un kāds no šiem māksliniekiem kļuva patiešām neparasti izcils. Es zinu, ka jūs zināt, par ko es runāju, jo zinu, ka jūs visi savā mūžā esat redzējuši šādu uzstāšanos. Tas bija tā, it kā laiks apstātos un dejotājs izkāptu caur kādu portālu, un viņš nedarīja neko citādāk, kā vienmēr bija darījis, tūkstošiem nakšu, bet viss nostājās savās vietās. Pēkšņi viņš vairs nebija cilvēks vien. Viņš iekšēji staroja un bija zemes apstarots, un viss staroja dievišķā gaismā.
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.
Un, kad tas notika, toreiz, ļaudis zināja, kā to dēvēt, tam bija vārds. Tie sadevās rokās un skandēja: "Allāh, Allāh, Allāh." Dievs, Dievs, Dievs. Tas ir Dievs. Interesanta vēsturiska piezīme: kad mauri iekaroja Dienvidspāniju, viņi atveda šo paražu sev līdzi, un izruna gadsimtu gaitā mainījās no "Allāh, Allāh, Allāh," uz "Olē, olē, olē!", ko vēl arvien var dzirdēt vēršu cīņās un flamenko dejās. Spānijā, kad mākslinieks paveicis kaut ko neiespējamu un maģisku: "Allāh, olē, olē, Allāh, brīnišķīgi, bravo!" Neaptverami, re, kur tas ir: dievišķais mirklis. Tas ir lieliski, jo mums tas ir vajadzīgs.
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.
Bet pašam dejotājam grūtākais brīdis ir nākamais rīts, kad viņš pamostas un atklāj, ka ir otrdiena, pulksten 11, un viņš vairs nav dievišķais mirklis. Viņš ir vienkāršs, novecojošs mirstīgais ar sāpošiem ceļgaliem un varbūt nekad vairs nesasniegs tādas virsotnes. Un varbūt neviens vairs nekad neskandēs Dieva vārdu, viņam dejojot, un ko gan viņam atliek darīt visu atlikušo mūžu? Tas ir grūti. Tā ir ļoti sāpīga samierināšanās radošajā dzīvē. Bet varbūt tai nav jābūt gluži tik mokošai, ja jau no paša sākuma neesi ticējis, ka pašas neparastākās tavas būtības šķautnes nāk no tevis paša. Bet varbūt, ja tu ticētu, ka tās tev bija aizdotas no kāda neiedomājama avota uz kādu spožu tavas dzīves brīdi, lai tās nodotu tālāk kādam citam, kad darbs pabeigts, Un, ziniet, ja mēs tā to uztveram, tas visu sāk mainīt.
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.
Tā es esmu sākusi domāt, un tā es noteikti esmu domājusi šos pēdējos mēnešus, strādājot pie grāmatas, kas drīz nāks klajā, kas ir bīstami un biedējoši lielām cerībām apkrauts sekotājs maniem nenormālajiem panākumiem.
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.
Un man sev nemitīgi jāatgādina brīžos, kad es no tā krītu izmisumā: nebaidies! Neļaujies iebiedēties! Dari savu darbu! Turpini darīt savu darba daļu, lai kāda tā arī būtu! Ja tavs darbs ir dejot, tad dejo. Ja dievišķais šķelmis ģēnijs, kas nozīmēts tavam darbam, nolemj uz mirklīti piešķirt kādu brīnuma daļiņu caur taviem pūliņiem, tad "Olē!" Bet, ja ne, dejo tik un tā! Un "Olē!" tev par tavu darbu. Es tam ticu un jūtu, ka mums tas jāmāca. "Olē!" jums par jūsu darbu, vienkārši par jūsu cilvēcisko mīlestību un spītu, ka darat savu darba daļu.
Thank you.
Paldies.
(Applause)
(Aplausi)
Thank you.
Paldies.
(Applause)
(Aplausi)
June Cohen: Olé!
Džūna Koena: Olē!
(Applause)
(Aplausi)