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?"
Som spisovateľka. Písanie kníh je mojou profesiou, ale samozrejme, je to aj oveľa viac. Je to aj moja celoživotná láska a fascinácia. A neočakávam, že sa to niekedy zmení. Popri tom však musím povedať, že sa mi nedávno v živote aj v kariére stalo niečo zvláštne, čo spôsobilo, že som musela prehodnotiť svoj vzťah k tejto práci. Tou zvláštnou vecou je, že som nedávno napísala knihu, memoáre s názvom "Jedz, modli sa a miluj,"© ktorá sa na rozdiel od mojich predchádzajúcich kníh, z nejakého dôvodu rozšírila po svete a stala sa z nej obrovská mega senzácia a medzinárodný bestseller. Výsledkom čoho je, že kamkoľvek teraz prídem, ľudia sa ku mne správajú, akoby som bola odsúdená na záhubu. Úplne vážne -- prekliata, prekliata! Napríklad za mnou chodia s obavami, a vravia: "Nebojíš sa -- nebojíš sa, že už nikdy nič lepšie nenapíšeš? Nebojíš sa, že budeš celý život pokračovať v písaní, a už nikdy nenapíšeš knihu, o ktorú by niekto na svete stál, už nikdy?"
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?"
Veľmi povzbudzujúce, však. Bolo by to horšie, ale našťastie si pamätám, že pred viac ako 20 rokmi, keď som ako teenagerka začala ľuďom vravieť, že chcem byť spisovateľkou, stretla som sa s tou istou reakciou, založenou na strachu. Ľudia sa ma pýtali: "Nebojíš sa, že nikdy nebudeš úspešná? Nebojíš sa, že ťa poníženie z odmietnutia zabije? Nebojíš sa, že budeš toto remeslo cibriť celý život a nič z toho nikdy nebude a umrieš na kope útržkov nesplnených snov a ústa budeš mať zhorknuté popolom neúspechu?"
(Laughter)
(Smiech)
Like that, you know.
Niečo v tom zmysle.
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.
Moja odpoveď -- krátka odpoveď na všetky tieto otázky je: "Áno". Áno, bojím sa všetkých tých vecí. Vždy som sa ich bála. Okrem toho sa bojím ešte aj mnohých iných vecí, o ktorých ľudia vôbec netušia. Napríklad morských rias a iných strašidelností. Ale čo sa týka písania... už nejakú dobu premýšľam a čudujem sa prečo to tak je? Rozumiete, je to racionálne? Má to logiku, očakávať od ľudí, aby sa báli práce, o ktorej majú pocit, že je zmyslom ich existencie na tejto Zemi. A čo je dôvodom, že hlavne kreatívne povolania v nás vzbudzujú vážne obavy o naše psychické zdravie, a to oveľa viac ako iné zamestnania, rozumiete mi? Napríklad môj otec bol chemickým inžinierom, a nepamätám si, že by sa ho za 40 rokov chemického inžinierstva niekto spýtal, či sa bojí byť chemickým inžinierom. Nepýtali sa -- John ako sa pasuješ s tou chemickou krízou? Nič také sa nikdy nespomenulo, viete? Ale aby som bola férová, chemickí inžinieri si ako skupina po mnohé storočia nevytvorili reputáciu manicko depresívnych alkoholikov.
(Laughter)
(Smiech)
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.
Zato my spisovatelia takú reputáciu máme. Vlastne nielen spisovatelia, ale zdá sa, že o tvorivých ľuďoch každého žánru si často myslíme, že sú neuveriteľne psychicky nevyrovnaní. Stačí, keď si pozriete ten ponurý zoznam úmrtí veľkolepých kreatívnych myslí len 20-teho storočia, ktorí zomreli mladí a často vlastnou rukou. A zdá sa, že aj tí, ktorí nespáchali samovraždu, sa kvôli svojmu daru cítili akoby týraní. Norman Mailer, tesne pred smrťou, v poslednom rozhovore povedal: "Každá z mojich kníh ma o trochu viac zabila." Je to zvláštny výrok o vlastnom celoživotnom diele, nemyslíte? Ale ak sa takto niekto vyjadruje, vôbec nás to neprekvapuje, pretože sme podobné veci počuli už toľkokrát Akoby sme sa s nimi úplne stotožnili a kolektívne prijali názor, že kreativita a utrpenie sú oddávna prepojené, a že umenie bude v konečnom dôsledku vždy viesť k trápeniu.
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.
A otázka, ktorú sa vás dnes chcem spýtať je: vyhovuje vám táto myšlienka? Ste s ňou spokojní -- pretože stačí, že získate trochu nadhľad a, veď viete -- mne tento predpoklad absolútne nevyhovuje. Myslím, že je odporný. A myslím, že aj nebezpečný, a nechcem, aby sme ho preniesli aj do ďalšieho storočia. Myslím, že by bolo lepšie, ak by sme tvorivých ľudí podporovali k životu.
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.
A určite viem, že v mojom prípade -- v mojej situácii -- by bolo veľmi nebezpečné, keby som vykročila temným chodníčkom tohto predpokladu, hlavne keď vezmete do úvahy súčasný stav mojej kariéry. Čo je -- veď viete, pozrite sa, som ešte mladá, mám okolo 40. Ešte mám pred sebou ďalšie štyri desaťročia práce. A je viac než pravdepodobné, že všetko čo od teraz napíšem bude celý svet súdiť ako niečo, čo prišlo až po šialenom úspechu mojej poslednej knihy, nie? Mala by som to povedať na rovinu, veď sme tu vlastne skoro priatelia -- je viac ako pravdepodobné, že svoj najväčší úspech mám už za sebou. Och, Kriste, hrozná myšlienka! Viete, myšlienky takého druhu môžu doviesť človeka k tomu, že začne o deviatej ráno piť džin, a k tomu sa ja dopracovať nechcem.
(Laughter)
(Smiech)
I would prefer to keep doing this work that I love.
Radšej by som robila prácu, ktorú milujem.
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.
A tak sa naskytá otázka, ako? A mne sa po mnohých zamysleniach zdá, že aby som mohla ďalej písať, musím si vytvoriť nejaký ochranný psychologický mechanizmus, však? Nejako si musím vytvoriť bezpečnú vzdialenosť medzi sebou, keď píšem, a mojim veľmi prirodzeným strachom z toho, aké budú reakcie na to, čo od teraz napíšem. A keď som počas minulého roku hľadala spôsob, ako to urobiť, skúmala som minulosť, a snažila som sa nájsť iné spoločnosti, aby som zistila, či náhodou nemali lepšie a rozumnejšie nápady, ako pomôcť tvorivým ľuďom zvládať základné riziká tvorivosti.
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.
Tento výskum ma zaviedol do starovekého Grécka a Ríma. Tak mi prosím venujte pozornosť, vráti sa to späť. Ale staroveké Grécko a Rím -- vtedy ľudia neverili, že tvorivosť vyviera z ľudských bytostí. Ľudia verili, že tvorivosť je nadpozemský duch-spoločník, ktorý k ľudským bytostiam prichádza z nejakého vzdialeného a nepoznaného miesta, zo vzdialených a nepoznaných dôvodov. Gréci boli známi tým, že týchto nadpozemských duchov tvorivosti nazývali "démonmi." Vie sa, že Socrates veril, že má démona, ktorý mu z diaľky vravel múdrosti.
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.
Rimania mali rovnaký názor, ale týchto nadpozemských tvorivých duchov nazývali géniami. Čo je skvelé, lebo Rimania si nemysleli, že génius je nejaká obzvlášť múdra osoba. Verili, že génius je nejaká čarovná božská bytosť, ktorá doslovne žila medzi stenami umeleckých ateliérov. Niečo ako domový škriatok Dobby. A mohla hocikedy vyjsť von a neviditeľnou rukou pomáhať umelcovi pri práci a takto tvarovať výsledok týchto prác.®
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.
Brilantné -- to je ono, tá vzdialenosť o ktorej rozprávam -- psychologický mechanizmus, ktorý vás ochráni pred výsledkom vašej práce. A všetci vedeli, že takto to fungovalo. Takže starovekí umelci boli pred istými vecami chránení, napríklad pred prílišným narcizmom, však? Ak bola vaša práca brilantná, nemohli ste brať všetku chválu len na seba. Všetci vedeli, že máte svojho nadpozemského génia, ktorý vám pomáhal. Ak vaše práca nevypálila dobre, nebola to len vaša vina, však? Všetci vedeli, že váš génius bol trochu trápny.
(Laughter)
A takto ľudia na západe o tvorivosti uvažovali naozaj dlhú dobu.
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.
A potom prišla renesancia, a všetko sa zmenilo. Prišli sme s veľkou myšlienkou, ktorá bola: dajme do stredu vesmíru jednotlivca, umiestnime ho nad všetkých bohov a záhady, a už nám nezostalo miesto na žiadne mystické bytosti, ktoré načúvajú radám z hora. A to bol začiatok racionálneho humanizmu, a ľudia začali veriť, že tvorivosť prichádza iba z vnútra jednotlivca. A prvýkrát v histórií ste mohli počuť, ako ľudia vravia, že tento alebo onen umelec je géniom, nie, že má svojho génia.
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.
A musím vám povedať, myslím, že to bola veľká chyba. Viete, myslím, že keď niekomu, keď jednotlivcovi dovolíme uveriť, že on, alebo ona je prostriedkom, zdrojom a podstatou a prameňom všetkých božských, tvorivých, nepoznaných, nekonečných tajomstiev, je na jednu krehkú ľudskú psychiku príliš veľa zodpovednosti. Je to ako keby ste od niekoho chceli, nech prehltne slnko. Úplne to ľuďom kriví a deformuje egá, a vznikajú tak nezvládnuteľné očakávania o výkonoch. A myslím, že práve tento tlak posledných 500 rokov zabíjal našich umelcov.
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.
A ak je to pravda, a ja si myslím, že to pravda je, tak sa rysuje otázka, čo teraz? Môžeme to riešiť inak? Možno by sme sa mali vrátiť k starovekému chápaniu vzťahu medzi ľuďmi a záhadou tvorivosti. A možno nie. Možno nemôžeme zmazať 500 rokov racionálneho humanistického uvažovania jedným 18 minútovým príhovorom. A v hľadisku sa asi nájdu ľudia, ktorí by prišli s naozaj legitímnymi vedeckými pochybnosťami ohľadne týchto predstáv o, vlastne o vílach, ktoré prenasledujú ľudí, a ich projekty polievajú čarovným odvarom, a tak. Asi sa mi nepodarí presvedčiť vás všetkých, aby ste so mnou súhlasili.
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.
Ale otázka, ktorú tu chcem načrtnúť znie -- a vlastne prečo nie? Prečo by sme o tom takto nerozmýšľali? Veď to dáva rovnaký zmysel ako všetky ostatné pokusy o vysvetlenie tej vyslovene šialenej vrtkavosti tvorivého procesu. Procesu, a to je jasné každému, kto sa kedy snažili niečo vytvoriť -- čím chcem povedať, vlastne všetkým, čo tu dnes sedia -- že tento proces nie je vždy práve racionálny. A je pravda, že niekedy z toho môžete mať vyslovene paranormálny pocit.
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.
Nedávno som zažila jednu vec, stretla som skvelú americkú poetku Ruth Stoneovú, ktorá má okolo 90, ale poetkou bola celý život, a povedala mi, že keď vyrastala vo vidieckej Virginií, kde pracovala na poliach, niekedy cítila a počula, ako k nej z krajiny prichádza báseň. A povedala, že to bolo ako ohromný vlak vzduchu, ktorý sa na ňu s hrmotom rútil cez krajinu. A cítila, že prichádza, pretože sa jej triasla zem pod nohami. Vtedy vedela, že je iba jedna vec, ktorú musí urobiť, a to, poviem to jej slovami, "utekať ako o život." A ako o život utekala domov, a báseň ju pritom prenasledovala, a išlo o to, že sa musela dosť rýchlo dostať k papieru a ceruzke, aby mohla zachytiť báseň v momente, keď cez ňu prehrmí, a zapísať ju na papier. Niekedy nebola dosť rýchla. Vtedy utekala a utekala, a nestihla sa dostať domov, a báseň ňou prehrmela a ona ju premeškala. Povedala, že potom báseň letela krajinou ďalej, hľadajúc "iného básnika." A inokedy -- na toto nikdy nezabudnem -- povedala, že niekedy to takmer nestihla. Tak bežala domov a hľadala papier, a báseň ňou prehrmela, a práve vtedy, ako cez ňu letela, si zobrala ceruzku, a načiahla sa druhou rukou, a chytila ju. Chytila báseň za chvost, a vtiahla si ju pospiatky do tela, kým ju prepisovala na papier. A v týchto prípadoch prepísala báseň na papier dokonalú a v celku, ale opačne, od posledného slova k prvému.
(Laughter)
(Smiech)
So when I heard that I was like -- that's uncanny, that's exactly what my creative process is like.
Keď som to počula, myslela som si -- to je zvláštne, presne tak vyzerá aj môj tvorivý proces.
(Laughter)
(Smiech)
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?
Môj tvorivý proces taký vôbec nie je -- nie som potrubie! Ja som mulica, spôsob akým musím pracovať je, že každý deň vstanem v rovnaký čas, a nešikovne driem a potím sa a makám. Ale aj ja pri tejto svojej drine, aj ja som sa párkrát s niečím takým stretla. A predstavujem si, že aj mnohí z vás. Viete, aj mne sa stalo, že ku mne prišla inšpirácia z nejakého zdroja, ktorý som naozaj nevedela identifikovať. A čo to je za vec? A ako sa k nej máme postaviť tak, aby sme sa pritom nezbláznili, ale naopak, aby nám pomohla udržať si duševné zdravie?
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.
A pre mňa je najlepší súčasný príklad, ako sa s tým popasovať hudobník Tom Waits, s ktorým som pred pár rokmi robila rozhovor pre jeden časopis. A o niečom takomto sme sa rozprávali. A viete, Tom bol takmer celý život stelesnením trpiaceho súčasného moderného umelca, ktorý sa snaží riadiť a zvládať a ovládať tieto nekontrolovateľné tvorivé impulzy, s ktorými bol stotožnený.
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.
Ale potom zostarel a spokojnel, a vravel mi, ako jedného dňa šoféroval po diaľnici v Los Angeles, a vtedy sa to pre neho celé zmenilo. Uháňal po ceste a zrazu počul krátky fragment melódie, ktorá sa mu vlúdila do hlavy, a tak ako to s inšpiráciou často býva, bola prchavá a dráždivá, a on ju chce, predstavte si, veď je nádherná, a túži po nej, ale nemá sa jej ako zmocniť. Nemá ani kúsok papiera, nemá ceruzku, nemá diktafón.
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?"
A zrazu cíti, ako v ňom začína vrieť všetka tá stará úzkosť, myslí si, "Prídem o ňu, a potom ma tá pieseň bude celý život prenasledovať. Nie som dosť dobrý, nedokážem to." A namiesto toho, aby ho zachvátila panika, jednoducho prestal. Zastavil celý ten duševný proces a urobil niečo celkom neobvyklé. Pozrel sa na nebo a povedal: "Prepáč, nevidíš, že šoférujem?"
(Laughter)
(Smiech)
"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."
"Vyzerám, že si teraz dokážem zapísať pieseň? Ak naozaj chceš existovať, vráť sa, keď bude vhodnejší čas, niekedy, keď sa o teba budem môcť postarať. Inak choď otravovať niekoho iného. Choď za Leonardom Cohenom."
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.
A po tomto zážitku sa zmenil celý systém jeho práce. Nie práca sama o sebe, tá je stále rovnako temná. Ale proces tvorby a tá ťaživá úzkosť, ktorá ju obkolesovala sa uvoľnila, keď zo seba vytrhol svojho džina-génia -- odtiaľ, kde robil iba problémy -- a vrátil ho tam odkiaľ prišiel, a uvedomil si, že toto predsa nemusí byť čosi vnútorné a mučivé. Mohla by to byť taká zvláštna, podivuhodná, bizarná spolupráca, niečo ako konverzácia medzi Tomom a tou divnou, externou vecou, ktorá nie je jeho plnou súčasťou.
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."
Keď som počula tento príbeh, začal sa trochu meniť aj spôsob, akým som pracovala ja. A už ma to raz zachránilo. Táto myšlienka ma zachránila, keď som práve písala "Jedz, modli sa a miluj,"© a spadla som do tých osídiel zúfalstva, do ktorých sa všetci dostávame, keď na niečom pracujeme a nedarí sa nám, a začnete si myslieť, že z toho bude katastrofa, že to bude najhoršia kniha na svete. Nie zlá, ale najhoršia kniha na svete. A začala som si myslieť, že by som mala celý ten projekt zahodiť. Ale potom som si spomenula, ako sa Tom rozprával s oblohou, a skúsila som to. Odvrátila som tvár od rukopisu, a svoje poznámky som nasmerovala do prázdneho kúta izby. A nahlas som povedala, "Počúvaj, ty vec, aj ja aj ty vieme, že ak táto kniha nebude brilantná, nebude to iba moja chyba, správne? Pretože vidíš, že ja do nej vkladám všetko čo mám, viac toho už nemám. Takže ak chceš, aby bola lepšia, tak by si sa mala objaviť a spraviť si svoju prácu. Dobre. Ale ak to neurobíš, tak vieš čo, do čerta s tým. Ja budem aj tak ďalej písať, pretože to je moja práca. A chcela by som, aby bolo jasné, že ja som dnes prišla a svoju prácu si odviedla."
(Laughter)
(Smiech)
Because --
Pretože --
(Applause)
(Potlesk)
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.
v konečnom dôsledku je to tak, dobre -- pred mnohými storočiami v púšťach severnej Afriky sa ľudia za mesačného svitu zvykli zhromažďovať na posvätné tance, ktoré vtedy trvali hodiny a hodiny, až do úsvitu. A bolo to vždy veľkolepé, pretože tanečníci boli profesionáli, a boli úžasní, pravda? Ale vždy raz za čas, veľmi zriedka, sa niečo stalo, a jeden z účinkujúcich sa stal akoby nadprirodzeným. A viem, že viete o čom rozprávam, pretože viem, že všetci ste niekedy v živote takéto predstavenie videli. Bolo to, akoby sa zastavil čas, a tanečník akoby prekročil nejaký portál, a nerobil nič iné ako už 1000 nocí predtým, ale zrazu sa všetko usmernilo. A znenazdajky už nebol iba ľudskou bytosťou. Bol ožiarený zvnútra, a zospodu, a celý horel nadpozemskosťou.
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.
A keď sa to vtedy stalo, ľudia to spoznali, a volali to po mene. Zopli ruky a začali skandovať, "Alah, Alah, Alah, boh, boh, boh." To je boh, viete. Zvláštna historická vsuvka -- keď Mauri vpadli do južného Španielska, tento zvyk si doniesli zo sebou, a za tie storočia sa zmenila výslovnosť z "Alah, Alah, Alah," na "Ole, ole, ole," a to dnes stále počuť pri býčích zápasoch a flamenku. V Španielsku, ak sa účinkujúcemu podarí niečo neskutočné a čarovné, "Alah, ole, ole, Alah, veľkolepé, bravo," nepochopiteľné, ale je to tak -- záblesk boha. A je to skvelé, pretože to potrebujeme.
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.
Ale ťažkosti prídu na druhý deň ráno, hlavne pre tanečníka, keď sa zobudí a zistí, že je utorok, 11 hodín ráno, a už nie je zábleskom boha. Už je len starnúcim smrteľníkom so zlými kolenami, a už možno nikdy nedosiahne také výšky. A už možno nikdy nikto nebude pri jeho tanci skandovať božie meno, a čo má potom urobiť zo zbytkom svojho života? Je to ťažké. Je to jedna z najťažších vecí, s ktorými sa pri tvorivom živote, treba zmieriť. Ale možno to nemusí byť až také mučivé, ak by ste v prvom rade nikdy neverili, že tie najvýnimočnejšie počiny vášho bytia nevyšli z vás. Ale keby ste možno verili, že ste ich mali požičané z nejakého nepredstaviteľného zdroja iba na prekrásnu časť vášho života, a keď s nimi skončíte, tak ich treba posunúť ďalej, niekomu inému. A viete, ak sa nad tým zamyslíme takto, všetko sa začne meniť.
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.
Takto som začala rozmýšľať, a určite už takto rozmýšľam posledných pár mesiacov, ako pracujem na knihe, ktorá čoskoro vyjde ako nebezpečne, desivo prehnane očakávané pokračovanie môjho šialeného úspechu.
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.
A ja si musím stále opakovať, hlavne, keď som z toho naozaj nervózna, že sa nemám báť. Nenechať sa zastrašiť. Len si spraviť svoju prácu. Naďalej si vždy odviesť tú svoju časť, nech to je čokoľvek. Ak je vašou prácou tanec, tak tancujte. Ak sa ten nadpozemský, škuľavý génius, ktorý vám bol pridelený rozhodne, že čo len na sekundu cez vašu snahu nechá zažiariť štipku úžasu, tak "Ole!" A ak nie, tak pokračujte vo vašom tanci. A aj tak "Ole!" V toto verím a myslím, že to musíme učiť. A aj tak "Ole!", za to, že máte v sebe číru ľudskú lásku a tvrdohlavosť, a vždy si odvediete svoju prácu.
Thank you.
Ďakujem.
(Applause)
(Potlesk)
Thank you.
Ďakujem.
(Applause)
(Potlesk)
June Cohen: Olé!
June Cohen: Ole!
(Applause)
(Potlesk)