One year ago, I rented a car in Jerusalem to go find a man I never met but who had changed my life. I didn't have a phone number to call to say I was coming. I didn't have an exact address, but I knew his name, Abed, I knew that he lived in a town of 15,000, Kafr Qara, and I knew that, 21 years before, just outside this holy city, he broke my neck.
Pred rokom som si v Jeruzaleme požičal auto, aby som išiel nájsť muža, ktorého som nikdy nestretol, no zmenil môj život. Nemal som jeho telefónne číslo, aby som mu zavolal, že prídem. Nemal som presnú adresu, no vedel som, že sa volá Abed. Vedel som, že žije v 15-tisícovom meste Kfar Kara, a vedel som, že pred 21 rokmi mi hneď za týmto svätým mestom zlomil chrbticu.
And so, on an overcast morning in January, I headed north off in a silver Chevy, to find a man and some peace. The road dropped, and I exited Jerusalem. I then rounded the very bend where his blue truck, heavy with four tons of floor tiles, had borne down with great speed onto the back left corner of the minibus where I sat. I was then 19 years old. I'd grown five inches and done some 20,000 pushups in eight months, and the night before the crash, I delighted in my new body, playing basketball with friends into the wee hours of a May morning. I palmed the ball in my large right hand, and when that hand reached the rim, I felt invincible. I was off in the bus to get the pizza I'd won on the court.
A tak som sa v jedno zamračené januárové ráno vybral na sever, v striebornom Chevy, aby som našiel muža a pokoj v duši. Cesta klesla a ja som vyšiel von z Jeruzalema. Potom som vošiel presne do tej zákruty, kde sa jeho modrý náklaďák, plný štyroch ton kachličiek, vyrútil v plnej rýchlosti na ľavý zadný roh minibusu, v ktorom som sedel. Mal som vtedy 19 rokov. Za osem mesiacov som vyrástol o 13 cm a spravil som 20 000 klikov a noc pred tou haváriou som si užíval moje nové telo, hral som s kamošmi basketbal až do skorých ranných májových hodín. Držal som loptu v mojej obrovskej pravej ruke a keď sa tá ruka dotkla okraju koša, cítil som sa neporaziteľný. Bol som v autobuse a išiel som si po pizzu, ktorú som vyhral na ihrisku.
I didn't see Abed coming. From my seat, I was looking up at a stone town on a hilltop, bright in the noontime sun, when from behind there was a great bang, as loud and violent as a bomb. My head snapped back over my red seat, my eardrum blew, my shoes flew off. I flew too, my head bobbing on broken bones, and when I landed, I was a quadriplegic. Over the coming months, I learned to breathe on my own, then to sit and to stand and to walk. But my body was now divided vertically. I was a hemiplegic, and back home in New York, I used a wheelchair for four years, all through college.
Nevidel som Abeda prichádzať. Z môjho sedadla som mal výhľad na kamenné mestečko na kopci, jasné v obednom slnku, keď zozadu prišiel obrovský náraz, hlasný a silný ako bomba. Hlavu mi hodilo dozadu cez červené sedadlo. Ušné bubienky mi hučali. Odleteli mi topánky. Ja som tiež preletel, hlava mi poskakovala na zlomených kostiach. a keď som pristál, ostal som ochrnutý. Počas nasledujúcich mesiacov som sa naučil samostatne dýchať, neskôr aj posadiť sa, vstať a kráčať, no moje telo zostalo vertikálne rozdelené. Ostal som ochrnutý na polovicu tela a doma v New Yorku som štyri roky používal invalidný vozík, celý čas počas vysokej školy.
College ended and I returned to Jerusalem for a year. There, I rose from my chair for good, I leaned on my cane, and I looked back, finding all, from my fellow passengers in the bus to photographs of the crash. And when I saw this photograph -- I didn't see a bloody and unmoving body. I saw the healthy bulk of a left deltoid, and I mourned that it was lost, mourned all I had not yet done, but was now impossible.
Keď som dokončil školu, vrátil som sa na rok do Jeruzalema. Tam som sa nadobro zbavil vozíka. Opieral som sa o palicu a začal som hľadať, našiel som všetko od spolucestujúcich v autobuse až po fotky z miesta havárie a keď som videl túto fotku, nevidel som krvavé a nehybné telo. Videl som zdravý kus ľavého deltového svalu a smútil som za jeho stratou, smútil som za všetkým, čo som ešte neurobil, ale teraz to už bolo nemožné.
It was then I read the testimony that Abed gave the morning after the crash, of driving down the right lane of a highway toward Jerusalem. Reading his words, I welled with anger. It was the first time I'd felt anger toward this man, and it came from magical thinking. On this xeroxed piece of paper, the crash had not yet happened. Abed could still turn his wheel left so that I would see him whoosh by out my window. and I would remain whole. "Be careful, Abed, look out. Slow down." But Abed did not slow, and on that xeroxed piece of paper, my neck again broke, and again, I was left without anger.
Vtedy som si prečítal svedectvo, ktoré Abed vyslovil v nasledujúce ráno po nehode, o zídení z pravého pruhu na diaľnici smerom k Jeruzalemu. Keď som čítal jeho slová, vzkypel vo mne hnev. Bolo to po prvýkrát, čo som cítil hnev proti tomuto človeku a pochádzal z magického myslenia. Na tomto prefotenom kuse papiera sa tá nehoda ešte neudiala. Abed stále mohol strhnúť volant doľava a videl by som ho presvišťať okolo môjho okna a zostal by som celý. „Pozor Abed, opatrne. Spomaľ.“ Ale Abed nespomalil, a na tom prefotenom kuse papiera sa moja chrbtica opäť zlomila a opäť som zostal bez hnevu.
I decided to find Abed, and when I finally did, he responded to my Hebrew "Hello" which such nonchalance, it seemed he'd been awaiting my phone call. And maybe he had. I didn't mention to Abed his prior driving record -- 27 violations by the age of 25, the last, his not shifting his truck into a low gear on that May day -- and I didn't mention my prior record -- the quadriplegia and the catheters, the insecurity and the loss -- and when Abed went on about how hurt he was in the crash, I didn't say that I knew from the police report that he'd escaped serious injury. I said I wanted to meet. Abed said that I should call back in a few weeks, and when I did and a recording told me that his number was disconnected, I let Abed and the crash go.
Rozhodol som sa, že Abeda nájdem a keď sa mi to konečne podarilo, odpovedal na môj hebrejský pozdrav s takou nonšalantnosťou, že sa zdalo, že na môj telefonát čakal. A možno aj čakal. Abedovi som sa nezmienil o jeho predchádzajúcich vodičských záznamoch – 27 priestupkov do veku 25 rokov, posledný z nich, to že si nepodradil vo svojom náklaďáku v ten májový deň... a nezmienil som sa ani o mojich predchádzajúcich záznamoch, o ochrnutí, katéteroch, o neistote a strate – a keď sa Abed rozhovoril o tom, aké zranenia utrpel v havárii, nepovedal som, že z policajného spisu viem, že vážnym zraneniam unikol. Povedal som, že sa ním chcem stretnúť. Abed povedal, že sa mám ozvať o pár týždňov a keď som sa ozval, a nahratý hlas mi povedal, že toto číslo bolo odpojené, vykašľal som sa na Abeda aj na haváriu.
Many years passed. I walked with my cane and my ankle brace and a backpack on trips in six continents. I pitched overhand in a weekly softball game that I started in Central Park, and home in New York, I became a journalist and an author, typing hundreds of thousands of words with one finger. A friend pointed out to me that all of my big stories mirrored my own, each centering on a life that had changed in an instant, owing, if not to a crash, then to an inheritance, a swing of the bat, a click of the shutter, an arrest. Each of us had a before and an after. I'd been working through my lot after all.
Odvtedy prešlo veľa rokov. Pochodil som so svojou palicou, členkovou podperou a ruksakom šesť kontinentov. Každý týždeň som cez rameno nahadzoval v softballových súťažiach, ktoré som začal organizovať v Central Parku, a doma v New Yorku som sa stal novinárom a spisovateľom. Jedným prstom som napísal stovky tisícov slov. Jeden priateľ mi raz povedal, že všetky moje veľké príbehy odrážajú ten môj, sústredia sa na život, ktorý sa v zlomku sekundy zmenil, nie kvôli havárii, ale raz kvôli dedičstvu, inokedy kvôli švihnutiu pálkou, zaklapnutiu okenice či zatknutiu. Každý z nás má to svoje „predtým“ a „potom“. Cez to svoje som sa prepracovával.
Still, Abed was far from my mind, when last year, I returned to Israel to write of the crash, and the book I then wrote, "Half-Life," was nearly complete when I recognized that I still wanted to meet Abed. And finally, I understood why: to hear this man say two words: "I'm sorry." People apologize for less.
Napriek tomu, Abed bol mimo mojich myšlienok, keď som sa minulý rok vrátil do Izraela, aby som napísal o havárii. Kniha, ktorú som vtedy písal – Polovičný život – bola takmer hotová, keď som si uvedomil, že sa stále chcem s Abedom stretnúť a konečne som pochopil, prečo: aby som od tohto muža počul slová: „je mi to ľúto“. Ľudia sa ospravedlňujú aj za menšie veci.
And so I got a cop to confirm that Abed still lived somewhere in the same town, and I was now driving to it with a potted yellow rose in the back seat, when suddenly flowers seemed a ridiculous offering. But what to get the man who broke your fucking neck?
Tak som od policajta získal potvrdenie, že Abed ešte stále žije niekde v tom istom meste a teraz som tam šoféroval, so žltou ružou v kvetináči na zadnom sedadle, keď mi tie kvety zrazu začali pripadať ako absurdný dar. Ale čo dať mužovi, ktorý vám zlomil vašu skurvenú chrbticu?
(Laughter)
(smiech)
I pulled into the town of Abu Ghosh, and bought a brick of Turkish delight: pistachios glued in rosewater. Better. Back on Highway 1, I envisioned what awaited. Abed would hug me. Abed would spit at me. Abed would say, "I'm sorry." I then began to wonder, as I had many times before, how my life would have been different had this man not injured me, had my genes been fed a different helping of experience. Who was I? Was I who I had been before the crash, before this road divided my life like the spine of an open book? Was I what had been done to me? Were all of us the results of things done to us, done for us, the infidelity of a parent or spouse, money inherited? Were we instead our bodies, their inborn endowments and deficits? It seemed that we could be nothing more than genes and experience, but how to tease out the one from the other? As Yeats put that same universal question, "O body swayed to music, o brightening glance, how can we know the dancer from the dance?"
Zastavil som sa v meste Abu Ghosh a kúpil som nejakú tureckú sladkosť: pistácie zaliate ružovou vodou. Lepšie. Späť na diaľnici 1 som si predstavoval, čo ma čaká. Abed ma objíme. Napľuje na mňa. Abed povie: „je mi to ľúto“. Začal som sa zamýšľať, ako už mnohokrát predtým, aký by bol môj život, keby mi tento človek nespôsobil zranenie, keby moje gény boli nakŕmené iným sústom skúseností. Kto som? Som tým, kým som bol pred tou nehodou, predtým, ako táto cesta rozdelila môj život ako chrbticu otvorenej knihy? Bol som tým, čo sa mi stalo? Sme všetci výsledkami toho, čo nám niekto urobil, čo pre nás niekto urobil, nevera rodiča či druha, zdedené peniaze? Sme namiesto našich tiel ich vrodenými vlohami a nedostatkami? Zdalo sa mi, že nemôžme byť ničím iným než génami a skúsenosťami, ale ako oddeliť jedno od druhého? Tak ako si Yeats položil tú istú univerzálnu otázku, „O, telo sa kolísalo do hudby, ó, rozjasňujúci pohľad, ako rozoznáme tanečníka od tanca?“
I'd been driving for an hour when I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my own brightening glance. The light my eyes had carried for as long as they had been blue. The predispositions and impulses that had propelled me as a toddler to try and slip over a boat into a Chicago lake, that had propelled me as a teen to jump into wild Cape Cod Bay after a hurricane. But I also saw in my reflection that, had Abed not injured me, I would now, in all likelihood, be a doctor and a husband and a father. I would be less mindful of time and of death, and, oh, I would not be disabled, would not suffer the thousand slings and arrows of my fortune. The frequent furl of five fingers, the chips in my teeth come from biting at all the many things a solitary hand cannot open. The dancer and the dance were hopelessly entwined.
Išiel som už asi hodinu, keď som sa pozrel do spätného zrkadla a zbadal som svoj rozjasňujúci pohľad. Svetlo, ktoré moje oči nosili, odkedy boli modré. Predispozície a impulzy, ktoré ma ako bábätko hnali, aby som sa pokúsil zhodiť loďku do Chicagskeho jazera, ktoré ma ako tínedžera poháňali k tomu, aby som po hurikáne skočilo do divokého Cape Cod Bay. Ale tiež som vo svojom odraze videl, že, keby mi Abed nespôsobil zranenie, dnes by som bol pravdepodobne doktor a manžel a otec. Bol by som si menej vedomý času a smrti a aha, nebol by som postihnutý, netrpel by som tie tisícky hodov a šípov osudu. Časté stisnutie piatich prstov, zuby mám polámané z hryzenia všetkých tých vecí, ktoré jedna ruka nedokáže otvoriť. Tanečník a tanec boli beznádejne zapletení.
It was approaching 11 when I exited right toward Afula, and passed a large quarry and was soon in Kafr Qara. I felt a pang of nerves. But Chopin was on the radio, seven beautiful mazurkas, and I pulled into a lot by a gas station to listen and to calm. I'd been told that in an Arab town, one need only mention the name of a local and it will be recognized. And I was mentioning Abed and myself, noting deliberately that I was here in peace, to the people in this town, when I met Mohamed outside a post office at noon. He listened to me. You know, it was most often when speaking to people that I wondered where I ended and my disability began. For many people told me what they told no one else. Many cried. And one day, after a woman I met on the street did the same and I later asked her why, she told me that, best she could tell, her tears had had something to do with my being happy and strong, but vulnerable too. I listened to her words, I suppose they were true. I was me, but I was now me despite a limp, and that, I suppose, was what now made me, me.
Bolo skoro 11, keď som odbočil doprava, smerom k Afule, prešiel som okolo obrovského lomu a čoskoro som bol v Kfar Kare. Bol som nervózny. Ale z rádia hral Chopin, sedem krásnych mazuriek a ja som sa zastavil na parkovisku pri čerpacej pumpe, aby som počúval a upokojil sa. Bolo mi povedané, že v arabskom meste stačí, ak len spomeniete meno obyvateľa a oni ho hneď spoznajú. Spomínal som teda Abeda a seba, naschvál som domácim hovoril, že som prišiel v mieri, keď som okolo obeda pred poštou stretol Mohameda. Vypočul si ma. Viete, takmer vždy, keď sa rozprávam s ľuďmi, rozmýšľam, kde končím ja a kde začína moje postihnutie, lebo veľa ľudí mi povedalo to, čo iným nepovedali. Veľa ich plakalo. A raz, keď som na ulici stretol ženu, ktorá zareagovala tak isto, spýtal som sa jej, prečo, povedala mi, že jej slzy mali niečo do činenia s tým, aký som bol šťastný a silný, no zároveň zraniteľný. Vypočul som si ju a myslím, že neklamala. Bol som sám sebou, no teraz som bol sám sebou napriek postihnutiu, a predpokladám, že to ma urobilo tým, kým som.
Anyway, Mohamed told me what perhaps he would not have told another stranger. He led me to a house of cream stucco, then drove off. And as I sat contemplating what to say, a woman approached in a black shawl and black robe. I stepped from my car and said "Shalom," and identified myself, and she told me that her husband Abed would be home from work in four hours. Her Hebrew was not good, and she later confessed that she thought that I had come to install the internet.
V každom prípade, Mohamed mi povedal to, čo by asi nepovedal inému cudzincovi. Zaviedol ma k domu s krémovou sadrovou omietkou a potom odišiel. Keď som tam tak sedel a rozmýšľal som, čo poviem, podišla ku mne žena v čiernych šatách a šatke. Vystúpil som z auta a povedal som „Šalom“, predstavil som sa a ona povedala, že jej manžel Abed sa o pár hodín vráti z práce. Jej hebrejčina nebola veľmi dobrá a neskôr sa priznala, že si myslela, že som jej prišiel nainštalovať internet.
(Laughter)
(smiech)
I drove off and returned at 4:30, thankful to the minaret up the road that helped me find my way back. And as I approached the front door, Abed saw me, my jeans and flannel and cane, and I saw Abed, an average-looking man of average size. He wore black and white, slippers over socks, pilling sweatpants, a piebald sweater, a striped ski cap pulled down to his forehead. He'd been expecting me, Mohamed had phoned. And so at once, we shook hands, and smiled, and I gave him my gift, and he told me I was a guest in his home, and we sat beside one another on a fabric couch. It was then that Abed resumed at once the tale of woe he had begun over the phone 16 years before. He'd just had surgery on his eyes, he said. He had problems with his side and his legs too, and, oh, he'd lost his teeth in the crash. Did I wish to see him remove them? Abed then rose and turned on the TV so that I wouldn't be alone when he left the room, and returned with Polaroids of the crash and his old driver's license. "I was handsome," he said. We looked down at his laminated mug. Abed had been less handsome than substantial, with thick black hair and a full face and a wide neck. It was this youth who on May 16, 1990, had broken two necks including mine, and bruised one brain and taken one life. Twenty-one years later, he was now thinner than his wife, his skin slack on his face, and looking at Abed looking at his young self, I remembered looking at that photograph of my young self after the crash, and recognized his longing. "The crash changed both of our lives," I said.
Odišiel som a vrátil som sa o 4:30, vďaka minaretu pri ceste sa mi podarilo nájsť cestu späť. Ako som sa blížil ku vchodovým dverám, Abed ma zbadal, v mojich rifliach, flanelke a s palicou. Ja som zbadal Abeda, priemerne vyzerajúceho chlapa priemernej výšky. Bol oblečený v čierno-bielom, mal ponožky v sandáloch, tepláky, strakatý sveter, a pásikavú lyžiarsku čiapku mal stiahnutú do čela. Očakával ma, Mohamed mu zavolal. Hneď sme si podali ruky a usmiali sa na seba a dal som mu svoj darček. Povedal, že som v jeho dome hosťom a posadili sme sa vedľa seba na látkový gauč. Abed hneď začal rozprávať svoju smútočnú historku, s ktorou prišiel v telefonáte pred šestnástimi rokmi. Povedal, že práve absolvoval operáciu oka. Mal problém s krížami aj s nohami a, o, počas havárie prišiel o zuby. Chcel som vidieť, ako si ich vyberie? Potom sa postavil a zapol telku, aby som nebol sám, kým on odišiel z izby a vrátil sa s fotkami z havárie a so svojím starým vodičákom. „Bol som pekný,“ povedal. Pozreli sme sa na jeho zaliatu fotku. Abed bol skôr pevný ako pekný, s hustými čiernymi vlasmi, plnými lícami a širokým krkom. Bol to tento mladík, čo 16. mája 1990 zlomil dve chrbtice, vrátane tej mojej, poškodil jeden mozog a zobral jeden život. O dvadsaťjeden rokov neskôr bol chudší ako jeho žena, koža na tvári mu ovísala a ako som sledoval Abeda pozerať sa na svoju mladšiu verziu, spomenul som si, ako som sa ja pozeral na svoju fotku z mladosti po havárii a spoznal som jeho túžbu. „Tá havária nám obom zmenila život,“ povedal som.
Abed then showed me a picture of his mashed truck, and said that the crash was the fault of a bus driver in the left lane who did not let him pass. I did not want to recap the crash with Abed. I'd hoped for something simpler: to exchange a Turkish dessert for two words and be on my way. And so I didn't point out that in his own testimony the morning after the crash, Abed did not even mention the bus driver. No, I was quiet. I was quiet because I had not come for truth. I had come for remorse. And so I now went looking for remorse and threw truth under the bus. "I understand," I said, "that the crash was not your fault, but does it make you sad that others suffered?" Abed spoke three quick words. "Yes, I suffered."
Potom mi ukázal fotku jeho zničeného náklaďáku a povedal, že to bola chyba šoféra autobusu v ľavom pruhu, ktorý ho nenechal prejsť. Nechcel som sa s Abedom vracať k havárii. Dúfal som v niečo jednoduchšie: vymeniť tureckú sladkosť za ospravedlnenie a odísť preč. Tak som teda nepoukázal na to, že vo svojej vlastnej výpovedi na ďalší deň po nehode Abed šoféra autobusu ani nespomenul. Nie, bol som ticho. Bol som ticho, lebo som neprišiel kvôli pravde. Prišiel som kvôli súcitu. A tak som hľadal súcit a pravdu som hodil pod autobus. „Chápem, že tá havária nebola vaša chyba,“ povedal som, „ale nemrzí vás, že iní pri tom trpeli?“ Abed povedal tri rýchle slová. „Áno, trpel som.“
Abed then told me why he'd suffered. He'd lived an unholy life before the crash, and so God had ordained the crash, but now, he said, he was religious, and God was pleased. It was then that God intervened: news on the TV of a car wreck that hours before had killed three people up north. We looked up at the wreckage. "Strange," I said. "Strange," he agreed. I had the thought that there, on Route 804, there were perpetrators and victims, dyads bound by a crash. Some, as had Abed, would forget the date. Some, as had I, would remember. The report finished and Abed spoke. "It is a pity," he said, "that the police in this country are not tough enough on bad drivers."
Abed mi povedal, prečo trpel. Pred haváriou žil nepobožný život a tak Boh naňho uvalil tú haváriu, ale teraz už bol nábožný a Boh bol spokojný. A vtedy Boh zasiahol: správy v telke o autohavárii, ktorá pár hodín pred tým zabila troch ľudí na severe. Obaja sme pozerali na tú haváriu. „Čudné,“ povedal som. „Čudné,“ súhlasil. Mal som pocit, že tam na ceste 804 boli páchatelia a obete, dyády spojené haváriou. Niektorí, tak ako Abed, zabudnú dátum nehody. Niektorí, ako ja, si ho zapamätajú. Správy skončili a Abed povedal: „Škoda, že policajti v tejto krajine nie sú dosť tvrdí na zlých vodičov.“
(Laughter)
Bol som bezradný.
I was baffled. Abed had said something remarkable. Did it point up the degree to which he'd absolved himself of the crash? Was it evidence of guilt, an assertion that he should have been put away longer? He'd served six months in prison, lost his truck license for a decade. I forgot my discretion. "Um, Abed," I said, "I thought you had a few driving issues before the crash."
Abed povedal niečo pozoruhodné. Poukazovalo na to, do akej miery sa vzďaľoval od tej havárie? Bol to dôkaz jeho viny, myšlienka, že mal sedieť dlhšie? Odsedel si šesť mesiacov a stratil svoj náklaďák a vodičák na desať rokov. Pozabudol som na takt. „Hm, Abed,“ povedal som, „myslel som si, že si mal zopár vodičských problémov pred haváriou.“
"Well," he said, "I once went 60 in a 40." And so 27 violations -- driving through a red light, driving at excessive speed, driving on the wrong side of a barrier, and finally, riding his brakes down that hill -- reduced to one. And it was then I understood that no matter how stark the reality, the human being fits it into a narrative that is palatable. The goat becomes the hero. The perpetrator becomes the victim. It was then I understood that Abed would never apologize.
„No," povedal, „raz som išiel šesťdesiatkou namiesto štyridsiatky.“ A tak 27 priestupkov... jazda na červenú, jazda vysokou rýchlosťou, jazda na zlej strane vozovky a nakoniec, nezabrzdenie na tom kopci... všetko sa zmenšilo na jedno. A vtedy som pochopil, že je jedno, aká jasná je realita, ľudský tvor ju napasuje do príbehu, ktorý je stráviteľný. Koza sa stane hrdinom, páchateľ sa stane obeťou. Vtedy som pochopil, že Abed sa nikdy neospravedlní.
Abed and I sat with our coffee. We'd spent 90 minutes together, and he was now known to me. He was not a particularly bad man or a particularly good man. He was a limited man who'd found it within himself to be kind to me. With a nod to Jewish custom, he told me that I should live to be 120 years old. But it was hard for me to relate to one who had so completely washed his hands of his own calamitous doing, to one whose life was so unexamined that he said he thought two people had died in the crash.
Sedeli sme tam s Abedom pri káve. Strávili sme spolu 90 minút a teraz som ho poznal. Nebol to vyslovene zlý človek, ani vyslovene dobrý človek. Bol to obmedzený človek, ktorý to našiel v sebe, byť ku mne milý. Podľa židovského zvyku mi povedal, že budem žiť do stodvadsiatky. Bolo však pre mňa ťažké vytvoriť si vzťah s niekým, kto si totálne umyl ruky nad svojim katastrofálnym činom, s niekým, koho život bol taký nepreskúmaný, že povedal, že si myslel, že v havárii zahynuli dvaja ľudia.
There was much I wished to say to Abed. I wished to tell him that, were he to acknowledge my disability, it would be OK, for people are wrong to marvel at those like me who smile as we limp. People don't know that they have lived through worse, that problems of the heart hit with a force greater than a runaway truck, that problems of the mind are greater still, more injurious than a hundred broken necks. I wished to tell him that what makes most of us who we are most of all is not our minds and not our bodies and not what happens to us, but how we respond to what happens to us. "This," wrote the psychiatrist Viktor Frankl, "is the last of the human freedoms: to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances."
Bolo toho veľa, čo som chcel Abedovi povedať. Chcel som mu povedať, že keby si priznal moje postihnutie, bolo by to ok, lebo ľudia sa mýlia, keď žasnú nad takými ako som ja, ktorí sa usmievajú počas toho ako krívajú. Ľudia nevedia, že oni si prešli niečím horším, že problémy srdca udierajú silou väčšou, akú má rútiaci sa náklaďák, že problémy mysle sú oveľa väčšie, oveľa zraňujúcejšie ako sto zlomených krkov. Chcel som mu povedať, že to, čo väčšinu z nás robí tým, kým sme, hlavne to nie sú naše mysle a telá, nie je to to, čo sa nám stane, ale to, ako zareagujeme na to, čo sa nám stane. „Toto,“ napísal psychiater Viktor Frankl, „je posledná z ľudských slobôd: vybrať si svoj postoj za hocijakých okolností.“
I wished to tell him that not only paralyzers and paralyzees must evolve, reconcile to reality, but we all must -- the aging and the anxious and the divorced and the balding and the bankrupt and everyone. I wished to tell him that one does not have to say that a bad thing is good, that a crash is from God and so a crash is good, a broken neck is good. One can say that a bad thing sucks, but that this natural world still has many glories. I wished to tell him that, in the end, our mandate is clear. We have to rise above bad fortune. We have to be in the good and enjoy the good -- study and work and adventure and friendship, oh, friendship, and community and love.
Chcel som mu povedať, že nie len paralyzéri a paralyzovaní sa musia vyvíjať, zmierovať sa s realitou, ale že to musíme všetci... aj starnúci, aj úzkostliví, aj rozvedení, aj plešatejúci, aj skrachovaní a všetci ostatní. Chcel som mu povedať, že človek nemusí povedať, že zlá vec je dobrá, že havária prišla od Boha a tak je dobrá, zlomená chrbtica je dobrá. Človek môže povedať, že zlá vec je na nič, ale že tento svet má stále veľa nádhery. Chcel som mu povedať, že nakoniec je naša úloha jasná: Musíme sa povzniesť nad nešťastie. Musíme byť v blízkosti toho dobrého a užívať si to dobré, štúdium, prácu a dobrodružstvá a priateľstvá, ó, priateľstvá... a spoločenstvo a lásku.
But most of all, I wished to tell him what Herman Melville wrote, that truly "to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast." Yes, contrast. If you are mindful of what you do not have, you may be truly mindful of what you do have. And if the gods are kind, you may truly enjoy what you have. That is the one singular gift you may receive if you suffer in any existential way. You know death, and so may wake each morning pulsing with ruddy life. Some part of you is cold, and so another part may truly enjoy what it is to be warm, or even to be cold. When one morning, years after the crash, I stepped onto stone and the underside of my left foot felt the flash of cold, nerves at last awake, it was exhilarating, a gust of snow.
Ale najviac zo všetkého som mu chcel povedať to, čo napísal Herman Melville, že, „aby si si užil telesné teplo, nejaká malá časť tvojho tela musí byť v chlade, lebo v tomto svete neexistuje vlastnosť, ktorá je niečím iným než kontrastom.“ Áno, kontrast. Keď si uvedomujete to, čo nemáte, môžte si lepšie uvedomovať aj to, čo máte a ak sú vám bohovia naklonení, môžete si skutočne užívať to, čo máte. To je ten jediný dar, ktorý môžete dostať, ak utrpíte existenčným spôsobom. Ste si vedomí smrti, a tak sa každé ráno môžete zobudiť plní života. Nejakej časti vo vás je chladno, a tak si nejaká iná časť môže skutočne užiť ten pocit zohriatia, či naopak chladu. Keď som v jedno ráno, roky po nehode stúpil na kamennú dlážku a spodná časť mojej ľavej nohy pocítila nával chladu, nervy nakoniec prebudené, bolo to neskutočné potešenie, výbuch snehu.
But I didn't say these things to Abed. I told him only that he had killed one man, not two. I told him the name of that man. And then I said, "Goodbye."
Ale toto som Abedovi nepovedal. Povedal som mu len, že zabil jedného človeka, nie dvoch. Povedal som mu meno toho človeka. A potom som povedal: „Dovidenia.“
Thank you.
Ďakujem.
(Applause)
(potlesk)
Thanks a lot.
Ďakujem pekne.
(Applause and cheers)
(potlesk)