So the gods sent a message to an old king. "We will disguise you so that you can enter the enemy camp, find your son's killer and then you can try and ransom your dead son's body back off him." When the king tells his queen, she is terrified. "Don't go! Man-slaying Achilles will kill you too." But then the old man, King Priam of Troy, says something strange and wonderful but difficult for our generation to fully comprehend. "I don't care if the Greeks kill me, just as long as I first have the heart-comforting embrace of my dead son in my arms."
Dakle, bogovi su poslali ostarelom kralju poruku. „Prerušićemo te kako bi mogao da uđeš u neprijateljski tabor, pronađeš sinovljevog ubicu i potom od njega pokušaš da otkupiš mrtvo telo svog sina.” Kada kralj ovo saopšti kraljici, ona je užasnuta. „Ne idi! Čovekoubica Ahil će ubiti i tebe.” Međutim, potom starac, kralj Prijam trojanski, izgovara nešto neobično i čudesno, ali gotovo nerazumljivo našoj generaciji. „Ne marim ako me Grci ubiju, dokle god pre toga budem grlio sa utehom u srcu svog mrtvog sina u naručju.”
"My dead son in my arms?" Doesn't the old man know that the bodies of the dead are worthless? His quest pointless. Who would risk their life for a corpse? The story comes from Book 24 of "The Iliad," a foundation work of Western civilization written by Homer in 700 BC about a war that took place in 1300 BC. The siege of Troy. A bardic poem that was memorized, recited and performed for thousands of years.
„Svog mrtvog sina u naručju?” Zar starac ne zna da su tela mrtvaca bezvredna? Da je njegov pohod besmislen. Ko bi rizikovao svoj život radi leša? Priča potiče iz „Ilijadine” Kinjige 24, temeljnog dela zapadne civilizacije koje je napisao Homer 700 g.p.n.e. o ratu koji se desio 1300 g.p.n.e. Opsada Troje. Bardova poema koju su učili napamet, recitovali i izvodili hiljadama godina.
You heard the sound of the Iliad cascade through your ears and in that retelling you rediscover the ancient life and death wisdom of our ancestors. How to be brave in sorrow, how to face your own death with courage, how to teach your children how to die, how to be a better mortal, a better human. (In Greek) "Hṑs hoí g’ amphíepon táphon Héktoros hippodámoio." The very last line in Ancient Greek of "The Iliad" itself. A wisdom that we have willfully forgotten and lost in our newish self-centered fear of death.
Čujete zvuk „Ilijade” kako vam se sliva niz uši i u tom prepričavanju nanovo otkrivate drevnu mudrost o životu i smrti naših predaka. Kako biti hrabar u tuzi, kako da se hrabro suočite sa smrću, kako da podučite decu umiranju, kako da budete bolji smrtnik, bolje ljudsko biće. (Na grčkom) "Hṑs hoí g’ amphíepon táphon Héktoros hippodámoio." Poslednji stih „Ilijade” na antičkom grčkom. Mudrost koju smo namerno zaboravili i izgubili u našem novom samo-opsednutom strahu od smrti.
In contrast, we have subcontracted our mortality out. Modern death absurdly has become a medical specialism. Palliative care a foreign country we never visit. Or only at the end of our own lives. The ultimate form of death denial. Just as we have forbidden ourselves not only the embrace but the very sight of our own dead.
Nasuprot tome, prebacili smo našu smrtnost sa sebe. Apsurdno je da je savremena smrt postala medicinska specijalnost. Palijativna nega je strana država koju nikad ne posećujemo. Ili tek na kraju naših sopstvenih života. Krajnji oblik poricanja smrti. Baš kao što smo zabranili nama samima ne samo zagrljaj, već i sami prizor smrti naših bližnjih.
Forbidden. Shall we take a test? Can you take the fingers of your right hand? Yeah, you, everyone, and count off the number of corpses that you have seen, touched, kissed and embraced in your entire life? One? Or two? Or none? Will your corpse count make it to the fingers of your left hand? And how could that be, in a world where everyone is mortal?
Zabranili smo. Da li da uradimo jedan test? Možete li da uzmete prste vaše desne ruke? Da, vi, svi, i izbrojte koliko ste leševa videli, dotakli, poljubili i zagrlili u čitavom životu? Jedan? Ili dva? Ili nijedan? Da li će nabrajanje leševa stići do vaše leve ruke? I kako je to uopšte moguće u svetu u kom su svi smrtni?
On our TV screens, we would pixel it out, that final act of Homeric love, the dead Hector in his father's arms, on the grounds of taste and public decency, and the advertizing revenue. But our existential flight has not made us stronger, wiser, more death-courageous, just more fearful. We're far too sad, too frightened of our own death. Our conception of death has narrowed to an I-thing, never an our-thing. The terminally ill are often ashamed of their sickening and hide from sight. We are embarrassed about what to say to a colleague who's lost someone they love. Embarrassed by our mortality. Worried that if we say anything, we will make them more sad. And sad, of course, is bad.
Na našim te-ve ekranima bismo to zamutili, taj krajnji čin homerovske ljubavi, mrtvi Hektor u naručju svog oca, sve zbog ukusa i javne pristojnosti, kao i zarade od reklama. Međutim, naš egzistencijalni beg nas nije učinio jačim, mudrijim, odvažnijim pred smrću, već samo još plašljivijim. Suviše smo tužni, suviše uplašeni sopstvene smrti. Naše razumevanje smrti se suzilo na moju stvar, nikad našu stvar. Smrtno bolesni su često posramljeni zbog svoje bolesti i kriju se od pogleda. Sramota nas je šta da kažemo kolegi koji je izgubio voljenu osobu. Sramota nas je naše smrtnosti. Brinemo, ako bilo šta kažemo da će samo da budu još tužniji. A tuga je naravno loša.
The pleasures of sorrow, grieving openly together, are unrecognizable to us. Though they are often cited in "The Iliad" along with motherly advice to have more sex as a form of grief therapy. Advice, which speaking from personal experience, can do a grieving soul a world of good.
Užitak u tuzi, zajedničkom oplakivanju su nam nepoznanica. Iako su čest citat u „Ilijadi” zajedno sa majčinskim savetom za češćim upražnjavanjem seksa kao terapije za patnju. Savet, koji, govoreći iz sopstvenog iskustva, može umnogome da pomogne napaćenoj duši.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
We are more afraid of dying than those warriors on the plains of Troy. More conquered by death. And of course, you always would be more sad and more afraid if you believe that you will only ever face death alone and in terror. A once in a death time experience. A me-death, never a we-death.
Više se plašimo smrti nego vojnici na ravnicama Troje. Više smo poraženi smrću. I naravno, uvek ćete biti tužniji i uplašeniji, ako verujete da ćete se jedino susresti sa smrću usamljeni i užasnuti. Izvanredno iskustvo smrti. Moja smrt, nikad naša smrt.
But what about if you train for death the same way that we all train to drive a car? Taking lessons off an instructor. Going on little laps around your local neighborhood, sitting a whole series of tests, which even if you failed, you'd get to resit again. A common social experience, a rite of passage. It doesn't sound hard, does it? Now if you've never been to a Trojan wake or an Irish version of the same thing, and only seen the movie, you're probably thinking it's just another Irish piss-up. A few drunks in some dank bar, lamenting their dead uncle Johnny who they buried that morning. But you would be dead wrong. Wakes are the oldest rites of humanity.
Međutim, šta ako biste se obučavali za smrt na isti način na koji se obučavamo da vozimo automobil? Uzimajući časove kod instruktora. Odlazeći na kratke etape po vašem lokalnom komšiluku, radeći nizove testova, koje čak iako ne položite, možete ponovo da polažete. Zajedničko društveno iskustvo, ceremonija prelaska. Ne zvuči teško, zar ne? Ako nikad niste bili na trojanskom bdenju ili irskom pandanu istog, i jedino ste gledali film, verovatno mislite, to je samo još jedno irsko pijančenje. Nekoliko pijanica u nekakvom memljivom baru, koji oplakuju mrtvog čika Džonija koga su tog jutra sahranili. Međutim, namrtvo biste pogrešili. Bdenja su najstariji ljudski obredi.
When I was seven, my mother took me to meet my first corpse. A wake on the island of our ancestors. An old man with hairy nostrils lying in a box, who I instinctively knew wasn't sleeping. Even then in her maternal care she was teaching her boy to overcome the fear of death, just as her community had overcome their fear together for thousands of years. My family have lived in the same village on an island off the coast of County Mayo in Ireland for the last 250 years. A real wake has got a real dead body. A dead one of us.
Kada mi je bilo sedam godina, majka me je povela da upoznam svoj prvi leš. Bdenje na ostrvu naših predaka. Starac sa dlakavim nozdrvama koji je ležao u sanduku, za kog sam instinktivno znao da ne spava. Čak i tad u svoj svojoj majčinskoj brizi podučavala je svog dečaka da prevaziđe strah od smrti, baš kao što je njena zajednica zajedno prevazilazila svoj strah hiljadama godina. Moja porodica je živela u istom selu na ostrvu blizu obale okruga Mejo u Irskoj poslednjih 250 godina. Pravo bdenje ima pravo mrtvo telo. Mrtvac je jedan od nas.
Now they don't say much, but you sure can learn a lot in their company. Every human being who you have ever touched before, in love or anger, is a warm-blooded mammal. But the dead are so cold they could be carved from marble.
Sad, ne govore mnogo, ali zasigurno možete mnogo da naučite u njihovom društvu. Svako ljudsko biće koje ste ikad pre dotakli, s ljubavlju ili besom, je bilo toplokrvni sisar. Međutim, mrtvi su toliko hladni kao da su isklesani u mermeru.
Later in life, when I took my own dead brother Bernard in my arms, and kissed and embraced him, I could not at first believe that this stone-cold mannequin had ever been human.
Kasnije u životu, kada sam uzeo mrtvo telo svog rođenog brata Bernarda u naručje i poljubio i zagrlio ga, pre svega, nisam mogao da verujem da je ova kao kamen hladna lutka ikad bila ljudsko biće.
And here's another existential epiphany. As you are sitting here listening to me, your heart is pumping blood. But when you cut that pump, the pressure disappears, the blood flows to the lower limbs, your cheeks sag, your face turns gray, your bloodless fingers a yellow ivory. And the great animating kern of personality, like the ignition on your car, is just gone.
A evo još jednog egizstencijalnog prosvetljenja. Dok sedite ovde i slušate me, vaše srce pumpa krv. Međutim, kad prekinete pumpu, pritisak nestaje, krv otiče u donje ekstremitete, obrazi vam se obese, lice posivi, vaši beskrvni prsti su žuta slonovača. A velika živahna spojnica ličnosti, poput struje u vašem automobilu, prosto nestaje.
So what happens then, yeah? What we shouldn't do and what our ancestors didn't do, is then say something stupid. Like, "That's just a shell, forget about it," you know? The being that you loved in life never existed outside that body and if you loved that person in life, how should you not revere and respect their body in death? The Romans, the Kelts, the Greeks revered their dead. Like a newborn child, the dead were never to be left alone, and always had someone to watch over them until they were laid to rest.
Šta se dešava potom, da? Ono što ne treba da radimo i što naši preci nisu radili je da onda kažemo neku glupost. Poput: „To je samo ljuštura, ne misli na to”, znate? Biće koje ste voleli u životu nikad nije postojalo izvan tog tela, a ako ste voleli tu osobu dok je bila živa, kako da ne cenite i poštujete njeno mrtvo telo? Rimljani, Kelti, Grci su poštovali svoje mrtve. Poput novorođenčeta, mrtve nikad nisu ostavljali same i uvek ih je neko pazio dok ih ne ostave na počinak.
Sad was good too. There was no shame in sorrow at the gates of Troy. Even man-slaying Achilles wept until his breastplate was wet with tears, and women cried and grieved openly at funerals. The bodies of the dead were of worth. Together, our ancestors enacted a whole raft of rituals to bind up the wound of mortality, comfort the afflicted, bury their dead and get on with the rest of their lives. They gave of themselves freely. And they had a great time too, feasting, drinking, and having sex at funerals.
Tuga je takođe bila dobra. Nije bilo sramota tugovati pred kapijama Troje. Čak je i čovekoubica Ahil plakao dok mu se štit ne bi natopio suzama, a žene su plakale i tugovale otvoreno na sahranama. Tela mrtvaca su imala vrednost. Zajedno, naši su preci odigravali sijaset rituala kako bi uvezali rane smrtnosti, utešili ožalošćene, sahranili mrtve i nastavili sa svojim životima. Bespoštedno su se davali. I zabavljali su se takođe, gosteći se, opijajući i upražnjavajući seks na sahranama.
Death -- and here is a really big idea -- was and is an every-other-day sort of event. Just as it is in Ireland today, where people still go in great numbers to wakes and funerals, and an ordinary person might see dozens, maybe hundreds of dead bodies in the course of their lifetime. Now funerals can be sad. But there is nothing abstract or sentimental about an Irish wake. The old woman in the box, that red-haired child wrapped up in a shroud is another dead human. Another one of us. Wrapped up, though, in these corpse encountering rituals are a lot of profound protocols.
Smrt - i ovo je zaista velika ideja - bila je i jeste događaj kao i svaki drugi. Baš kao što je trenutno u Irskoj gde ljudi i dalje u velikom mnoštvu odlaze na bdenja i sahrane, i običan čovek može da vidi desetine, možda stotine mrtvih tela u toku svog života. Doduše, sahrane mogu da budu tužne. Međutim, ništa nije apstraktno ili sentimentalno kod irskog bdenja. Starica u sanduku, to riđokoso dete umotano u pokrov je još jedno mrtvo ljudsko biće. Još jedan od nas. Upakovano, pak, u te rituale koji uključuju leševe je mnogo suštinskih protokola.
You see, at that wake -- You know, this is what death looks like. This is what death is. You can reach into the coffin and touch. And those protocols allow you to do things. So for instance, there is a licensing of grief. Being angry, tearful, grieving, crying. A recognition of irrevocable change in the very public deadness of the deceased. A communal acknowledgment of bereavement and loss. An unflinching mortal solidarity. A we-death, not a me-death.
Vidite, na tom bdenju - Znate, ovako izgleda smrt. Ovo je smrt. Možete posegnuti u sanduk i dotaći. A ti protokoli vam dozvoljavaju da obavljate neke stvari. Na primer, imate dozvolu za tugu. Da budete besni, snuždeni, ucveljeni, uplakani. Priznanje nepovratne promene u krajnje javnom mrtvilu počivšeg. Priznanje zajednice o žalosti i gubitku. Nepokolebljiva solidarnost smrtnika. Naša smrt, a ne moja smrt.
Sharing the company of the dead at wakes and funerals was our foremothers' mortality driving lessons. They're "how to live and die" manual, with a list of embedded instructions, like, how being mortal is the one thing in life that you will never get to choose. How thinking that you're immortal is a foolish idea. How the pleasures of sorrow, open public grief can heal up a wounded soul. And how together we can conquer our fear of death. Sounds good, eh?
Biti u društvu mrtvih na bdenjima i sahranama je bio čas vožnje iz smrtnosti naših pretkinja. Radi se o „kako da živite i umrete” priručniku, sa spiskom ugrađenih uputstava, poput, kako je smrtnost jedina stvar u životu koju nećete imati priliku da odaberete. Kako je smatranje sebe besmrtnim budalasta zamisao. Kako užitak u tuzi, otvoreno javno oplakivanje mogu da zaleče povređenu dušu. I kako zajedno možemo da savladamo naš strah od smrti. Zvuči dobro, ha?
(Audience murmurs)
(Publika gunđa)
But I wonder is anyone thinking it will never work in today's America. I don't know who my next door neighbors are, families are scattered, there's no communities left to do these wake things with. But again, you would be dead wrong.
Međutim, pitam se da li iko smatra da ne bi funkcionisalo u današnjoj Americi. Ne znam ko su mi prve komšije, porodice su raštrkane, nema više zajednica za slične obrede bdenja. Međutim, opet, namrtvo biste pogrešili.
We all have the power as individuals to reenact the wisdom of our ancestors. Confronted in our mortality, we often feel powerless, death-struck. But all you need to do is rediscover yourself. Be a bit more Irish, if you like.
Svi kao pojedinci imamo moć da oživimo mudrost naših predaka. Suočeni sa sopstvenom smrtnošću, često se činimo nemoćni, zatečeni smrću. No, sve što je potrebno je da se nanovo spoznate. Da budete malo više Irci, ako hoćete.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
Maybe you just never recognized yourself as part of the same mortal community. But it is easy to reconnect if you want to try. Not because you're being altruistic, but for purely selfish reasons. Free dying lessons. Who else did you expect would teach you how to die apart from another dying human? All you have to do is overcome your fear, using the tools that you already have in your hands. Like your phones. So on the day that you hear that someone has lost someone they love, you don't wait but you reach out then with that phone and call them up and say, "I'm sorry for your loss."
Možda prosto nikad niste videli sebe kao deo iste zajednice smrtnika. Međutim, lako se nanovo povezati, ako želite da pokušate. Ne zato što ste altruistični, već iz čisto sebičnih razloga. Besplatne lekcije o umiranju. Od koga ste očekivali da vas poduči umiranju osim drugog umirućeg ljudskog bića? Sve što je potrebno je da prevaziđete strah koristeći oruđa koja već držite u rukama. Poput vaših telefona. Dakle, onog dana kad čujete da je neko izgubio dragu osobu, ne čekajte, već posegnite za tim telefonom i nazovite tu osobu i recite: „Primi moje saučešće.”
Or go visit the sick and dying and try to be there for the moment of death, for the witness and the wonder. Nothing else that you will ever do in life will be more profound or more life-affirming. Or go to more funerals. Even if you think you don't know the dead person that well. I can assure you, as long as you are breathing, you know them well enough. Give of yourself freely. Because even by these small steps, you will be recognizing yourself as part of the great mortal us. Just as human, just as vulnerable as all the lives around you.
Ili pođite u posetu bolesnima i onima na samrti i pokušajte da budete prisutni u trenutku smrti zarad svedočenja i zadivljenosti. Ništa što ćete ikada obaviti u životu neće biti suštinskije, niti će biti veća potvrda života. Ili idite češće na sahrane. Čak iako smatrate da preminulog ne poznajete tako dobro. Uveravam vas, dokle god dišete, poznajete ih dovoljno dobro. Bespoštedno se dajite. Jer čak i uz ove male korake, prepoznaćete sebe kao deo veće celine nas smrtnika. Baš kao i svi ljudi, jednako ranjivi kao i svi životi oko vas.
Death matters because life matters, and the two are indivisible. Don't worry if you feel awkward at first. Practice, practice, practice, until it's just like getting in that car and going and you don't even think about it. Though your own death will take you a whole lifetime to get right.
Smrt je važna jer je život važan, i ovo dvoje su neraskidivi. Ne brinite, ako se budete osećali čudno na početku. Vežbajte, vežbajte, vežbajte dok ne bude baš kao sedanje u automobil i vožnja o kojoj ni ne razmišljate. Iako će vam trebati čitav životni vek da sopstvenu smrt odradite kako treba.
So after I gave up on going to foreign wars, and the maturity of youth, I turned a bardic poet. And I wrote this praise song in honor of my island mothers, who for thousands of years never faltered to cradle the dead to rest. It's called "If I could sing."
Dakle, nakon što sam odustao od odlaska u inostrane ratove i nakon sazrevanja, postao sam pesnik bard. I napisao sam ovu pohvalnu pesmu u čast mojih ostrvskih majki koje se hiljadama godina nikad nisu pokolebale da uljuljkaju mrtvaca na počinak. Naslovljena je „Da znam da pevam”.
If I could sing, I would not sing of the fallen city of Ilias and glories gone or Hector's blood dried and stained in sand. No. I would sing of an island, far out to the west, rising sea-plucked, spray-lashed, a citadel of stone, walled deep in the blue ocean. Another Troy, an Irish Troy. Closer to the sinking sun. Unconquered.
Da znam da pevam, ne bih pevao o palom gradu Iliju i slavnoj prošlosti ili Hektorovoj krvi koja je suva fleka u pesku. Ne. Pevao bih o osrtvu, daleko tamo na zapadu, kamenoj tvrđavi koju mrvi nadiruće more i šiba pena, opasanoj zidinama u dubokom modrom okeanu. Druga Troja, irska Troja. Bliža ponirućem suncu. Neosvojena.
If you could hear this song, you, too, would listen in rapture to the mná caointe keening women, crying out, grieving, heart-struck in eternal chorus at the wake, where the last best hope of humanity beats on. That mortal being incarnate in flesh shall not live, love or die alone.
Kad biste mogli čuti ovu pesmu, i vi biste slušali u zanosu mná caointe, tužbalicu žena koje zapomažu, tuguju, užasnutih srca u večnom horu bdenja, gde poslednja najbolja nada čovečanstva još živi. Da smrtnik otelotvoren u mesu neće živeti, voleti ili umreti sam.
And if I could sing, if we could sing together, my brothers and sisters, surely then we should never stop the singing of this song.
I kad bih znao da pevam, kad bismo zapevali zajedno, braćo i sestre, zasigurno tad ne bismo prestali da pevamo ovu pesmu nikad.
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)