So I thought, "I will talk about death." Seemed to be the passion today. Actually, it's not about death. It's inevitable, terrible, but really what I want to talk about is, I'm just fascinated by the legacy people leave when they die. That's what I want to talk about.
Pomislih: "Govoriću o smrti." Izgleda da je to strast današnjice. Ustvari, ne govori se ovde o smrti. Neizbežna je, očajna, ali ja u suštini želim da pričam o svoj fascinaciji onime što ljudi ostave iza sebe. O tome želim da pričam.
So Art Buchwald left his legacy of humor with a video that appeared soon after he died, saying, "Hi! I'm Art Buchwald, and I just died." And Mike, who I met at Galapagos, a trip which I won at TED, is leaving notes on cyberspace where he is chronicling his journey through cancer. And my father left me a legacy of his handwriting through letters and a notebook. In the last two years of his life, when he was sick, he filled a notebook with his thoughts about me. He wrote about my strengths, weaknesses, and gentle suggestions for improvement, quoting specific incidents, and held a mirror to my life.
Art Buhvald je za sobom ostavio humoristični snimak koji se pojavio ubrzo nakon njegove smrti, u kojem je saopštio "Zdravo. Ja sam Art Buhvald i upravo sam umro." Majk, koga sam upoznala na Galapagosu, putovanje koje sam osvojila na TED-u, se bavi pisanjem hronike o svojoj borbi sa rakom, a piše to u sajber-prostoru. Moj otac je za sobom ostavio rukopise, pisma i sveske. Tokom svoje dve poslednje godine života je , dok je bolovao, ispisao svesku mislima o meni. Pisao je o mojoj snazi, mojim slabostima, i nenametljivim predlozima za usavršavanje, navodeći tačne događaje, i ostavio mi je ogledalo mog života.
After he died, I realized that no one writes to me anymore. Handwriting is a disappearing art. I'm all for email and thinking while typing, but why give up old habits for new? Why can't we have letter writing and email exchange in our lives? There are times when I want to trade all those years that I was too busy to sit with my dad and chat with him, and trade all those years for one hug. But too late. But that's when I take out his letters and I read them, and the paper that touched his hand is in mine, and I feel connected to him.
Kada je umro,shvatila sam da više niko ne piše na papiru. To je umetnost koja izumire. Potpuno podržavam imejl i ramišljanje u toku tipkanja, ali zašto bismo odustali od starih navika? Zašto ne bismo imali i stara pisma i razmenu mejlova u našim životima? Ponekada poželim da zamenim sve te godine tokom kojih sam bila prezauzeta da sedim i pričam sa svojim ocem, zamenila bih ih sve za jedan zagrljaj. Prekasno. U tim momentima posegnem za njegovim pismima i čitam ih i držim u rukama papir koji je on dodirivao, i osećam povezanost sa njim.
So maybe we all need to leave our children with a value legacy, and not a financial one. A value for things with a personal touch -- an autographed book, a soul-searching letter. If a fraction of this powerful TED audience could be inspired to buy a beautiful paper -- John, it'll be a recycled one -- and write a beautiful letter to someone they love, we actually may start a revolution where our children may go to penmanship classes.
Možda svi mi treba svojoj deci da ostavimo u nasledstvo vrednosti, ali ne materijalne. Vrednost stvari koje nose lični dodir, knjigu sa potpisom, pismo koje nas povezuje. Ukoliko bi samo deo ove moćne TED publike bio inspirisan da kupi lep papir, Džon, reciklirani papir, i napiše prelepo pismo nekome koga vole, možda bismo započeli revoluciju koja bi dovela do toga da naša deca idu na časove pisanja pisama.
So what do I plan to leave for my son? I collect autographed books, and those of you authors in the audience know I hound you for them -- and CDs too, Tracy. I plan to publish my own notebook. As I witnessed my father's body being swallowed by fire, I sat by his funeral pyre and wrote. I have no idea how I'm going to do it, but I am committed to compiling his thoughts and mine into a book, and leave that published book for my son.
Šta ja planiram da ostavim u nasleđe svom sinu? Sakupljam knjige sa potpisima, i svi autori u publici znate da sam vas jurila za to, sakupljam takođe i diskove, Trejsi. Planiram da objavim svoje spise. Dok sam posmatrala kako vatra guta telo moga oca, sedela sam pored tog plamena i pisala. Nemam predstavu kako ću to izvesti, ali sam posvećena tome da njegove i moje misli uobličim u knjizi, a objavljenu knjigu ću posvetiti mom sinu.
I'd like to end with a few verses of what I wrote at my father's cremation. And those linguists, please pardon the grammar, because I've not looked at it in the last 10 years. I took it out for the first time to come here. "Picture in a frame, ashes in a bottle, boundless energy confined in the bottle, forcing me to deal with reality, forcing me to deal with being grown up. I hear you and I know that you would want me to be strong, but right now, I am being sucked down, surrounded and suffocated by these raging emotional waters, craving to cleanse my soul, trying to emerge on a firm footing one more time, to keep on fighting and flourishing just as you taught me. Your encouraging whispers in my whirlpool of despair, holding me and heaving me to shores of sanity, to live again and to love again." Thank you.
Želela bih da završim izlaganje sa par stihova koje sam napisala na kremaciji mog oca. Lingvisti, molim vas oprostite mi gramatičke greške, jer nisam ovo čitala već 10 godina. Po prvi put ih čitam ovde. "Slika u okviru, pepeo u boci, bezgranična energija uhvaćena u posudi, tera me da se nosim sa stvarnošću, tera me da se nosim sa svojom zrelošću. Čujem te i znam da želiš da budem jaka, ali sam u ovom trenutku potonula, okružena i gušim se u ovim talasima emocija, žudim da pročistim svoju dušu, pokušavam da isplivam na čvrsto tlo barem još jednom, da nastavim borbu i razvoj, baš onako kako si me učio. Tvoji ohrabrujući šapati u vrtlogu očaja, me održavaju i mi pružaju utočište u razumu, ne bih li živela ponovo i volela ponovo." Hvala vam.