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.
Pa, mislila sam: "Govoriću o smrti." To je, izgleda strast danas. Ustvari, govor nije o smrti. Ona je neizbježna, užasna, ali ono o čemu zaista želim da govorim je, fascinirana sam onim što ljudi ostave za sobom kada umru. To je ono o čemu želim da govorim.
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.
Tako je Art Bahvald ostavio za sobom duhoviti video koji se pojavio ubrzo nakon što je umro, u kojem kaže, "Zdravo, ja sam Art Bahvald, i upravo sam umro." A Majk, koga sam upoznala na Galapagosu, na putovanju koje sam osvojila na TED-u, ostavlja poruke na sajber prostoru na kojem piše hroniku o njegovom životu sa rakom. A moj otac mi je ostavio svoje rukopise, pisma i sveske. Za poslednje dvije godine svog života, dok je bio bolestan, ispisao je svesku svojih misli o meni. Pisao je o mojoj snazi, slabostima, i blagim savjetima o napretku, navodeći specifične događaje, i pružajući mi 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.
Nakon njegove smrti, shvatila sam da mi niko više ne piše. Pisanje je umjetnost koja nestaje. Ja sam za e-mail i razmišljam dok kucam, ali zašto zbog novih navika odustajemo od starih? Zašto ne bismo imali pisma i razmjenjivali e-mail-ove? Ponekad želim da mijenjam sve godine kada sam bila isuviše zauzeta da sjedim i ćaskam sa svojim ocem, i mijenjam sve te godine za jedan njegov zagrljaj. Ali, prekasno. Ali tada, izvadim njegova pisma i pročitam ih, i papir koji je dotakao njegovu ruku je u mojoj, i osjetim se povezanim 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.
Tako da, možda svi treba da ostavimo našoj djeci vrijednu zaostavštinu, ali ne onu finansijsku. Vrijednu stvar sa ličnim dodirom - autobiografsku knjigu, pismo u kojem tražimo dušu. Ako bi mali dio ove moćne TED publike želio da kupi lijep papir - Džone, biće reciklirani papir -- i napisao lijepo pismo nekome koga voli, mi bismo, ustvari započeli revoluciju koja bi natjerala našu djecu da odu na časove lijepog pisanja.
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 svom sinu? Skupljam autobiografske knjige, a autori tih knjiga koji su u publici, znaju da sam ih uznemiravala za knjige -- i CD-ove takođe, Trejsi. Planiram da objavim svoju knjigu. Dok sam gledala kako tijelo moga oca guta plamen, na sahrani sam sjela na lomaču i zapisala. Nemam ideju kako ću to da uradim, ali posvećena sam da sastavim negove misli sa svojima u knjizi, i da ostavim tu objavljenu knjigu svom 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.
Voljela bih da završim sa nekoliko stihova koje sam zapisala kada su kremirali mog oca. A vi lingvisti, oprostite na gramatici, zato što to nisam čitala deset godina. Po prvi put ih čitam ovdje. "Slika u okviru, pepeo u boci, bezgranična energija zatvorena u boci, tjera me da se izborim sa stvarnošću, tjera me da se izborim sa tim da sam odrasla. Čujem te i znam da želiš da budem jaka, ali sada sam usisana dolje, okružena i ugušena ovim razjarenim talasima emocija, žudeći da pročistim svoju dušu, pokušavajući da se ispenjem na čvrstoj osnovi još jednom, da nastavim da se borim i cvjetam kao što si me naučio. Tvoji ohrabrujući šapati u mom vrtlogu očaja drže me i pružaju utočište na obali razuma, da ponovo živim i volim. Hvala vam.