S A N D A N I L A K I Š A

S A N D A N I L A K I Š AD A N I L O K I Š ‘ S D R E A M

E. S., nestali, središnja figura sveta koji je takođe nestao. Jevrejski svet centralne Evrope.

D.K.

E. S, vanished, the central figure of the world that has vanished as well.The Jewish world of central Europe.D.K.

ČITANJE JEDNOG SNA

U DEVET STAVOVA (SÔBA)

S UVERTIROM (PREDSOBLJEM)

I KÔDOM (MEĐUSOBOM)

Katarina Pejović

UVERTIRA (PREDSOBLJE)

Da li kao žrtva vremena u kojem nastaje (signala koje vreme odašilje pojedincu a on/a ga prevodi u percepciju), ili zahvaljujući izuzetnosti i čudnovatosti susreta ideja, slutnji, spleta okolnosti – ukratko, milošću sinhroniciteta – koji su doveli do knjige koju držite u rukama, ovo zapisano čitanje mnogo je srodnije detektivskom ili forenzičkom zahvatu nego klasičnoj analizi i interpretaciji umetničkog dela: tragovi su mnogobrojni i disparatni, zavodljivi i izmičući, indicije višeslojne, delo već uobličeno (počinjeno), ali otvoreno za daljnje preoblikovanje. Ova je forenzika, za razliku od ovovremenih pomodnih primena, ipak lišena oholosti jednog specifičnog znanja i nadmenosti njoj svojstvene logike zaključivanja. Ona je ćutljiva, ne bi li razaznala sled i harmoniju glasova u kakofoniji podataka; umirenog pogleda, gotovo do nepomičnosti, zagledana u slike - one koje izviru iz pisane reči, one koje su tragovi svetlosti na osetljivom papiru i one koje nastaju senčenjem doživljaja; u neprekidnom podešavanju, štimovanju receptora za hvatanje tananih, paučinastih značenja koja se pojavljuju samo pod određenim uglom posmatranja, u trenucima nekad kraćim od treptaja oka, i njihovom prevođenju u nešto stameniji oblik reči.

Evidencija osnovnih elemenata (na uvid svakom posetitelju ove knjige): Jedan čudesni i nenadmašni literarni opus prožet “podmuklim dejstvom biografije” (kako je jedinstveni amalgam sopstvenog porekla, stvaralaštva, životnih tokova i odluka odredio sam autor opusa) i ono što on donosi njegovom istraživaču - otkrovenje, saznanje, identifikaciju, katarzu, usvajanje, nadahnuće, otvaranje polja kreativnosti; Prostor prošlosti - proganjajuće sećanje, napuštena sinagoga zapuštenog jevrejskog groblja, Srednja Evropa preobremenjena duhovima mogućih i nemogućih istorija; San - utočište meta-vremenske dimenzije svih želja, nada i strahova, kuća podsvesti; Fotografije - svetlosni zapisi asocijacija rođenih na putovanju kroz opus i san; Tarot i hebrejski alfabet - drevni intuitivno-racionalni sistemi kao oruđa za semantičko-simboličko strukturiranje materijala; Posveta literarnom Ocu - Sin odsutnog Oca, prepoznaje duhovnog Oca u Sinu odsutnog, nepostojanog, a potom i izgubljenog Oca (interpretacija je, neminovno, sastavni deo forenzike…)

Mogući elementi: Otac; Sin; Poreklo; Groblje; Memorija; Palimpsest; Preobražaj; Nepromenljivost; 22; Neprozirno u prošlom; Neizrecivo u sadašnjem; Nevidljivo u budućem…

Elementi naviru, tiskaju se međusobno. U predsoblju postaje tesno. Krenimo, stoga, u sobe - jer svaka je knjiga kuća, građevina, zdanje. Rukovodiće nas brojevi na vratima soba:

1. (MAG/KOLO SREĆE/SUNCE)

U trenutku svog objavljenja i obelodanjenja u mislima i duhu, svaka je ideja Apsolut: celovita, jedinstvena, nedeljiva. Njen je prostor beskonačan, jer obuzima celo biće; njeno vreme nemerljivo, jer tek započinje. Taj dugi trenutak, nadošao od uzbuđenja otkrovenja, najbliže je uspostavljena veza s božanskim: Ja se širi do (bez)granica univerzuma i natrag, u pulsirajućem demijurškom naponu. Ideja

[1] Lakan je, verovatno zahvaljujući svom zvanju forenzičkog psihologa, tvrdio još 70-ih godina prošlog veka da će glavna nauka XXI veka biti forenzika. Nije mogao ni slutiti koliko će njegovo predviđanje biti tačno, ali u ironičnom obratu u kojem je, na početku ovog veka, forenzika zahvaljujući mas medijima, najpopularniji izvođač u industriji ‘’hleba i igara’’ koji donosi milionske profite nebrojenim TV serijama o forenzičkim timovima. Smrt je bliže nego ikad, dalje nego ikad. To je ishodište putovanja na koje krećemo.

[2] Nemam dece i ova čudna rasa ugasiće se sa mnom. Sa tim dvema religijama spojila se, u izvesnom trenutku treća, katoličanstvo, kojem su me učili u školi, u Mađarskoj. Susret između dva slična i, zbog mnogih strana, različita sveta, svest o ovoj dvostrukoj pripadnosti bila je kao šok, naročito posle rata. S jedne strane, epska tradicija srpskih junačkih pesama, koju mi je prenela moja majka zajedno sa oporom balkanskom realnošću, s druge srednjoevropska literatura, i dekadentna i barokna mađarska poezija. U ovu mešavinu, načinjenu od sudara i kontradikcija, uključiće se moje jevrejsko biće, ne u religioznom smislu, već u jednoj suštinski kulturnoj optici, kao istraživača. (Danilo Kiš, Gorki talog iskustva, BIGZ, Beograd, 1990., str. 243.)

san danila kiša 29

posreduje u čovekovom stapanju s kosmosom. U tom stanju primarne čistote i snage, sve stvari i pojave, od vlati trave do nebeske kape, imaju smisla, i stoga, same po sebi, nemaju značaj. U početku je svejedno, jer sve je jedno.[3] Ideje nastaju u bilo kom stanju i okolnostima, stoga je sasvim moguće da se jedna takva ideja rodi i u besciljnom lutanju Osijekom koje nepogrešivo vodi na jevrejsko groblje, u ruševnu kapelu-mrtvačnicu-sinagogu, u hram hladnih pločica, istrunulih spisa, prašine koja prigušuje glasove, mirise, slike i pokrete prošlosti. Pogled razotkriva u jednom dahu slojeve istina i legend, otapa i premošćuje donedavno zamrznuto prostor-vreme, dodeljuje mu auru mitskog i arhetipskog. I svejedno je što je to Osijek: možda baš zbog enigmatične činjenice da jedan neveliki grad ugošćuje 18 groblja (! - kakva svetkovina mrtvih prema Beogradu sa skromnih 10 ili Zagrebu sa 8 groblja); možda i zbog nosioca pogleda, preobrazitelja prolaznog u trajno, oka, misli i duha senzibilisanog za ono onkraj vidljivog; a možda i zbog sene Eduarda Sama (ako štap i peševi geroka, zaostali za celom figurom, dokazuju da je to zaista bio on) kliznule između dva treptaja, mada je izgledalo kao da hoće da se zadrži – da nešto kaže, objasni, ili da samo bude tu? U početku je svejedno, jer sve je još jedno. No, živeti, za ideju znači ostvarenje, ovaploćenje, materijalizacija: na scenu stupa odluka, sudbina, Fortuna, razlaganje i rastakanje, dekonstrukcija u duhu radi rekonstrukcije u materiji. Blaženstvo Ja-Kosmosa, praznog u svojoj punoći i nepomičnog u beskonačnom kretanju, posunovraćuje se iz svoje nutrine na spolja. Samorazumljivi paradoksi moraju da se dokažu u supstanci, ideja mora stići do svoje Klajnove boce.[4] Isto važi, i to ponajpre, za vreme, koje počinje da se meri: Zevs zbacuje Hronosa, Otac-svevreme biva zamenjen Sinom-istorijskim vremenom. Otkucavanje navodi na linearno kretanje, jedino kojim čovek zna baratati kao vremenom stvaranja, da bi ponovo stigao do žuđene svevremenosti-nelinearnosti. Ali, već u instrumentu za merenje vremena nazire se mogućnost ponovne sinteze. Klepsidra-Peščanik, otelotvorenje alhemije vremena, propušta fini pesak iz bokastog spremnika prošlosti, kroz vitki struk sadašnjosti, u bokasti spremnik budućnosti. Prošlost i budućnost gledaju jedna u drugu, dvojnici u ogledalu, u neprekidnom kretanju kroz sadašnjost.[5] Tako, u procesu pretakanja ideje u materiju – u alhemiji prostor-vremena – seni poprimaju nove obrise: štap i gerok zamenjuju golo telo glave zabrađene crnom kapom-čunkom i gologlava bela noćna košulja. Odsutni Otac se ukazuje kao podvojeni Sin u traženju. A možda je i obratno?

2. (PAPESA/SNAGA/SUD)

Šta je od ovoga san, a šta java, i šta ih luči jedno od drugog? Teško je reći.[6] Jer, koliko god da snove doživljavamo kao izvor neočekivanih i, neretko, sumanutih narativa naše podsvesti (jer snovi, ma kako fragmentarni, neminovno bivaju privučeni magnetom narativnog strukturiranja, makar u trenutku prisećanja i/li prepričavanja sanjača) koje, shodno našem iskustvu, naklonosti i putu kojim se krećemo, prihvatamo (s radošću, radoznalošću, zapitanošću, strepnjom, strahom) ili odbacujemo (s ravnodušnošću, dosadom, nerazumevanjem, strepnjom, strahom), java im može bezbrižno parirati svojom proizvodnjom neverovatnih, nerazumljivih i nedokučivih trenutaka. Na našoj je percepciji – na kojoj, uostalom, počiva i čitava pojavnost stvarnosti – da prihvati, odabere, montira i projektuje takve trenutke. Svako je vlasnik svoje projekcije, u dijapazonu od čiste monotonije do sinestetičke eksplozije.[7] Moguće je, dakle, prolaziti i kroz javu i kroz san kao kroz jednolični hodnik izbledelih boja, s

[3] Jedno je sve i ništa, jer početak svega nije sve, ali je sve njegovo, sve kao da se vraća njemu, tačnije, kao da još i nije, ali će biti… jedno nije postojeće, već njegov roditelj. (Plotin, iz knjige Tarot Julija Berkovskog, Logos, Beograd, 2007., str. 36 – svi naredni citati su preuzeti iz te knjige sem kada je drugačije naznačeno.)

[4] U matematici, Klajnova boca (Klein bottle) je izvesni neorijentirajući objekat, tj. površina (dvodimenzionalna mnogostrukost) lišena distinkcije između “unutrašnjosti” i “spoljašnjosti”. (Definicija preuzeta iz Wikipedije)

[5] Peščanik je, čini mi se, savršen kao 'techne', u njemu nema pukotine; Peščanik je ceo jedna pukotina, a ta pukotina jesu 'tesna vrata' kroz koja se ulazi u tu knjigu, ta pukotina je njena 'savršenost', njena zatvorenost, njena neaktuelnost, njena hibridnost. I sama reč Peščanik u svim svojim značenjima jeste zapravo metafora za pukotinu, peščanik kao stena od peska jeste proizvod geoloških potresa i napuklina, peščanik kao klepsidra jeste pukotina kroz koju protiče pesak-vreme; Peščanik je slika jednog napuklog vremena, napuklih bića i njihovog napuklog tvorca. Peščanik je savršena 'pukotina'! (Danilo Kiš, Gorki talog iskustva, str. 39.)

[6] Svetlost i tama, život i smrt, desno i levo – braća su jedno drugom. Ne može se jedno odvojiti od drugog. Zato i dobri – nisu dobri, i loši – nisu loši, i život nije život, i smrt nije smrt. Zato će svako iz temelja biti istrgnut iz svog početka. Ali, oni koji su iznad sveta, neraskidivi su, večni. (Jevanđelje po Filipu, u: Tarot, str. 47.)

[7] Ali, nikako ne mogu da shvatim kako to san dolazi tako odjednom, bez moje volje i bez moga znanja, kako to da svake noći zaspim a da nisam uspeo da uhvatim taj trenutak kada anđeo sna, taj veliki noćni leptir, dođe da mi svojim krilima zaklopi oči. Onda počinjem da vrebam taj trenutak. Hteo bih bar samo jednom da prozrem san (kao što sam bio rešio da ću jednog dana da prozrem smrt), da uhvatim za krila anđela sna kada bude došao po mene, da ga zgrabim s dva prsta kao leptira kojemu sam se prikrao straga. (Danilo Kiš, Bašta, pepeo, BIGZ, Beograd, 1972. str. 22.)

san danila kiša 31

nizom ponavljajućih ulaza, svih odreda zatvorenih i, time, istih; na drugom kraju mogućnosti, gusto preplitanje senzacija svih čula, u kolopletu emocija i spoznaja trenutno sintetiziranih na svim nivoima svesti; između, mirijade varijacija, sve odreda različite po sklopu, intenzitetu, sadržaju. Najrealističniji san i najnadrealnija java su, u tom pogledu, srodni međaši teritorije našeg doživljaja. Slike iz ove knjige balansiraju između tih međaša, prizivaju opipljivost sna i neuhvatljivost jave; prostor je hiberniran, figura promenljive dinamike, pokret teško objašnjivog značenja; poput Eduarda Sama, Luftmenscha, glave u oblacima, nogu sapetih panonskom crnicom, podanika nesputanog jezika.

3. (CARICA/OBEŠENI ČOVEK/SVET)

Na jednoj staroegipatskoj fresci, Boginja Neba, Nut, predstavljena je kako se nadvila nad svog muža Geba, Boga Zemlje: on leži, izvaljen, dokon i nehajan, ur-Narcis u sebe zagledan; ona, kao vitki most, oslonjena samo na vrhove prstiju, zategnutih nogu i ruku, malih jedrih dojki, naga, pozorno i zaštitnički njemu okrenuta, dok je on nakinđuren, s glavom zmije umesto ljudskim likom. Graciozna i smirena u potpuno nemogućem i neizdržljivom položaju u kojem se nalazi, ona svom mužu daje krov nad glavom (što nebeski svod i jeste), stvara mu okvir bez kojeg bi on bio tek izgubljena čestica u beskraju. No, u kompoziciji slike/freske, celokupna pažnja je usmerena na njega, upadljivog, zavodljivog, gizdavog. Boginja Neba vidljiva je samo onima koji traže objašnjenje iza fascinacije. U svetu kroz koji se sada krećemo, listajući stranice knjige, Majka je, zapravo, istinski nosliac statusa odsutnog: Ocu je dodeljena prisutnost u sećanju, kao iskupljenje za odsutnost u prošlosti. Majka, u svojoj stalnoj i neprimetnoj prisutnosti u prošlosti, osuđena je na odsutnost u sećanju.[8]

4. (CAR/SMRT)[9]

5. (PAPA/ANĐEO)Ovo bi takođe mogao biti san:Nisko nebo, jednolično prevučeno sivom. A.M. korača po mrkom polju, glave uvučene u mrki kaput, ruku duboko potisnutih u mrke džepove. Teška, masna zemlja lepi mu se za cipele, s mukom odiže noge. Misli mu se ne razlikuju od zemlje. Poput kornjače uvučen u oklop svog tonuća, A.M. deluje kao da će se, sa svakim narednim korakom, uliti u tmasti pejzaž. No, njegovo je kretanje, ma koliko mučno, postojano i pravolinijsko: on ne vrluda i ne skreće sa zamišljene prave crte. Idući tako, pogleda prikovanog nadole, jedva da i primeti da u daljini, na krajnjoj vidljivoj tački prave linije njegovog kretanja, stoji jedna figura. Ispočetka nije siguran je li muškarac ili žena, zbog bujne raskuštrane kose, i neke posebne gracilne vitkosti, ali je sasvim izvesno da na sebi ima mrki kaput. A.M. ponovno zabode pogled u zemlju i jedno vreme nastavi oranje. Kada ga opet usmeri u pravcu figure, pogled mu se namah smrzne: učini mu se da vidi sebe, u udaljenom ogledalu. Sada više nema snage da ga vrati u zemlju, pogled se zabio u figuru i vuče ga nezadrživo ka njoj. Približavanje, začudo, donosi olakšanje: figura ipak nije on! A opet, tako je poznata i bliska… Da bi ublažio drhtanje od napona neizvesnosti, A.M. počinje da broji korake. Na petom koraku, sumnje više nema: tamo stoji D.K. Neizvesnost zamenjuje kakofonija smušenih pitanja, poluodmišljenih misli, mucavih pretpostavki. No, pogled je sada već sasvim nadomak D.K.-a, kakofonija

[8] Njegovo odsustvo, njegovo mesečarstvo, njegovo misionarstvo, svi pojmovi lišeni zemnog i, ako hoćete, pripovedačkog konteksta, materija krhka poput snova, obeležena pre svega svojim primordijalnim negativnim svojstvima, sve to postaje gusto, teško tkanje, materija sasvim nepoznate specifične težine. Pred njom padaju u zasenak sebične istorije, one o mojoj majci, o mojoj sestri i o meni samom, istorije godišnjih doba i pejzaža. Sve te priče obeležene zemnim znacima i određenog povesnog konteksta postaju drugostepene, kao istorijske činjenice za čiju sudbinu više ne brinemo: zabeležićemo ih bez žurbe, u bilo kom trenutku. (Danilo Kiš, Bašta, pepeo, str. 110.)

[9] Jozef K. je sanjao:Bio je lijep dan i K. je htio prošetati. Ali, ubrzo nakon što je napravio par koraka, već se našao na groblju. Tamo su puteljci bili neprirodno i nepraktično krivudavi, ali on je, postojano se držeći kao da lebdi, jednostavno klizio po jednom od tih puteljaka, kao po vodenoj bujici. Već izdaleka, zapazio je nedavno nabacanu humku, kod koje se poželio zadržati. Ta grobna humka na njega djelovala je gotovo zavodljivo i pomislio je da neće uspjeti dovoljno hitro stići do nje. (…) Dok mu je pogled još bio uperen u daljinu, ugleda najednom tu istu humku pokraj sebe, onkraj staze, već gotovo iza sebe. Žurno je iskočio u travu. (…) Iza groba stajala su dva čovjeka i držala u zraku između sebe nadgrobni kamen; tek što se K. pojavio, oni utisnuše kamen u zemlju i on ostane kao uzidan. U taj čas iza grma izađe treći čovjek, za koga je K. odmah pretpostavio da je riječ o nekom umjetniku. Bio je odjeven samo u hlače i nespretno zakopčanu košulju; na glavi je nosio samtastu kapu; u ruci je držao običnu olovku kojom je već, dok se približavao, u zraku crtao figure. Olovku je potom približio gornjem dijelu kamena. (…) Nekom posebno vještom izvedbom uspijevao je običnom olovkom ispisivati zlatna slova; napisao je “Ovdje počiva…” Svako slovo je izgledalo lijepo i ravno, duboko urezano i od čistoga zlata. Kada je ispisao te dvije riječi, pogledao je, osvrnuvši se, prema K., a K. je, žudno iščekujući nastavak napisa, jedva pogledavajući prema čovjeku, samo buljio u kamenu ploču. Čovjek se zaista ponovo baci na pisanje, ali nije mogao, kao da je postojala nekakva prepreka, pa spusti olovku i ponovo se okrene prema K.-u. Sad je i K. pogledao umjetnika i zapazio da je ovaj poprilično zbunjen, iako se nije moglo reći što je tome bio uzrok. (…) Izmjenjivali su bespomoćne pokrete; iskrsnuo je neki gadan nesporazum koji nijedan od njih nije bio u stanju riješiti. (…) K. je bio neutješan zbog položaja u kojem se umjetnik našao, pa zaplače i dugo je jecao zarinut u skupljene šake. Umjetnik je pričekao dok se K. nije primirio i zatim je, ne vidjevši nikakav drugi izlaz, ipak odlučio nastaviti s pisanjem. Prva mala crta koju je povukao bila je za K. izbavljenje, ali umjetnik ju je izveo uz krajnje unutrašnje protivljenje; ni ispis nije više bio onako lijep, kao da je, prije svega, nedostajalo zlata, crta se pružala blijedo i nesigurno, jedino što je slovo ispalo velik. Bilo je to J, i gotovo bi završeno, kad umjetnik bijesno lupi nogom po grobu tako da naokolo zemlja prhnu uvis. Napokon ga je K. razumio; nije bilo više vremena da ga izmoli, već sve prste zaroni u zemlju koja nije pružala nikakav otpor, kao da je sve već bilo pripremljeno, samo je, privida radi, bio nasut tanak sloj zemlje; pod njim se odmah

san danila kiša 33

se povlači pred neumitnošću susreta. A.M. se zaustavlja na korak od D.K.-a, premda je poslednji načinio nevoljno, htevši da zadrži veću razdaljinu. Sada mu je celi pogled ispunjen licem nasuprot njega, uokvirenim bujnim mrkim ramom: usko, ikonoliko, boje pepela, izbrazdano malobrojnim, ali dubokim borama, očiju svetlih i duboko utonulih u duplje, bez sjaja i živosti, usana svedenih na krivudavu pukotinu, lice je oličenje očaja. Pogled bespomoćno uranja u ovu sliku, A.M. ni ne pomišlja da pruži otpor. Putujući preko udubljenja i izbočina, pogled najednom ošine svest: To sam, ipak, ja! To što vidim je stanje moje duše! Misao udara i odzvanja u vremenu koje se uobliči u nepregledni železni kotao. Pogled je gotovo zaslepljen ječanjem saznanja, omamljen bezmernim trajanjem trenutka. I kada je sva volja za samozavaravanjem iščilela, otrežnjenje dolazi s isprva jedva primetnim, a potom jasnim promenama na licu: pepeljastost prelazi u patinirani porculan, bore dobijaju na odlučnosti, usne se ispunjavaju slutnjom osmeha, oči… Oči izranjaju poput dva akvamarina iz špilje, razbistrene, blage i prodorne, iskreći zadovoljstvom preživljene vatre iskustva. Svetlosivi pogled prepliće se s pogledom A.M.-a. On jasno oseća kako je vođen, kako ga moć akvamarina budi, spira mulj s misli, vraća mu telo, gipko i spremno na laki pokret. Pogledi i lica žare, sada već radošću, svaka ćelija A.M.-ovog bića prihvata svetlost, božanstveni svetlosivi pogled osvetljava sivilo dana. Kao dar povrh svih darova, lice D.K.-a se ozari osmehom. A.M. još ne stiže da se prepusti novom uživanju, kad D.K. šeretski namigne i nestane.

A.M. se budi u napuštenoj sinagogi osječkog jevrejskog groblja…

6. (ZALJUBLJENI/ĐAVO)

Tačka na kojoj se san i java ipak jasno odeljuju jedan od drugog jeste vreme. Koliko god priželjkivali i nastojali da opipljivo dokučimo u fizici već dokazanu i u umetnosti odomaćenu, ideju nelinearnosti i dinamične promenljivosti vremena, u budnom smo stanju (još uvek) zarobljeni u evolutivnoj fazi u kojoj vreme možemo percepcijom zgušnjavati i razvlačiti tek u skromnim razmerama koje dopušta (još uvek) svemoćna hronologija i zvanični standardi vremena, kodifikovani, unifikovani, institucionalizovani. U snovima, međutim, imamo potpunu slobodu modeliranja vremena, ali i događaja; tačnije rečeno, ima je naša podsvest, a može je imati i naš svesni deo u onoj meri u kojoj se osposobi za komunikaciju s podsvešću.[10] Lucidni sanjači su u stanju da osveste sanjanje u snu, te da kontrolišu njegov tok, kao i da san prekinu i da se, naknadno, vrate u njega na mestu koje odaberu. Time poseduju moć da rade na problematičnim aspektima svoje podsvesti, da se hvataju u koštac sa strahovima i preprekama koje na svesnom nivou skrivaju sami od sebe. To je sloboda retke vrste, dostupna malobrojnima. No, nije ovde reč o utopiji: sloboda je, sama po sebi, najveće iskušenje. Jer, širenje mogućnosti otvara vrata neumerenosti, što je najbrži put ka entropiji. Što je sloboda veća, stoga, veća je i odgovornost i zahtev za disciplinom.

Knjiga, slično snu, poseduje potencijal slobode misli, nesmetanog kretanja kroz sve dostižne i nedostižne dimenzije - ukratko, ona je savršena retorta za alhemiju prostor-vremena.

Između korica ove knjige je, nesumnjivo, u toku je još jedan opit dokazivanja nelinearne prirode vremena

pod njim se odmah otvorila velika jama okomitih zidova, u koju je K., potisnut blagim strujanjem s leđa, potonuo. Ali dok je od dole podizao glavu, a neprobojna dubina već ga prihvatala, gore na kamenu munjevito je dopisivano njegovo ime, prekrasno urešeno.Očaran tim prizorom, on se probudi. (F. Kafka, Jedan san, 1911.)

[10] Da li to bejaše san? Da li to bejaše san mesečnjaka, san u snu, te stoga stvarniji od pravog sna, jer se ne da meriti snagom budnosti, jer se ne da meriti svešću, pošto se iz tog sna čovek opet budi u san? Da li i to bejaše samo san neki božanski, san večnosti i vremena? San bez tlapnji i sumnji, san sa jezikom i čulima, san ne samo duše nego i tela, san svesti i tela podjednako, san sa granicama jasnim i bistrim, sa svojim jezikom i zvukom, san koji se da opipati, san koji se da jezikom, njuhom i sluhom proveriti, san jači od budnosti, san kakav sanjaju možda samo mrtvaci, san koji se ne da poreći britvom kojom podsecaš bradu, jer će ti odmah poteći krv, i sve što činiš samo je dokaz jave i budnosti, u njemu krvari koža i krvari srce, u njemu se raduje telo i raduje se duša, u njemu nema drugih čudesa osim života; iz tog sna buđenje je tek u smrti. (Danilo Kiš, Enciklopedija mrtvih, Prosveta, Beograd, 1985., str. 64.)

san danila kiša 35

ali u kontrolisanim uslovima: šetamo se između fotografija s leva nadesno ili obrnuto - onako kako se i čitaju slova hebrejskog alfabeta; krećemo se po osi ogledala, potom i levo i desno; analogije i značenja niču iz smera i ritma listanja. No, ono što stvara istinsku napetost i iščekivanje jeste jedan poseban performerski kôd koji prožima sve fotografije - kôd, uostalom, inherentan fotografiji kao mediju[11], kao i liku onoga kojem je posvećena knjiga.[12] I dok Eduard Sam[13] nanosi bol bližnjima koristeći klasične tehnike mimezisa i oratorstva, dotle njegova otelotvorena sen na fotografijama ispašta tu bol nema, lišena moći reči, kroz mimikriju koja nemilosrdno otkriva. Uzbuđenje pri svedočenju ovim fotografijama proizlazi iz sraza njihovog nagoveštaja u “sada i ovde” i svesti da je sve to već prošlo i da su ovo tragovi nečeg nepovratnog.[14]

7. (KOČIJA/KULA)

Nepovratna je i nekadašnja inkarnacija poprišta ove knjige: Srednja Evropa austrougarske moći, oholosti, melanholičnog senzibiliteta; relativno kratko, otužno-romantično i mračno poglavlje u istoriji evropskih velesila. Sve kao da je bilo preveliko za ovu monarhiju: njene teritorijalne aspiracije, arhitektura, dvorske drame i intrige, konačno, jedan svetski rat koga je povela, i drugi kojem je sekundirala. Sve, sem polja umetnosti: bila je, naime, pravi rasadnik genija koji su obeležili njen zalazak u osvit XX veka. Ali, kakve su to uklete koordinate po kojima se kretala nakon svog raspada u krvi miliona, koje su je odvele u još jedan krug pakla svetskog rata, ovaj put u podaničko-marionetskoj ulozi? I kako je taj niz paktiranja sa đavolom pokosio čitave generacije umetnika, od rovova I svetskog rata i potonjeg egzila, preko bolesti kao simbola kapitulacije individuuma, do apsurdnih, bizarnih nesreća i samoubistava kao simbola iste te kapitulacije pred nemezisom K&K? Franc Kafka, Egon Šile, Gustav Klimt, Štefan Cvajg, Robert Muzil, Eden fon Horvat, Atila Jožef, Endre Adi, Franc Verfel… To je tek početak spiska onih koji nisu dočekali kraj II svetskog rata, a mnogi od njih niti I. U drugoj polovini prošlog veka, Srednja Evropa je nadalje kažnjavana na različite načine: marginalizacijom, rascepljenjem po liniji totalitarističke izolacije, ali i nespremnošću da se suoči sa sopstvenim srcem tame. Uprkos svemu, njen glas se i dalje čuje, kroz eho glasova prošlih vremena, kroz aktuelnu umetničku praksu, intelektualni diskurs, literarne likove, pa i Eduarda Sama, te paradigme melanholičnog zanesenjaštva intelektualaca Srednje Evrope: silueta koja luta po ravnoj crti panonskog horizonta, toj kliničkoj slici života onkraj života; život već preseljen u neku drugu dimenziju realnosti samom činjenicom da se kreće po ravnini, jer u tom je kretanju najlakše imati pogled neprestano uperen u zvezde.[15]

8. (PRAVDA/ZVEZDA) I tako, ploveći čas niz, čas uz reku tragova podastrtih pred nama, okrećući se na sve strane sveta u potrazi za vezama - rečima i slikama koje proističu iz slika, izgubili smo pravac kretanja, ali ne i kompas, numerološki naštimovan na početku putovanja. Drugim rečima, ako smo zaboravili na apsolut prvobitne ideje, krećući se kroz njenu fragmentarizaciju u pokušaju materijalizacije, ovo je trenutak za ponovnu harmonizaciju: Zakon nad nama, zvezdano nebo u nama, da posuvratimo Kanta. Lica skrivenog iza priča i legendi o znamenitim Jevrejima, Eduard Sam može nesmetano da bude ono što doista jeste. A

[11] Ovaj zagonetni svet prerušavanja, iskrivljavanja, izmeštanja i mummen – čiji se prostor, poput prostora fotografije, sastoji od “mračnih soba” – postavlja pitanje identiteta i potpisa u svim njihovim filozofskim i političkim registrima. (Eduardo Kadava, Reči svetlosti: Teze o fotografiji istorije, Beogradski krug, Beograd, 2002., str. 188.)

[12] Jer ko bi smeo da tvrdi da moj otac nije namerno izbegavao svaku vrstu lične ispovesti, da nije namerno skrivao svoju ličnost iza maske, pojavljući se tek s vremena na vreme kao pisac, šahista, apostol, dustabanaš? Istinu govoreći, on je igrao preda mnom jednu nedostojnu ulogu i nije imao hrabrosti da pokaže svoje pravo lice, nego je stalno menjao maske, skrivao se iza ove ili one uloge, uvek patetične, i, izgubljen, sakriven u lavirintu grada, izmešan sa ostalim šeširima i halbcilindrima, bio je, zahvaljujući toj mimikriji, sasvim zaklonjen od mog pogleda. (Danilo Kiš, Bašta, pepeo, str. 91.)

[13] Sam – potiče od Scham (nem. sram, greh); Sam – Samael, Satan.

[14] Fotografija je jedan oproštaj. Ona pripada posmrtnom životu fotografisanog. Ona je stalno zapaljena trenutnim bljeskom smrti. (Eduardo Kadava, str. 52.)

[15] Živeo sam lepše i bogatije od vas, zahvaljujući patnji i mahnitosti, pa želim i u smrt da odem dostojanstveno, kako to priliči tom velikom trenutku posle kojeg prestaje svako dostojanstvo i svaka veličanstvenost. Moj leš će biti moja korablja, a moja smrt dugo plutanje po talasima večnosti. Ništa u ništavilu. I šta sam mogao da suprostavim ništavilu do to, tu svoju korablju u koju sam želeo da sakupim sve što mi bejaše blisko, ljude, ptice, zveri i bilje, sve ono što nosim u svom oku i u svom srcu, u trospratnoj lađi svoga tela i svoje duše. Želeo sam sve to da imam kraj sebe, u smrti, kao faraoni u veličanstvenom miru svojih grobnica, želeo sam da bude sve onako kao što bejaše i pre toga: da mi u večnosti pevaju ptice. Želeo sam da Haronovu barku zamenim jednom drugom, manje beznadnom i manje pustom, da nezamislivu prazninu večnosti oplemenim gorkim zemaljskim travama, onim što niču iz srca čovekova, da gluvu prazninu večnosti oplemenim kukanjem kukavice i pevanjem ševe. Ja sam samo razvio tu pesničku gorku metaforu, razvio sam je strasno i dosledno, do kraja, do konsekvenci koje prerastaju iz sna u javu (i obratno), iz lucidnosti u mahnitost (i obratno), koje prelaze iz života u smrt, kao da nema međa, i obratno, iz smrti u večnost, kao da to nije jedno te isto. Tako je moja sebičnost samo sebičnost ljudskog bića, sebičnost života, protivteža sebičnosti smrti, i moja se svest, uprkos prividu, protivi ništavilu sa sebičnošću kojoj nema ravne, protivi se skandalu smrti kroz ovu strasnu metaforu koja želi da sakupi na gomilu ono malo ljudi i ljubavi koji činjahu taj život. (Danilo Kiš, Peščanik, Prosveta, Beograd, 1972., str. 263.)

san danila kiša 37

[16] Poput fotografije koja predstavlja ono što više nije ovde, svetlost zvezde imenuje trag jednog nebeskog tela koje više nije, budući da je nestalo. Zvezda je uvek jedna vrsta ruine. (Eduardo Kadava, str. 73.)

[17] Moj otac je u suštini predstavljao modernu varijantu panteističkih pustinjaka i lutajućih filozofa, ličnost poput Zoroastera, no svestan u svakom trenutku zahteva vremena, situiran u prostoru sa apsolutnom sigurnošću, ne gubeći ni u jednom trenutku sever: odatle očeva privrženost za gerok i halbcilindar: vreme pustinjaka u dronjcima bilo je prošlo nepovratno. (Danilo Kiš, Bašta, pepeo, str. 100.)

[18] Stari su Grci imali jedan poštovanja dostojan običaj: onima koji su izgoreli, koje su progutali vulkanski krateri, koje je zatrpala lava, onima koje su rastrgle divlje zveri ili proždrli morski psi, onima koje su razneli lešinari u pustinji, gradili su u njihovoj otadžbini takozvane kenotafe, prazne grobnice jer telo je vatra, voda ili zemlja, a duša je alfa i omega, njoj treba podići Svetilište.(Danilo Kiš, Grobnica za Borisa Davidoviča, BIGZ, Beograd, 1977., str. 80.)

[19] Kao svoj vlastiti grob, fotografija je ono što unutar fotografije prevršava fotografiju. Ona je ono što preostaje od onoga što iščezava u istoriju. Ona se uvlači u sebe kako bi preživela, kako bi se povukla u jedan prostor unutar kojeg bi mogla da odloži svoju smrt, u jednu unutrašnjost – u zatvoreni prostor samog pisma. Da bi fotografija bila fotografija ona mora da postane grobnica koja piše, koja u sebi usidrava vlastitu smrt. (Eduardo Kadave, str. 49.)

[20] Ja sam ti i ti si Ja. Gde si ti tamo sam Ja. Ja sam u svemu i ti Me sastavljaš svojom voljom i kada me sastaviš, ti sastavljaš sebe. (Evino jevanđelje, u: Tarot, str. 271.)

[21] Bog je prva suština. Svet je druga suština i prva koja se menja. Čovek je druga koja se menja i prva smrtna. Bog je besmrtni čovek, čovek je smrtni Bog. (Hermetički traktat, u: Tarot, str. 271.)

[22] Ništa; samo prazan odjek sećanja i zvučna tišina špilje; zvuk tišine, muk vremena. Svetlost pomrčine. Voda sna. Voda. (Danilo Kiš, Enciklopedija mrtvih, str. 82.)

fotografija mu u tome daje za pravo.[16]

9. (PUSTINJAK/MESEC)

Njegov put je sada već posve samotan. Možda ga više nema ni na stranicama knjige?[17] Ova knjiga je fotografski Kenotaf.[18],[19]

KÔD (MEĐUSOBA: LUDA)

Osnovni elementi: Bezumnik, Znak, Apsolut, Savršeni, Zračenje, Sjaj, Materija, Oruđe za mučenje, Sredina, Glupan. Mogući elementi:[20],[21],[22] Posveta Eduardu Samu posveta je literarnom Ocu: Sin odsutnog Oca, prepoznajući duhovnog Oca u Sinu odsutnog, nepostojanog, a potom i izgubljenog Oca - nanovo pronađenog i ovekovečenog blagodareći literarnom geniju Sina - odaje poštu duhovnom Ocu, a time i njegovom izgubljenom, pronađenom, ovekovečenom, literarnom Ocu; njihovim i svojim korenima, i zemljama iz kojih su ti koreni nikli i iz njih se iskorenili, da bi se ispleli u splav, letilicu, ili već bilo kakvo vozilo za navigaciju kroz sopstvena prostor-vremena. U duhu nepouzdanog pripovedača, ne može se sa sigurnošću tvrditi, ali je moguće da su se upravo tokom ovakvih navigacionih vratolomija susreli Eduard Sam, Andreas Sam, Danilo Kiš, Andrej Mirčev i Boris Kadin, i da je bljesak uzajamnih pogleda proizveo knjigu koju upravo posećujete, dok Katarina Pejović nastoji da iscrta poetičko-forenzičke putanje njihovih kretanja koje će vas, ako ih pratite, uputiti van korica ove knjige i predati vam navigacijske instrumente u ruke.

san danila kiša 39

A READING OF A DREAM

IN NINE MOVEMENTS (ROOMS)

WITH OUVERTURE (ANTEROOM)

AND CODA (INTERROM)

Katarina Pejović

OUVERTURE (ANTEROOM)

Whether as a victim of the time in which it occurs (i.e. the signals that the time sends to an individual for him/her to translate into perception) or due to the extraordinary and peculiar nature of the encounter of certain ideas, conjectures and circumstances – in short, by grace of synchronicity - that brought about the book you are holding in your hands, this written reading is far closer to a detective of forensic endeavour than to a classical analysis and interpretation of a work of art[1]: traces are numerous and disparate, at once seducing and evading; indications multi-facetted; the act already shaped (accomplished) yet still open to further re-shaping. Unlike its contemporary fashionable incarnations, this kind of forensics is deprived of the vanity of possessing specific knowledge, as well as the arrogance of its indigenous deductive logic. It is silent in order to extract the pattern and harmony of different voices in the cacophony of data; its gaze is calm, on the verge of stillness, focused on images – those that stem out of written words, those that are the traces of light on a sensitive paper and those that are born out of shadowing experience; it is in incessant fine-tuning of receptors for catching the delicate, finely woven meanings that appear only under certain observation conditions, in moments briefer than an eye-blink, which are then translated into somewhat more solid verbal forms.

The evidence of basic elements (obvious to each visitor of this book): A wondrous and unsurpassable literary opus permeated with “the treacherous work of biography” (as the very author of the opus has determined this unique amalgam of origin, creation, life currents and decisions)[2] along with what it brings to its explorer – revelation, insight, identification, catharsis, adoption, inspiration, opening the field of creativity; The space of the past – haunting memories, a deserted synagogue at a neglected Jewish cemetery, a Central Europe overwhelmed with ghosts of possible and impossible histories; Dream – a shelter of meta-temporal dimension of all desires, hopes and fears, the house of sub-conscious; Photographs – light inscriptions of associations born while travelling through an opus and a dream; Tarot and Hebrew alphabet – ancient intuitive-rational systems as tools for semantic-symbolical structuring of material; Dedication to a literary Father – A Son of an absent Father recognises a spiritual Father in the Son of an absent, volatile and ultimately lost Father(Interpretation is inevitably an integral part of forensics…)

Possible elements: Father; Son; Origin; Cemetery; Memory; Palimpsest; Metamorphosis; Invariance; 22; The opaque in the past; The unutterable in the present; The invisible in the future…

The elements swarm, jostling among themselves. The anteroom becomes too small. Let us move on then to the rooms – since each book is a house, a building, an edifice. We will be guided by the numbers on the room doors:

1. (THE MAGICIAN/THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE/THE SUN)

In the instant of its emergence and manifestation in thoughts and spirit, each idea is an Absolute: whole,

[1] Probably due to his title of forensic psychologist, Lacan claimed already in the st70's of the past century that forensics would be the foremost science in the 21

century. He could not have imagined to what extent his forecast would be accurate but in an ironic tour de force in which, at the beginning of this century, thanks to the media, forensics is the most popular performer in the “bread and circus” industry, making millions of profit with countless TV series on forensic teams. Death is closer than ever, farther than ever. This is the starting point of the journey we are about to embark.

[2] I have no children thus this peculiar race will be extinct with me gone. Those two religions (Jewish and Orthodox – a.r.) were at a certain moment joined by the third one, Catholicism, which I was taught in school in Hungary. The encounter of two similar and yet, due to many traits, different worlds, the awareness of this twofold affiliation – it was all like a shock, especially after the war. On the one hand, the epic tradition of Serbian heroic poems that my mother conveyed to me along with the austere Balkan reality; on the other hand, Central European literature and the decadent and Baroque Hungarian poetry. This mixture, made of clashes and contradictions, will also include my Jewish being, not in religious sense but in the sense of an essentially cultural optics, that of a researcher.” (Danilo Kiš, The Bitter Residue of Experience, BIGZ, Belgrade, 1990, pp. 243)

danilo kiš’s dream 43

integral, indivisible. Its space is infinite as it overwhelms the entire being; its time immeasurable as it only begins. This long moment, protracted by the excitement of revelation, is the closest relation we may establish with the divine: 'I' expands back and forth to the (un)limits of universe, in a pulsating demiurgic effort. The idea mediates the fusion of the human with universe. In this state of primary pureness and power, all things and phenomena, from grass stalk to heavenly sphere, make sense and therefore have no significance as such. In the beginning, everything is all the same, because all is one and the same.[3] Ideas occur in any state and under any circumstances; hence it is entirely possible that one such idea is born in the aimless wandering around the town of Osijek, a wandering that unmistakably leads to the Jewish cemetery, into the decaying chapel-morgue-synagogue, the temple of cold tiles, rotting scriptures, dust that muffles voices, scents, images and movements of the past. The gaze unveils at once layers of truths and legends, melting and abridging the frozen time-space, bestowing it with an aura of mythical and archetypical. And it matters no longer why this all takes place in Osijek: perhaps it is so because of the enigmatic fact that such a small town hosts 18 cemeteries (! - what a feast of the dead, compared to Belgrade with the modest number of 10 and Zagreb with 8); perhaps it is due to the carrier of the gaze - the transformer of the ephemeral into the permanent, with an eye, thought and spirit sensitized to detect that which is beyond the visible: and perhaps it is so because of the shadow of Eduard Sam (if the walking stick and the coat lappets, lagging behind his figure, are taken as proof that it was truly him), slipping between two eye-blinks, although it seemed that he had the intention to dwell around for a little while longer - to say something, explain, or just to be here? In the beginning, everything is all the same, because all is still the same. Yet a life of an idea means realization, embodiment, materialization: enter decision, fate, Fortune, disintegration and dissolution, deconstruction in spirit for the sake of re-construction in the matter. The bliss of the I-Universe, empty in its fullness and still in its infinite movement, turns inside out. The paradoxes taken for granted have to be proven in substance; the idea has to reach its Klein-bottle state.[4] The same applies - and in the first place - to time, which enters its measuring époque: Zeus overthrowing Chronos, Father - All-time being replaced by the Son-Historical time. The ticking suggests the linear course, the single one feasible to humans; it is the time of creation in order to reach the yearned all-temporality and non-linearity. Yet we discern the possibility of a renewed synthesis already in the very instrument for measuring time. The Hourglass-Clepsydre, the embodiment of the alchemy of time, lets the fine sand pass from the rounded container of the past through the slender waist of the present to the rounded container of the future. The past and the future gaze at each other, doppelgangers in the mirror, incessantly flowing through the present.[5] Thus in the process of decanting the idea into the matterin - the alchemy of time-space - shadows gain new shapes: the walking stick and coat are replaced by two incarnations: the naked body with the head shrouded in a black stove-pipe hat, and the naked head adorning the white night shirt. The absent Father reveals himself as a doubled Son in quest. But perhaps it is the opposite?

2. (THE HIGH PRIESTESS/STRENGTH/JUDGEMENT)

What is here a dream, what is reality and what distinguishes one from another? Difficult to say.[6] For, as much as we perceive our dreams as the source of unexpected and often raving narratives of our sub-

[3] One is all and nothing for the beginning of all is not all but all is his; as if all returns to him or, more precisely, as if it is still not but it will become… One is not the existing one but it is his parent. (Plotinus, from the book Tarot by Julius Berkovsky, Logos, Belgrade, 2007, pp.36 - all following quotes are taken from this book unless marked otherwise.)

[4] In mathematics, the Klein bottle is a certain non-orientable surface, i.e., a surface (a two-dimensional manifold) with no distinct "inner" and “outer” surface. (Wikipedia definition)

[5] It seems to me that Hourglass is as perfect as “techne”: there is no fissure in it; Hourglass is all one fissure and that fissure is “a narrow gate” that leads into this book, that fissure is its “perfection”, its closure, its absence of actuality, its hybrid nature. The very word Hourglass in all its meanings is in fact a metaphor for fissure: hourglass as a sand rock is a product of geological quakes and crevices; hourglass as clepsydre is a fissure through which leaks the sand-time. Hourglass is an image of a fissured time, fissured beings and their fissured author. Hourglass is a perfect 'fissure'! (Danilo Kiš, The Bitter Residue of Experience, pp. 39)

[6] Light and Darkness, life and death, right and left, are brothers of one another. They are inseparable. Because of this neither are the good good, nor evil evil, nor is life life, nor death death. For this reason each one will dissolve into its earliest origin. But those who are exalted above the world are indissoluble, eternal. (Gospel of Philip, pp. 47)

[7] Yet there is no way for me to comprehend how sleep comes on all at once, without any effort or will or knowledge on my part, how I can fall asleep every night without catching hold of that instant when angel of sleep, that great butterfly of night, swoops down to close my eyes with its wings. So I begin to set an ambush for that instant. I would have liked to catch held of sleep at least once, just as I had been resolved to catch hold of death one day, to catch hold of the wings of the angel of sleep when it came from me, to grab it with two fingers like a butterfly after sneaking up on it from behind.(Danilo Kiš, Garden, Ashes, Harcourt Brace & Company, New York, London, 1975, pp. 19)

danilo kiš’s dream 45

conscious (since dreams, as fragmentary as they might appear, tend to be attracted by the magnet of narrative structuring, even if it be in the moment of evoking and/or re-telling by the dreamer), which, given our experience, affinities and the path we are on, we accept (with joy, curiosity, inquisitiveness, anguish, fear) or reject (with indifference, boredom, incomprehension, anguish, fear), reality may easily compete with them with its own production of incredible, incomprehensible and unfathomable moments. It is up to our perception - which is anyway the fundament of the whole phenomenal side of reality - to accept, edit and project such moment. Each of us is the owner of his/her own projection, ranging from pure monotony to synesthetic explosion.[7] Hence it is possible to travel both through reality and dream as if through a dull corridor of sallow colors, with a succession of repeating entrances, all closed and identical; on the other end of possibilities there is a thick interweaving of all senses, in a twirl of emotions and realisations momentarily synthesised on all levels of consciousness; in-between, there are a myriad of variations, all diverse in structure, intensity and content. The most realistic dream and the most surreal reality are, in that sense, kindred landmarks of the territory of our experience. The images in this book balance between those landmarks, evoking the tangibility of dreams and the evasiveness of reality; much like Eduard Sam, the Luftmensch, his head in the clouds, his feet captured by the Panonian thick black soil, the vassal of the untamed language.

3. (THE EMPRESS/THE HANGED MAN/THE WORLD)

An Ancient Egyptian fresco represents Nut, the Goddess of Heaven, leaning over her husband Geb, the God of Earth; he is prostrated on the ground, idle and carefree, the ur-Narcissus fixated onto himself; as a slender bridge, focused on him with all her attentiveness and protectiveness, she is resting merely upon her fingers and toes, naked, her legs and arms tense, her breasts small and firm, while he is adorned, with a snakehead instead of a human one. Graceful and serene in her utterly impossible position, she provides her husband with a roof over her head (which heavenly sphere is in the first place), creating a frame without which he would be merely a lost particle in the infinity. Yet the entire attention of the composition of this picture/fresco is turned towards him, the conspicuous, the seducing, the lavish. The Goddess of Heaven is visible only to those who seek an elucidation behind the fascination. In the world through which we are currently travelling, flipping the pages of this book, Mother is actually the true holder of the status of absent: Father is bestowed with presence in remembrance, as a vindication for his absence in the past. In her permanent and inconspicuous presence in the past, Mother is doomed to absence in remembrance.[8]

4. (THE EMPEROR/DEATH)[9]

5. (THE POPE/TEMPERANCE)

This might also be a dream:Low skies, monotonously covered with grey. A.M. walks across the murky field, his head withdrawn into his murky coat, his hands tucked deep into his murky pockets. The heavy, thick soil sticks to his shoes; he

[7] Yet there is no way for me to comprehend how sleep comes on all at once, without any effort or will or knowledge on my part, how I can fall asleep every night without catching hold of that instant when angel of sleep, that great butterfly of night, swoops down to close my eyes with its wings. So I begin to set an ambush for that instant. I would have liked to catch held of sleep at least once, just as I had been resolved to catch hold of death one day, to catch hold of the wings of the angel of sleep when it came from me, to grab it with two fingers like a butterfly after sneaking up on it from behind. (Danilo Kiš, Garden, Ashes, Harcourt Brace & Company, New York, London, 1975, pp. 19)

[8] His absence, his somnambulism, his messianism, all these concepts removed from any earthly - or, if you will, narrative – context, this subject is frail as dream and notable above all for his primordial negative traits, his story becomes a densely woven, heavy fabric, a material of entirely unknown specific weight. In its wake the self-centered stories about my mother, my sister, and myself, the accounts of seasons and landscapes, fade into the background. All the stories stamped with earthly signs and framed within a specific historical context take on secondary significance, like historical facts bound up in a destiny that no longer concerns us: we shall record them without haste, when we can. (Danilo Kiš, Garden, Ashes, pp. 99) [9] Josef K. dreamed:It was a beautiful day and K wanted to take a walk. But soon after making a few steps, he found himself at a cemetery. The paths there were winding in an unnatural and impractical manner; yet holding himself steady as if floating, he was simply gliding across one of those paths, as if carried by a torrent. He noticed already from afar a freshly made grave and he felt like stopping by it. That grave had an almost seducing effect on him and he thought that he would not reach it fast enough. (…) His gaze still transfixed into the distance, he suddenly noticed that same grave next to him, beyond the path, almost passing it already. He hurriedly jumped onto the grass. (…) Behind the grave there were two men who held in the air between them a tombstone. The moment K. appeared, they pressed the tombstone into the soil; it remained as if rooted in there. At that instant, a third man appeared who made K. immediately presume that he was an artist. He was dressed merely in trousers and a clumsily buttoned-up shirt, a velvet hat on his head, holding a plain pencil and drawing figures in the air with it as he was approaching. He then moved the pencil towards the upper part of the tombstone. (…) By some exceptionally masterful skill, he was managing to write golden letters with the plain pencil. He wrote, “Here lies…” Each letter appeared beautiful and straight, deeply engraved and made out of solid gold. As he wrote those two words, he turned back and looked towards K. Craving for the continuation of the inscription, K. barely glanced at him and went on staring at the tombstone. And indeed, the man went on writing; yet he did not manage, as if there was some obstacle. So he put the pencil down and turned again towards K. Now it was K. who

danilo kiš’s dream 47

barely manages to lift his feet. His thoughts are not much different from the soil. Like a turtle sunk in her shell, A.M. seems to be blending into the gloomy landscape with each new step. Yet his moving, as cumbersome as it might be, is still constant and straightforward: he does not walk astray nor does he depart from the imaginary straight line. Slowly progressing, his gaze riveted to the soil, he barely notices a figure standing in the distance, on the furthermost point of the straight line that is his trajectory. At first, seeing the figure's lush, billowy hair and a peculiarly graceful slenderness, he is not certain if it is a man or a woman; but what is most certain is that s/he is wearing a murky coat. A.M. lets his gaze be riveted to the soil again and continues with gaze-ploughing for a while. When he directs it once more towards the figure, the gaze instantly freezes: he has the impression of seeing himself, in some distant mirror. Now he has no more strength to return the gaze to the soil: it is transfixed on the figure, inexorably pulling him towards it. Surprisingly enough, approaching brings relief: the figure is not him after all! And yet, it seems so familiar and close… To soothe the quivering caused by the tension of uncertainty, A.M. begins to count the steps. At step number five, there is no more doubt: there stands D.K. Uncertainty is replaced by a cacophony of questions, half-articulated thoughts, stuttering presumptions. As the gaze reaches close to D.K., the cacophony withdraws in front of the inevitability of encounter. A.M. halts one step away from D.K., although he made the last step unwillingly, wanting to maintain a greater distance. Now his whole gaze is filled with the face in front of him, framed in a lush murky frame: narrow, icon-like, color of ash, ridged with a few yet deep wrinkles, eyes light and deeply sunk in the eye holes, with no shine or vivacity, lips reduced to a winding crack – this face is an epitome of despair. The gaze helplessly dives into this image. A.M. does not even consider resisting. Traveling over the face's humps and bumps, his gaze is suddenly struck by a realization: This is me, after all! What I see in front of me is the state of my soul! The thought hits and resounds in the time instantly shaped into an endless iron bowl. The gaze is almost blinded by the echo of realization, bemused by the immeasurable lasting of the moment. And when all the will for self-deceiving has oozed out, the sobering comes at first with a barely noticeable, then increasingly clear changes on the face: the ash color turns into tanned porcelain, the wrinkles become more decisive, the lips fill in with a hint of smile, the eyes… The eyes arise as two aquamarines out of a cavern, translucent, at once gentle and piercing, sparkling with pleasure of survivors of the fire of experience. The light-grey gaze intertwines with A.M.'s gaze. He clearly feels that he is guided, that the power of aquamarine awakes him, washes away the sludge from his thoughts, restores his body, supple and prepared for an effortless movement. The gazes and faces glisten, now it is joy that sets them ablaze; each cell of A.M.'s being accepts the new power, the divine light grey gaze lights up the greyness of the day. As a gift beyond all gifts, a smile illuminates D.K.'s face. And before A.M. manages to surrender to this new joy, D.K. makes a prankish wink and disappears. A.M. wakes up in the deserted synagogue of the Osijek Jewish cemetery…

6. (THE LOVERS/THE DEVIL)

Time is the point in which dreams and reality are clearly separated one from another. As much as we might wish and strive to tangibly grasp the ideas of non-linearity and dynamic transformation of time, already proven in physics and domesticated in art, in our awake state we are (still) captives of the evo -

looked back at the artist and observed that he was rather perplexed although he could not tell what was the reason for it. (…) They were exchanging helpless movements; a heavy misunderstanding occurred that none of them seemed capable of resolving. (…) K. felt inconsolable because of the situation in which the artist found himself; so he began to cry and he sobbed for a long time with his face buried in his hands. The artist waited for K. to calm down and then, seeing no other solution, resumed with his writing. The first thin line he made was salvation to K. But the artist made it with strong inner resistance: the inscription was not as beautiful as before, as if there lacked gold in the first place. The line unfolded pale and shaky; the only good thing was that the letter was big. It was a J and it was almost finished when the artist stomped so furiously with his foot on the grave that the soil scattered around. K. finally understood him: there was no time to beg him so he buried his fingers in the soil, which unconditionally surrendered to him, as if everything had been prepared in advance and the thin layer of soil had been spread over merely for the sake of appearance. A huge pit with upright walls opened instantly beneath him; pushed by a gentle breeze in his back, K. sunk into it. And while he was raising his head from below, the impenetrable depth already embracing him, up on the tombstone, wonderfully adorned, his name was swiftly appearing.Enchanted by this sight, he woke up.(Franz Kafka, A Dream, 1911)

danilo kiš’s dream 49

lution phase in which we may dilate and condense time with our perception only up to a rather modest extent allowed by the (still) almighty chronology and official standards of time, codified, unified, institutionalized. In dreams, however, we have an absolute freedom of modeling time as well as events: to be more precise, this gift is given to our sub-consciousness while our conscious part may acquire it to the extent to which it opens itself to communicating with sub-consciousness.[10] Lucid dreamers are capable of becoming aware of dreaming while dreaming along with controlling its unfolding, interrupting the dream or going back to it, to the exact moment they choose. Hence they are in possession of a power to work on troublesome aspects of their sub-consciousness, to confront the fears and obstacles they hide from themselves on the conscious level. This is a freedom of a rare kind, accessible to few. Yet it is not a utopia: freedom is in itself the greatest temptation of all. Expanding possibilities opens the door to intemperance, which is the quickest way to entropy. Thus the greater the freedom, the greater the responsibility and the necessity for discipline.

Similar to dreams, books possess the potential of free thought and unconstrained movement through all reachable and unreachable dimensions; a book is, in other words, a perfect retort for the alchemy of time-space.

There is no doubt that, between the sheaths of this book, unfolds yet another experiment of proving the non-linear nature of time in controlled conditions: we stroll between photographs from left to right and vice versa - the way the Hebrew alphabet is being read. We move up and down the mirror axis, then again left and right; analogies and meanings spring out of the direction and rhythm of flipping the pages. Yet what creates true suspense and expectation is a specific performing code that permeates all photographs - a code inherent to photography as medium[11] as well as to the character of the one to whom this book is dedicated.[12] And while Eduard Sam[13] inflicts pain upon those close to him by implementing classical techniques of mimesis and oratorical skills, his embodied shadow on the photographs suffers this pain without a sound, deprived of the power of words, through a mimicry that mercilessly reveals all. The excitement of witnessing those photographs stems out of the juxtaposition of their implication in the “now and here” and the awareness that all is already gone and that we are facing traces of something irretrievable.[14]

7. (THE CHARIOT/THE TOWER)

What is also irretrievable is the past incarnation of the arena of this book: the Central Europe of Austro-Hungarian might, vanity and melancholic sensitivity; a fairly short, corny-romantic and gloomy chapter in the history of European superpowers. It seems as everything was too big for this monarchy: its territorial aspirations, its architecture, the court dramas and intrigues; finally, one world war that it initiated and another one in which it played the second violin. Everything, except the field of art: Austro-Hungarian empire was a true hotbed of geniuses that have marked its sunset in the dawn of the new century. But what were those doomed coordinates by which it traveled following its break-up bathed in blood of millions that lead to yet another circle of Hell of world war, this time in a servant-marionette role? And how

[10] Was it a dream? Was it the dream of a somnabulist, a dream within a dream, and hence more real than a real dream, since it cannot be measured against waking, since it cannot be measured by consciousness, because it is a dream from which one awakens into another dream? Or was it a god – like dream, a dream of time and eternity? A dream without illusions and doubts, a dream with its own language and senses, a dream of both soul and body, a dream of consciousness and corporality both, a dream with clear-cut boundaries, with its own language and sound, a dream that is palpable, that can be explored with taste, smell and hearing, a dream stronger than waking, a dream such as only the dead perhaps can dream, a dream that cannot be denied by a blade nicking the chin, for blood flows at once, and everything one does is but a proof of reality and waking; the skin bleed in the dream as does the heart, the body rejoices in the dream as does the soul, there are no miracles in the dream other than life; the only way out of the dream is to awaken into death. (D. Kiš, Encyclopedia of the Dead, Northwestern University Press, Evanston, 1997, pp. 75)

[11] This mysterious world of disguise, dissemblance, displacement and mummen – of which the space, like the space of the photograph, consists of “dark rooms” – raises the question of identity and signature in all their philosophical and political ranges. (Eduardo Cadava, Words of Light: Thesis on the Photography of History, Princeton University Press, pp.116) [12] Who would dare assert that my father had not intentionally avoided any kind of personal disclosure, had mot intentionally concealed his personality behind a mask, appearing alternately as a writer, chess player, apostle. To tell the truth, he played a unworthy role in front of me, he lacked courage to show his true face. He was constantly switching masks, concealing himself behind the façade of one or another of his roles, all of them pathetic. Lost and hidden in the labyrinth of the city, among the multitude of felt hats and derbies, he was – thanks to his mimicry – entirely sheltered from my view. (Danilo Kiš, Garden, Ashes, pp. 82)

[13] Sam – originating from Scham (Ger. – Shame, Sin); Sam – Samael, Satan [14] The photograph is a farewell. It belongs to the afterlife of the photographed. It is permanently inflamed by the instantaneous flash of death. (Eduardo Cadava, pp. 13)

danilo kiš’s dream 51

is it that this sequence pacting with the devil has scythed entire generations of artists, in the trenches of World War I and the subsequent exile, by illnesses as symbols of individuals' capitulation, all the way to absurd and bizarre accidents and suicides as symbols of this same capitulation in front of the K&K Nemesis? Franz Kafka, Endre Ady, Robert Musil, Egon Schiele, Ödön von Horváth, Gustav Klimt, Stefan Zweig, József Attila, Franz Werfel… this is merely the beginning of the list of those who did not live to the end of World War II, many of them not even making it to the end of World War I. In the second part of the past century, Central Europe was further punished in various ways: by marginalization, schism along the line of totalitarian isolation, but also the lack of will and readiness to confront its own heart of darkness. Despite all, its voice is still heard through the echo of voices from the past, the actual artistic practice, intellectual discourse, literary characters, and among them also Eduard Sam, this paradigm of melancholic zealotism of Central European intellectuals: a silhouette wandering along the flat line of Panonian horizon, that clinical image of life beyond life; a life already transposed to another dimension of reality by the very fact that it moves along the flat line, for this is the kind of movement which makes it easiest to have one's gaze incessantly transfixed upon the stars.[15]

8. (JUSTICE/THE STAR)

And so, floating up and down the river of traces spread in front of us, turning to all sides of the world in search of connections – words and images that derive out of photographs – we have lost our direction but not our compass, numerologically tuned at the very beginning of our journey. In other words, if we have forgotten the absolute of the primary idea, moving through its fragmentation while striving for materialization, this is the right moment for a renewed harmonization: The law above us, the starry skies within us – to turn Kant's categorical imperative inside out. With his face hidden behind the stories and legends of illustrious Jews, Eduard Sam may freely be what he really is. And photography justifies his action.[16]

9. (THE HERMIT/THE MOON)

His journey is now deeply lonesome. Perhaps he is even gone from the pages of this book?[17]This book is a photographic cenotaph.[18],[19]

CODA (INTERROOM: THE FOOL)

Basic elements: Lunatic, Sign, Absolute, Perfect, Radiation, Matter, Torture Devices, Center, Numbskull.Possible elements:[20] ,[21],[22]

The dedication to Eduard Sam is a dedication to a literary Father: a Son of an absent Father, recognizing a spiritual Father in the Son of an absent, volatile and ultimately lost Father - found anew and immortalized thanks to the Son's literary genius - pays tribute to his spiritual Father and hence to his lost, found, immortalized, literary Father; to both his and their roots and territories out of which those roots

[15] Thanks to suffering and madness, I have had a finer, richer life than any of you, and I wish to go to my death with dignity, as befits the great moment after which all dignity and majesty cease. Let my body be my ark and my death a long floating on waves of eternity. A nothing amid nothingness. What defense have I against nothingness but this ark in which I have tried to gather everything together that was dear to me, people, birds, animals, plants, everything that I carry in my eye and my heart, in the triple/decked ark of my body and soul. Like the pharaohs in the majestic peace of their tombs. I wanted to have all those things with me in death, I wanted everything to be as it was before: I wanted the birds to sing for me forever, I wanted to exchange Charon's bark for another, less desolate and less empty; I wanted to ennoble eternity's unconscionable void with the bitter herbs that spring form the hearth of man, to ennoble the soundless emptiness of eternity with the cry of the cuckoo and the song of the lark. All I have done is to develop that bitter poetic metaphor, carry it with passionate logic to its ultimate consequence, which transforms sleep into waking (and the converse); lucidity (and the converse); life into death, as though there were no borderline, and the converse; death into eternity, as if they were not one and the same thing. Thus my egoism is only the egoism of human existence, the egoism of life, counterweight to the egoism of death, and, appearances to the contrary, my consciousness resist nothingness with an egoism that has no equal, resist the outrage of death with the passionate metaphor of the wish to reunite the few people and the bit of love that made up my life. (Danilo Kiš, Hourglass, Northwestern University Press, Evanston, 1997, pp. 263)

[16] Like photography, which represents that which is no more here, the light of a star names the trace of a celestial body which is no more, since it has disappeared. The star is always a kind of ruin. (Eduardo Cadava, pp.30)

[17] Essentially, my father was a modern version of the pantheistic hermits and the wandering philosopher, a Zoroastrian personality, yet conscious every instant of the demands of the time, fixed in space with absolute certainty, never for a moment losing track of which direction was north. Hence my father's devotion to his black frock coat and derby: the time of hermits in rags was irretrievably gone.(Danilo Kiš, Garden, Ashes, pp.100)

[18] The ancient Greeks had an admirable custom: for anyone who perished by fire, was swallowed by a volcano, buried by lava, torn to pieces by beats, devoured by sharks, or whose corps was scattered by vultures in the desert, the built so-called cenotaphs, or empty tombs, in their homelands. (Danilo Kiš, The Tomb for Boris Davidovich, Dalkey Archive Press, Illinois, 2001, pp. 74)

[19] As its own grave, the photograph is what exceeds the photograph within the photograph. It is what remains of what passes into history. It turns in on itself in

danilo kiš’s dream 53

have sprung out only to be uprooted and woven into a raft, an aircraft or any other vehicle for navigation through their individual time-spaces. In the spirit of precarious narrator, one cannot claim with certainty, but it is entirely possible that it was during this spectacular navigation exhibition that Eduard Sam, Andreas Sam, Danilo Kiš, Andrej Mirčev and Boris Kadin have met and that it was the sparkle of mutual gazes that has created the book that you are currently visiting, while Katarina Pejović strives to sketch the poetic-forensic trajectories of their movements that will, if followed accurately, lead you out of this book, before handing you over the navigation instruments.

order to survive, in order to withdraw into a space in which it might defer its decay, into an interior – the closed-off space of writing itself. in order for a photograph to be a photograph, it must become the tomb that writes, that harbors its own death. (Eduardo Cadava, Words of Light, pp.10)

[20] I am thou and thou art I, and wherever thou art, there am I, and I am sown in all things; and whence thou wilt, thou gatherest me, but when thou gatherest me, then gatherest thou thyself. (Gospel of Eve, pp. 271)

[21] God is the first essence. The world is the second essence and the first changing. Man is the second changing and the first mortal. God is the immortal man, man is the mortal God. (Hermetic tractate, pp. 271)

[22] Nothing. Nothing but empty echo of memory and resonant silence of the cave; the sound of silence, the stillness of time. The light of darkness. The water of dream. Water. (Danilo Kiš, Encyclopaedia of the Dead, pp. 88)

danilo kiš’s dream 55

Hvala/thanks:

Mirjani Miočinović, Jeleni Radić, Andrei Zlatar Violić, Heleni Sablić Tomić, Pavlu Halupi, Draganu Jelenkoviću, Snežani Baralić, Branku Kolašincu, Borisu Bakalu, Freli, Hassanu, Fedoru Pelikanu, Dejanu Daviniću, Saši Došen, Karolini Pernar, Branku Čegecu, Spartaku Duliću, gospođi Miri iz galerije, Željki Miklošević, Branetu Oblučaru i Marku Čakloviću…

dizajn/design:Nikoleta Marković

fotografije i koncept/photographs and concept:Andrej Mirčev

performer i objekt/performer and object:Boris Kadin

tekst/text:Kulturni centar Pančevo/ Katarina PejovićPančevo Cultural Center

lektura i korektura/editing and proofreading:Postprodukcija i izdavaštvo Andrej Mirčev26000 Pančevo Nikoleta MarkovićVojvode Živojina Mišića br.4++381(0)13 332 334 prevod/translation:++381(0)13 334 266 Katarina Pejovićwww.pankult.org.yu

recenzija/review:glavni i odgovorni urednik/editor in chief: Dr.sc. Andrea Zlatar Violić, red. prof.Jasmina Večanski Dr.sc. Helena Sablić Tomić, izv. prof.

urednik redakcije/editor: štampa/print:mr Dragan Jelenković Passage group

M. Obrenovića 12redakcija/editorial board: 26 000 Pančevo Pavle Halupamr Dragan Jelenković tiraž/print run:Mirjana Kamenko 400Slobodan TanasijevićSaša Večanski ISBN 978-86-87103-13-9

pokrovitelji/sponsors: