Ana Blandiana

CONTEMPLATIE

    SCRIU, imi privesc mana scriind, si ma gandesc: ce curaj, ce indrazneala sa-ti copiezi gandurile pe o foaie de hartie transformata de litera de plumb in revista sau carte, pe care nenumarate sute de oameni o vor citi! Scriu si nu vreau sa uit nicio clipa impertinenta gestului meu. Vreau sa am tot timpul sentimentul acestei culpabilitati, sa stiu ca am dreptul de a vorbi celorlalti, acest drept pe care singura mi l-am dat, urmand o mereu problematica bunavestire, dreptul acesta va trebui sa-l rascumpar, in contul acestei uriase datorii va trebui sa spun adevarul.
     Rostirea solemna a lui, in orice conditii, este in stare sa sanctifice. Trebuie sa nu uit nicio clipa ca pornind pe acest drum nu se poate ajunge decat la sfintenie sau la compromitere. O, desigur, sfintii sunt de atatea categorii! Unii au noroc si se numesc preafericiti, preacuviosi, arhangheli: altii nu au noroc si se numesc doar mucenici: dar aceste diferente numai timpul, numai epoca le dicteaza, sfantul nu are de ales decat intre a-si urma sau a-si trada menirea. Aud adesea plangaretul: „asa era epoca, asa erau timpurile”. Dar e fals, e fals, nicio epoca nu poate inlocui adevarul prin minciuna, ea poate cel mult transforma un apostol în martir.
    Scriu, imi privesc mana scriind, si ma gandesc: dar cand si cum voi putea sti ca intre atatea contradictorii sensuri alegerea mea este perfecta? Cand si cum va deveni imposibil halucinantul proces in care credinta de azi se va dovedi gresita maine? Giuseppe Verdi, convertit la batranete de un nou adevar artistic, ratacea pe strazi si cumpara, pentru a le distruge, flasnetele cu melodiile lui mai vechi. Dar niciun gest nu este reversibil, in film o miscare este formata din nenumarate pozitii statice care nu dispar de pe pelicula la incheierea miscarii. In spatele batranului maestru continua sa se fredoneze stupid „La donna e mobile”. O, nu mi-e teama ca as fi in stare să-l tradez pe Dumnezeu, mi-e teama ca as putea servi un Dumnezeu care nu exista.
   Dar peste toate aceste indoieli si dureroase nesigurante, peste mereu problematica bunavestire si crancena lupta de a descoperi si spune adevarul, scriu si nu-mi doresc decat sa nu trebuiasca niciodata sa ma intorc pentru a distruge vechile melodii.
 

Renata Fekete

Ana Blandiana

CONTEMPLATION

    I AM WRITING, I am watching my hand writing, and I am thinking: what courage, what boldness to copy your thoughts on a piece of paper, which is transformed by the lead letter into a magazine or a book that uncountable hundreds of people will read. I am writing and I never want to forget (for not even a moment) the boldness of my gesture. I want to have all the time the feeling of this guilt, to know that I have the right to speak to others, this right that I gave myself, following an ever problematic annunciation, this right I will have to redeem, because of this huge duty I will have to tell the truth.
    Its solemn saying, no matter in which conditions can sanctify. I must never forget that going on this road can only lead to holiness or prejudice. Oh, of course, there are so many types of saints! Some of them are lucky enough to be called blessed, pious, archangels; others are not so lucky and are called only disciples; but this differences are determined only by the time, only by the era; the saint doesn’t have any other choice but to follow or betray his vocation. I often hear the querulous: ‘that is how the era was like, that is how the times were like’. But that is untrue, it is untrue, no era can replace the truth with a lie, it can at most transform an apostle to a martyr.
    I am writing, I am watching my hand writing and I am thinking: but when and how will I know that among so many contradictory meanings my choice is flawless? When and how will the hallucinating process, in which today’s belief will prove to be wrong tomorrow, will become impossible? Giuseppe Verdi, converted when he was old by a new artistic truth, would wander along the streets and buy barrel organs with his older songs in order to destroy them. But no gesture is reversible, in movies a motion is made of countless static positions that do not disappear from the film at the end of the motion. Behind the old master, ‘La donna è mobile’ continued to be stupidly hummed. Oh, I am not afraid that I could betray God, I am afraid that I could serve a God that does not exist.
    But above all these doubts and painful uncertainties , above the ever problematic annunciation and the atrocious battle to discover and tell the truth, I am writing and I only wish I would never have to go back to destroy the old songs.