Ana Blandiana

LIPSA DE IMAGINATIE

    INTELEGEM si credem numai ceea ce ne cade sub simturi. Se intampla sa fim martorii unui accident si ramanem rascoliti o saptamana, dar citim indiferenti, si poate amuzati, picanta informatie din ziarul de seara care transcrie cifra zilnica (de ordinul zecilor de mii) a accidentelor de pe glob. Totul tine de incapacitatea de a ne imagina o durere nevazuta, neauzita sau nesimtita de noi. Ni s-a dat suferinta compartimentata strict, dar in suficienta masura pentru a nu fi tentati sa trecem dincolo de peretii despartitori. Cum ar putea fi altfel? Cum am fi putut trai incarcaţi cu zeiasca povara de a ne gandi si la altceva decat la ceea ce traim?
     Cum am continua sa existam daca ne-am imagina, daca am avea puterea sa ne imaginam ca, in chiar clipa vacantei noastre marine sau a plutirii noastre copilaresti prin nea, pe pamant se desfasoara cateva razboaie, si cateva revolutii, si cateva contropiri? Cum am fi putut manca de trei ori pe zi dacă am fi inteles cu adevarat ca, pe aceeasi planeta, un popor intreg dispare prin inanitie? Stiam, desigur : ni s-au aratat tulburătoare fotografii, dar cine este in stare sa sufere pentru partea nevazuta (chiar fotografiata) a Lunii? Totul a fost prevazut. Lipsa de imaginatie ne salveaza.
     Stau in mijlocul cubului, care, eufemistic, se numeşte camera mea si, incordată, ascult. Nu aud nimic si nimic nu ar fi mai simplu decat sa spun „e liniste”, dar dincolo de peretii subtiri si de minuscule distante, in alte asemenea suprapuse cuburi, stiu ca freamata un nebulos vacarm si ca daca am puterea sa strang dintii pentru a ma uita pe mine, aud batranii cum se apropie de moarte si oasele copiilor cum cresc, aud milioane de soti certandu-se si dormind alaturi si milioane de tineri jurand ca ei altfel se vor iubi; aud avioanele purtatoare de bombe trecand pe deasupra unor exotici nori, si fructele cazand din arbori pe nestiute pamanturi, si respiratia celor adormiti in indepartate inchisori si lozincile ciudate ale unor neintelese manifestatii, si susurul sangelui scurgandu-se in pamant... Dar cate secunde de imaginatie isi poate permite un om? In camera mea este liniste.
    Mi s-a intamplat adesea sa ma plang de nesimplitatea universului. Dimpotriva, totul mi se pare acum elementar. Fericiti cei lipsiti de imaginatie, caci a lor este imparatia linistii. Sa ne bucuram : in mai mare sau mai mica masura, ne-a fost dat tuturora sa fim asemenea acelui dreptcredincios al lui Camus care, in mijlocul unei predici ce storcea lacrimi tuturor, a ramas indiferent, iar celor care ii reprosau raceala le-a raspuns ca tine de o alta parohie.
 

Oana Cioanca

Ana Blandiana
 

THE LACK OF IMAGINATION

     WE ONLY UNDERSTAND and believe what we feel. We happen to be witnesses of an accident and to remain raked up for a week, but we read emotionless, and maybe amused, the piquant piece of information from the evening newspaper which transcribes the daily number of the accidents that take place on Earth (a number with many zeroes). Everything depends on our incapacity of imagining a pain we cannot see, hear or feel. We were given a strictly partitioned pain, but in sufficient measure so as not to be tempted to pass beyond the partition walls. How could it be different? How would we be able to live burdened by the god-like burden of thinking about anything but what we live?
    How would we go on existing if we imagined, if we had the strength to imagine, right in the moment of our marine holiday or our childish floating through the snow, a few wars, revolts and invasions take place Earth? How could we have eaten three meals a day if we had really understood that, on the same planet, an entire nation was disappearing because of starvation? We knew, of course, we were shown thrilling photos, but who was capable to suffer for the unseen part of the Moon (the part which was really shot)? Everything had been predicted. The lack of imagination saves us.
    I am sitting in the middle of the room, which euphemistically, is called my room and, I am listening tensed. I do not hear anything and nothing could have been than to say “it is peace”, but beyond the thin walls and tiny distances, in other such superposed cubes, I know that a nebulous uproar bustles and that if, I have the strength to grind my teeth to forget about me, I hear how the elders get closer to death and I hear how the children’s bones get bigger, I hear millions of married couples arguing and sleeping together and millions of young people swearing that their love will be different; I hear the planes, bearers of bombs passing over some exotics clouds, and the fruit dropping off the trees on the unknown lands, and the breath of those asleep in the distant prisons, and the strange slogans of some misunderstood demonstration, and the purling of the blood dripping into the ground… But how many seconds of imagination can a man afford? In my room is quiet.
     I happened to complain about the universe lacking simplicity. On the contrary, now everything seems to me elementary. Happy those deprived of imagination, because the empire of silence belongs to them. Let’s rejoice: more or less, we were all given the right to be like Camus’s believer who, in the middle of a sermon that was squeezing everybody’s tears, he remained indifferent, and those who were reproaching him his coldness he answered that he belonged to other parish.