Tag : Joan Didion

shutterstock_cartiBookfest- 5 carti magice si un concurs cu vouchere de 100 ron

Bookfest- 5 carti magice si un concurs cu vouchere de 100 ron

Update: castigatoarele sunt Oana, Marta si Andreea D. Veti primi fiecare un mail cu detalii cum intrati in posesia voucherului. Multumesc tuturor pentru participare. A fost o bucurie sa va citesc comentariile si sa descopar carti pe care mi le voi cumpara de la targ zilele viitoare.

De joi incepe Bookfest si e din nou vremea sa petrecem muuulte ore printre carti, sa ne intalnim cu scriitorii nostri preferati si… sa cumparam compulsiv:)

Anul acesta va recomand cu drag cateva carti de care sunt legata emotional:

  • Anul gandirii magice – Joan Didion.

Asteptam de multa vreme traducerea acestei carti. Este o bijuterie de carte, o poveste despre cum te impaci cu tine si cu viata pe care ai trait-o alaturi de persoana care te stia cel mai bine si-a parasite aceasta lume, o poveste despre regasirea de sine cand esti in doliu. Un filigran al emotiilor descrise fara pic de emfaza, puse pe hartie cu gratie si … liniste.

E cartea mea preferata din toate timpurile, e cartea pe care am daruit-o in zeci de exemplare (in limba engleza), acum am sa o cumpar in romana sa o mai daruiesc o tura:). A aparut la editura Pandora M, in traducerea minunatei Virginia Costeschi care a reusit sa pastreze si in versiunea ei intreaga atmosfera fina si eleganta a scrierii lui Didion.

Va rog tare tare tare sa cumparati cartea aceasta, o sa fie un balsam pentru suflet pentru fiecare dintre voi.

 

  • Ion Ratiu –  Jurnal. Volumul 1. Inceputurile unui exil indelungat (1940–1954)

Fac parte dintre cei multi care regreta ca in urma cu 20 de ani nu am fost suficient de educata si inteligenta sa inteleg pe deplin vorbele domnului Ion Ratiu care se intorsese in tara noastra bantuita de sechelele comunismului. N-am stiut sa apreciem atunci prezenta domniei ale printre noi si regret teribil ca am ratat aceasta sansa, noi ca natiune, nu doar eu personal.

Am citit zilele acestea primul volum al Jurnalului pe care Ion Ratiu l-a tinut pe parcursul intregii sale vieti. E o lectie de istorie si e o radacina pentru a intelege de ce omul acesta si-a construit toata viata ca sa ajute tara lui, Romania. Chiar si dupa disparitia sa, Fundatia Ion Ratiu aflata la Turda continua o activitate de o tinuta exemplara in a sprijini democratia, cultura si recuperarea istoriei. Ca si viata domnului Ratiu, totul se face cu eleganta si smerenie pentru beneficiari. Despre fundatia Ion Ratiu puteti citi aici, cu volumul I al jurnalului dlui Ion Ratiu va intalniti la Editura Corint, cartea se va lansa sambata 27 mai si beneficiaza de prezenta fiului lui Ion Ratiu, Nicolae Ratiu.

 

  • Martha Bibescu si Vocile Europei (corespondenta si dosar CNSAS  1941 -1945)

Intr-o lume in care pierdem pas cu pas esenta a ceea ce inseamna aristocratie, intr-o vreme in care cei mai multi copiaza forma “elegantei de salon”, fara sa fi avut vreodata backgroundul cultural al ceea ce a insemnat “conversatia de salon”, memoriile printesei Bibescu sunt cu adevarat un eveniment si o lectie despre viata.

Nu am cultura istorica sa plasesc corect (din perspectiva obiectivizarii) in istorie faptele descrise dar cartea, in partea in care sunt transcrieri ale gandurilor Marthei Bibescu este o dantela de ironii si de descrieri savuroase ale membrilor din aturajul regilor Europei si marilor oameni de cultura europeni care si-au desfasurat activitatea intre 1941 -1945).

Toate aceste exprimari super delicate si rafinate, chiar si cand sunt descrieri ironice sunt puse fata in fata cu observatiile Securitatii asa cum apar ele in dosarul CNSAS. E inspaimantator sa constati ca femeia era urmarita si raportata la Securitate de cele mai bune prietene, cum la fel de inspaimantatoare sunt descrierile grosolane facute de cei care scriau notele nformative.

Intr-un fel, cartea aceasta este o metafora despre aristocratie si educatie pusa fata in fata cu ceea ce a facut comunismul din noi.

O gasiti la Editura Corint.

Mai am doua recomandari din categoria memorii si biografii.

N-am citit inca aceste carti, dar stiu ca o sa-mi placa si ca merita sa fie citite. (le achizitionez si eu de la Bookfest, sambata cand imi petrec toata ziua acolo): Driblingul meu. Autobiografia lui Johan Cruyff si Autobiografia Rod Laver.

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Si acum un concurs simpatic:

Cu participarea exceptionala a organizatorilor Bookfest pun la bataie 3 vouchere de 100 de ron fiecare de cheltuit la standul unei edituri, la alegere, la targ.

Ce trebuie sa faceti?

Pana maine sa scrieti la comentarii care este carte ape care doriti cel mai mult sa o cumparati anul acesta de la Bookfest. (in felul acesta facem si o colectie de recomandari)

Joi dimineata la ora 10 anuntam castigatorii. 

Miercuri seara anuntam castigatorii, mai puteti comenta pana la ora 14.00

(cu scuzele de rigoare, dar maine nu voi fi in Bucuresti)

P.S. Am avut 5 vouchere cadou, dar 2 le-am daruit unor copilasi. Asta ca sa fie public totul:)

 

2929
Didion-telegraph-ukJoan Didion (80 ani) in campania Celine 2015

Joan Didion (80 ani) in campania Celine 2015

Stiu ca nu e cunoscuta in Romania, dar sper sa fie tradusa curind si la noi, dar scriitoarea americana Joan Didion e foarte celebra in lume.

(trebuie sa cititi cartea The Year of Magical thinking ca sa intelegeti de ce… am mai scris despre Didion de multe ori, un eseu faimos al sau pentru Vogue – on self respect, parerea sa despre timiditate aici, despre moarte din cea mai recenta carte a ei, Blue Nights aici si aici un interviu. si spun mereu, din toata inima, ca e scriitoarea mea preferata din toate timpurile)

Joan Didion are 80 de ani si este noua imagine pentru Celine in 2015. E un omagiu adus gratiei si feminitatii ei. (am scris cindva ca e femeia care mi-ar placea sa fiu cind o sa fiu mare, iar aici puteti vedea o serie de fotografii ca sa intelegeti de ce)

Mi se pare minunat ca a fost aleasa pentru o asemenea campanie pentru ca dincolo de valoarea domniei sale, de priza pe care o are la public (mai ales la cel tinar), ideea de a pune o femeie de 80 de ani ca imagine a unui brand de fashion, o femeie care nu are nimic ostentativ in tinutele ei, e un frumos mesaj pentru acceptarea virstei, trupului si chipului pe care le purtam

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Celine nu sunt singurii care au transmis acest mesaj pentru 2015. iata una dintre reclamele Dolce & Gabbana

iar in 2012 Lavin avea in reclama o doamna pe nume Jacquie Murdock, fost model, fosta dansatoare, care la vremea fotografiei din reclama avea 82 de ani

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pentru lectii de eleganta la orice virsta, va recomand din inima sa vizitati blogul Advanced Style unde gasiti unele dintre cele mai elegante femei, toate de mult pensionare, care-si poarta virsta si trupul cu o deosebita gratie

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inapoi la Joan Didion – cea mai frumoasa descriere a unei relatii – in The year of magical thinking

“We walked every morning. We did not always walk together because we liked different routes but we would keep other’s route in mind and intersect before we left the park. ”

ceea ce va doresc si dvs. si mie.

1518
didion 1Joan Didion, “On Self-Respect”

Joan Didion, “On Self-Respect”

Joan Didion e scriitoarea mea preferata. Intr-un clasament al preferintelor la sectiunea scriitoare preferate, Didion e urmata la ….multe locuri distanta de Simone de Beauvoir si Zadie Smith.   Didion imi place pentru sinceritatea, acuratetea si minimalismul ei analitic.

Am gasit un eseu “on seff respect” pe care l-a publicat in Vogue in 1961, dar care e valabil si acum in fiecare cuvint al lui. Despre asta e vorba intr-o scriere MARE, sa poata sa stea in picioare si peste 50 de ani distanta.

Puteti citi textul mai jos, l-am spart cu citeva fotografii cu Joan Didion pentru ca gratia, delicatetea si eleganta pe care le simtiti din foto va vor ajuta sa o cunoasteti mai repede.

 

 

   Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships which hampered others. Although even the humorless nineteen-year-old that I was must have recognized that the situation lacked real tragic stature, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nonetheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honor, and the love of a good man; lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proved competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed apprehension of someone who has come across a vampire and has no crucifix at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The tricks that work on others count for nothing in that well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself; no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. One shuffles flashily but in vain through ones’ marked cards the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others – who we are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable documentary that deals one’s failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for every screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there’s the hurt on X’s face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, the Phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commissions and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice, or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.


To protest that some fairly improbably people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one’s underwear. There is a common superstition that “self-respect” is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation. Although the careless, suicidal Julian English in Appointment in Samara and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbably candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not. With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: “I hate careless people,” she told Nick Carraway. “It takes two to make an accident.”

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. They know the price of things. If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties; nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named co-respondent. In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of mortal nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues. The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for reelection. Nonetheless, character – the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life – is the source from which self-respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-yaer-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: “Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke out about it.” Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, “fortunately for us,” hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnee.

In one guise or another, Indians always are. Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me. They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult bin the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with ones head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones. To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket; to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before. It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are. In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out – since our self-image is untenable – their false notion of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gist for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course I will play Francesca to your Paolo, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan; no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we cannot but hold in contempt, we play roles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the urgency of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves – there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

Vogue, 1961

3539
didion-jJoan Didion – the lady I would like to be

Joan Didion – the lady I would like to be

INTERVIEWER

You have said that writing is a hostile act; I have always wanted to ask you why.

JOAN DIDION

It’s hostile in that you’re trying to make somebody see something the way you see it, trying to impose your idea, your picture. It’s hostile to try to wrench around someone else’s mind that way. Quite often you want to tell somebody your dream, your nightmare. Well, nobody wants to hear about someone else’s dream, good or bad; nobody wants to walk around with it. The writer is always tricking the reader into listening to the dream.

INTERVIEWER

Are you conscious of the reader as you write? Do you write listening to the reader listening to you?

DIDION

Obviously I listen to a reader, but the only reader I hear is me. I am always writing to myself. So very possibly I’m committing an aggressive and hostile act toward myself.

INTERVIEWER

So when you ask, as you do in many nonfiction pieces, “Do you get the point?” you are really asking if you yourself get the point.

DIDION

Yes. Once in a while, when I first started to write pieces, I would try to write to a reader other than myself. I always failed. I would freeze up.

INTERVIEWER

I wonder if your ethic—what you call your “harsh Protestant ethic”—doesn’t close things up for you, doesn’t hinder your struggle to keep all the possibilities open.

DIDION

I suppose that’s part of the dynamic. I start a book and I want to make it perfect, want it to turn every color, want it to be the world. Ten pages in, I’ve already blown it, limited it, made it less, marred it. That’s very discouraging. I hate the book at that point. After a while I arrive at an accommodation: Well, it’s not the ideal, it’s not the perfect object I wanted to make, but maybe—if I go ahead and finish it anyway—I can get it right next time. Maybe I can have another chance.

(…)

INTERVIEWER

So the process of writing the novel is for you the process of discovering the precise novel that you want to write.

DIDION

Exactly. At the beginning I don’t have anything at all, don’t have any people, any weather, any story. All I have is a technical sense of what I want to do. For example, I want sometime to write a very long novel, eight hundred pages. I want to write an eight-hundred-page novel precisely because I think a novel should be read at one sitting. If you read a novel over a period of days or weeks the threads get lost, the suspension breaks. So the problem is to write an eight-hundred-page novel in which all the filaments are so strong that nothing breaks or gets forgotten ever. I wonder if García Márquez didn’t do that in The Autumn of the Patriarch. I don’t want to read it because I’m afraid he might have done it, but I did look at it, and it seems to be written in a single paragraph. One paragraph. The whole novel. I love that idea.

(…)

INTERVIEWER

You say you treasure privacy, that “being left alone and leaving others alone is regarded by members of my family as the highest form of human endeavor.” How does this mesh with writing personal essays, particularly the first column you did for Life where you felt it imperative to inform the reader that you were at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in lieu of getting a divorce?

DIDION

I don’t know. I could say that I was writing to myself, and of course I was, but it’s a little more complicated than that. I mean the fact that eleven million people were going to see that page didn’t exactly escape my attention. There’s a lot of mystery to me about writing and performing and showing off in general. I know a singer who throws up every time she has to go onstage. But she still goes on.

INTERVIEWER

How did the “fragility of Joan Didion” myth start?

DIDION

Because I’m small, I suppose, and because I don’t talk a great deal to people I don’t know. Most of my sentences drift off, don’t end. It’s a habit I’ve fallen into. I don’t deal well with people. I would think that this appearance of not being very much in touch was probably one of the reasons I started writing.

de aici

a fost ziua ei pe 5 decembrie. a implinit 79 de ani. din pacate e o scriitoare care nu a fost tradusa la noi, dar sper din tot sufletul sa se intimple asta cit mai curind.

1313

“We walked every morning. We did not always walk together because we liked different routes but we would keep other’s route in mind and intersect before we left the park. ” Joan Didion

1116
joan-didiontimiditate

timiditate

am gasit un minunat profil al scriitoarei mele preferate, Joan Didion

(tocmai am adus din America Blue Nights, noua sa carte pe care n-am inca curaj sa o citesc: e despre decesul fiicei sale)

probabil ca nu veti gasi carti scrise de ea sa cititi pentru ca nu e tradusa in romaneste, dar va rog cititi fragmentul de mai jos

“She never took her purse off her lap!” my mother said afterward of that night, gobsmacked. “She took it to the dinner table!”

If you had told my mother that Didion regularly served elaborately cooked meals to 60 people at a time, on Spode china in a rambling—and very Berkeley—house in the seedy part of Hollywood, and had interviewed Jim Morrison and entertained Janis Joplin, she would have been shocked. Didion seemed like a young woman who had never been to a dinner party without her parents. She seemed like someone who owned one good thing to wear, and would bravely wear it whenever an engagement even hinted at formality.

I can tell you this for certain: anything you have ever read by Didion about the shyness that plagued her in her youth, and about her inarticulateness in those days, in the face of even the most banal questions, was not a writer’s exaggeration of a minor character trait for literary effect. The contemporary diagnosis for the young woman at our dinner table would be profound—crippling—social-anxiety disorder.

***

am spus intotdeauna ca oamenii mari (ca rezultate, notorietate dar si caracter) sunt niste mari timizi.
intregul profil aici, poate-l vreti, cine stie

:)

1555
joan-didionInterviu: Joan Didion

Interviu: Joan Didion

scriitoarea mea preferata, Joan Didion intr-un interviu vechi pentru Paris review, despre tehnicile de scris.
e reconfortant sa stii ca si aia mari mari scriu si rescriu la nesfirsit.
aici e dupa lansarea cartii A year of magical thinking, o analiza asupra doliului, singuratatii, iubirii – scrisa dupa moartea sotului sau.

***
INTERVIEWER

Do you do a lot of rewriting?

DIDION

When I’m working on a book, I constantly retype my own sentences. Every day I go back to page one and just retype what I have. It gets me into a rhythm. Once I get over maybe a hundred pages, I won’t go back to page one, but I might go back to page fifty-five, or twenty, even. But then every once in a while I feel the need to go to page one again and start rewriting. At the end of the day, I mark up the pages I’ve done—pages or page—all the way back to page one. I mark them up so that I can retype them in the morning. It gets me past that blank terror.

INTERVIEWER

Did you do that sort of retyping for The Year of Magical Thinking?

DIDION

I did. It was especially important with this book because so much of it depended on echo. I wrote it in three months, but I marked it up every night.

INTERVIEWER

The book moves quickly. Did you think about how your readers would read it?

DIDION

Of course, you always think about how it will be read. I always aim for a reading in one sitting.

INTERVIEWER

At what point did you know that the notes you were writing in response to John’s death would be a book for publication?

DIDION

John died December 30, 2003. Except for a few lines written a day or so after he died, I didn’t begin making the notes that became the book until the following October. After a few days of making notes, I realized that I was thinking about how to structure a book, which was the point at which I realized that I was writing one. This realization in no way changed what I was writing.

INTERVIEWER

Was it difficult to finish the book? Or were you happy to have your life back—to live with a lower level of self-scrutiny?

DIDION

Yes. It was difficult to finish the book. I didn’t want to let John go. I don’t really have my life back yet, since Quintana died only on August 26.

***
Restul interviului aici
in urma cu 3 saptamini a mai lansat o carte Blue Nights, tot autobiografica. din pacate Joan Didion nu e tradusa (inca) in Romania.

1787
carticartile pe care le iubesc

cartile pe care le iubesc

am scris pentru adevarul de week end care a aparut ieri un text despre cartile pe care le iubesc…

În literatură îmi place prezentul; nu ca acţiune a personajelor, ci preocuparea autorilor pentru structuri noi şi dinamici potrivite cu vremurile. De asta îl iubesc pe Safran Foer – ştie că singura şansă a cărţii e să devină un obiect interactiv şi exersează profund în această direcţie („Three of codes” sau „Extrem de tare şi incredibil de aproape”) , cum îl iubesc pe Jeffrey Eugenides pentru preocuparea lui în a-şi rafina dinamica frazelor (de fiecare dată când trebuie să scriu ceva important şi de amplitudine, mă întorc la un anume fragment din „Middlesex”, ca să-mi iau avânt).

O iubesc pe Zadie Smith (36 de ani), nu doar pentru că mă regăsesc în ce scrie, ci pentru că îmi place grija ei de a proteja şi ajuta generaţia nouă de scriitori. Cum o iubesc pe Margaret Atwood (72 de ani) pentru capacitatea de a rămâne actuală, atât în fondul ideilor, cât şi în forma cărţii (cea mai recentă carte a sa e tipărită, la cererea autoarei, pe hârtie reciclabilă).

Îl iubesc pe Filip Florian pentru rigoarea şi bunul-simţ din scrierile sale (şi din viaţa lui), îl iubesc pe Matei Călinescu pentru că nu s-a temut să-şi pună sufletul pe tavă, cum îl iubesc pe Radu Cosaşu pentru tot ceea ce este şi scrie. Dar cel mai mult şi mai mult îi iubesc, iubire din aceea profundă, pe care nu mai ai timp să o analizezi, ci o trăieşti cu voluptate, pe Raymond Carver şi Joan Didion. Carver, acest Cehov al anilor ’80, reuşeşte – într-un mod care pare magic, dar e sigur foarte muncit – să creeze suspans din nimic, iar simplitatea descrierilor sale duc orice poveste în esenţă şi capătă o valoare universală.

Didion e, pentru mine, supremul tandreţei şi al eleganţei, chiar şi atunci când mintea poate fi doborâtă de durere. Joan Didion înainte de a fi scriitor e jurnalist, iar rigoarea ei pentru relatarea emoţiilor fără patetism mă fascinează şi-mi trezeşte invidii constructive

restul aici

cind am terminat de scris textul mi-am dat seama ca, de fapt, eu nu iubesc cartile, ci oamenii care le scriu.:)

2004
xI Was No Longer Afraid to Die.

I Was No Longer Afraid to Die.

“I Was No Longer Afraid to Die. I Was Now Afraid Not to Die.”

Joan Didion (doamna care a scris minunata The Year of Magical Thinking) isi va publica memoriile,Blue Nights, la inceputul lunii viitoare . de data aceasta cartea se axeaza foarte mult pe relatia cu fiica sa care a murit cu 6 saptamini inainte de publicarea cartii The year… (in care descria doliul de dupa moartea sotului).

stiu ca suna macabru, dar Didion scrie despre moarte cu gratie si emotie, fara niciun patetism… si cartile ei sunt lectii despre viata nu despre moarte

When I began writing these pages I believed their subject to be children, the ones we have and the ones we wish we had, the ways in which we depend on our children to depend on us, the ways in which we encourage them to remain children, the ways in which they remain more unknown to us than they do to their most casual acquaintances; the ways in which we remain equally opaque to them. The ways in which our investments in each other remain too freighted ever to see the other clear. The ways in which neither we nor they can bear to contemplate the death or the illness or even the aging of the other. As the pages progressed it occurred to me that their actual subject was not children after all, at least not children per se, at least not children qua children: their actual subject was this refusal even to engage in such contemplation, this failure to confront the certainties of aging, illness, death. This fear. Only as the pages progressed further did I understand that the two subjects were the same. When we talk about mortality we are talking about our children. Once she was born I was never not afraid. I was afraid of swimming pools, high-tension wires, lye under the sink, aspirin in the medicine cabinet, The Broken Man himself. I was afraid of rattlesnakes, riptides, landslides, strangers who appeared at the door, unexplained fevers, elevators without operators and empty hotel corridors. The source of the fear was obvious: it was the harm that could come to her. A question: if we and our children could in fact see the other clear would the fear go away? Would the fear go away for both of us, or would the fear go away only for me?


Reprinted from Blue Nights, by Joan Didion.

“Writers are always selling somebody out” spunea in urma cu niste ani, iar ea nu s-a sfiit niciodata sa vinda “din casa”…

e in new york times un profil de-al ei genial, il puteti citi aici

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plimbare de primavara

la 2 pasi de primavara.
o sa apara curind fluturasii. prin copaci sau prin stomac. si va fi vreme de plimbare.

We walked every morning. We did not always walk together because we liked different routes but we would keep other’s route in mind and intersect before we left the park.

citatul asta imi pare cea mai frumoasa descriere a unei relatii. ii apartine lui Joan Didion si face referire la sotul ei, John Gregory Dunne. apare in cartea The year of magical thinking (cartea nu a fost tradusa la noi)

la plimbare, deci:)

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in loc de jurnal de vacanta

Acolo unde e link, e o invitatie: s-ar putea sa va placa sa vedeti/cititi.

Am vzt:
1. Good night and good luck (era la tv si-am vrut sa revad monologul cu “daca televiziunea doar va distra lumea, atunci va ramine o cutie cu fire si lampi”)
2- 3 -4. How to Lose Friends & Alienate People, Read & burn out, Women – ca sa-mi spal creierii dupa lecturile grele.
5-6. Breath al lui Kim ki duk (cam bullshit, dar nu-l vazusem cind concura cu Mungiu la Cannes) si Dream – la sugestia lu’ domn Afrim – tot al lui Kim Ki Duk (much, much better)
7. First person – Rick Rosner si Chris Langan (doua episoade din documentarele-interviuri mai vechi ale lui Errol Morris pentru ca mi le-a reamintit domnu’ Gladwell cu cartea sa.)
8. Stories of lost souls (7 povestiri cu distributii si regizori diferiti; Cate Blanchet mi-nu-nat d isterica intr-una din ele)
9. The city of Sylvia (n-as fi vzt niciodata filmu’ asta daca in aeroport, R n-ar fi fost confundat cu actorul din rolul principal, iar el plin de incredere nu ar fi dat autograf -“with love, Xavier”)
10. Milk (Sean Penn ia Oscarul, din nou; doar ora – 5 dimine – m-a oprit sa dau clasicul sms “toti baietii misto joaca in echipa voastra?!”)
11. Revolutionary Road (filmul care a reusit performanta vacantei: sa–mi alunge insomnia; la a treia incercare am ajuns la genericul final, pacat ca l-am vzt la sf vacantei, as fi dormit mai mult)

Am citit:
1. Joan Didion – The year of magical thinking (m-a impresionat tare, a dus la o serie de alte lecturi despre care am sa scriu separat si am cautat-o pe Adriana Marina: “hai sa facem cumva sa fie tradusa si la noi”. multzu Lavi, Cristi)
2. Malcom Gladwell – Outliers (care m-a cam enervat si o sa ma manifest curind aici)
3. Paul Auster – True tales of American life (povesti reale scrise de oameni obisnuiti si editate de Auster)
4. Zadie Smith – The book of other people (23 de scriitori si exercitiile lor d proza scurta pe tema data, editate de Zadie – o concurenta la antologia Granta); m-a distrat Hornby si al lui J Johnson, nu s-a luat deloc in serios – de unde si postul meu cu “Popescu”;
5. Julian Barnes – Nothing to be Frightened of (cadoul d Craciun d la Mimo, direct la tinta. Multzu.)
6. Ian McEwan – The Daydreamer (prima carte pentru copii a dlui McEwan)

Am baut: mult, de multe feluri, in doua tari, dupa doua obiceiuri si fusuri orare.

M-am plimbat pe strazi pina mi-a inghetat nasul, mi-am revazut prieteni vechi, am facut pariuri si cadouri, am stat cit am putut de mult departe de net, de calculator si de televizor. Am lichelit.

gata, i’m back home.

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