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Marin
Sorescu,
The
Romanian poet who shaped a newly democratic generation
by Loredana
Tiron-Pandit
Translations by Loredana
Tiron-Pandit
The
classroom felt very stuffy that day. Everyone was present. And that
was not something usual for a Mathematics course in our humanistic
High School class. It was a short time after the Romanian revolution
in 1989.
Usually
most of us would try to skip Mathematics. The professor understood.
He was not expecting us to be too interested. We were just too busy
with other things, preparing to become writers, journalists, foreign
languages teachers. But this day everyone was concentrated,
thinking, pondering over some pieces of paper or some thick book
pages.
The
professor entered and walked slowly to his desk. I was shaking with
expectation.
“Ok,"
he said, "let's start now. ”
And
we started.
“My
favourite Marin Sorescu poem is…”
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The
disease
Doc,
I feel something deadly
Here,
where my being is,
Every
organ in my body hurts.
During
the day the sun hurts me
And
the moon and stars at the night.
I
feel something very painful in the cloud on the sky
And
I wake up every morning
Feeling
like winter.
I
took all kinds of pills for nothing
I
hated and I loved, I learned to read
And
I even read some books,
I
spoke to people and I thought,
I
was good and beautiful…
All
these didn’t have any effect, doc
And
I spend a lot of money on all these.
I
think I must have caught the disease of death
Some
time ago,
When
I was born.
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Marin
Sorescu, the most widely translated author in Romanian literature was
born on 29 February 1936, in the village of Bulzesti,
Romania. A rare day, for the writer could celebrate his birthday
only once in four years. He is considered to be one of the most
important contemporary Romanian writers, who made his name known,
during his life (1936 – 1996) on almost all continents. His work
was translated in USA, Canada, Mexico, Brazil, Columbia, India,
England, Germany, France, Greece, Sweden, Italy, Holland, Spain,
Portugal, China, Singapore, Russia, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Serbia,
Macedonia, Bulgaria and so on, with over 60 books translated all over
the world
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Dream
In
front of the house where I live with myself
There
was an incredible agitation.
All
human kind had gathered there
And
wanted to pass through my verses.
I
could hardly thwart the waves of people,
Running
everywhere, all sweat,
To
give entry numbers.
There
were forests, mountains and moonlights there:
They
had heard something about poetry
And
came, out of habit.
To
make happy both people and nature
I
was choosing the strongest,
And
asking them to take in their arms,
Along
with their own joys and sorrows,
A
tree or a mountain,
And
only like that I would throw them
In
some verse.
Some
very beautiful women
Were
holding the Gobi dessert on four corners
Wanting
to give it to me as a gift
I
was touched, thanked them and accepted it,
Although
I had been in love before.
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Many
books of his poetry and plays have appeared in English. He has
authored more than twenty collections of poetry, among them Poems
(1965), The Youth of Don Quixote (1968), Cough (1970),
Fountains in the Sea (1982), Water of
Life, Water of Death
(1987), Poems Selected by Censorship (1991), and The
Crossing (1994).
Since
his debut, in 1964, with the volume Alone among poets, he put
his own particular mark on Romanian literature, struggling with
political prejudices, with the limits of the Romanian language, with
critics and with his own limitations as a writer. He became known for
his
slightly ironical and humorous style that hid deep and sometimes even
dark vision.
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Adam
Although
he was in Heaven,
Adam
was walking on the alleys preoccupied and sad
Because
he didn’t know what he was missing.
Then
God created Eve
From
one of Adam’s ribs.
And
the first man liked this miracle so much
That
right that moment
He
felt his next rib,
Feeling
his fingers beautifully struck
By
hard breasts and sweet thighs
Like
shapes of musical notes.
The
new had Eve appeared in front of him.
She had just taken out her
mirror
And
was putting on lipstick.
“This
is life!” – sighed Adam
And
created another one.
And
so on, every time the official Eve
Turned
her back
Or
left to the market for gold, myrrh and frankincense
Adam
would bring to light a new odalisque
From
his intercostal harem.
God
noticed
This
unrestrained creation of Adam
Called
him, cursed him in a Godly way
And
banished him from Heaven
On
grounds of surrealism.
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Marin
Sorescu stirred something in people. Those who came in contact with
his writing could not be left indifferent. His use of words, his
choice of characters, the action and movement in his poetry, the
puzzling endings, everything transforms the reader into a deeply
thinking being. But the political clouds that covered Romania after
the 1989 revolution transformed him into a victim of the press and of
the post-revolutionary atmosphere.
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The
Mountain
I
am put in the place of a pavement stone.
I
got here by a regrettable confusion
Over
me passed
Small
cars,
Lorries,
Tanks
And
all kinds of footsteps.
I
felt the sun until noon
And
the moon until midnight.
The
clouds lie heavy on me with their shadow,
Difficult
and important events
Made
my flesh hard.
And
in spite of the fact that I accept
Like
a stoic my granite fate
Sometimes
I surprise myself howling:
Circulate
only on the carriageable side
Of
my soul,
You
barbarians!
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He
was nominated for the Nobel prize but never received it. And we
Romanians are used to that. Such a small country and such a small
language. We don’t expect worldwide recognition and yet
he
came so close to it.
Theatre
was very close to his heart. Asked in an interview who he preferred,
the poet, narrator, drama writer or painter, he answered in his own
style: “ I can’t stand any of them. They all put me to
work. It
is an activity that degenerates into work. I am on better terms with
the poet, who is the most understanding with me and who has the good
habit of taking all my spare time, without me noticing it.”
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Shakespeare
Shakespeare
created the world in seven days.
On
the first day he created the sky, mountains and inner precipices.
The
second day he created the rivers, seas, oceans
And
the other feelings—
And
gave them to Hamlet, Julius Caesar, Antonius, Cleopatra and Ofelia.
To
Othello and others,
So
that they and their followers
Master
them
For
ever and ever.
On
the third day he gathered all people
And
taught them the tastes:
The
taste of happiness, of love, of despair,
The
taste of jealousy, of glory and so on,
Until
all tastes were over.
Then
came some late folks.
The
creator stroke their heads with compassion,
And
told them they had no other option
but
to become literary critics
and
contest his work.
The
fourth and fifth day he left for laughter.
He
let out the clowns
To
tumble,
And
let the kings and emperors
And
other unfortunate to have fun.
On
the sixth day he solved some administrative problems
He
set up a storm
And
taught King Lear
How
to wear a crown of straw.
There
were a few residues from the making of the world,
And
he created Richard the Third.
On
the seventh day he checked to see if there was anything more to do.
The
theatre managers already covered the world with posters,
And
Shakespeare thought that after so much work
He
would deserve to see a show himself.
But
first, as he was overly tired,
He
went to die a little. |
Among
the theatre plays that he wrote, Iona
(published in 1968) is
considered his chef d’oeuvre. It
was met with enormous enthusiasm and was talked about for a long
time. It became a subject of study in the school books. A rare thing
to happen to a writer during his life time. A metaphorical, ironical
monologue of a fisherman
swallowed by a whale. An excerpt:
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— I
am swallowed.
— Entirely?
— (He
checks
himself) Entirely.
— Swallowed
alive or… (hesitates) … dead?
— As long
as I
realize it…
— (brings
arguments) I can walk, look, I can walk that way (walks until
hits on a limit)
— (returning
with calm) And I can walk this way (walks, the same
acting)
— I can
walk
wherever I want.
— I can do
what
I want. I can speak.
— Let’s
see if I
can be silent. Shut my mouth. (he tries)
— No,
I’m
afraid. (freezes in the middle of the stage)
— I heard
a
story about one swallowed by a fish.
— (surprised)
Don’t you say, really?
— He was
fishing, just the same, and the big fish came and “hap”
and then “gool, gool” and done.
— What
done?
— Swallowed
him.
— (frightened)
And he came out again?
— How
could he
come out?
— Well, I
am
asking you, what does the story say, what is the lesson to
be learnt?
— I
don’t know,
because I only heard this part, the first one, which
has the obvious lesson that one can be swallowed by a fish.
— I could
have
even not learnt this lesson.
— I could have learnt it here, why did I
waste my time with it? Why do
people waste their time with things that are not useful after death? (Iona)
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His
poetic plays followed the experience of the existentialist theatre
and what was called the theatre of the absurd.
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— Maybe until I get out
of here, things will clarify. (he laughs) Until
I “get born” from here.
— (scared)
What
if I am indeed dead and now I am about to come into the
world again?
— Stupidities.
— Don’t
you see
how everything bewilders you?
— There
are
children who talk in their mother’s belly.
— You mean
that
I also… (he doesn’t finish the thought)
— Get out.
— No, I
really
think I would be capable of that: I know myself pretty
well.
— Everything has a limit.
— (he
moves
toward the wall and starts measuring himself) Anyway, I am
rather big.
— And
unborn
children talk between each other.
— Only
twins.
Pregnant women gather so that the babies can talk too. So
they say.
— They
plan the
future. (silence. Iona is walking in the room, and then
stops, horrified) What if I am a twin?
— With
whom?
— He’s
here,
only I don’t see him.
— (scolding
himself) I should have started to wear spectacles for some
time. You neglect it today, neglect it tomorrow and then you get to a
point where you don’t see your own brother anymore. (Iona)
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His
theatre was well received by critics, being translated and performed
on stages in Paris, Zurich, Tampere, Berna, Copenhaga, Geneva, Napoli
and other theatres around the world. Some critics have pointed out
the possibility that after the enormous success of Iona in theatres
(he was already said to be the greatest drama writer in Europe) the
tendency to transform him into a myth began.
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—I am like a God who
cannot perform the resurrection. All the miracles
came out fine, coming on Earth, life and even death – but once he
reached here, he cannot come back to life. He is trying hard, calling
all the tricks of mind and wonder, throwing himself into deity like the
lion in
the circus, in his fire aura. But he falls in the middle of flames.
So many times he passed through fire that he didn’t even think he
would stumble here, on resurrection!
—And the people
are waiting for him up there.
—They all believe
in him, some are almost amused by so much faith
“just now the grave will blossom like the petals of a water lily
and the dead will come back to life as it is natural, after so much
waiting of humanity, and he will rise to heaven, giving us a bright
example.
—Because, we,
humans, want only this: an example of resurrection. Then
we can go back to our homes and die, humanly, in our homes.
—But we
want to
see him first.
—And he is
here
in the grave, powerless, and he even doesn’t have
anymore voice to shout: “Hey, good people, the resurrection will
be
postponed!” (Iona)
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All
his writing, either poetry or drama, makes up a dialog. An inner
dialogue most of the times. But the dynamics and continuous movement
of characters and events is a mark of his writing.
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I
saw the light
I
saw the light on Earth
And I got born
To see how you are doing
Healthy?
Strong?
How
is happiness treating you?
Thank
you, don’t answer
I
don’t have time for answers,
I
hardly have time for asking questions.
But
I like it here
Warm,
nice,
And
so much light that
Grass
is growing.
And
that girl, look,
Is
watching me with her soul…
Not,
dear, don’t trouble yourself loving me.
But a black coffee I will accept
From
your hand.
I
like that you know how to make it
Bitter.
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George
Calinescu, the great literary critic of Romania, said about Sorescu
“He writes about everything and he writes differently.
Fundamentally, Marin Sorescu has an exceptional ability for capturing
the fantastic of humble things and the immense side of common themes.
He is enthusiastic and drunk with the universe, childish, sensitive
and full of thoughts to the edge of fear of the surprising existence,
romantic, in the larger sense of the word.”
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Under
the door
The
day of today
has
been delivered to me as usually
under
the door.
I
put my glasses on
And
begin to read.
Nothing
special from what I see...
It
says I am going to be a little sad by noon,
No
reason specified.
And
I shall continue to love light
From
where I stopped yesterday.
The
external affairs page informs me
About
the discussions I am going to have
With
the water, the mountains and the air
regarding
their absurd request
to
enter my blood and my brains.
And
then the usual news
About
my energy for work
the
walk to buy bread
About
good humor
(but
they don't say anything
about
the situation inside my liver).
Where
is it printed, this life of mine
That
is so full of unbelievable mistakes?
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Sorescu
went on scholarships to study in Germany and the United States, in a
period when Romania was a closed country, confining its own citizens
who were not allowed to see anything from the outside. He became a
recognized author in a time when only if one praised the dictator
could see any word published in Romania. His work was a
double-language parable critical of the regime, although not detected
as such by the censorship of the time. He chose to get involved in
politics in the following years of democratic changes in the country.
He became Minister of Culture and many saw it perverting his
integrity as a writer.
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Double
By
night,
Somebody
wears my clothes.
In
the morning I can notice fresh mud on the shoes
I
wonder, who else has the one same walk as me?
It
started not long ago,
To
also wear my thoughts
When
I wake up I can never find them
Where
I left them.
They
are worn out, tired, with dark rings around the
eyes,
It
is obvious that somebody
Thought
with them
All
night.
I
wonder, who else has the one same soul as me?
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And,
as it seldom happens, his image was damaged. Romanians tend to become
very passionate about politics. People who had never read his work
disliked him. To the point were many wouldn’t admit even that his
writing was of any value.
Our
math teacher was one of those people. But for all my colleagues,
myself included, Sorescu was an icon. He was our idol. He gave us the
words to express the turmoil in our own souls.
Sorescu
talked in an interview about his relationship with literature while
he himself was a High School student “When I was like you, I was
either here or in Predeal, where I went to school, and my relations
with literature were on friendly terms.. We were starting to talk to
each other on first name basis…”
“Ok,
you convinced me”, said our teacher after the bell ring. “I
am
going home now, to read Marin Sorescu.”
Marin
Sorescu’s last volume, The Bridge, published posthumously
in
1997, was written during the final two months of his life, while he
knew he was dying of liver cancer.
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The
stair to heaven
A
spider’s thread
Is
hanging from the ceiling
Exactly
over my bed.
Every
day I notice it
Coming
closer and closer
It
must be the stair to heaven they are sending me
I
think
Although
I have lost so much weight,
And
I am just the phantom of who I used to be
I
think that my body
Is
still too heavy
For
this delicate stair.
My
soul,
slowly,
slowly
you
should go first.
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