spring/ summer 2007 | no 21 the vilnius review spring summer no

Transcription

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Bono stayed behind: he wanted to make the rounds of his land and farm, lock up
the house-sauna where he lived, arrange the tools in his workshop, perhaps the
neighbour would need them, etcetera, and because his legs were longer than those
of the oxen, he would catch up with them in Paluknys.
Youve no doubt understood what was meant by etcetera. The farmers daughters name was Darata.
Fetching, she was not a plumper. But Bono liked ones who were just wispywispy, and lustful. And lustful, Darata was not. As for her other virtues, she probably had none; what on earth could those other womanly virtues be if not that
all-important one prurience? He had happened upon a southern girl who was not
prurient. A rare thing indeed. And with that thought, Bono set out to catch up
with the short-legged oxen heading to Paluknys, as he said he would.
the vilnius review | spring / summer 2007 | no 21
spring / summer 2007 | no 21
THE
VI LNIUS
REVIEW
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NEW WRITING FROM LITHUANIA
Ramûnas Kasparavièius in Visø graþiausia (The Most Beautiful of all)
Christ, but an old sort,
decrepit, slovenly,
full of unbelievable wisdom,
which is permissible only in old age.
You should become decrepit,
cough, spit teeth,
in order to shelter that
rag-picker.
Sigitas Geda in Miegantis Teodendronas (Sleeping Theodendron)
ISSN 1648 -7354
Cover illustration
by Benediktas Januevièius
and Tomas S. Butkus
Vilnius_Magasine#9-COVER.p65
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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Eugenijus Aliðanka
ENGLISH LANGUAGE EDITOR
Joseph Everatt
DESIGNER
Jokûbas Jacovskis
TRANSLATORS
Eugenijus Aliðanka, Jûra Aviþienis, Diana Bartkutë, Joseph Everatt,
Kerry Shawn Keys, Aldona Matulytë, Darius James Ross, Laima Sruoginis,
Medeinë Tribinevièius
THIS PUBLICATION IS SUPPORTED BY
The Lithuanian Media Support Foundation
The Lithuanian Culture and Sports Support Foundation
© 2007 The Vilnius Review
Public institution Vilnius
Mësiniø g. 4, LT -01133 Vilnius, Lithuania
Tel: (+370 5) 2613767
E-mail: zurnalvilnius@takas.lt
www.culture.lt/vilnius
I S S N 1648-7354
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contents
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EDITORIAL
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BOOKS AND AUTHORS
Know your Place, Noisy Northerner by Imelda Vedrickaitë | 7
The Most Beautiful of all by Ramûnas Kasparavièius | 10
Between Let it Be and Emptiness by Dalia Satkauskytë | 19
Let it Be by Liûnë Sutema | 21
A Writer with Attitude by Loreta Maèianskaitë | 27
The Children of a Bitch by Saulius Ðaltenis | 31
About the Yotvingians by Valentinas Sventickas | 41
Sleeping Theodendron by Sigitas Geda | 44
Relating Daily Routine to Eternity by Laimantas Jonuðys | 53
A Guest at Gods House by Jaroslavas Melnikas | 56
Six and Two Threes by Virginijus Gasiliûnas | 67
0+6 = poems-objects by Benediktas Januðevièius | 70
THE VIEW FROM HERE
The Journalistic Novel in New Prose by Women by Vitalija Pilipauskaitë | 74
AWARDS
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NEW BOOKS
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RECENT EVENTS
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editorial
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Can literature exist without criticism? Perhaps good advertising, a scandal, or a
better name, not necessarily in the literary world, are enough to make books saleable and read? Who actually criticises a new kind of margarine or a spring collection of shoes? The most important thing is whether one likes or dislikes it, whether
it satisfies consumer needs. Another thing is to what extent advertising that is
pushing its way to the fingertips is tampering with all that here.
The situation with criticism in Lithuania leaves much to be desired. There is no
shortage of good reviews; however, the voices of authoritative critics, whose opinions are listened to, and in front of whom authors tremble, are lacking. Literary
critics, representatives of the academic world investigating modern literature, devote most of their attention to academic texts. They hardly find time for criticism,
and sometimes they are simply disinclined to engage in such nonsense. Writers
themselves fill the empty niche. However, as is fitting for writers, their reviews
usually cannot avoid subjectivity. The writers often take a parochial view of everything. Sometimes it turns out for the better: dry theoretical schemes, which put the
author into a Procrustean bed, are avoided. Perhaps young literary critics or novice
writers are more active in reviewing their own works and those of their older colleagues. They might make mistakes more often, but they criticise more fearlessly,
and provoke a variety of attitudes. The dispute between young critics about the
principles of criticism that was sparked off in the literary press quite recently and
which is still going on, measuring swards, as well as reasoned discussions, testifies
to the appearance of a new generation of critics.
More and more reviews of translated literature have appeared recently, which is
obvious progress compared to the situation several years ago. However, these reviews are usually rather accidental, most translated books go unnoticed by critics,
and those which are reviewed are evaluated separately from Lithuanian literature.
The impression forms that, thus far, criticism has been unable to evaluate literature from a broader, regional, European or global point of view. Books by foreign
and Lithuanian writers live separately, not only on the bookshelves, but also in the
minds of critics and readers.
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The reality is that literary criticism is carried by cultural periodicals, dailies or
monthly publications, the number of readers of which scarcely exceeds 2,000. The
readers of one are often the readers of the others too. Cultural publications almost
never reach the libraries. The largest dailies ignore literature. Readers are fed in
the hundreds of thousands with crime stories and scandals, even on the pages
devoted to culture. On the other hand, more and more readers are attracted to the
Internet. Internet publications are gaining in popularity, and they contain an evergreater amount of literary criticism too. Is the Internet really going to oust cultural
magazines and weeklies in the immediate future? The Internet is hardly a panacea;
therefore, to maintain a healthy climate for culture, a healthy cultural policy is
needed, which would avoid taking the simplest and cheapest way.
The ordinary reader finds it difficult to orient himself in the flow of books, where
some books aggressively show off their coloured fronts, while others press themselves against each other with their modest backs turned to the reader. The most
saleable books often do not even appear in the range of vision of the critics. It goes
without saying that various prizes that draw the publics attention to the most remarkable books also play a role. However, books usually live their own unpredictable lives. Perhaps in literature, as in other walks of life, overproduction is
unavoidable. One thing is obvious: literature can exist without criticism. However,
both literature and the reader suffer because of that.
EUGENIJUS ALIÐANKA
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PHOTOGRAPH BY VLADAS BRAZIÛNAS
RAMÛNAS KASPARAVIÈIUS
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books and authors
Know your Place,
Noisy Northerner
BY IMELDA VEDRICKAITË
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How consistent Ramûnas Kasparavièius musing seems in his second novel, and
his short stories in the book Visø graþiausia (The Most Beautiful of all). His novel
Molinë patranka (A Clay Gun), written in 1998 and 1999, took off only now that
Lithuanian prose is longing for positive thinking about the small man. The novel
is important within the context of new prose, which is looking for ways of speaking
in the blades of time (according to Gintaras Beresnevièius). His comic element
hurts, and makes us laugh at the same time, with his play of words. Deadly serious
and sad Lithuanians receive this novel as an antidote to their national disabilities:
neurotic negativism and a sense of inferiority that gives rise to passivity.
The grotesque popular jester, the poet Bono, writes Opera Buffa Urbi. In this
way, he says goodbye to the way of thinking and outlook of the Soviet-depot level,
and, at the same time, ironically underlines faithfulness to the history of Lithuania.
The principle of the mechanism of the gun and the act of writing a novel are
revealed to the reader: technë-ika is art, the helix in the gun is manipulation with
time. Thus, Bono, having armed himself with art, changes time, he forms history
itself: At the beginning, this work was thought of as techno-opera buffa urbi. A
scenario for some miracle a square or market performance, containing the onomatopoeic sounds of the city. Tehne means art in Greek. A tehne gramatike means,
say, the art of writing.
The small carnival apocalypses (the break of centuries?) is accompanied in Kasparavièius novel by the fireworks of the death of the poets muse, the Grim Reaper,
and a gun exploding in the spring: a mythical thing (the gun) and a text. Paraphras7
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ing the phraseological unit relating the powers of art and war, it becomes silent
when the gun of the text goes off. This is the artists movement, which changes the
perception of the world. It is deadly dangerous to the established, dead, planes of
perception. Kasparavièius continues the tradition of the belief of the avant-garde:
the power of the world changes history directly. This gives rise to his extraordinary
concern about the installation of the time helix. This relation with history gives rise
both to abundant links of literary contexts and fixing the ever-changing name-role
of the anti-hero. The mythical anti-hero (as is the case with all mythical heroes, his
origin is unknown), the jester Bono, is a ribald, a rogue, a little devil. He appears
either as a blacksmith (Kasparavièius novel Keturiø sesuèiø darþelis [1998] a relative of the blacksmiths of Lithuania), or as an artist, or as some modern Yuppie.
Molinë patranka is a novel-allegory. It speaks about the state of consciousness of
present-day Lithuanians (there are more poets than there are new noblemen).
This is a rather desperate presentation of ones own identity and value in the new
post-Soviet world. This language makes a mess of Baroque epitaphs and Slavonic
swearwords, fragments of the miracle and the drunkards Vilnelës pakedenimus.
It has to rehabilitate, to bring back to the world the intellectual barbarian of Europe, and the capital Vilnius where he resides, together with its entire outskirts,
the patrimony speaking the Dzûkai dialect, which is impossible to get back. The
play of words and literary quotations, which are dictated by the logic of absurdity,
intonations of Lithuanian legends and fairy-tales, elaborated with dialects and jargon in some places, are characteristic of the narration of the novel and short stories. This, by the way, makes Kasparavièius prose difficult to translate into other
languages. It makes it deeply rooted in the accord of meanings characteristic of
Lithuania only, and perhaps understood by Lithuanians alone. The positive prism
of the vision of the world of Kasparavièius attractive anti-hero crystallises in this
collage of voices. This is the relation of the creator, who is magnetised by Eros and
is in love with the world. The northerner finally understands that he is in his
place, with all his vices and virtues. And the greatest virtue is to remain oneself
and to preserve the live memory of ones own history.
Kasparavièius northerner constantly rethinks the experience of the Soviet regime in the form of a dialogue between himself and the reader. This conversation
with the narrator enables him to tame the universal absurdity of the world, it even
legalises it through nostalgia for Soviet romanticism. The ability to forgive ones own
failures and to balance situations, which condemns humaneness to failure, is derived from Soviet experience (from lies, and especially from ambiguity, which is the
element of the jester). No matter how drastic it might sound, once you have learned
ambiguity, you find a way to avoid the moralising difference between black and
white. Together with Kaparavièius rogue Bono, we learn (if we have already forgotB
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ten) how to be elusive: Can beautiful be evil? Yes, it can. Can evil be beautiful?
I have no wish even to answer that. Stupidity begins with stupid questions.
The look observing the fall of humaneness is also characteristic of other short
stories. Heroism is possible only for a short time. In the long run, a fighter, whether
he is a victim or a butcher, can choose the lesser evil. In the novel Molinë patranka,
the only thing that a man stuck between the Soviet symbols of the hammer and the
sickle can do is nothing:
And man? A man stands proudly between a cow and a hammer, or perhaps he lies between the sky
and the earth, on the grass, however, under a green acacia. Perhaps he is doing something and thinks
that he is doing it in a clever way, or perhaps he does not do anything, and at that time he is the
cleverest.
Kasparavièius outlook, which painfully gropes at the paradoxes of mans life,
echoing links with history and literature, are very close to the intertextual polyphony of Kostas Ostrauskas plays. The abovementioned experience and historical memory enable Kasparavièius small man to come to terms with himself as he
is, the northerner-barbarian, not obligated to anyone to create his own image-legend. This novel is an attempt to liberate oneself from the victim syndrome, which
tortures the post-Soviet man. Kasparavièius grotesquely represents his attempt to
find himself in an only externally changed Lithuania (to be more exact, in Vilnius,
as the condensate of Lithuania) and in the unified world.
Kasparavièius speaks about present-day Lithuania in mythologised repercussions of all the periods in its history. He sees the small man as a destroyer of a
many-faceted hierarchy (including that of post-Soviet elementary piggishness),
the one who lights the carnival fire, the judge of political alchemy, a poet-blacksmith-potter, who is casting-modelling the clay gun whose single shot is to change
the history of thinking, to allow people to believe in resurrection.
Ramûnas Kasparavièius
Visø graþiausia
Vilnius: Lietuvos raðytojø sàjungos leidykla, 2006, 190 p.
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an extract from the novel
The Most Beautiful
of all
BY RAMÛNAS KASPARAVIÈIUS
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What is that thing called art?
Bono stashed his wages at his friend the artists place.
Safer with me than in a Venetian bank! he said boastfully.
When Bono did go into town he would receive a modest sum, which is why in the
evenings, if they felt like it, they would drink up to the artists cut-off point. Sometimes the cut-off point was raised; other times it was reduced. Go on, you say, such
things dont happen that the cut-off could actually be lowered whos ever heard
of such a thing happening? The lowering of a cut-off is an abnormal thing. It puts
the brakes on progress.
There were days when Bono didnt bother going into town. Instead, he would
prime the painters canvasses, scribble something or other, or read asinine religious books such things do exist, and there are many of them. They are meant to
increase the readers Faith, but they only manage to impart Boredom. The painter,
whose name was Romuald, would order lunch to be prepared, and not simply any
old lunch. Bono would cook the meal. They were always not simply any old lunches,
but they were also not always great accomplishments. Oh, and Bonos name was
really Ramas. Perhaps it was short for Romulianus. Ramas-Bono would cook the
lunch in the galley kitchen and grumble that this task would be better performed
by the model; in fact he could pose with a book in his hands as an ancient youth,
or else a pupil of Kazimierz Siemienowicz. Romuald countered that he found
such subjects dull and that he even had no desire to sketch them: he wanted to
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paint women, even ones who werent always nude. That was the commencement of
realism in Vilnius; it was not mere theory. Because that is how things in life truly
are: women are not always clothed, nor are they always in the nude. That is lifes
great truth. And that was how Romuald explained things to the model, while Bono
didnt even bother to listen because he didnt consider that theorising could be
something of much importance or use for him.
Youre better off hiring two models, Bono offered. One could pose while the
other cooks. It would be a very good and proper arrangement.
And what, pray tell, will you be doing while I am painting? asked the artist,
becoming suspicious. Loll about? And whats more two models would mean
twice the expense.
Ill cover it, the wealthy Bono promised.
Well then, lets try it for a week, said Romuald. Cook youre fired.
And thats precisely what they did. But nothing good came of it. They didnt end
up indulging their gourmandise as they had hoped. They came across a second
model who turned out to be lazy, who wasnt interested in cooking and worse yet,
who didnt know how to cook. She much preferred horizontal undertakings with
Bono. Romuald was heartbroken because his model, once she saw what the other
was up to, lost all desire to pose, preferring instead to do the same with Romuald,
and as for cooking forget it. The painting process came to a standstill. A nude,
minus a right breast, looked on sadly from the primed canvas at what was going on
under her eyes (though in truth the face was perfectly rendered. That was the plain
truth so said Romuald). Bono dubbed the picture The Amazon, and the right
breast remained unpainted due to a change of concept he quickly sketched a bow
in its place.
Why bother with arrows? Why should I indeed? Romuald muttered in frustration as he painted. The arrows were spent long ago and are being gathered by the
cupids, he said, explaining the paintings subject. They are outside the pictures
frame of view.
Cupids fluttered about the studio, softly and delicately, but sometimes just any
old way.
Bono wrote all this down on a sheet of paper as if it were a bill of lading: that the
amazons used to slice off their right breasts so that they didnt hinder their ability
to draw their bows, and that the spent arrows were being gathered up by the cupids who are not visible in the painting because it was impossible to depict them
since they were very skittish and constantly flitting around its frame. He pasted
the sheet to the back of the painting, which was then sold successfully to Zavish,
since he was always a bit odder than the others. But Madame Zavish did not take
to it; she hid the picture so cleverly that, to this day, it has never resurfaced,
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which is a pity because it was a good painting. Even Romuald was pleased with
the result:
Not everything came out as I had conceived initially: differently but not badly.
Good thinking, layabout, was his evaluation of it.
But your model is prettier! Bono rejoined. He had tried to portray his model
with words, but she for some reason was heartbroken and ran off. Perhaps the
words werent quite fitting, or they were unflattering, but then again she wasnt
very fetching. The remaining model was overjoyed by this turn of events and things
went back to normal. Romuald painted, the model would chomp sugary pastries,
and her eyes would flutter as she imagined an evening of frolic, but which one of
these two-oo-oo?
Bono meanwhile did absolutely nothing: he lay on his back and worked out a
plan. This is how he came up with the notion of building a cannon. Of what though?
Clay. With a steel spring inside. And it would have wooden wheels. Clay, metal,
and wood.
It should be said that back in those days both the making of moonshine and the
smelting of iron for private purposes were things that were strictly prohibited
they were the purview of the state. But Bono had considered everything: he conceived a strategy encompassing all possible tactical contingencies. And he planned
anew his trek to the countryside to reclaim his land. There by the rivulet, in the
bog, he had noticed good bog-iron. He would make coals from a dry oak which was
standing there as if for that very purpose. There was clay there too. And now you
even have some money to go ahead with this venture, he thought.
And so, will you build them on a large scale? asked Romuald, his artist friend.
Wholl buy them?
No. Cannons are like wives you only need one, Bono replied.
Clay ones?
Clay ones.
With a spring?
After such talk, the model started to feel a desire to become, no, not a cannon,
but Romualds wife.
Its a silly idea Bono; silly talk thatll lead to awful consequences, Romuald
growled angrily. Clear off.
It wasnt clear to whom those words were addressed, Bono or the model, but
neither cleared off. Bono kept pondering, while the model, whose name was Kitty
and whose nickname was Leontine, purred.
Paint her as the tenth muse, Bono advised. Some day it wont seem so silly.
And with less of that realism. What comes of it? You can see for yourself that
people flee from it
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People flee from the realism of your words, countered Romuald. No one will
flee from mine.
And he up and painted a non-realist tenth muse. She emerged from nothingness
and appeared quite becoming on the canvas, but the real muse still hankered to
become a wife. Not the one on the canvas, but the model. Though, perhaps the one
on the canvas also wanted that too. She was similar to one of that ilk. Well-portrayed. Psychologically correct.
Bono lazed and carried on with the shaping of his scheme: how he was going to
reclaim his land and then make his clay cannon. He had become quite circumspect, because its an unpleasant thing when the bailiff punches you in the snout:
hed make sure to get the necessary documents drawn up, inveigling them from the
right people. He would get one document from the UNIVERSTY itself: Naturae
Descriptionem.
Bono correctly surmised that it would be easy to pull the wool over those provincial bumpkins eyes: Thats what we call foresters these days. How could you
possibly not know?! You should be ashamed! He obtained the Naturae
Descriptionem certificate without difficulty: he penned it himself and got an old
scholar the chap was not without his wits about him to inscribe it. He plied him
with green-coloured wine all day until the lecturer felt like a veritable lionheart. A
few strokes of the pen, and he had his signature.
Finding the right connections was also not difficult. The governments man was
from the same part of the country as he. No dolt he knew how to sign his name.
One who could easily become a well-known politician, even the speaker of the
countrys small parliament. Perhaps he did go on to do so
And it so happened that the next morning Bono found himself in the same pub
where he and the lecturer had done their quaffing. He and Romuald went there for
refreshment.
Im weary of Leontines caterwauling, said his friend the painter, seeking consolation.
O Leontine my sweet kitten, how is it that you roar so like a lion? trilled Bono.
You know, thats actually a nice ditty, said Romuald, uplifted. But perhaps
its best if you dont sing it, because then she truly will start to roar like a lion.
But that wasnt his real fear; rather, it was that Bono, with his thrush-like warbling, would cause Leontine to swoon.
And thats when the governments man joined them. He was a southerner; they
like chaps who sing and twitter away happily. It turned out that he was the right
fellow. Bono drew up the certificate on the spot and the chap signed it. The certificate was attractive: very official in its appearance and aesthetically pleasing. It
testified to the fact that Bono was, ostensibly, a natural and a bona fide person.
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But why do you need the cannon? Romuald asked Bono as the two of them
made their way home, trudging along like cows.
Why? Listen to me: Deus ex machina! said Bono, raising his finger. Why
does that God of ours need a machina? But the machina exists and it is indeed a
value. And so will that cannon be as well. A theatre prop for a miracle that hasnt
yet been penned. And, in the end, for the sake of gravitas.
Twaddle, said the painter as he pissed on a wall. Have your cannon then. As
if it should somehow grieve me. Just dont sell it to the Swedes, whatever you do.
Not for all the money in the world, Bono said, regaining his balance. Itll be
for my own personal needs. And if I need to, Ill fire it.
Ill fire you, asshole, bellowed one of the night-watchmen from out of the dark.
Sell it. Fire it. Hop it the both of you.
And the two friends bolted. The night-watchmen gave chase. The friends kept
running and managed to shirk them.
But, out of the frying pan and into the fire, say the English; while the French say
to escape the lion only to be trapped inside the she-wolfs den (they wouldnt be the
French if they didnt!), and Rom and Ram hightailed it all the way to Leontine, who
was in a state of high frenzy, and who was also growling very deeply.
Ive heard your growl, finally, sighed Romuald with delight, as if he had just
found himself in Naples, and he promptly fell asleep.
Having unexpectedly sent her beloved off to the Land of Nod, Leontine remained unperturbed and began tormenting Bono: You, I will not allow to fall
asleep! she said, stroking his head. You will get to know me down to the tips
of my nails.
Bono fled to the woodshed, buttressed the door from inside with a plank and
went to sleep on a pile of tow, murmuring all the while: Enough here to charge the
cannon. Tra la li la la, as he clenched the tow.
In the morning Bono embarked on his journey. To the provinces. Mounted on a
hired mare. A white one.
It so happened in the province of Dzûkija
This time round things went incomparably better for Bono. His land was returned to him and he received a deed establishing his title. The county bigwigs
signed it, as did three superannuated seigneurs. The sacristan of Uþuoguoðtis had
to guide the hand of one, the other goggled at his own curlicue signature with its
large elegant letters inscribed on the white paper Bono had bought from the stationer in Aukðtadvaris, and Bono gave the third a gift: a stencil he had bought
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expressly to blandish him. He even managed to avoid having to pony up any money
to this last gentleman; in fact it was quite the opposite he sweetened Bono with
some honey and saw him off with a cured ham.
Title deed with all requisite signatures in hand, Bono rode off to Vilnius, left it in
safekeeping with the painter, returned the mare to its Sarmatian owner, and withdrew some funds from his Venetian bank to proceed with his venture.
And Bono did build his cannon, though it took some time. In the provinces everything moves at a slow pace. He tinkered for two years, occasionally heading
back to Vilnius to withdraw some funds from his cache at Romualds, though afterward he was able to eke out a living, earning enough from his farm to feed
himself.
Once, Romuald came to visit him, and after two days of drinking he said:
This is a stifling place! Youve gone mad for the sake of a bleeding cannon. The
thing is of absolutely no use, or have you gone completely blind?
But Bono was born under the sign of the fish, and the people of that sign always
see their dreams through to the bitter end. If only so that they can gaze at the
product of their labours and say to themselves: Not bad.
Whether or not the end result is of any use is something entirely different. Their
intuition makes them do things that seem senseless to others. My dear fellow,
says the Piscean, you need to be able to know the difference between that which is
senseless and that which makes no sense to you. Intuition rarely betrays the Piscean;
their handiworks always seem to them as though they will be needed by someone.
Useless but necessary. Just as the farmer is in our own day.
Bono spent an entire year hauling bog-iron, splitting oak, converting it into coal
(part of which he sold to local smiths), and smelting. The following year he forged
the spring do you think it was a simple task to forge such a large spring? He
worked alone most of the time. His neighbour, a local bumpkin, offered to lend a
hand and not gratis, of course. From time to time he would help out when Bono
was unable to hump something on his own, but afterward he would have to footslog
it back to Vilnius to get more money for his building project. He would return on
foot but with the money, though once in a while hed manage to catch a ride with
someone.
The peasant began to grow very curious: What is it?
Bono wouldnt tell him. The peasant grew even more curious, so he sent his
missus to pump Bono. But Bono didnt tell her either. The peasant sent his daughter. The building process came to a full stop.
And Bono still didnt breathe a word to anyone. The peasant didnt like that.
The missus was also displeased, because it meant that her daughter was most
likely barren. Who would want her? And, though she was an only child, who would
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eventually inherit all of that wealth? That was a problem. One could go grey and
see wrinkles appear in ones face, what do you think? Empirical evidence reveals
terrible things to us
So what is it? the peasant asked for the seventy-third time, gaping at the claycast cylinder, the gun-carriage by its side; they had yet to be fastened together, and
Bono was still hard at work on the second wooden wheel.
And that was a thing of a wholly different order: one not associated with the clay
one. Wheels. Cant you see?
And so, Bono carved into the wheel in Lithuanian: This cannon is made of
clay. He did so boldly; after all, the peasant couldnt read.
These are some fancy embellishments, Bono explained. And the peasant believed him.
Whats the clay cylinder for?
I dont know myself. Only the state knows.
The peasant was struck with fear; he even fled backwards.
Its a big secret. Dont speak of this to anyone; the state might bump you off,
Bono said, striking fear into him.
The peasant walked away, displeased by everything he had heard: both the fear
and the secret had a negative emotional effect on him, but in the evening Bono paid
him to haul the parts to Vilnius on his oxcart because it was autumn already. And
because it was autumn the sum he paid him was not a small one.
Ill put it together in Vilnius. Therell be less risk, because if people see it atop
a wagon, or being towed behind it, therell be all manner of annoying questions. It
could even end up being seized. For now Ill just say its a drainpipe for Galgons
manor, and the other part is the lid of a piano.
Moments after giving the peasant an advance payment, the tax collectors cart
creaked into the yard. And why did it creak so in summer as much as in winter?
The peasants jaw even dropped: what a keen sense of smell that state had! It had
clearly gotten a whiff of his money. The peasant paid his taxes and the collector
drove off, but his cart still creaked. Worse than when it arrived, it seemed to the
peasants ears.
Bono took pity on him and explained the meaning of the word advance that
he would get more in Vilnius. The peasant recovered, as did the missus, but the
daughter didnt as she was left to guard the farm. Why such punishment? It was
hard to say for what she was being punished. Mother, it seemed, had a greater
yearning to go into town than she
With oxen harnessed, cart loaded, cannon atop cart, missus astride cannon,
missus skirts draped over the cargo, covering nearly everything, there was just
enough room left for the peasant. He took his place: Gee-hup!
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Translated by Darius James Ross
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PHOTOGRAPH BY ONA PAJEDAITË
LIÛNË SUTEMA
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books and authors
Between Let it Be
and Emptiness
BY DALIA SATKAUSKYTË
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
Liûnë Sutema (her real name is Zinaida Nagytë-Katiliðkienë, and she was born in
1927) is one of those poets whose work is inseparable from their life. To be more
precise, her work is inseparable from the losses that have followed the poetess
throughout her life. The biggest of them, exile, the loss of the home and the native
land, is the thematic subsoil to her entire work.
However, the deaths of her next-of kin inhabit her poetry. The death of her husband, the exile prose writer Marius Katiliðkis (19141980), is undoubtedly linked
to the genesis of the collection Vendeta (1981). The deaths of her brother, the exile
poet Henrikas Nagys (19201996), and her son and daughter are stamped across
her latest collection Tebûnie (Let it Be, 2006).
The oxymoron deaths inhabit is not accidental here. The dialectic of death
and life, loss and obligation to the reality created by those losses is one of the
essential features of this poetry.
Sutemas relative, the poet Algimantas Mackus (19321964), who is part of the
same generation of the earthless, or the nurslings of the exodus, protests against
exile and the irrevocability of death. Like Mackus, Sutema refuses the poetic of
romantic nostalgia popular in émigré literature, and chooses the path of
unornamented language. However, in the presence of exile and death, the hardest
human trials, she chooses a stoical position, but not protest.
Nebëra nieko svetimo (Theres Nothing Alien, 1962) is the title of her second
poetry collection (the first, Tebûnie tartum pasakoj [Let it Be Like in a Fairy-Tale],
was published in 1955). The title defines the relationship with defective reality,
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and declares the nature of highly personal, historically and geographically local
poetry.
How does this universality manifest itself? First of all, by the rejection of personal and national martyrology. From a poetic point of view, it is doubtlessly related to the tradition of Lithuanian poetry (separate folk motifs, or even paraphrases
of narratives, the mythological layer of images and situations). From a thematic
point of view, it is linked to the trajectory of personal life.
Sutemas poetry tells us of several essential planes in human existence: of the
vitality overwhelming all those losses, which is best expressed through the image
of convolvulus; of the inter-subjective relation outweighing the losses, seen both in
actual declarations of solidarity (with the Indian or African American, driven out of
their native lands; children with fair faces, children with dark faces, are singing
the same song about a mouse, says one poem) and in the dialogue structure characteristic of all her poetry (the situation of a conversation, or an attempt at it,
prevails). The dead, with whom the dialogue never stops, also belong to that intersubjective world. She tells us of the complicated relationship between poetry and
reality, which is best seen in the collection Graffiti (1993), and of the necessity to
choose a poetic language authentically conveying reality and experience (Its time
to burn the words for which there are no things, says one of the poems in Badmetis
[Famine, 1972]).
The new collection Tebûnie is definitely the quintessence of all these aspects,
including Sutemas very specific rhythmic pattern of the poem. The main thing that
distinguishes this book from her earlier collections is probably the larger distance
between the worlds main poetic coordinates. Here, the space of thought is more
realistic and extensive, while that of life is even more concentrated and much
desired. All is taken away, assert several poems in the collection. Yet, the book is
called Tebûnie.
Liûnë Sutema
Tebûnie
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Let it Be
BY LIÛNË SUTEMA
***
Such a biting white frost
outside the window and inside me
Im afraid to begin to speak
for fear the hail of my words
might hurt you.
Pressing a harmonica to his lips,
a red-headed boy in the frame
on seeing me is afraid to play,
for fear his song might freeze.
I restrain the sigh inside myself
so that the windows do not blindly ice over,
do not separate me
from the birds vigil on the windowsill.
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***
In the dream I uttered
Let it be,
Spring already, come back
and all the birds flew back,
just one falcon missing
maybe it stayed in Antakalnis?
Did I sin against dreaming then,
by uttering words not belonging to me?
I just wanted to know
if your dream is still alive
Let it be
the falcons still with you
***
A town with five churches, four bars,
nestles up to me
as if I had been looking for it
theres not even a saint there, not a single drunk
only lost Saturdays,
empty-handed Sundays
dog me
three mourners keep watch and wait
with the good news
Not my town,
I wasnt looking for it,
it found me
and wont let me loose
Let it be
Ill stay.
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***
Dont turn back,
the old Maþeikiai station follows you
sooty locomotives wheeze and whistle,
carriage wheels clatter and rumble
theres no need to travel anywhere,
youve already departed
Dont turn back,
the forgotten street where you left
your rushing footsteps pursue you,
you dont need them anymore,
youve already rushed too far
Dont turn back,
theres nothing and there was nothing behind you,
just the mist between sky and earth,
just mist.
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***
I feel how both my ancestors,
one with a hammer in the smithy,
the other alongside a rye field with a scythe,
thoughtfully count
how many children in their family yet survive
then suddenly flinch and stop
just one? and that one hardly theirs
so not enough? youve gathered together everyone,
grown-ups, the elderly and the newborn
do not forge horseshoes anymore, Im not breeding horses
do not reap rye anymore, Im not baking bread
and if one is not enough for you,
split me in half.
***
My shadow sleeps and dreams me
such as I once was,
searching for the invisible
but I sensed it, it exists
in mans lament and song,
in the coo of a dove, in the handful of earth
which I strew about believing
the grass will spring up and grow
My shadow sleeps and dreams me
such as I once was
the one unable to find herself
and I havent discovered and I dont know
whose scared soul
got sheltered in me
and I say to the shadow: wake up,
its high noon,
and youre not here.
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***
I will emigrate to that country which doesnt yet exist
and will give it the name
SUTEMA ,
and it will be independent
from the sky and the earth,
not for sale, not for buying,
and not a fairy-tale
When the Great Magician
touches the cloud with his hand,
the Liûnë rivulet will start to run,
taking away all the drowned
I will emigrate to that country
which will one day come to pass
Translated by Eugenijus Aliðanka
and Kerry Shawn Keys
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SAULIUS ÐALTENIS
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books and authors
A Writer
with Attitude
BY LORETA MAÈIANSKAITË
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
The prose writer and playwright Saulius Ðaltenis, who was born in Utena in 1945,
belongs to the first generation of Lithuanian writers who directly recognised neither the life of independent Lithuania nor the war. Unlike many, Ðaltenis grew
up in a small town rather than in the country, in a family of intellectuals (his
father was a teacher and a researcher in literature). He has family connections
with classics of Lithuanian literature, the poet Antanas Baranauskas and the writer
Antanas Vienuolis. In 1963 and 1964, Ðaltenis studied philology at Vilnius University. From 1969 to 1972 he worked at the Lithuanian Cinema Studio, and was
editor of the newspapers Ðiaurës Atënai and Lietuvos aidas. Ðaltenis is a signatory to the 11 March Act of the Reestablishment of Independence, was minister
of culture (19961999), and a member of the Seimas (19922000).
In 1961 he started publishing short stories. His first collection of stories Atostogos
(Holidays, 1966) reveals the important theme of his prose: the spiritual alternative
of a maturing man, the encounter of a maximalist with a reality that smashes all
ideals. This theme is also developed in the short story Rieðutø duona (Nut Bread,
1972), which shows a postwar provincial town, the tragicomic relationships between its inhabitants, and the experience of puppy love.
The story is not the most important thing. The manifold, ironic, but at the same
time lyrical style, expressing a protest against false values and the routine of life
and literature, is the soul of the work. Rieðutø duona was an innovative creative
work indeed. Many were surprised at the ironic, disrespectful attitude towards
adults and even family; however, it was due to the authentically recreated psy27
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chology of a young man and the uncombed language that the story became so popular with young people. The play Ðkac, mirtie, visados ðkac! (Shoo! Death, Shoo!)
was written on the basis of the story, and was staged in Vilnius in 1978. It became
one of the most popular productions at the time, and began a new trend that united
irony and lyricism. The play is referred to as a Lithuanian version of Romeo and
Juliet. Childrens love seeks to reconcile neighbours who are at odds with each
other, and to make a life permeated with lies and mistrust more beautiful. The
authors decision to introduce a conditional character, a cow, which examines
the humaneness of the characters and even performs the mythical role of a sacrifice, was quite innovative.
Ðaltenis irony becomes much more painful in the short story Duokiðkis (1977),
which sometimes comes near to black humour or grotesque. Postwar events, the
partisan struggle, and the moral compromises of the older generation are treated in
a bold and ambiguous manner, sometimes they even become provocative. The author sees his characters through double binoculars, showing both the comic and
the tragic sides of life, and the contrast reveals the real value of the choice. Probably the ironic style of narration misled the Soviet censors, who did not understand (or pretended not to have understood) what the author really thought about
that painful period in the history of Lithuania. Duokiðkis is sometimes called a
minor epic, because the town of Duokiðkis becomes a metaphor for Lithuania, and
the fates of its characters reflect a lot of similar lives: the leader of the partisans, a
teacher, a semi-literate stribas, a Russian prisoner, an ordinary woman. The same
characters, and the chronological sequence of the scenes, unite nine separate parts
of the story into a view of history and mans place in it. A provincial town is extended by means of universals of a myth. Time realia acquire new meanings, due to
the inversion of evangelical and folklore motifs (the motif of bread that has turned
into a stone, the parallel between Christmas and the tragicomic death of the hireling teacher Spielskis, the ironically dramatic picture of the leader of a partisan
platoon, Jëzus Grigaliûnas).
When recreating the story for the stage, Ðaltenis encoded an important principle
of dramatic poetry into the title of the play Duokiðkio baladës (staged in 1978 and
1988). The play Kaip uþmuðti Jasonà? (How to Kill Jason, 1978) also contains
elements of a ballad. The situation of a modern moral duel and the idea of the
worlds renewal are expressed by ironically making use of the Golden Fleece motif.
The role of the hero of the myth of the Argonauts is given to an impractical idealist
who dreams of educating poets with boxing gloves.
In reworking these stories for the theatre, Ðaltenis matured as a playwright. Of
special significance was his and the director Eimuntas Nekroðius joint theatre
activity, which started with Duokiðkio baladës in Kaunas in 1978. Later it moved
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to the Youth Theatre in Vilnius. In 1980 his play Katë uþ durø (A Cat behind the
Door, together with Grigorijus Kanovièius) was staged, and the literary wording
of Kvadratas (The Square), adapted for the stage by Eimuntas Nekroðius, was prepared. In 1981 the play by Vadim Korostyliov Pirosmani, Pirosmani was put
on. The two latter performances opened the door for Lithuanian drama to the world
stage.
Experience of theatre is reflected in Ðaltenis play Lituanica (written in 1989,
staged in 1994), in which the principle of theatre within theatre was used. The
structure of the play is based on the contrast between the reality of the present
(1943, when the play about Darius and Girënas was rehearsed), and the heroic
past (the plays created by Doctor Þvirblis). A nameless town becomes a microworld representing the obscurity of self-destruction or survival not only of Lithuania but also of all of Europe in the war years, in which the lives of separate individuals
are inseparable from the course of the great drama of life.
The authors attention to the fates of inhabitants of small towns, their efforts to
preserve humanist values, to look for spiritual solidarity, and to resist evil, is also
obvious in the collection of short stories Atminimo cukrus (Sugar of Remembrance,
1983). Ðaltenis is considered to be one of the best short-story writers of Soviet
times, a master of lyrical prose. He is valued as a subtle author of cryptic language.
The short story Amþinai þaliuojantis klevas (The Evergreen Maple) has been recognised as a classic example of cryptic language in Lithuanian literature. Characters
for whom the author has a deep liking exist as if on the margins of Soviet society.
These are intellectuals of the older generation, philosophising drunkards, romantic
teenagers, or pure-minded children. The narrator never moralises; he only points
to evil, leaving the right to make a decision to the readers. Contrasts between natural behaviour and official appearances expose the absurdity of the Soviet period.
Values which were never treated as important, such as sympathy, loyalty and sincerity, are poetised.
The novel Kalës vaikai (The Children of a Bitch, written in 19721988, and
published in 1990) transfers the action to Lithuania Minor in the 18th century,
the southwest of Lithuania, under the control of Prussia at the time. The historical colouring is not in essence an obligatory background to the plot for the expression of emotional rudiments. The narration is developed as an elegant
improvisation in a cultural space. The lives of famous poets intertwine in the picture of the main character, the priest Kristijonas; however, the reader who does
not know the history of Lithuanian literature is enthralled by the highly humane
and eccentric personality of the protagonist. The novel, written as a string of ballads, gives meaning to the essence of the archaic emotional attitude and the spiritual life of the nation. However, the level of expression rather than that of the
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content is suggestive. Intonations of the legend unite with the style of the low register, and this stylisation, reviving the cultural tradition, turns the readers eyes
to the text itself, as well as to it is high artistic value.
Concern about the nations existence, and considerations about the fates of Lithuanians who reached distant Argentina, form the basis for Ðaltenis aesthetics. The
forcefulness of these texts is created by the authenticity of the narrator, personal
testimony and a specific attitude that is characteristic of Ðaltenis. This attitude
opens up a world permeated with nostalgia, its invisible poetry; but at the same
time, it reveals unexpected similarities and contrasts, and catches vivid, often comic,
details.
Saulius Ðaltenis
Kalës vaikai
Vilnius: Þaltvykslë, 2006, 442 p.
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an extract from the novel
The Children
of a Bitch
BY SAULIUS ÐALTENIS
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
Jesus is lonely!
Only, Jesus loneliness doesnt bear the scent of olive trees or the hot dust of
Jerusalem. Jesus loneliness breathes of damp, of freshly-dug ditches, and of a
smothering quiet.
The time when Jesus believed he would ride into Duokiðkis on a white horse has
passed long ago. Now tractors stink up the air and only a few coins are left in his
pocketcoins saved with deep hardship. As for order, that holy order Jesus had
dreamed of, its nothing but hammered five-pointed stars, hammers and sickles
the ones he used to grate or to scatter saltall of them now rusting in the forest.
Only Pernaravièius has remained ever faithful to Jesus. To the bitter end. He
scours the forest for him and steps on his heels. Pernaravièius licks his pencil
and writes notes to him on small squares of paper. He composes all sorts of chastisements and then comforts him anyway he can. The forests around Duokiðkis
are littered with Pernaravièius semi-literate wisdom hanging from the tree
branches.
After all, Jesus is Pernaravièius last love, and thats why hes no longer just
Jesus, but darling Jesus.
Jesus shows up in the middle of the day at the Pagrieþë farm. Ivanov is squatting
on his haunches beside the outdoor stove, stoking it.
May the Lord be with you, Jesus says, breathing heavily, because the heat
burns his brains. Ivanov pulls back then lifts himself halfway up on his calves, as
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though he were made of rubber. Hows your health? Youre not at deaths door,
are you?
No, no, Ivanov laughs and pushes dry branches into the stove as though nothing were out of the ordinary.
Auntie is carrying a bale of hay into the barn. When she sees him, she freezes.
She dives into the barn, losing her galoshes, running in her woolen socks. She
tosses the bale wherever and wraps her arms around the cow and strokes her warm
side.
What are you so afraid of? Jesus asks. Im not the devil.
He pulls her arm and Auntie falls onto the bale of hay.
Im exhausted, Jesus says. Im exhausted.
He wraps his elbows around Aunties knees, still holding onto his handgun. He
lays his head on her lap.
Stroke my hair, just my hair, he says.
His yellow hair, tangled with thistles, reaches almost to his waist. Jesus hair is
growing, but Lithuania isnt getting any freer. What will happen when his hair
begins to drag on the ground? Or when his hair covers half the forest?
I wont stroke your hair, Auntie says. Id rather have my hand dry up and fall
off. I can pet the cow, a beast, why not, but not you. And slowly, but forcefully, she
pushes the yellow head away from her lap together with his elbows and his gun.
She screeches when Ivanov steps across the barn threshold carrying a pitchfork. He circles around Jesus, poking him with the pitchfork, balancing his
weight, putting one foot and one shoulder forward. His lungs let out a sound
something like a song; his pitchfork waves to the left, then to the right, up and
down above Jesus body. Jesus gnashes his teeth, but doesnt manage to shoot
Ivan in time because Auntie is now pressing his head to her bosom with all her
strength as though she were the Mother of God pressing her only infant to her
breast, kneeling in the hay. Jesus squirms, struggles for breath, grimaces, and
finally pulls himself away. He rolls onto his back, but Ivanov stretches and then
forces all his weight onto the pitchfork, holding it down with his hollow chest,
sweat pouring down his gaunt face. Jesus thrashes around, kicking the manure
with his feet.
Matushky, Matushky, Ivanov mumbles, pulling the pitchfork out of Jesus back.
He rushes around the barn, calming the frightened animals. The sheep are banging
against the boards and rushing against his legs. After he recovers, he and Auntie
pick up Jesus together, so that he wouldnt be lying in manure, and look around for
a place to put him. Finally, they lay him down in the manger. Auntie picks the
thistles out of his hair. She watches as Ivanov scoops up a mound of manure and
hurls it at him.
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And Jesus calls out in a loud voice, My God, why have you forsaken me?
But he quickly calms down because a bright star has shown itself in the sky, a
star that shoots across the sky and lands on the Pagrieþë farm, lighting the way, and
the barn fills up with the lords of this earth, the powerful, who rush to greet Jesus,
the king of all Lithuanians, born out of suffering. The barn is full of all sorts of
gentlemen, with cylinders and without cylinders, generals with a chestful of medals and badges. Some of them smoke cigars, others just cigarettes, but all of them
bend over the manger. Fancy society ladies with silk and diamonds crowd together
in the sheep pen and lean around their husbands, straining to see who it is moving
in the manger. They whisper Jesus story: There he is, hes only fourteen, but all
the good points in his character have already developed. He stands, stretches, and
with a powerful roll lifts a bucket of water up to the sky. And then heres Jesus,
taking six high school girls for a ride in his carriage, and so on and so forth.
A horse! Jesus shouts suddenly.
And they lead a white stallion over to him, not a gray, not a bay, but an absolutely
white stallion. What are your armies to me? Your legions? Jesus wraps a Lithuanian national sash around his shoulders, hands over the rusted grater, and places
two heavy bags across the horses back: the bag on the right holds sugar for good
Lithuanians; the bag on the left holds bitter salt
How pictures weep
Is there a God? There isnt! Augustas Spielskis will prove to you today at such
and such an hour that there are miracles without miracles!
Thats the kind of poster Augustas Spielskis, the headmasters elder son, hangs
on Purgatorys door. And he stands there with a cigar clamped between his teeth.
He is especially pleased with that daring phrase: Augustas Spielskis will prove to
you! Augustas!
Purgatory is the name of the Duokiðkis town reading club. The club happens to
be directly across the street from the white church with the wooden steeple. The
rector pokes his head out from behind the holy enclaves fence. His eyes reveal his
shock.
Augustas Spielskis is the leader of Purgatory. His shoes are chrome-colored. He
got them through Pernaravièius. He got his pants from Ivan when he left. Its a good
feeling to stand like this in the entranceway to Purgatory with his unlit cigar clamped
between his teeth, watching the world through half-shut eyes, intense as drills.
He sets down a record player on the windowsill and plays it at its highest volume. All thats left to do is to arrange the chairs in the hall and on stage. Then he
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needs to set out on the table, covered in red satin, this evenings trappings: bottles
filled with water, which will turn into red wine when he commands them to; letters
that will suddenly appear on white paper, and the most important and complicated
component of this evenings programthe weeping picture.
Augustas Spielskis climbs up onto the stage and calmly, with complete confidence in himself, like a cat plays with a mouse, shouts out to the empty hall, where
his assistant Levitansky is working the broom:
Dear comrades! My treasured comrades! You say that God exists? But I say to
you that he doesnt! Im talking about facts! If you dont agree or if you wish to
contradict me, please talk facts!
Levitansky, an old man, half crazy, the very last Jew left in Duokiðkis, alive by
some miracle, gapes up at his boss on the stage as though Augustas were Moses on
Mount Sinai. He stands motionless and waits for further instructions.
Keep on sweeping, Comrade Levitansky! Augustas Spielskis calls out to him.
Or maybe, better yet, climb up on stage, youll be my assistant. Do you understand, Comrade Levitansky?
Levitansky understood. He lays down his broom and climbs up on stage.
Opium! Spielskis manages to shout out as Levitansky climbs up onto the table. Your answer, dear Comrade. You, the third from the left Its opium and
smoke in the eyes! Perfect, and so, Comrade Levitansky, youll have to hold up this
picture so that everyone can see it.
This one? Levitansky asks. Without waiting for an answer he lifts the huge
picture over his head. Augustas Spielskis borrowed it from the Pagrieþë farm because he couldnt find a real holy picture anywhere. In the picture there are two
gentlemen, painted to their waists, in a field of grass, turning halfway around to
admire a mottled cow. Further off theres something like clouds or mountains on
the horizon, and a small inscription, which the audience wont be able to see,
which reads: Here I am with Mr Matulaitis, Lithuanias Breeding Associations
director, with my Dagmar, imported from Denmark. This painting was painted for
twenty and a half litas. Augustas Spielskis liked this picture best because although
it had two people in it, it only had two eyes, and therefore he only had to cut out two
eyes and he could manage with only two glass hoses, through which Levitansky
would spill the red tears when the right time came.
The record gets stuck and the record player whines away in the same place.
Levitansky looks out at the empty hall doubtfully and when the new music comes
on, the picture topples down onto his chest. Augustas Spielskis knows perfectly
well that now nobody will be able to call Levitansky back, because Levitanskys
lips are trembling, because Levitansky is counting, as though he wanted to resurrect his entire lost band of relatives, beginning with his brothers, parents, grandB
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parents, going over to his cousins, uncles, grandchildren, each of them having
given up their ghosts. Aron! Saul! Chaim! David! Abram! The picture slides even
further down and Augustas Spielskis is horrified to see that Levitansky is now
counting on his fingers, and that the expensive glass tubes, acquired with so much
difficulty, and his entire complicated and brilliant weeping apparatus on the opposite side of the picture shatter into splinters, and the red tears of the cattle breeders
splash over Levitanskys shoes.
David, David, Oh David
Everything has gone to hell, completely shot to hell, because the other tricks,
like turning water into red wine, wont impress anyone.
Augustas slams the window shut, turns off the record player, and goes out into
the hallway. The rector from across the street can see from behind his altar how the
teachers son now tears down the poster, how he rips it apart, how he carries it
inside. With his eyes moist with anger, the director of Purgatory stamps on the
shredded pieces of paperonly this last part no one sees or will ever see.
Levitansky, Augustas says. Levitansky, you can go home now. You can finish
counting at home.
He leads Levitansky outside and slams Purgatorys door shut. Levitansky,
Levitansky, what have you done!
Augustas feels incredibly lonely. God watches him through the small curious
eyes of the rector as though he were some rare zoological specimen and theres
nothing left for Augustas Spielskis except to clamp down even harder on his cigar,
shove his left hand into his pocket, and with his right to lead Levitansky home, so
that he wont end up under a horse or the wheels of a car.
Hell unlock the doors to Purgatory again later that evening when theyll hold
just the dancea dance that reeks of vodka and sweaty palmsand no one then
will even try to search for God in the hall or torment him with merciless facts, or
challenge Augustas Spielskis on his weeping picture. The ghost of Headmaster
Spielskis drifts through the evening with his glasses fogged. With his one cold
eye he searches, but cannot find his son Augustas, who is walking along his native Duokiðkis streets, not seeing his own unending anger, an anger that grows
by the day.
And who is it thats annoying him? Everything. Everything. Least of all Levitansky.
I feel hedged in, hedged in, Augustas says, and Levitansky seems to understand
him. Its suffocating, Augustas says, suffocating, and Levitansky doesnt ask whether
he should open a window. He just gestures towards his head, knowing that its his
head thats suffocating, not his lungs. At home Augustas drinks the milk Auntie
brings him. He hard boils two of Aunties chickens eggs each day. He spreads the
butter Auntie has churned onto the bread Auntie has baked, and sits down at his
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fathers desk to read Das Kapital in the original language. And in seventeen years
hes made it through half the book, about a thumbs length further than Headmaster Spielskis ever got. He wears the shirts Auntie has washed for him and an impotent anger chokes him like a tight collar because everything is Aunties doing.
Even his little brother Þygimantas, for a long time now, belongs to her and not to
him. And he gazes at her high, always starched, white collar and cuffs, which no
dirt could ever cling to, at her high-minded, implacable peacefulness and full chest
and grows jealous of his younger brother.
In the evening Augustas unlocks Purgatorys doors again. He pushes the chairs
to the sides and sprinkles the floors with water, so they wont get dusty, although
the spraying and chair pushing is actually Levitanskys job. He puts on the music,
assembles the records in the box, like bullets in a cartridge, and begins to sell the
tickets.
And when his left pocket is weighed down with kopeks, Auntie comes in with her
starched white collar and asks for a ticket and her breasts are so close to Augustas
nose: take the money, you hear me, how else will you satisfy the plan. And here too
he finds he must give in to her. Then he has to watch how everyone fights over
Auntie, how they paw at her as they dance with her, and not with just one hand, but
with both hands at the same time, and how when they twirl her they try to push their
stinking legs as close as they can to her legs. Then her dress lifts and their dirty
hands, with their fingernails blackened nails from birth, rub up against her. And
Auntie seems to like it that several men at a time invite her to dance, not just one.
Meanwhile the other girls bore their eyes into her when men lead her off into the
darkness.
Three times Augustas checked for Auntie. Hed lock up Purgatory, get on his
bicycle, and hide in the bushes beside the River Geluona. Hed always see her
walking home alone barefoot. Or hed see her inside the lit kitchen window eating
her supper in her nightgown or at the other end of the house, in Þygimantas room,
braiding something out of straw.
The men secretly drink in the corners up on the stage. They crush the glass
under their shoes, but Augustas neither shouts at them nor orders them back down
into the hall. He only takes the bottle from them and swallows a long gulp. He gazes
out at the hall. He spots Auntie being squeezed at the waist, and secretly turns off
the record player. He pokes at it with a screwdriver for a few minutes and then
announces that the dance is over, that the record player is broken. Immediately
somebody hauls out an accordion. Augustas switches off the lights. The crowd
mills around, boils over, whistles like a cauldron, and eventually files out. He
rushes out first, one of the first, past his boss, through the side door, and grabs
Auntie by the hand and drags her off to the side, into the darkness.
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Wait Auntie, dont go, Augustas says.
He locks the front door to Purgatory, then he pops in through the side door and
comes back out carrying the picture with the cattle breeders.
See, I have to return it, he says. Dont worry, Ill carry it home myself.
Maybe another time, Auntie says. Its late already. I dont really need it.
Hang it up on your own wall. One way or another, its your grandfather.
Which one? Augustas asks, surprised.
I think the one on the right, the one with the hat, Auntie says.
Its hard to make out the hat in the dark, so Auntie pokes at the picture and her
finger goes through his eye.
Why did you cut a hole in it?
I had to, Augustas says. I cut a hole in both. And so, my grandfather?
Good night, Augustas, Auntie says. I have to get up early tomorrow.
Ill take you home, why not?
Auntie stops beyond Duokiðkis.
Thank you, Augustas. Now I can make it home by myself. She says it even
though theyd gone less than half way to her farm.
Im carrying your picture for you, Augustas says. Others probably get to take
you further than this? I dont want to go home, Auntie! he shouts. Why cant you
see? You dont want to see that I love you. Im crazy about you!
Auntie sighs, sits down in the grass, takes the picture from him, and says, And
so what? So what? Many people love me, many. Look, even your little brother
loves me.
But I love you in a different way, Augustas shouts. Im not a child anymore.
Im eighteen. Auntie, look, he says and kneels down in the grass and draws a
circle in the sky. This is the earth, this is Duokiðkis, like a spot, and here am I, all
alone! Thats horrible, after all, horrible, I want to kill, kill.
Augustas suddenly pulls out a pistol, the one he found cleaning out the house,
his fathers pistol, polished now and shining black.
Oh dear God, dear God, Auntie sighs and takes the pistol. She walks over to
the Geluona and, in a wide arc, tosses the pistol into the river. But the minute she
does it she realizes that shed done something foolish, that many years from now
someone will find the pistol, will clean it out, and, howling from loneliness, will
look for something to shoot atothers, or at the very least, themselves. She sits
Augustas down beside her and strokes his head. Augustas buries his head in her
bosom and draws in a deep breath. This is the scent of heaven in Duokiðkis. Auntie,
Auntie!
Whats wrong?
I cant say.
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Auntie lowers her head and he whispers something into her ear.
Dear God, Auntie says, you cant do that.
You can! Augustas shouts. Auntie! Youre so beautiful! Only I alone see it.
So why do you humiliate me? Why did you throw away my pistol?
Dont shout, Auntie says. Lord, what shall we do?
But I love you. Im not like the others. Im different! Augustas screams.
And who knows, maybe a miracle was really about to happen and not only Augustas
would be crying, but also his cattle breeder grandfather and Mr Matulaitis with
twenty and a half litas.
Auntie closes her eyes and its not Augustas head that is beside her, not Augustas,
but the head of a lover who hasnt yet existed, a lover from a love sculpted out of the
mists dust, coming ever closer. Just maybe there couldve been the head of a lover,
many years ago, before Ivan left, before Jesus and the cabbage fields of 15 October,
closer than the corridors of the Saint Casmir Order of Nuns Orphanagemaybe in
1936, maybe 1939. It could have been very simple, modest, without shame, and
absolutely with a white dress and a wreath of flowers on her head. Ah, all she had
to do was conjure up the flowers, and afterwards she could wade into the clear, cold
Geluona.
Augustas watches Aunties closed eyes and her smile. How foolish, he says to
himself, what an awful smileshe smiles with her terrible teeth barred. He sees
how her neck is wrinkled. Disgusting, he says to himself, disgusting, and her hair
gets into his eyes and his mouth and it reeks of burned lard. And theres nothing
left except for terrible disappointment and a raging anger that he gave away his
pistol so stupidly.
Theres no God, he whispers.
Auntie touches his hand, but he pulls away.
There isnt, Auntie says. There isnt, calm down now.
Auntie laughs and reaches out to ruffle his hair and he breaks away, blurting out,
Get away! Youre disgusting! Disgusting!
And he stares bitterly at Auntie, shamefully disheveled, rumpled, and the sense
of male superiority washes over him, and he thinks, all I have to do is just whistle
and Auntie will rush over with her foolish smile, with her bared teeth, and will
wash my shirts and bring me butter and eggs, and like all women, will shamefully
spread her legs open for me on the grass
Then Auntie pulls her legs beneath her and slaps him hard across the face.
Whore! he screams. Youre a whore! I know! Everybody knows!
And he chokes on his own saliva.
Aunties fist shuts his mouth for him. She slams him again, and then again, and
again. Blood begins to gush out of his nose.
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Thats for you, and that, for everything!
And she punches him, pulling back and hitting hard, hitting his face, for everything, for kneeling on the peas at the orphanage, for the humiliating sanitary inspections, for her mother, for everything that could have been but wasnt, for Ivan
crawling to her through the cabbage fields, for the hard, never-ending, work, for,
for Then she snatches up the picture and says, And get out of my face. And get
out of Duokiðkis!
Marching home barefoot in her thoughts she continues to pound Augustas, and
his father the headmaster, and the entire Pagrieþë dynasty. Oh, so all of you think
you did me a favor? Its me who had to take care of you and not you me. I had to
care for you, like the way you toss feed to the weak chicks. Once Þygimantas is
grown up, Ill be finished with you.
Translated by Laima Sruoginis
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PHOTOGRAPH BY ARÛNAS BALTËNAS
HERKUS KUNÈIUS
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books and authors
About the Yotvingians
BY VALENTINAS SVENTICKAS
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
The bilingual book of verse by Sigitas Geda Miegantis Teodendronas: Senieji jotvingiø eilëraðèiai (Sleeping Theodendron: Old Yotvingian Poems) was published
not only in the Lithuanian but also in the Polish language, and was illustrated with
the graphic work of the artist Mikalojus Povilas Vilutis. Agnieszka Rembiaùkowska
translated the works in this collection into Polish. Bilingual books are usually anthologies and selected works. This time it is different: this is a new book of poetry.
The circumstances of its publishing are also notable. The book was produced through
the co-operation of two publishing houses: Ex Libris Galeria Polskiej Ksiàêki Sp. z
o.o. and Lietuvos raðytojø sàjungos leidykla (the Lithuanian Writers Union Publishers).
So much about the facts. Now, about the work in the new collection by Geda.
The fine Serbian writer Milorad Pavitch wrote Chazarø þodynas (The Khazar
Dictionary). Little is known about the Khazar tribe: hence, it was very convenient
for the author to create the whole of their life and their perception of the world,
rather than to recreate it.
We do not know much about the Yotvingians either. Thus, the literary trajectory of Sigitas Geda defined by the words Senieji jotvingiø eilëraðèiai provide him
with plenty of possibilities. Myths, secrets and creative imaginations, in which
man relates himself to his distant ancestors, are one of the main sources of poetry. According to what we know about the places in which the Yotvingians lived,
and about their nature and character, we can assign Geda to the Yotvingians. The
name of one known Yotvingian duke who commanded the army was Gedëtas. Such
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and similar facts in literature can be referred to as accidental, uttered seriously
or with a smile; however, this does not change the essence of the matter. Once
they serve creativity, it is all right. The news that the Yotvingians lived in Lithuania and Poland (as well as in Belarus) belongs to the colour gamut of this bilingual book. At least three Polish researchers have written books about the
Yotvingians.
The verse in Gedas new book is not driven into a single expression of one theme
or one prevailing image. It is very different. However, I was really surprised when
I read the preface of the book. The poet defines the essence of the most varied
writings in the book very precisely, though the very language of the preface seems
to be careless, as if everything is put together from pieces.
Let us see what is emphasised: sleep as peace and as a force hidden deep inside,
which can wake us up. Here the Yotvingians and paganism are mentioned, a natural, wild substance, which can be wakened. Theodendron, one of the rulers of
Byzantium, is sleeping; he therefore has to be baptised, and to sacrifice a baby.
The poet reminds us that the Lithuanians and Poles were baptised. Also, he explains that, in the Old Greek language, Theodendron means a divine tree. I am not
going to expand on these commentaries. It is already clear that the idea of the book
is saturated with meaning.
Everything seems to be serious and majestic. However, the reader, especially if
he reads contemporary poetry quite rarely, might shrug his shoulders: what are you
prattling on about here? Here we find raillery about the swapped heads of a woman
and a devil, or a story about female grass snakes which suck the blood and milk of
horses, or an erotic scene with old men
The most interesting thing is that from very different texts, historically similar to
free sketches, a vague concentrated product of ideas is formed, about which we
have spoken here. Like a skilful hand puts together a wonderful mosaic from properly polished colourful glass.
We have to underline the manner of talking in the preface, its mosaic composition, because the peculiarities of Gedas poetic narratives are similar. We do not
need to go far, they are seen in the first poem in the book. These are unforeseen
links between concreteness and generality, wefts of myths and old rhymed epics
(Geda is the translator of The Songs of Songs, Narekaci and Dante), subtle manipulations with rhythms, and the intonations of supposed naivety (the writer has perfected it in his verse for children). The verse of the prologue exposes the most
significant words and situations: the Lord, creatures living in nature (the echo of
paganism), the wind, and erotica.
There is a world without which it is impossible to speak about this book. This is
the world of metamorphoses. Without it, we would be unable to speak about a
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stunning change in realias, their rapid flow, the associative links of the prevailing
motif with absolutely different images. Or about the contamination of poetry by
classical rhythms and rhymes, vers libre, near prose, dialogues, paraphrases of
folklore and the speech of country people. And still, everything is poetry.
It is time to go back to the Yotvingians. Who are they? What are they like,
according to Geda? Dark by birth (swarthy, from the Senieji jotvingiø eilëraðèiai).
Real madcaps (a child refuses bread and screams that he needs fire). Soldiers and
killers, looking at trickling blood to see signs of fate in it. They kiss bears (perhaps
this is a paraphrase of Prosper Mérimées The Bear). They live with earthworms,
worms and beetles. It seems that they are pagan, or at least living in absolute
concord with nature. It is necessary to cite important lines from one of the most
important poems Popieþius Grigalius apie jotvingius XIII amþiuje (Pope Gregory
about the Yotvingians in the 13th Century): Mûsø Saulë þemai, / jûsø Dievas
aukðtybëse (Our Sun is low / your God is high). And the poets words about a
child: Ir að buvau beveik þvëris (I was also nearly a beast) in the poem Saulës
uþtemimas Bu-Gedoj (Solar Eclipse in Bu-Geda).
We can penetrate into the peculiarities of Gedas poetry through the poetic image of the Yotvingians. Some of the most important of them are spontaneity, a
wild force, and links with archetypes.
Sigitas Geda
Úpiàcy Teodendron: Stare wiersze Jadêwingów /
Miegantis Teodendronas: Senieji jotvingiø eilëraðèiai
Warsaw / Vilnius: Ex Libris Galeria Polskiej Ksiàêki Sp. z o.o. /
Lietuvos raðytojø sàjungos leidykla, 2006, 226 p.
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Sleeping Theodendron:
Old Yotvingian Poems
BY SIGITAS GEDA
GETTING OLD
I BECOME AN
O M A L O U S
If somebody asked about heads,
then I would say: sketch two!
One of them: half-blind, as if of a peasant,
weighing potatoes in late autumn
The second one: glancing around into the distance,
now looking at the sky,
now muttering over water
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F
R O M
F
A R E W E L L S

Strange it was what accompanied me
Along narrow lanes summer and winter
It is the Lord who dispatches winds,
Launches ships
I heard
A huge ringing yesterday, the day before.
Tomorrow I probably wont hear it.
But anyway strange,
That it so often strolled along these lanes.
Sometimes even dreaming.
The Lord is mist on a foggy day,
Maybe not the Lord himself, but petty vestiges,
Bees, wasps, moles,
with whom you once lived.
No way to conclude that what is, you know, is sacred.
That its some liturgy or theology.
Often its strange to a man, if he thinks about it,
That something scratches, toots, whispers, hoots,
Especially when reviewing, putting together, realising, sorting through
And gathering up all his property.
Its even more lovely, if some woman coaxes him:
Dont leave! Its too early! Lets stay together a bit longer!
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NEXT
WATE
T O
S
T H E
T I N K I N G
R
And later it was much easier:
while I was waiting for the grace of God,
people started escaping from this country
grabbing what was expensive
and handy.
Soon all of them. Furious and livid,
through Alaska, and afterwards
back
The oak rustled. Bedraggled
much like you, oh grieving
maiden!
Over empty, over blue spaces.
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L
I T H U A N I A N S
I N
B
R A N D E N B U R G
(from chronicles)
for Gintaras B.
Motto:
Big men will come from Germany
They tied up
the commander from Bernov,
a burly and fat man,
squeezed his head between his knees,
stabbed his back with swords
and looked
a long while
at the blood flowing
In such a way they loved to prophesy
how the war would end.
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BU
T
N
E V E R T H E L E S S
: I
A M
N O T
A
D
I N O S A U R
This world is the winds of a free composition, where my dreams also flutter, forgotten a little already: we are with Father, in the house, in Paterë, barefoot on the
dirt floor in wintertime and in the snow by the clay mountain. Many relatives and
tourists convened, but there is nothing to eat, all defunct brothers, sisters, and
mother not here, only a sack of potatoes in the kitchen, a couple of gnawed ribs
in the dog bowl on the table and Ilyichs lamp glows, not veiled by anything. All
are snoring, sleeping, only me and Father, with Jonas from heaven, stroll barefoot
in snow along the mountain at Mazis.
at the very end of lifes journey, but being a boy, having approached a dark
forest, suddenly I started to see a bit differently: and the forest, instead of making way for me or surrounding me, like a sprightly twelve-year-old boy, darted
into my head, my lungs. Filled up all my guts. Not to speak about the cavities of
brain or heart. I have no God but God climbs into me!
So the Lord took hold of Ernst from Barlach, so you live, as if some sort of
moon devouring its own, visible, crescent.
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ME
T A M O R P H O S E S
A R E
S
U C H
A N D
S
U C H
And melody, sounds of a drum and cembalo. Metal.
As if somebody pounding and pounding. With a hammer into the ears.
THEY ARE CRUEL. THEY ARE GOING TO LIVE
AND THERE ARE MILLIONS OF THEM
And something from dreams visits and visits you, comes to fruition, keeps
repeating. Shapes, half-forms, half moulded throats, like earthworms have,
in May, of soaked clay
They are cruel, they are going to live And this feeling is nearly
everlasting: something changes permanently, degenerates and decays.
In fields, in suburbs. In factories, from computers.
Mindless language, dreamt architectural forms.
Water, filmy with new essences, with formic acid. By the way, there is
no water which endures for ages.
Everything you want, you crave for will disappear in the conversion
of brittle shapes.
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T
O
E
T H E
A L R E A D Y
D
N D
O F
A F T E R
T H E
A
L L
YEAR,
SOULS
A Y
almost in the seventh fire
decrepit, slovenly,
cough, spit teeth,
rag-picker.
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T
H E R E
U S E D
,
W H E R E
T O
M
G
O D
A N I F E S T
H
I M S E L F
And I myself wanted my own devil, especially one of those
named Lucius, who used to spring up when you spit
in the moonlight
I would force him to work, teach him poetry,
we would talk about men and women,
and on Sundays I could also treat myself to a drink
in the pub,
with promiscuous girls after the Mass.
Translated by Eugenijus Aliðanka
and Kerry Shawn Keys
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JAROSLAVAS MELNIKAS
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books and authors
Relating Daily Routine
to Eternity
BY LAIMANTAS JONUÐYS
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
I have always been interested in what is happening to man, beyond the frames
into which his environment and upbringing have squeezed him, stated Jaroslavas
Melnikas during one of his interviews. It is obvious that the situations created by
this author are developed beyond these frames, the stories told are so different from
what we usually read about in contemporary literature. First of all, the definition
science fiction imposes itself. Stating this would be sound if we bear in mind that
during recent decades science fiction has manifested itself in the world in the most
different shapes, which often exceed the traditional limits of the genre. But perhaps works by this author could be called metaphysical fiction or philosophical
fairy tales? Comparisons with the short stories by Jorge Luis Borges and Julio
Cortázaro come to mind.
Melnikas was born in 1959 in western Ukraine. He writes philosophical essays and fiction in the Russian and Lithuanian languages. Two collections of short
stories and narratives by him in the Lithuanian language have appeared, Rojalio
kambarys (The Room with a Grand Piano, 2004) and Pasaulio pabaiga (The End
of the World, 2006), and the novel Les Parias dEden has been published in
France (1999).
Melnikas works are especially moving when fantastic news from the dimension
of the absolute reaches the main character in his everyday life, a fantastic
otherworldly world penetrates forcefully into our ordinary world of troubles. A curious combination of dreary everyday life and the otherworldly is especially clearly
revealed in the short story Sveèiuose pas Dievà (A Visit to God).
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The narrator in the story Neámanoma suèiupti tikrojo Dievo (It is Impossible to
Catch the Real God) says the following: I ordered a cup of coffee without sugar.
Nobody knew that I was a monster. He refers to himself as a monster because he
seems to have supernatural powers. He can destroy a molecular structure and restore it again, that is, he can destroy and rebuild buildings, or kill people and bring
them back to life. However, his wife, who has no idea about these powers, calls him
an ass that does not know how to earn money, and finally tries to put him in a mental
hospital.
It seems that Melnikas is interested only in great issues of existence, and they
are tackled especially successfully when presented as if indirectly, with irony and
paradoxes. For example, the dilemma of satanic or divine origin in the world is
raised, and the short story Kristus (Christ) reminds us of Borges Jude by an
alternative interpretation of the Gospel.
Though there is deep psychology in these works, it would be a mistake to look for
psychologically complete characters in them (and reproach the author for not finding any). It is quite clear that these are archetypal situations, revealing motifs of
identity, fate, mans purpose in life, and the divine and satanic rudiment of an
individual. The works, especially the shorter ones, have a transparent and comparatively simple plot. They can be simply retold, but then their double plane,
fantastic (philosophical) and earthly (psychological), would be lost. The latter is
not so obvious. It can be interpreted in different ways. For example, it might be
thought that the character in the story Neámanoma suèiupti tikrojo Dievo only
imagines himself to have supernatural powers. Perhaps this is only psychological
compensation for an individual who is in deep despair.
The theme of the moon and sixpence runs alongside the main (fantastic) motif
in the narrative Tai kalbu að. The hero is troubled by a distress that has been
stifled for a long time. Having suppressed the creative instinct, he chose the profitable career of a television reporter. This journalist, on arriving to visit a reserved
and mysterious writer-hermit, and having started to read his unpublished works, is
dumbfounded, not because of the power of the talent he has not lost, but also because he finds his life described, and even the process of the present hour, and
finally the immediate future (a fantastic element creeps in). However, later a psychoanalyst explains everything to him in a different way: I think that it is not you
that he [the writer] sees, but the logic of neurosis that he is trying to instil in you.
The picture of the writer acquires not only a mysteriousness but also an aura of
precariousness, and gradually shakes up the narrators life.
Neurozës logika (the logic of neurosis) pushes its way gradually but ever more
mysteriously and precariously in the narrative Skambink man, kalbëk su manimi
(Call Me, Talk to Me) too. In communicating with his son over the telephone, a
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father explains to him why he cannot visit him, or meet him. He is doing top-secret
work abroad. However, he promises to arrange a meeting in the future, which becomes ever more distant. Thus, year after year passes, and at first only the speculation by the distrustful wife, and later facts seem to convince the narrator that the
father died a long time ago, but he does not want to believe it, he cannot believe it,
because he hears his fathers voice clearly over the telephone, which he could
have recognised out of a million voices.
The narrator in the narrative Rojalio kambarys, who lives comfortably in a
large house, finds one day that the door to his favourite room with the grand piano
has disappeared. There is simply a bare wall. When he asks his parents and his wife
about it, he is faced with astonishment. There has never been such a room (where
his father also used to play the violin). In the long-run, one after another, other
rooms disappear too, when at last it becomes clear that they are living in a communal flat with other neighbours, rather than in a house. The dwelling space is becoming stiflingly smaller, and this is taking place in some mysterious alternative reality
from which the narrator cannot tear himself away. This is an oppressive Beckettish
reduction, and the end of the narrative is also astonishingly effective.
The action in Melnikas literary works develops in unidentified places. There
are no topical issues from our everyday life, and his literature tells us about peculiarities of mans existence that are not bound by place and time. Hence, it has a
universal, timeless dimension. His best works retain the mysteriousness of the
subtext. In the end, epiphany, as well as affecting suggestion, which cannot be
explained, thwarts the reader.
Jaroslavas Melnikas
Pasaulio pabaiga
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a short story
A Guest at Gods House
BY JAROSLAVAS MELNIKAS
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
Gods apartment was in a five-story brick building. Next to it, smoke was spewing
from a brown coal-powered electric plant.
Trying not to sink in the mud on the way, I reached the front door and climbed
the stairs to the fifth floor.
Come on in, said God, inviting me in.
I entered his miserable apartment. Inside were two chairs, a table and a bed. The
place was filled with an awe-inspiring kind of quiet.
How can you live here?
All around were bare walls.
Im God after all, answered God. Take a seat. Do you want some tea?
No thanks. Can I smoke?
At my place, you can do whatever you like.
You mean, you allow everything?
Everything, but there are some things I ask you not to do, answered God.
You mean I have to ask?
Yes, God answered.
Yesterday I saw a woman here. When she leaned towards me, by accident, I
saw her breasts in her décolletée. Two long squashes. Nice.
I know.
And yesterday wait a minute, let me remember. I had bad thoughts about my
wife. I thought: dear God, she looks nothing like a woman. Not a woman as I imagine one to be. My wife has no feminine qualities: her legs are thick, her back is
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stooped, her stomach is protruding, and her step is heavy, like a mans. She has no
romance about her. Do you hear me, God?
I hear you, answered God.
I dont desire her, my wife, I mean. Do you understand me?
I understand everything, answered God.
And then theres Ive grown tired of working in the power plant. There in
that office I am becoming an idiot. I want another kind of life.
Thats normal, said God.
Whats normal? Im oppressed from all sides. Im trapped, God. Theres the
kids, the wife, then theres the power plant, the filthy stinking electric power plant.
I come home and park myself in front of that idiot box, and I watch every single
show, one after another, becauseplease understand me, GodI dont know what
else to do with myself.
I understand, said God.
What good does it do me that you understand? How do I escape this rut? Why
are you so quiet?
Escape by forgetting. Get yourself some wood and craft something. Finely.
Why, God?
Wait. Craft something. Make a cabinet, a very fine one, when you come home
from work. Build three shelves inside, very fine ones. And put it up it in a cozy spot
in the bathroom. So your wife can store her laundry detergents and pastes, and all
her bric-à-brac there. So that she wouldnt have to stumble all over the bathroom
for half an hour whenever shes looking for a pin.
Youre kidding, God?
Not in the slightest, answered God. When you finish the cabinet, start on the
front door.
The front door? I asked. What are you getting at, God?
Work on the front door. It should have been insulated a long time ago. Get
yourself some insulating strips, apply them with decorative nails, the kind with
shiny heads. Then install an electric doorbell, so that your home life will be more
civilized. Find one with a pleasant chime, one that caresses your ears.
Why all this? I asked. Whats the point?
Youre complaining that your life is hard. Once you start doing what I recommend, youll lighten your load. That is point enough.
All that is destructible, I said. To waste priceless hours of my life on some
kind of medicine cabinet. Isnt it laughable, God? I dont want to be trivial; its
almost too vulgar. I
No, its not laughable, God interrupted. I know what you want. But Im telling
you that its not laughable to make a cabinet. Your wife will use it for five, maybe
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even ten years. And thats good. The farmer plants potatoes; he works, and then he
eatsif not he, then those who buy the potatoes eat them. Your cabinet will exist
for ten yearsor perhaps for the rest of the time given to you and your wife. The
result of the farmers work is used up in a year. What are you saying? That his lifes
work and his life are pointless?
Yes, God, I said, finally lighting a smoke. Forgive me. Im going to have a
smoke after all, OK?
According to you, a persons entire life is meaningless? According to you, I had
no idea when I created life?
Well, I dont know I responded. You are, of course, God. You know better.
But I I cant understand it.
Thats right. You cant, answered God. Because I didnt give you that kind of
understanding. All I can do is convince you that there is meaning. In the fact that
the farmer plants potatoes, and that you build that medicine cabinet, and that you
wont be here in thirty years. I, God, am telling you: there is meaning.
I dont see it, I said, as I blew a smoke ring towards the window. And, by the
way, Kolka, enough of this fooling around. Wheres the fifth that you were drinking
yesterday?
You know that Im not Kolka, said God.
I took a good look at him: there he sat, facing me, small framed, thin, red nosed,
bald headed, freckled. Id known him for years.
All right, enough horsing around, I said. Kolka, you work in the electric plant
as a stoker, but here youre pulling my leg.
All right, said God. If you think that Im Kolka, then where are these thoughts
coming from? The Kolka that youre talking about only graduated from elementary
school, and hasnt read a single book in his life.
All right, I said. What youre telling me is that youre not Kolka, but God?
Yes, thats what Im telling you, said God. I took on Kolkas shape, but Im
not Kolka. I can take on the shape of any one of you.
OK, God, so be it. So, wheres Kolka?
Hes pushed out of consciousness. I pushed him out. Now Im in him, said God.
Its hard to imagine. I crossed my legs one atop the other and leaned back into
the chair. You know, as I look at youyoure the spitting image of Kolka. We
went to school together And you tell me that youre not you, but God.
But you must see that my lips are pronouncing the truth, said God. Your
Kolka wasnt capable of putting two words together.
True, I agreed. Hes a complete drunkard But but why did you
crawl into his body? So, Im looking at you, at your noseits you, Kolka, isnt it?
Enough pulling my leg, OK?
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Im God, said God. Potentially I am in any of you. In any of you.
In me too? I asked, surprised.
Yes, answered God. I am silent. I am simply silent when you talk to yourselves.
So you, I even came closer to him, in other words, you are in all my thoughts
of everything and anything?
I listen and I wait. I wait until its silent. Completely silent.
And then what? I asked impatiently.
Then I become part of the entire person.
Like you became part of Kolka?
Yes.
Thats how matters stand, I said. I thought that you that Kolka was pulling
my leg. Wait, God I somehow misunderstood: are you God or Kolka?
Im God, answered God.
In Kolka?
No, I. I myself. I appeared.
And Kolka?
He no longer exists.
I looked at him carefully again: sitting in front of me was Kolkayes, Kolka, his
spitting image, with his face familiar up to the last detail. Even his left eye was still
black after last nights brawl. Only the look in his eyes was not Kolkasit was
calm and steady. Absolutely not Kolkas.
No, God. I shook my head. You know this is too much. I believe that youre
God, but you would have done better appearing as youre supposed to. Glowing. Or
as a dove. That way I would understand you better and accept you.
I can appear in any form. I am everything, said God. I am everywhere.
Just tell me one thing, God, I decided to settle things once and for all. Kolka:
is he gonna come back at all? I need to talk to him about well about a few little
things. Its almost embarassing to tell you how little the thing actually is. My wife
sent me.
I know, said God. Kolka will come back. As soon as he starts talking about
lifewhen he brings up lifeyou can bet that he has returned.
And you?
Ill be silent. His consciousness will speak again, it will fill up with earthly
thoughts. This and that. Immortality will disappear. His earthly person will return.
And youre immortality? I asked. So, what are yousilence?
I am absolute silence, said God. Dont you see? From what heights Im talking
to you? Im not talking to you as a person would. I am talking to you as if I had
nothingneither home, nor family, nor work, nor financial problems, nor any kind
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of earthly worries. Talk to anyone, listen to what he worries about, and youll understand what a person is, and what God is.
So youre not a person? Right?
Im a spirit. Sheer spirit, answered God.
At this moment KatkaKolkas girlfriendknocked on the door and came in.
Hey, why didnt you come to the inspection? she immediately started in on
Kolka. I have been waiting for you half an hour.
Wait, do you hear me? I grabbed her by the arm, not knowing what to say.
This is not Kolka.
Oh yeah? Who is it then? Katka burst out. Are you two drunk again? Damned
lushes! I hope you both get white fever!
Wait, Katia. I agree with youthat was Kolka. But not in that body anymore.
What do you mean, not in that body? She observed me carefully.
Thats God now, I explained to her. Its only temporary. Dont worry. Hes
there temporarily, you understand? Hell stay there a while and then goand then
Kolkas consciousness will be taken over with all kinds of thoughts, earthly, flashing desires of all kinds and in general, a chaos in his soul, you know what I mean?
That will be Kolka for you. And God will simply become silent, hell hide himself.
Because he is silence.
I know youre smart, Katka yelled, but dont bullshit me. Wheres the fifth?
In the cabinet, under the pillow, I said. But youre getting worked up over
nothing, Katia. Youre getting worked up over nothing with God. God, I addressed
God, say something to her, OK?
My daughter, sit down and calm yourself, said God. Its really true that Im
temporarily in your lovers body.
Uh uh Katka sat exactly as she had been standing, with her eyes bursting from her head. Whats going on, Kolka?
Im not blaming you, said God. I understand you. I made you reproducing,
fertileand you found yourself a guy, and youre living with him. All those pleasures that you experience with him, I gave you. You didnt create them. Youre free,
woman. I made you that way and I dont regret it. You invigorate the freedom that I
breathed into you. But I set limits on you as well. And so I commanded, Thou shalt
not commit adultery.
Forgive me, God, for interrupting you, I stepped in. But how is it that on the
one hand you give us freedom, but with the other, you set limits? How are we to
understand such an oxymoron?
I want human beings to have a form, to aspire towards it, answered God. Look
at the wind, the animal kingdom. Thats spontaneity, limitlessness. Only humans
did I create to be limited. Only for them did I set limits.
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But then human beings are condemned to contradiction!
Yes, shouted God. Only human beings can suffer and be complex. Suffering
because of their complexity. Thats what being human means. Thats their cross to
bear.
And if those limits destroy freedom? I asked.
The cross will be eternalas long as there are human beings. I am freedom and
I am limits, God answered, and raised his right arm.
At this point I noticed Katka. She was sitting there with her mouth agape, horrified as she followed the conversation between me and God.
Youre both mad! She finally said, and stood up. Thats what I thought. But
thats it! The games over!
I decided to ignore her words.
God, I turned to God. She thinks Kolka has gone mad. She doesnt understand that youre not Kolka. Because, God, if youd agreed that Kolka has not
disappeared for good, and is alive, standing right here in front of you, but is speaking in Gods name, then then you know what happens? Then then theyll
lock you away in the madhouse without any ceremonies. What I mean is, what am
I saying? Youre God after allyoure a spirit. Theyll lock away Kolka, although
its not even Kolka. Its some sort of body. See? And then later, as you said, those
same earthly thoughts will start to buzz, theyll come to life, in other words, and
Kolka will too. And what do you know, God? He appears and cannot understand
where he is. Why is he locked up in a madhouse? God, this is not a good idea!
Blessed be the blessed, answered God. He wont be the first one into whom I
enter to be called crazy.
So do something.
Its necessary, said God. Thats how it has to be.
You know, God? I dont agree. I understand that youre God, but to lock
someone away in the madhouse for no reason, thats really, you know So now
shell go downstairs and dial 0-3, I swear. I feel sorry for Kolka, please understand
me.
To me there is no Kolka; there is no you, answered God. All your bodies
belong to me. You are the barely visible ripples of earthly thoughts and desires on
the surface.
What is it? I was stunned. Are you One, or what?
Yes, I am One, answered God. But I am also the billions of bodies in which I
live in silence or sometimes speak.
In other words, in your opinion, I dont exist? This body doesnt belong to me?
He thinks, said God, that I created him. Man yearns and man suffers, but the
hurricane will end, and complete silence will arrive. And again I will comprise the
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complete I. Again there will be no individuals, only I. Stop talking, close your
eyes and listen to the silence. And then youll feel me inside you, deep inside you.
And that encounter will be different from this one. And you will not assign a single
question, because you wont need to explain anything. I will be you, and you will be
me. Ill be the only one, and you will cease to exist. The little I, the individual,
will cease to exist.
You are speaking in very complex terms, God, but
Thats it! I cant take any more! Katka shrieked. You damned psychos!
I had completely forgotten about her, but she, it seemed, was still listening and
observing from the sidelines.
Youre psychos! Psychos! she continued to yell, but for some reason she was
not leaving.
Dont yell, I said to her. Your tiny feminine mind cannot understand all the
complexity; thats why youre hysterical.
What kind of complexity is this? Katka regained her courage in response to
my comments. You need to drink less. Ha! Ha! Kolka is God! Ill show you God!
She waved her fist at him, but for some reason she did not attack him.
This is not Kolka here, try to understand! I got riled up myself. At first I
thought so too that Kolka was pulling my leg. He even told me yesterday that he
was God, but I didnt pay any attention, because his personality returned quickly,
and we discussed a small matter, regarding the coals. You know what I mean.
Tomorrow a car is supposed to pull up, near the deliveries. Didnt Kolka tell you?
Yes, he did. Katka stared at me suspiciously. So whats the big deal?
The big deal is that we talked about it and I left. And today I come to his house
and remembered yesterday. And Im having fun with it: Im going to Gods house!
Its funny, dont you think? And at first I thought Kolka was acting, and I goaded
him on myself. But then I realized that this was serious. Because in his whole life
Kolka has never even heard the words that God is using. What do you think? Can
your Kolka talk this way? You can see, right? How smoothly hes speaking. Hes a
stoker, dont forget!
Katka just stood there and rolled her eyes. I supposed that I hadnt convinced
her in the slightest. I was right.
Hes got delirium tremens, I tell you, Katka finally spoke. You do as you like.
Im going to see your wife and tell her everything.
What are you going to tell her?
Ill tell her that Kolka is calling himself God, and you are talking to him as if he
were God. And that both of you
Youre a fool. A fool. I shook my head. Kolka, lets say, has been drinking,
and not even fatally. And I? How much have I been drinking?
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Thats not important, said Katka. White fever is contagious. Thats it. Im
leaving. I dont want to listen to you anymore.
And she left, slamming the door.
See? I addressed God. Shes going to spread all kinds of rumors. You dont
know her. Whats it to you? Youre God; youre a spirit; but Kolka and I have to
suck it up. Lets say, I am a serious guy. I dont drink a lot. So Katka is slandering
me. That Ive got white fever is not something many will believe. That Kolkas got
it is more believable. You can take my word for it. Doctors will arrive and you will
take to chatting with them in Gods voice. Theyll understand everything right
away. They wont believe that youre God, in any case.
But you believe, said God.
God, well, Im not sure. Honestly. I even sighed. And what if in fact its not
you at all, but white fever?
But you feel that its me, dont you? said God. You cant not feel the presence
of a spirit in this room.
Of course I do. I feel it and believe it. How else would I be talking with you?
Look at how Katka didnt believe or feel, and so she didnt address you, but Kolka.
But, Im not sure, honestly. What if you were Kolka. OK, not Kolkathats not what
I meanbut Kolkas unconscious, its double. Ive read about this, God: one part of
Kolkas identity considers itself Kolka, and the other, God. And now Im talking to
that other part. I mean, just try to understand, God. What if you dont exist?
But you do feel it. What kind of nonsense are you telling me?
Well, yes, I do, I answered. Because I know Im not talking to Kolka. I know
that youre God. I feel you, believe that youre not Kolka and not schizophrenia.
You are. You made yourself present in Kolkas form
But you still dont believe in the knowing that is within you?
Youre right, God. I dont understand myself. Here I am speaking to you and yet
I wonder if you dont exist? I wonder if youre not Kolka with a double personality,
and nothing else. Do you hear me, Kolka? Its you, isnt it? Well, dont torture me,
do you hear? I understand that you now have a second personality and consider
yourself God and that you talk like God. Just let me know whether its you, OK?
That youre really not God and just you. Thats all I ask, OK?
Faithlessness, said God.
What?
Faithlessnesswithout it there is no faith. I test humans with faithlessness. So
that their freedom would be absolute. So that faith would be a discovery, and not a
demand. Having eyes, theyll see. Having ears, theyll hear.
Kolka, stop this charade, all right? I yelled hopelessly in a strangers voice.
God was standing there watching me with a stern look on his face. And I felt ashamed.
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Of course I knew I was standing before God. I knew and played dumb. I realized
that he saw right through me. There was no way that was Kolka. His eyes flared
with such fire, that it didnt matter anymore to me what kind of nose he had or how
tall he was. At last I understood, that really that body with the red nose and bald
head was nothing, just a convenient cover. He was glowing an ever-powerful spirit
of goodness, so much so that I fell on my knees and burst into tears:
God, forgive me. Ive been such a fool. Forgive me for my faithlessness.
With this moment of complete faith you have redeemed yourself entirely, said
God. You have understood everything, you have perceived everything in one instant, and thus you need no proof. Now concentrate your entire essence and put
your faith in me. Dont be afraid of anything. He was silent. I am with you.
At that moment I heard the murmuring voices of many people in the doorway and
a familiar voice behind my back.
Well? What did I tell you, eh? And you didnt want to come and see. Look
whats become of them!
Translated by Jûra Aviþienis
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Vytas Luckus. From
1987
6 5 the series Relatives.
T H E 1958
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BENEDIKTAS JANUÐEVIÈIUS
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books and authors
Six and Two Threes
BY VIRGINIJUS GASILIÛNAS
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
At the beginning, books by Benediktas Januðevièius (who was born in 1973), a
translator, literary critic and occasional prose writer, appeared on the margins. His
first two poetry collections, Veidas (The Face, 1992) and Ðalkis (1995), were published by Vaidotas Oðkinis small private publishing enterprise in Kaunas. During
the post-national-revival times, this publisher was popular among poets who did
not have support to help them open the doors of large publishers, the senior editors
of which used to have reservations about poetry. Januðevièius third collection of
poems and objects, 12 këdþiø (12 Chairs), was produced by the publisher of
chapbooks, Tomas S. Butkus. In 1999, the Lithuanian Writers Union Publishers
published his selection Buto raktas (The Key to the Flat). A compact disc with
Januðevièius poetry, Papai (Boobs), was published a few years ago.
Januðevièius new book 0+6 is a selection reflecting his search for form, the
path of a lyrical poet who has finally mastered technology. A number of the poems
are accompanied by explanations like A poem from 12 këdþiø (graphic version)
and Buto raktas (text). Others have also been published elsewhere, just the form of
the text has been improved. The book starts with simple graphic frolicking, but in
the second half of the book there appear poems-objects worthy of a closer look.
In literatures possessing a rich tradition of ways and forms for presenting a poem,
a book like this would immediately occupy the appropriate place, without raising
any additional questions. In the case of Lithuanian literature, which has enjoyed
only a few decades of total creative freedom, it has always been more important
what to say, and not how to say it. Even the following fact is symbolic: the collection
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of imaginist and dadaist poetry dainuoja degeneratas (a degenerate is singing), by
the most liberal avant-garde poet pranas morkûnas (19001941), was written in
the 1930s, and yet was published only in 1993, a year after the appearance of
Januðevièius first book. In the Soviet period, there was Eduardas Mieþelaitis (1919
1997) poem in the shape of a windmill; such radicalism, however, was officially
only allowed from the Lenin Prize holder. Thus, there is nothing strange that, when
the book 0+6 appeared, some saw it as a manifestation of degenerate freedom,
while others suggested, even if jokingly, giving the National Prize to Januðevièius.
Recurrences of a broken literary tradition
Figurative verse has its beginning in Alexandria, and was written to demonstrate
the poets ingenuity. This tradition was alive in Lithuania in Renaissance and Baroque poetry in Latin. As is shown in the research by the literary historian Eglë
Patiejûnienë, it was not sporadic but quite consistent. Poesis artificiosa existed in
16th to 18th-century publications in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania as a peculiar
variety of poetry with its own rights. Ordo artificialis (artificial order) developed in
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parallel with ordo naturalis. (More on this can be found in the book Brevitas Ornata,
Vilnius, 1998.) Having restored the view of the tradition, Januðevièius poemsobjects no longer look like a postmodernist empty search. Poets used to create
pyramids and obelisks out of Latin words, while Januðevièius, in an excerpt from
the poem Naujas poþiûris á Þodá (A New Attitude to the Word), constructs the
Vilnius Television Tower out of Lithuanian words. This is a work from his first
collection Veidas. Later, the poet uses words or parts of them to create twists and
turns, and allows them to acquire different forms, by creating at least a few strategies for reading the same text; in short, a syllable or a letter turned into independent construction material.
With the poet acquiring more confidence in himself, more courage and more
skill, and by resorting to possibilities offered by computers, his poems-objects are
getting more complex. The view of a real object maintaining its load of meaning is
invoked as an independent component: a public transport ticket, a page from a
tear-off calendar, a vinyl record, a pack of Ukrainian salt, and the like. The poets
personal inscriptions are made with the preservation of the style of former texts,
which allows the reader to bring back to mind the original text with contexts, and to
relate it to the new work.
Benediktas Januðevièius poems-objects demand more from the reader than just
achieving catharsis. They also remind you that the Greek word poiçsis means not
only creation, but also making. Even with the help of PhotoShop. The book
designer Tomas S. Butkus has done his work flawlessly. Of his chapbooks, 0+6 is
one of the best.
Benediktas Januðevièius
0+6 = eilëraðèiai-daiktai
Book project by Vario burnos ideas workshop, design by Tomas S. Butkus
Kaunas: Kitos knygos, 2006, 125 p.
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0+6 =
poems-objects
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Translated by Medeinë Tribinevièius
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the view from here
The Journalistic Novel
in New Prose by Women
BY VITALIJA PILIPAUSKAITË
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
After the reestablishment of independence, the genre of the novel became popular
in Lithuania, fast and quite unexpectedly. According to the literary critic Jûratë
Sprindytë, there are several reasons for the recent flourishing of the novel, and
among these, the attraction of the genre as an extended story, the structure of the
market, and the expectations of the readers should be mentioned. Also, during the
years of the Soviet occupation, novels were subjected to strict censorship: not many
were written in Lithuania, and the tradition is poor even when compared to Latvian
and Estonian literature. This explains the breakthrough of the novel with such
unrestrained force.
It is a shame to live without completing a novel, Sprindytë describes the situation. Poets, journalists, museum workers, showbusiness people, editors,
scriptwriters, former prisoners, and so on all write novels It is such a jolly game
to be obsessed by the novel. There can be no doubt that in Lithuania, the novel
gives the impression of being an epidemic. And it is unlikely that this infection can
be cured. In short, there is total novel-isation.
The situation in prose seems to have turned upside down. According to another
literary scholar, Solveiga Daugirdaitë, in the late 20th century, when in its volume and structure a work could be called a novel, women were clutching at the
term long short story, while at present traditional large narratives are replaced
by works that do not even compare to a long short story, such as the book Strekaza
(The Grasshopper), which is fragmentary and with a dispersed plot, by Undinë
Radzevièiûtë.
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The rise of the novel is related to other developments in Lithuanian prose: prose
writing by women is becoming increasingly noticeable, and the numbers of books
classed as popular literature are growing. In 1992, Viktorija Daujotytë observed
in Moters dalis ir dalia (The Womans Share and Fate) that prose written by women
is getting stronger, and that, in general, there are more women prose writers than
poets in the classical tradition of Lithuanian literature.
Ten years later, reviewing books published in 2003, Daugirdaitë put forward
the hypothesis that the crisis in womens prose described in the early 1990s was
replaced, if not by qualitative and quantitative odds in favour of prose against
poetry, then at least by a moment of equilibrium. In her view, such a flush of
creativity by women is not accidental. It marks a new trend in literary development that is also characteristic of other European countries.
In Europe, too, entertaining reading for reading consumers has emerged,
while intellectual creativity has moved to the periphery. The reader needs an
easily consumed, disposable book, which must appeal to primitive instincts
for prying and the thirst for sensations, and thus waken the reader from existential boredom.
Let us take a look at some recent works of prose by Lithuanian women, and try
to find the reasons for their popularity. In what ways are the readers woken from
their boredom?
What meets the eye first in novels by women, especially the popular ones, is
that they are increasingly linked to a social context. That is, their personages, the
action and the plot are set in our time and space (the processes of globalisation
bring countries like India and Tibet closer, and sometimes they seem to be better
known than, for instance, the traditional Lithuanian village, which has virtually
vanished from popular literature).
Secondly, more and more books are being published which present events as
though they are experienced by the author herself. More often than not, such books
are about travel to other countries, or emigration, and the romantic adventures
and trials experienced there (for example Roþiø sala [The Island of Roses] by
Indrë Januðytë, or Visos Italijos dulkës [All the Dust of Italy] by Eglë Èerniauskaitë),
or about a womans extraordinary situations (in Ugnë Barauskaitës Deðimt [Ten]
it is pregnancy, in Posûkyje neiðlëk [Dont Skid on the Bend] by Audronë Urbonaitë it is illness, in Neapðviestas kelio ruoþas [An Unlit Stretch of the Road] by
Zita Èepaitë it is the fates of prisoners and an unhappy love affair).
Here, we should recall Daugirdaitës idea that womens literature is also proliferating because literature is one of those fields of culture in which women can
express themselves more freely, writing about experience which cannot be acquired
in any way other than by living. It must be added, though, that the influence of
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pop culture is felt here as well: a publisher is more willing to promote a novelist
who is young, attractive and a debutante (innocent in literature); at the same
time, descriptions of diverse erotic experiences are desired.
Increasing numbers of books appear written by various professionals, which attract the readers attention by promotion and presentations, while their style is
close to a publicist discourse. In Sprindytës view, in novels of this sort, a world
familiar to the author is usually recreated as a fact of personal experience while
working in radio, television, the editorial office of a newspaper, a PR service, an
advertising agency, etc. As though the writer sees life itself writing the text, while
I am only recording it.
That the books in this genre are indeed frequently written by journalists or advertising executives is shown by the facts. Ugnë Barauskaitë works at a radio station and writes for womens magazines. Undinë Radzevièiûtë works at a radio
station. Jurga Ivanauskaitë wrote for womens magazines. Audronë Urbonaitë is a
journalist with a popular daily. The books by these and other authors receive controversial reviews: literary critics dismiss them as trivial literature, but the majority of readers like them, and this particular variety of the genre is called the
journalistic novel.
In a journalistic novel, the importance of the quality and the depth of the word
declines, while the importance of the plot and the narrative takes over. Such rudiments can be discerned in the early writing by Ivanauskaitë and Èepaitë, while in
the latest novels by these writers, the tendency stands out both in the content (the
focus on issues such as the impact of simulacrum reality, the influence of the media world over an individuals life, bringing out the pains of social realities, like
prostitution and women in prison) and in language (a publicist style and its clichés,
jargon and spoken language, the stylistics of advertising). Ivanauskaitës last novels closely tracked media topicalities and followed their rhythms. Journalistic novels, which resemble a large newspaper, attracting the reader with daily news, adapt
to the taste of the consumer, the average buyer thirsty for real life. The relation
with reality is important: it unfolds not in the depths of poetic and metaphysical
transformations, but in broad and physically tangible descriptions of social processes, customs, fashions and states.
The root-phenomenology of the journalistic novel is, in a sense, metaphysical.
It articulates the epistemology and ethics of spurious temporality. A journalistic
presentation generates a temporality of equivalent instantaneity. All things are more
or less of equal import The journalistic vision sharpens to the point of maximum impact every event, every individual and social configuration; but the honing is uniform Paradoxically, this monotone of graphic urgency anaesthetises.
The utmost beauty or terror are shredded at the close of day. We are made whole
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again, and expectant, in time for the morning edition, wrote Georges Steiner in
Real Presences.
Novels written according to such principles resemble popular television chat
shows, or unique life stories published in womens magazines. They expand the
stories in the magazines and simultaneously degrade the genre of the novel.
According to Frederic Jameson, the entire modern social system is losing the
ability to return to its past, and starts living in a permanent present, in permanent
change, while the journalistic discourse marks the reality of the present. This is
a bi-directional connection: journalism is looking at reality, and reality is dictating journalistic writing.
Another prominent feature of journalistic novels (and popular prose in general)
is its focus, especially sexual focus, on the body. In literature, an openness to the
body per se is neither objectionable nor dangerous, but, to become valuable, the
body cannot be dissociated from metaphysics or from the plane of common human
issues. Body language can develop only at the crossroads and intersections of
the body and the spirit-soul, of the human body and the body of the world, writes
Daujotytë in her study Paraðyta moterø (Written by Women).
Ivanauskaitës work marks the line beyond which carnal experiences have gained
ever more open depiction in Lithuanian literature. The body abounds in her later
novels. She bares, in a rather drastic manner, the themes of sexual exploitation
(in Placebas there is the motif of paedophilia. Mieganèiø drugeliø tvirtovë [The
Fortress of Sleeping Butterflies] tells us about Lithuanian prostitutes abroad). She
talks of serious womens diseases (cancer of the uterus), of the impact on the identity
of the woman of media-shaped body standards. There are episodes of sexual intercourse.
In Urbonaitës book there emerges the theme of sexual relations between a father and a daughter.
Daujotytë once cited Yuri Lotmans thought that the time when sex becomes a
particularly pronounced object of cultural interest is related to the physiological
decline of sex, and not to its heyday. The inner energy of erotic-sexual motifs sinks,
and eros is simplified to the level of technique. On the other hand, in literature of
this kind, the uncovering is not only carnal (of the personage), but also autobiographical (of the author).
The autobiographical aspects of the journalistic novel are distinguished by Regimantas Tamoðaitis as especially attractive to readers (Such self-denuding appeals and attracts. All this is human, suffered by many Like genuine biographies,
like claims to artistry, some sort of journalistic element), while the boldness to
denude oneself in literary form is considered the most characteristic feature of
todays prose by Lithuanian women. This tendency is very likely to be related
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with feminist ideas, with the context of pragmatic feminism that can be observed
from Ivanauskaitës and Èepaitës first books to the prose by the youngest Lithuanian authors (Gabrielë Klimaitë, Justuna Stuèinskaitë).
Ugnë Barauskaitës first book O rytoj vël reikës gyventi (Life will Go on Tomorrow) can be interpreted as a rather prominent embodiment of these tendencies.
The book is written in the first person singular, and although the narrator does not
give her name, her age or what she looks like, all this becomes clear from the plot
of the book, or, to be more precise, from the re-experienced events, states and
feelings. The narrator is a 25-year-old woman, divorced, working in radio (her
name is Barauskaitë). Thus, she has the main features of the authors identity.
Such a writing strategy resembles the genre of autofiction, or fictionalised autobiography. The style that Barauskaitë chose for her confidences has an impact on
the reader: a young woman known by the public writes a book seemingly about
herself, her environment, her friends, the entertainment business. Many of the
names and facts are true, so how can you not read it?
Due to the authors emphasised autobiographical aspect (Like my hero, I work
in radio. Therefore, these things could really have happened to me. Although they
couldnt have. Or they could have happened, but not to me), the narrator can
be seen as a real and not a fictional woman (as real as the personages in the stories told by womens magazines or television programmes) who responds to the
surrounding reality, is active in it, and is influenced by it. The novel is written
in the form of emails, and this is the first important reference to the identity of
the modern individual. According to an article by Nomeda Gaiþiûtë, Lietuviðkoji
Bridþita Dþouns? (A Lithuanian Bridget Jones?), the chosen form is just a more
fanciful, more modern and commercial form of an ordinary diary, which so far
has not been developed in Lithuanian literature. The narrator communicates with
two friends in virtual space. In this space the central themes of the novel, the
highlights of social critique, identity crises and the analysis of personal life, unfold.
The only focal point concentrating the narrative of the novel is the narrator herself. In her book Rûpesèiø moterys, moterø rûpesèiai (Women of Worries, the Worries of Women), Daugirdaitë emphasises that the absence of one centre could be
a feature of feminine writing: human relations and atmosphere, and not the outcome are important. Barauskaitë writes in this particular manner, about life as
she sees it: work and chaotic daily worries are replaced by cafes, bars and clubs.
Friends and colleagues drop in. Much communication is done by phone, text messages and the Internet. At first sight, the surface of life is colourful and interesting, but a deeper look shows it to be somewhat unreal, just like the narrators
voice coming from the radio. What is paradoxical is that, being the focal point in
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the narrative, the personage is not central, she is scattered among numerous people, feelings and events. The lack of a personal focus is determined not by the
poor reflection of identity: first of all, a woman needs to break away from the social web of her own life, to create an original lifestyle. The key problem in the
novel arises from the deep feeling of emptiness experienced by socially successful people, which is caused by the pressure of the surroundings to adapt, to recreate oneself.
The narrator is critical both of the style of life offered by the entertainment world
and of her own identity. She attempts to take an objective look at herself, and tries
to figure out why she is what she is, why she makes certain decisions and behaves
in one way or another. She looks at her body and her inner world, and realises that
she is not naturally formed, that she has not been taught to open up her nature,
and therefore she wants to shed the restricting roles (this is a practical expression
of feminist ideas). The novel does not abound in reflections on the impact on women
of stereotypes, which are close to problematic publicist writing (they are more
numerous in her second novel, Deðimt), but they are very clearly formulated, and
express views that are feminist but not radical. (To me, feminism is not a crime,
said Barauskaitë at the presentation of her first book. Feminism to me is the
right to be a woman and a mother.) These views invite an attempt to perceive
oneself not according to the traditional expectations of society, but according to
ones own needs: Most women are not taught to be personalities and express their
I. From childhood they are taught to obey. Meanwhile, we should ask ourselves:
Who am I? What are my needs? And who is satisfying them?
One of the best-known examples of pragmatic feminism is the novel Bridget
Jones Diary by the television journalist Helen Fielding. According to critics, before Fieldings book, a woman like Bridget Jones did not exist in literature: fighting against her body, counting calories and phone calls that didnt take place,
scared of pregnancy because of changes in the body shape, pursuing a career in
all possible ways, and simultaneously searching for Mr Right, that Only One. Both
readers and critics compared Barauskaitës first book to Bridget Jones Diary, the
Lithuanian translation of which appeared at approximately at the same time.
Barauskaitë once said that to her, Bridget Jones, who drinks, smokes, counts the
calories and drools over a sexy stud, is not a literary personage, but a common
noun representing a certain social type of modern woman. According to her, Miss
Jones ended well, she found a barrister. If she were Fielding, she would not
have allowed such an (ideal) end to the novel. And she did not. Indeed, the main
questions asked in O rytoj vël reikës gyventi differ from those in the book by the
British author, but certain links do exist. The narrator in Barauskaitës novel is
reading Bridget Jones Diary, and occasionally imitates its style (Calory-loaded
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salad consumed: loads [one big bowl exactly]. Negative thoughts: 0. Cigarettes
smoked: out of proportion). The beginning of her friendship with Justas is reflected in the style of Bridget Jones logic: He immediately bought a toothbrush
and put it in my bathroom, do you get it? It means he is not scared of obligations,
not scared of a long and meaningful relationship!
We could retrace Daugirdaitës point to the effect that Fielding has invented a
diary-like tragic-comic narrative strategy handy to a modern woman, yet Barauskaitë
is treading her own path, and her analysis of a modern womans identity, her relation with reality, and her lifestyle, is deeper. This is shown by the different fates
of the personages of both authors in the follow-ups: while Bridget Jones is still
looking for Mr Right, Barauskaitë (both the narrator and the author) is getting
ready for motherhood.
Another quite well-known recent book is Undinë Radzevièiûtës Strekaza, which,
according to the literary critic Laimantas Jonuðys, could be called a novel only by
making allowances to the postmodernist relativity of genres, and can also be called
a journalistic one. Daugirdaitë mentions this book as a most interesting debut.
The narrative is broken into short, numbered fragments. It resembles entries, in
the first person singular, in a diary or a notebook, or film frames rapidly replacing
one another, while the glance of the narrator is recording the details of everyday
life: home, the television screen, a conversation with a psychiatrist, her mothers
phone calls, meetings on a staircase, impressions of a business trip to London, a
game with her neighbour Toporov, and his death.
According to Jolanta Paulauskaitë, this book is interesting as an anthropological cross-section of the closed society depicted. The onlooker is a lonely woman
who only due to a shortage of beauty works in radio, for if not the looks, she
would work in television. The narrators lifestyle resembles the situation of the
grasshopper (in Russian strekaza) from the fable, living today without any aims.
Such a view, however, was determined not by a superficial attitude, but by a feeling of meaninglessness and weariness: I am a devil-obsessed alien, made to feel
bad by life on earth. As in Barauskaitës books, the autobiographical motif is
quite prominent:
Alex, he says.
Expressively and slowly, I utter my name.
What? he asks.
I muster all my energy in the repetition.
What? he asks.
I repeat. And translate.
Oh, he says, in Hebrew it would be hydra. I will call you Hydra.
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The change of the authors supposed name Undinë into Hydra reveals the narrators personal qualities. The Hydra of Lerna was a poisonous serpent-like water
beast with nine heads. In addition, since her childhood, the narrator has been
tortured by what she calls a Matilda complex. Matilda is an actress of stunning
beauty who plays, without words, the roles of loved beauties, and at home turns
into a real barracuda poisoning life for half a block. According to a psychiatrist,
Matilda is pushed into aggression by her romantic roles. Forced to shape her
identity to the stereotype of a beautiful beloved, the woman does the opposite: she
assumes the role of a dangerous, predatory, injurious and suffering woman. Her
diagnosis is misanthropy (Misanthropy, is it a literary or a medical concept? I
ask the psychiatrist. Literary, he says. After all, misanthropy is a disease. You
dont die of it, yet theres that wish to kill somebody).
The form of expression of Radzevièiûtës novel differs from that of Barauskaitës,
but a womans lips speak of similar things: loneliness, the body, and relations
with men, except that the intervention of the noisy world of the city is absent. The
rhythm of life is based on television programmes (films and news are retold, serials are cited, and probably the most often recurring phrases in the book are I am
turning the television on and I am changing channels. Compare it with
Ivanauskaitës narrative, which is broken down and merged together by the television announcement And now the ADVERTISING !). The writer emphasises estrangement. The neighbours are called not by their names but by the numbers of
their flats, professions and nationalities, and only with one of them is a warm and
sincere relationship struck up. Themes and remarks regarding womens fates recur. Responses are triggered by topical issues: the exaggerated cult of beauty and
its impact on women (On the stairs I meet the vets wife. Every evening, on the
stairs, she is solving the same problem: how to lose weight), motherhood (Are
you sick? No 10 asks me again No, I say. Have you eaten something?
Not yet, I say. Are you pregnant? The question hovers between the balconies), the merge of primary and secondary realities (Eating in front of the television has become impossible: they constantly give intimate details about the latest
corpses, or show pooing babies Luckily there are a lot of channels. Its a pity
life has only one), parasitic popular culture (I once read that films and programmes for the intellectual minority are shown at night on purpose. So that others arent traumatised), marital problems (Getting married is like going to heaven:
either it happens fast and spontaneously, or you have to work hard, I say. I am
not of the working people).
Unlike in Barauskaitës novels, the narrator does not engage in an analysis of
the formation of her own identity. Her position is the following: to act differently
from what is expected of women who are living an ordinary lifestyle, that is, to
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avoid being a nice, charming and gentle creature even fully realising that a rebel
is pointless. The taxi driver taking her home looks quite all right just because
he is not a prince. The liking for the neighbour Toporov develops thanks to an
atypical compliment (clothes move beautifully on you) highlighting not the body
but the clothes, and thus the womans taste (the narrator replies, Chose them
myself). Before the night she eats stronger in order to sleep better, that is,
contrary to the advice in womens magazines. When the terrorist-piloted planes
hit the skyscrapers in New York, Barauskaitës woman feels sorry for the people
(I saw people jumping out of windows and falling down very slowly. Could you
imagine how long a human takes to fall from the fortieth floor? I always see
little things [Deðimt]. Radzevièiûtës Hydra would like to see it in the Arabs
eyes, and the like). The narrators voice is biting, cynical and open.
And yet somewhere deep down, under the narrators biting remarks, one can
feel the longing for traditional values, for a meaningful everyday life. The sensitive and even sentimental heart of a woman is beating in the body of the Hydra
who is spitting poison and fire: In the street each zip reminds me of an autopsy
incision. I cant look at them undone. Once I approached a child and said, close
your zip!!! Youll get cold. While reading Radzevièiûtës book, we might recall
Dalia Zabielaitës thoughts about Frederic Beigbeders journalistic novels: it is
a mirror which in a somewhat artificial and superficial manner reflects the conscience of the individual of our days, and playfully conveys the rebellious jeering of this conscience at the unbearable meaninglessness of its existence.
Radzevièiûtë, too, talks about this state that overwhelms us when the modern world
exerts pressure.
This feeling is accurately expressed, and the whole book is unlocked, by the
penultimate move in an important Japanese draught game go, which is significant to the narrative. This move is a warning before death, and is called atari: As
a rule, atari doesnt have a way out. When a piece finds itself in atari, it more
often than not dies standing. Atari is the code of the lifestyle of the woman
who changed her identity for the image of Hydra.
And yet, for a good cocktail, be it the cocktail of a journalistic novel, an intriguing plot, a focus on carnality, reflections of reality, and feminist attitudes do not
suffice. A text written in a publicist style also has to be of good quality. Wellselected extracts will not rescue an unreadable book. Rephrasing Daujotytës
thought, no matter how the changing reality changes speaking and writing, no matter
how its reflection changes in texts, the most important thing for a work of literature is the survival of the axis of the biggest concern of existence and the multilayered nature of language. Journalistic novels in which the plane of language is
accentuated on a different level than is usual in literature (if the stylistics of pubT
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licist writing and advertising are applied creatively and richly), while existential
issues about being are replaced by the topicalities of everyday life, and social
critique, could be interesting, thanks to these particular qualities. Some of them,
although flat, may not be shallow.
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awards
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
The highest literary award, the National Prize, was awarded to the poet and essayist Kæstutis Navakas, for the poetry collections Þaidimas graþiais pavirðiais (Playing
with Beautiful Surfaces, 2003) and Atspëtos fleitos (Unpuzzled flutes, 2006), and
the book of essays Gero gyvenimo kronikos (Chronicles of the Good Life, 2005).
The prestigious award for the Best Book of the Year, established by the Lithuanian Writers Union, went to the prose writer Ramûnas Klimas (19452002), for
his novel Maskvos laikas (Moscow Time, 2005).
The prize for the best book of poetry of the year awarded at the Poetry Spring
festival was awarded to Gintautas Dabriðius, for his poetry collection Sviesti akmenukà (To Cast a Small Stone, 2005).
Another prestigious prize, the Jotvingiai Prize, awarded by the Druskininkai
Poetic Fall festival, went to the poet and essayist Kæstutis Navakas.
The Chair of the Translator of the Year Prize of the Lithuanian PEN Club was
awarded to Linas Rybelis, for his translation of the book Smëlio laikrodis (The
Hourglass, 2006) by Jorge Luis Borges.
The St Jeronimus Prize, established by the Lithuanian Association of Literary
Translators, went to Irena Balèiûnienë (a translator into Lithuanian) and Mirjana
Braèko (a translator into Croatian).
Two more prizes were awarded at the Poetry Spring: one for translations of poetry into Lithuanian, which went to Vladas Braziûnas for Jânis Rokpelnis collection Lyrika (Lyrics, 2005); and one for translations of Lithuanian poetry into other
languages, to Klaus Berthel for his translation of the book ið neparaðytø istorijø
(from unwritten histories, 2002) by Eugenijus Aliðanka into German (published by
DuMont in 2005), and other publications in the German press.
The Government Art Prize, awarded for important work in art and culture, went
to the writers Danielius Muðinskas, Algimantas Zurba and Tomas Sakalauskas.
The Literary Prize for the best work of the year, established by the Institute of
Lithuanian Literature and Folklore, was awarded to the prose writer Danielius
Muðinskas, for his book of short stories Kalno saugotojas (The Guardian of the
Mountain, 2006).
A
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KÆSTUTIS NAVAKAS
GINTAUTAS DABRIÐIUS
VLADAS BRAZIÛNAS
MIRJANA BRAÈKO
DANIELIUS MUÐINSKAS
GINTARAS BERESNEVIÈIUS
The prize established by the Lithuanian Association of Artists this year went to
the writer Gintaras Beresnevièius (19612006) for his novels Pabëgæs dvaras (The
Runaway Manor House, 2005) and Paruzija (2005).
The Zigmas Gëlë-Gaidamavièius Prize for the best debut in poetry was awarded
to Jurgita Butkytë, for her book Voratinkliais apsigobusios (Swathed in Spiders
Webs, 2005).
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new books
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
Literary Suicide has not been Committed
BY JÛRATË SPRINDYTË
Leonardas Gutauskas, Sapnø teologija
To cover the theme of deportation is suicide for a professional writer in Lithuania. What new can be said about the hardship and misery experienced, after abundant documents and reminiscences by deportees have been published? However,
when a vivid imagination, erudition and the experience of a novelist (this is the
tenth novel by Leonardas Gutauskas) come into play, we become convinced that
the theme itself is irrelevant here. It is the mastery of interpretation that is important. The novelist focuses on the first Lithuanian martyrs in Yakutia in 1941. It is
an ice-bound wasteland, hard labour, famine, deaths, a sick girl lying on a bunk in
a dugout. No plot at all, the scenery is scanty, the material for a novel is lacking.
We can only wonder what successful angle Gutauskas has found for this uneasy
theme, the dreams of sick, 14-year-old Augustë.
Two stories (Pradþios þodis and Placha) and 21 dreams, which were inspired by
the delirium of a sick and feverish girl, make up the structure of the novel. Augustës
dreams are the very reality. The girl who found herself on the edge of the grave
lives in the summer paradise of Lithuania, eats bread and honey, meets her mother
and her grandfather (both are dead), and is happy. A perfect childhood and the
horrible present, the terror of which dim a consciousness neutralised by means of
fantastic images and visions of desire, constantly combine in her dreams. This is
the consistent principle of the book: to represent evil through good, implying the
meaning of the symbolic code of Christianity.
Dreams embody the climax of the disease, and the main medicine, the possibility to break away from the hell of deportation. An absolute orphan, lighter than the
down of a white partridge, recovers thanks to unconditional love, or, perhaps, to
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her own dreams. She is taken care of by a suomis (a Finn) according to her father,
and samis according to her mother, Jarvis Ravaniemis, who learned the trade from
the elves, uldrai, and who became her husband later. This aspect enables the story
to be extended with the customs and mythological scenes of another nation, and to
extol the power of love. Love and belief saved them. Perhaps this is why the concept of theology appeared in the title. The signs of a Christian emotional attitude, as is common in Gutauskas work, are richly represented.
The code of the fairy tale is important in order to comprehend this unusual book
by Gutauskas. There is nothing impossible: the dead act, animals talk, various
miracles occur, there are transfers in space and time, and the most unexpected
assistants appear, for example, a golden rat, a miracle-working deer, between whose
horns a blossoming lilac bush is growing, a flying ship, an unusual arch, a bridge,
and more. Dreams are resourceful, bright and visual, they match the mentality of
the teenage girl (real fairy tales have a happy end; ten years later, Augustë returns
to Lithuania together with her beloved). The elaborate style of the novel makes us
remember the minuses of metaphorising consciousness, though the text is created
with the suggestion characteristic of poetic prose. The novel whirls around in circles, there is hardly any intrigue in it. Since the model of every dream is similar,
repetitions and speechifying are unavoidable.
What fascinates me most in this book by Gutauskas is the status which is attached to mans internal reality. The environment and the subject matter are horrible. The girl lies in rags, lice are crawling on her eyelids, a morsel of raw fish saves
her from starvation, the freezing cold makes her blood curdle, ice is all around, and
there is a strange polar light. The richness of the imagination counterbalances
everything. Love, hope and sacrifice are absolutely intangible things that save people. Today some people think that they do not exist at all.
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
Life Evidence of a Forgotten Man
BY RENATA ÐERELYTË
Danielius Muðinskas, Kalno saugotojas
Vilnius: Homo liber, 2006, 352 p.
Danielius Muðinskas is known in Lithuanian literature as a short story writer, a
master of the short genre, who has created a peculiar model of the reflective short
story. Having published four collections of stories, in his fifth, Kalno saugotojas,
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he has remained faithful to his favourite model of prose and stylistic expression,
enriching his stories with irony and giving them a more constructive form.
The literary critic Jûratë Sprindytë has characterised Muðinskas stories as short
works. A peculiar link with a cinematographer is probably not accidental: many of
his stories flash like a single memorable picture. For example, the falling snow in
the space of a square, embodying the image of forgetfulness and oppressive melancholy. Or a mountain looming in the same square, the main symbol of the book,
revealing many ambiguous meanings: the value of preserving family traditions and
relations, their disappearance, the weight of the mercilessness of life, attempts to
struggle with everyday routine.
A human being in this picture of raging snow is a lonely dark spot pushed forward
by an unexplainable existential anxiety, wishing to prove and substantiate his existence on this earth by the same arguments which Thomas Aquinas used to prove the
existence of God. And this is very difficult to do when you are one of the forgotten
ones in this world. The forms of mans poverty and misery in Muðinskas creative
work seem to be timeless, universal and metaphysical. Human poverty does not
disappear, even in times of well-being. Both a good, comfortable life and ghost-like
poverty are the same mountain which sooner or later we have to leave, overcome,
half assaulted, or not even begun. In a space that is characterised by words such as
a strange world, a strange town, it is most important to prove that you are
something more than a strange man, a forgotten one, a tenant of life, rather
than to cover your poverty with gold or purple. The meaning of existence is proved
in the strangest ways. In the short story Gyvenimas kaip alibi (Life is like an
Alibi), a man wallpapers the walls of his room with newspapers until he falls asleep
in the cramped space. This seems to be absolute foolishness, but man is unable to
prove the meaning of his existence another way. And if there is nothing to prove, and
life is actually alien, one is made to live as if there is no you (the story Motinos
miegas, Mothers Sleep). Attention should be paid to the present tense of the
sentence: it is a testimony of being which is being denied. When it is combined with
infinitives, which embodies the future, hypothetical time, a strange state of metaphysical timelessness, is born. A woman lives, but nobody can prove her being, and
she herself is reconciled with a live non-existence, as with some inevitable thing.
Living in a post-Soviet country, we have become stuck in Soviet timelessness,
testifying to societys efforts and the inertia of the authorities. It is not in vain that
one of Muðinskas characters says: The Motherland is like a sharp knife to me.
Painful, hurtful. One that leaves an open wound, without a dressing. In the short
story Motinos kelionë (Mothers Trip), an old mother is going somewhere north
to look for her missing son. At the end of the story, the author reduces a sharp,
alien, northern space, that is as cold as a knife blade, as well as the pain of not
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finding her son, to the size of a small detail: upon her return, the mother warms the
keys in her hand, which she had taken out from under a stone, to unlock the door of
her house more easily.
To thaw out frost on a padlock with the warmth of the hands: perhaps this is the
only way to unlock a door, to get inside. To prove ones being, in such a simple,
and, at the same time, such a metaphysical, way.
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
Parulskis with a Plastic Doll
BY GIEDRË KAZLAUSKAITË
Sigitas Parulskis, Sraigë su beisbolo lazda
Vilnius: Baltos lankos, 2006, 174 p.
The short story proves once again that plot is nonetheless the strength of prose.
Plot is dispersed in one or another way, is inconsistent and friable, but is still plot.
Sigitas Parulskis has not grown out of his favourite swearwords yet (and we have
no hope that he ever will). He has not finished (and does not intend to!) litigating
with archaic forms of religiousness that remind us of Kafkas The Trial. He has not
renounced the grotesque, or healthy irony (such a metamorphosis is impossible).
The misogynistic and misanthropic view of the narrator towards the entire world
allows us to understand that a craving for human closeness and its realisation for a
fictitious introvert is like never-intersecting lines laying the rails of presentments
to some ever-approaching catastrophe.
On the whole, the author, who has both the ratings and the privileges of the
honour of elitist literature, can permit himself nearly everything. This time, he
hesitates between the short story and the essay, but he creates a peculiar parody of
essay writing in the text. It is an obvious mockery of the urgent polemics (on the
issue of the boundaries between reality and invention in essay writing, and the
doubling of the writer). However, it is done creatively, categorically denying the
possibility of intertwining autobiographical moments and the text (a useless work,
because nobody is going to believe it all the same) and forcefully stating the dualism of life and creative work.
Sometimes, it seems that the writer writes just for himself, or for a moronic reader
of the Internet who has no ontological attitudes at all. Of course, it is better that the
writer who is devoid of attention screws society in his sublimation, unlike some
maniacs do in reality with guns or planes. Fixing the negative aspects became the
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authors peculiar indulgence a long time ago, perhaps even satisfying his masochistic inclinations in the literary text. Nonetheless, it is obvious that Parulskis cannot
be a literary hooligan. And there is such a great desire to pretend to be byvis and
teðlagalvis (headcase) in the same author. However, one cannot, and thats that.
Perhaps it is possible to tame the cover, which resembles a child suffering from
leukaemia, or disabled humanity cast as a plastic doll.
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
A Thin Loop Around the Neck
BY GITANA GUGEVIÈIÛTË
Renata Ðerelytë, Balzamuotojas
The first books by the prose writer, poetess, playwright, essayist and literary
critic Renata Ðerelytë (who was born in 1970) revealed an original feature of her
prose, the absence of a plot, and the poetic, metaphorical nature of prose. The
suggestion of metaphor, the force of its generalisation, is obvious in her latest book
of short stories, Balzamuotojas (The Embalmer).
Balzamuotojas is a world of transparent prose, whose characters are far from
being babies, gallant young men or kind-hearted old women. The woman of this
world is an unhappy teacher, a secretary, the lowest of the low, smartly sucking
at a fag-end, an alcoholic who has aged before her time and who is dreaming about
beauty in her stinking room. This is the Cleopatra of the spirit, a poetess of thoughts,
and a victim of love. The man of this world is a plumber, an intoxicated sex pest, a
jealous laywer; simply a gender, stretching out its white buttocks to the reader,
rolling about (like a well-disposed seal) in a bed or a lodging house, far from being
the Pygmalion.
The reality of the characters in the book is the bottom. The logic of criminal law
reigns. However, the characters vary their dreary, barren existence not only by
satisfying their instincts, which erupt in barren and dry semen. These two poles
of the world, the two sexes, two oppositions, long for intimacy, they cherish the
remains of humaneness, because it is only in this way that it is possible to see
eternitys mysterious blue garden and the red letters burning in the dark. True,
the internal world of the male and his thoughts do not catch the authors attention
so often in the short stories; she is not inclined to go deep into his internal world.
Usually a single-plane type of man is created, the props of which, according to the
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literary critic Loreta Jakonytë, are the following three verbs: to drink, to fight, to
sleep. It seems this is the case this time, too.
The subjects of Soviet times and the present, and rural and urban realia, intertwine in the short stories, but this is too episodic and dream-like to become an
important constituent part of a short story (the dream is another part of Ðerelytës
creative arsenal). The important thing is not what happens to the characters but
how they project themselves, how they see themselves in that irrational existence,
how their consciousness goes to the heart of what is hidden, rather than to what is
obvious. Peculiarly immoral characters and their existential, suspiciously intellectual meditations and visions combine strangely in these laconic and picturesque short stories: The yellow noon surrounds me on all sides, quiet, still,
indifferent, and there is so much of it that joy simply takes my breath away. As if a
thin loop were tightening around my neck. Made of pigeons down. Much softer
than what I feel in my dream.
The short stories are not framed by a categorical, beginning-end dimension. There
is neither a clear basis nor original characters in them. On the contrary, the characters are alike, and unite into a strange monolith among themselves. The polyphony of their voices is often replaced with the authors solo, which, while
performing, she takes pleasure in the beauty of the language, the melody of the
world, and the meaning of the narrative that is born from hints and associations.
The moderate, sometimes sentimental, metaphorical and ornamented language
of poetic prose is in opposition to the neglected, dirty, poor interior of the bookish
world in which Ðerelytë places her characters. However, the general atmosphere of
the work is bright. There are smiles. Perhaps sometimes through tears.
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
Bright Considerations
BY ROMAS DAUGIRDAS
Alis Balbierius, Trobelë ant debesies
Vilnius: Gimtasis þodis, 2006, 99 p.
So far, Alis Balbierius has been known to those who are interested in Lithuanian
literature more as a poet and a short story writer. Nonetheless, like a large part of
his colleagues, he has not resisted the temptation to try his hand at writing essays.
All (or nearly all) the essays in Trobelë ant debesies (A Hut on a Cloud) were published in cultural periodicals. However, they seem different in the book. Individual
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texts seem to support one another, and merge in a new formation, testifying to much
more than they seemed to be in the periodicals.
I would call the essay model, currently widespread in Lithuanian literature, a
foxtrot-like one. When you dive into the thickness of everyday life, the direction
of the dance is changed, you become rooted to the spot (not always with motivation), and so on and so forth. Balbierius writes differently. The most important
thing for him is to ponder over phenomena, concepts and tendencies. Seeking to
achieve his goal, he does it with the help of various weapons. Their amplitude is
rather wide: meditation, natural impressions, the preparation of topical social issues, psychological insight, and the philosophical parable
And still, these are essays written by the hand of a poet, because the information
is dissolved in visions, fantasies and subjective observations. Undoubtedly, one of
the starting points in Trobelë ant debesies is an earlier collection of verse Tekstai
apie viskà ir niekà (Texts about Everything and Nothing). Only this time, priority is
given to thinking rather than to encoding a feeling, because the dropped endings
and inversions serve the internal rhythm of the texts, and picturesque comparisons
charge the phenomenon under discussion with a sparkling electricity.
However, let us turn to the plot of the essay. I must admit that quite often, after
reading the title of an essay, I used to smile ironically to myself: well, what new can
be said here? All the more so that I would see clearly the threatening rapids of a
common consideration. However, the writer somehow manages to slip between the
edges of the blades. He does not complicate the train of thought. However, he
thoroughly cleans the problem of the stereotypical coatings. He does it simply, but
not in a banal way, with a minimum of foreign words.
The development of the theme is also interesting when the basic concept becomes overgrown with synonymy, and the latter extends the field of meanings, and,
on its way, actualises the signs of the past, lifting them to symbols of a higher order.
Balbierius considerations are rather dramatic. Especially when he untangles
the ambiguous effect of civilisation on man. However, even then, the author does
not completely destroy that network of hope on which we all hang above darkness.
The writer does not masochistically use a rapier to jab at the evils of the world, but
nostalgically longs for harmony: One thing is programmed within us: the aspiration to live in harmony with oneself and the world. This optimism is not naïve,
because the author sees another side of the world too, which is not so attractive.
Another feature distinguishing Balbierius from his brothers-in-arms of the literary workshop is the pantheistic emotional attitude, which must have become his
property (in his youth, he worked in environmental protection for a long time). This
attitude is not irksome at all, it is organic and unnoticeably disarms the reader, no
matter how much the latter should try to get rid of the beauty of the landscape.
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○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
The Time of Mystery
BY VALDAS KUKULAS
Valdas Daðkevièius, Misterija
Valdas Daðkevièius first book, Sauja pelenø (A Handful of Ashes), appeared in
1989. In 2006, 17 years later, his second collection of verse, Misterija (Mystery),
was published. What is interesting is that this book appeared in 2006. Poetry by
Dalia Jazukevièiûtë and Paulina Þemgulytë was also published that year, and it
indicates that poets whose work we did not have time to notice in the hum of the
Singing Revolution and the national revival movement are returning to poetry.
That is why it hurts when talking of Daðkevièius. I still think that his first book of
poetry had a better future: a perfect form, the well-thought internal structure of a
poem, multi-plane speaking about the present leaning against images of and allusions to ancient culture, and all that in just a few lines. In his work today all this
remains, and, against the background of scattered and spineless postmodernist
poetry, the publications with his work give a strong impression. Here, at last, is a
poem as a finished and perfect whole, with a beginning and an end. Here is a poetic
thought that does not turn into a graphic illustration of a logical thought. Here, at
last, is the long-expected poetic play with poetic images on the fingertips, when
you cannot tell whether the image is drawn or painted. However, all that looked
impressive in the periodical press, where these poems stood alone and did not
replicate or imitate anything. In a large book, they start repeating themselves. In
the close system of one poet, it would be fine, but a more attentive reading raises
doubts regarding the very system of the images. It starts attracting too many generalities and abstractions, which so far belong to all, and not to Daðkevièius alone.
Nevertheless, we should view this author as a highly authentic and independent poet, and not only because of the form of the text and the internal concentration in Sauja pelenø. Some aspects of his new book are overwhelming. For example,
it is hard to believe that it is possible to make a philosophically charged poem
of words that, one would think, suits only childrens poetry. Or, are we used to the
humorists adopting the situation of the popular joke for the structuring of their
verse, to retell the situation of a serious philosophical poem as a snappy story? I
find it strange to experience all those indecipherable and unadvertised signs of
humour, irony, paradox and the grotesque in Daðkevièius poetry. Even when the
poet is telling a seemingly everyday story, two-way spaces open up, to heaven and
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to hell. The world of the poem is not even on two planes, which you would actually
demand of poetry (if it wants to be called poetry), but on three planes, and I do not
know how many Lithuanian poets today could be proud of that.
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Skew with Knowledge
BY KAROLIS BAUBLYS
Gytis Norvilas, Skëriø pusryèiai
In the first poetry collection by the young poet Gytis Norvilas, Akmen-skeltës
(2002), experiments with language developed on several layers (pseudo-etymological attempts at a search for meaning, the creation of neologisms, playing with
letters and sounds) and were quite prominent. The literary critic Viktorija Ðeina
has aptly pinpointed Norvilas two poetic schools: avant-gardism (the verse is emphatically rough, in places adolescently blunt), and the influence of the poet Sigitas
Geda (striving for the words archaic power, its magic). In some poems of the first
collection, Norvilas goes over the top by starting to speculate with poetic juggling.
What tendencies does the second collection, Skëriø pusryèiai (The Locusts Breakfast, 2006), show?
A dialogue of different arts stands out in Norvilas new collection. In particular,
this applies to the third section ketvirèiavimas (quartering). Here, visual signs
replace verbal ones. The letters or the hieroglyphs become independent agents.
The literary critic Imelda Vedrickaitë observes that Skëriø pusryèiai is a book of
open composition. The verbal text and the visual text cover one another, they make
the readers resort to their imaginations, and turn them into co-authors. The book
demands to link the dual sign system, to jump over the barrier of dual reading. The
reader is constantly observed, baffled, made to doubt his omniscience. The possibilities for reading strategies are expanded on various levels. The poems ei
þuvie nerði? (hey fish are you spawning?), lapkrièio spintos (November
wardrobes) and nekrologas (an obituary) can be read both horizontally and vertically. The verticality (marked by the image of the spine) and horizontality (conveyed by the abundance of dashes) are transferred into the content plane. Their
intertwining makes it possible to speak of the cycle of life and death.
A decomposing and deconstructed body feeling the approach of its own death is
the central theme in the collection. In the poem veidas, veidas, veidas (face,
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face, face) the body is perceived in an ambivalent way. It is simultaneously a wound
and an opportunity for an erotic experience. There are attempts to tame death. It is
addressed, put under a spell. The rhythm of the shamanic incantation is inherent
in the poems stuburëjimas (turning into a spine), pasaulis niekaip (the world
no way) and panteonas (pantheon). Not incidentally, Norvilas has translated
ancient Indian and Tuvian poetry, and shamanic writings.
This new poetry collection surprises readers by both the composition of the text
and the unusual system of images. For instance, the closing part of the poem
labanoriniai likimai: kas liko? (The fates of Labanoras: what has survived?)
goes: a gull - / turns in circles over the shore / by the pier - / knows where the fish
insides are disgorged / - I am skew with knowledge.
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
The Voice and the Body of a Poet
BY RAMUTË DRAGENYTË
Rolandas Rastauskas, Metimas: eilëraðèiai / CD with Arkadij Gotesman
Vilnius: Apostrofa, 2006, 64 p.
Rolandas Rastauskas (RoRa), a poet, essayist, translator, playwright, and actor/author par exellence, a person who measures the town, who wakens the intellectual and aesthetic curiosity of university students, is one of those people whose
very personality spreads and radiates art. It is not in vain that he is referred to as a
dandy, an intellectual polyglot, a mannered aesthete, and an author of refined poetry. Rastauskas gives priority to acoustics, and regards the text as an adventure,
which is taking place here and now.
He made his debut with a collection of verse in 1987. He published his third
book, entitled Aktorius pasitraukia (The Actor is Withdrawing), in 1996. He has
been awarded numerous prizes for his essay writing (the collection Kitas pasaulis
[Another World], 2004), and has now returned to poetry, following a ten-year break,
with this publication, which can be called both a collection of verse and selected
works. Metimas (2006) comes together with a CD. Poems read by the author (rap,
jazz, put into words, and acted vocally) and Arkadij Gotesmans percussion are
recorded on the disc.
The title Metimas has several connotations. One of them is tossing a coin to see
which side comes up, and it keeps spinning, having got stuck in an eternal state of
between (place and time). The design of the book is somewhat unusual to the Lithua95
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nian eye, as is the content of the CD, which is also referred to as poetic rap. The
paper version of the book consists of two parts: Gotlando runelës (Runes of Gotland)
(19952005), verse written on the opposite coast of the Baltic Sea (on the island of
Gotland), and Metimas, writings from various periods and stylistics. The book also
contains new texts, and some that were taken from earlier publications. In the
poems of the new millennium, the author experiments more. He does not avoid
avant-guard grotesque. Lyrical intentions, traditional classical versification, a beautiful rhythm, the harmonious sound of which becomes even more pronounced with
the authors voice echoing, prevail in the verse of the Eighties and Nineties, and
the purposeful and suggestive rhythmic system and intonation give a new body and
new meanings to the writing. The author plays with voice. Sometimes he mocks the
text, enjoys the ethos of saying, repeats phrases, words and syllables, admires accords of assonance and alliteration, attracting and accumulating every sound, and
every letter. When pronouncing the words, the author dissociates himself from
them; but at the same time he comes closer to the listener (with the ears of the
reader); he simply hammers the rhythm system into the listeners head.
The hero of RoRas texts is usually a wandering man who measures space with
his raincoat, who could be localised in a somewhat northern territory of the coastal
fauna and flora (images of sea grass, shells and molluscs). The subjects of the
poems are a creator, a mediator through which runes, letters of the divine world,
are written. It is not he who fixes the moment, but the moment that stops the poet.
Noise asks to be let into a poem, and calls for its Shakespeare. This pose is
sometimes artistic, sometime it is dramatic, but it is not drastic, reminding us of
the expressive street style. Link-ups with other authors, a stylish war of words,
holding a dialogue with artists (such as Arthur Rimbaud) testify to an individual
wandering not only in geographic but also in intellectual latitudes. Some poems
resemble a stylish aesthetic landscape more than a traditional poem.
The content and form of the verse, the pronouncement of the writing, the authors
peculiar recitation, have a certain connection. Rolandas Rastauskas records sound,
noise, which breaks through the images in his writing. The sound symbolises primitive chaos. Time inclusions, sharp and unpolished forms of nature, fossillised layers of time prevail in his poems; the topography of leather is common. The whole
book is chaotic (the arrangement of the texts is chaotic; though, on the other hand,
chaos always has a certain order), and Arkadij Gotesmans percussion often creates a background of noise.
Mannered recordings of the writing in the books (vertically and horizontally),
attention to the colour of the letters, the numbering of the pages: a graceful and
refined publication, a beautiful publication, pleasant to the eye, and even more
pleasant to the ear that longs for a live voice.
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○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
Impartial Translations
BY ROMAS DAUGIRDAS
Vytautas Rubavièius, Verstas
Vilnius: Vario burnos, 2006, 224 p.
The well-known poet Vytautas Rubavièius has recently been sinking ever deeper
into studies of philosophy and hermeneutics. This hobby has accompanied the
writer since his youth. It is a rare poet who manages to defend a doctoral thesis on
philosophy. Therefore, it is not surprising that Rubavièius readers had to wait for
his new book Verstas for eight years.
Any text is always a translation. This is a translation of an inarticulate world into
verbalism, by first breaking this world into pieces, and then sticking it together
again according to different rules. Sometimes according to rational rules, and sometimes on the basis of subconscious ones. I dare to say that a synthesis that has been
sooner determined by thinking prevails in Rubavièius verse.
He belongs to the pleiad of poets who made their debuts at the end of the Seventies and the beginning of the Eighties, the pleiad which shook violently Lithuanias
poetry at that time. Many a young poet still feeds on the discoveries of those poets.
Some of Rubavièius brothers-in-arms have considerably modernised Lithuanian
lyrics (Antanas A. Jonynas); others have passionately exploded the calcified stereotypes of thinking (Gintaras Patackas, Almis Grybauskas); others have tried to
actualise different layers of secondary culture (Kornelijus Platelis). Rubavièius
has taken part in all these movements, but in fits and starts, because he has dived
into the very depths of the language. And he has achieved a lot: he has destroyed
the ordinary relationships of the language, created new words, and bombarded the
logical flow of a sentence by means of sharp pauses. By structuralising the language, the poet has played without any taboos. He has created a new model of
verse, a decentralised text of different directions, which young poets have come to
like so much.
Rubavièius stylistics seem to turn the dichotomic interpretation of the world
inside out, or at least make it strongly relative. And more. The lyrical hero is often
strangely purified from an emotional point of view. He is neither elated, nor ironic,
nor sarcastic. He is not even melancholic, as a man affected by injections of knowledge should probably be. Instead, he is impartial, an observer registering the ambiguous change in the environment, but avoiding drawing conclusions and the truths
dictated by a subjective causality.
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Let us go back to philosophy. What is Rubavièius relation to it in his creative poetic work? In part, it is illustrated by the poem of the same title (Philosophy), which is included in the book as a separate page and a poetic vocabulary.
Abstractions are clearly avoided. Existential states are formed from empiricism,
which poets who are superficially in love with philosophy are somehow incapable of doing.
Readers who are looking for visual lyricism in poetry will also be pleased. There
are plenty of such texts in the book.
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recent events
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European Literature in Ðiauliai
BY SIGITA INÈIÛRIENË
At the end of November 2006, the Days of European Literature festival of prose
was held in Ðiauliai for the second time. Writers from Lithuania and other European countries stayed in Ðiauliai for three days. The organisers undertook to publish a Lithuanian almanac of all the texts that were read during the festival, and
committed themselves to translate the pieces by Lithuanian authors into the languages of other participants in the festival. This year, two almanacs, in the Latvian
and Lithuanian languages, will be published, because the guests at this years
festival were our Baltic neighbours.
Prose was read out in the Lithuanian, Latvian and Estonian languages, at Ðiauliai
Art Gallery and other spaces in the town. A motley crew of Lithuanian writers read
their creative work: Juozas Aputis, Rolandas Rastauskas, Andrius Jakuèiûnas, Ugnë
Barauskaitë, Vidmantë Jasukaitytë, Audronë Urbonaitë and Alvydas Ðlepikas. Also
participating in the festival were the Latvian writers Laima Muktupâvela, Alise
Tîfentâle and Vladimirs Kaijaks, and Eeva Park and Tarmo Teder from Estonia.
The festival unofficially opened the 11th Virus festival of contemporary art, whose
programme included more literary projects and performances.
We talked about the event to the initiator of the Days of European Literature, the
Swiss translator Markus Roduner, who lives in Ðiauliai.
The idea to hold these readings emerged from discussions with prose writers.
There are plenty of poetry festivals in Lithuania: every season has at least one
(Poetry Spring, Druskininkai Poetic Fall) but no festivals of prose are held. Markas
Zingeris proposed to me the following: Do it, since we all talk about it. I thought
it would be really nice to organise such an event in Ðiauliai, because it is not
necessary to concentrate culture in the capital, all the more so that Ðiauliai is a town
that has a certain cultural space: there are many galleries, a theatre, a university,
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and people are interested in culture here. A large audience participates. It is important for the festival to last for several days, because it is desirable that foreign and
local authors should communicate, find like-minded people, establish personal
contacts, and start joint projects.
Nevertheless, is it easy to invite foreign authors to Ðiauliai?
Its not difficult, because when choosing the authors, I applied to centres for
foreign literature. This time, the Latvian Centre for Literature helped me especially. This year, our aim was to introduce the literature of our immediate neighbours, because it seems that at present we hear a lot about the literature of South
America, or Asia, and we know nothing about what is going on right here. Vigmantas
Butkus wrote about Ðiauliai that it was a town located near the Latvian border;
really, Riga is the nearest large town. It seems that we managed to excite the curiosity of the Latvians. I sometimes think that residents of Vilnius take us less seriously than our neighbours the Latvians do. At present, the possibility is being
considered to hold a festival in cooperation with the Latvians in two years; perhaps
the Estonians could also contribute to it.
Will the festival become a regular event?
We would like it to. I hope that in the coming decade, we shall manage to provide society with the opportunity to become acquainted with the leading prose
writers in Europe. Next year, we shall try to invite writers from Holland, Belgium
and Luxembourg. I would like to invite authors writing in small languages, such
as Frisian and Luxembourgian, because I have another idea-dream, to publish a
magazine of small literatures. It is necessary to see that there is a dialogue between
literatures. And we can achieve this dialogue only through translations from one
language into another. However, we have no translators, at the present time all
young translators are engaged in industrial translations, everybody is concerned
with more practical matters. For example, we can say that only one translator is
translating from Estonian, but we should have at least two or three. We have to start
educating translators. There are university programmes now. You can go and learn
a language (courses in Lithuanian philology are run at Ðiauliai University). We
have to try to rally people.
Writers themselves evaluated the festival in a positive way. Let us quote Rolandas
Rastauskas:
I understand the intention to come and listen to a writer reading. Prose readings
in Germany, Switzerland and Austria are a common part of literary life. It is not
surprising that a Swiss who lives in Ðiauliai tries to encourage this here. I have said
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many a time that as I grow older I like reading and telling fairy-tales more and
more. Reading is telling a fairy-tale before going to sleep. I like the migration
between the stage and the hall very much. One evening you are a reader, and
another evening you are a listener.
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
The Congress of the Writers Union
BY EUGENIJUS ALIÐANKA
The Congress of the Lithuanian Writers Union was held on 7 February 2007.
Such events are organised every four years: the leaders of the Writers Union report
on their activities, and new leaders are elected. At present, the Writers Union is
an official organisation, with about 360 members, writers, translators and scholars.
Since last year, membership of the organisation has become tougher: according to
the recently adopted Amendments to the Law on Art Creators and their Organisations, a member acquires the status of art creator. An art creator is eligible for
certain social guarantees, and in some cases state support. An artists life will
hardly change fundamentally because of this, but it is important that the artist is at
last given a formal position in society, and this was lacking for many years.
Some of the writers participating in the congress missed the discussions on the
state of modern literature. They thought the event was too official and dry, and
could have been done, and was done, the four previous years. Meanwhile, the congress had to carry out some formal tasks relevant to the organisation. It heard the
reports of the chairman Jonas Liniauskas, the boards report, and the report of the
watchdog committee. Participants had the opportunity to discuss the reports. Probably the central event at the congress was the election of the new leadership.
Liniauskas was re-elected chairman for another four-year term. In the new board,
there are more new and younger faces. A new watchdog committee and the board of
ethics were also elected.
As usual, two publications appeared on the eve of the congress: a reference book
about the members of the Writers Union, and Literatûrinio gyvenimo kronika.
Bibliografija: 20032006 (A Chronicle of Literary Life. Bibliography 20032006).
For the second time, the congress made an award for creative merit to literature
during the last four years. Since the vote ended in a draw, the award was shared by
the prose writer Juozas Aputis and the scholar Viktorija Daujotytë.
It was a calm congress, without heated arguments or discussions, just like these
last four years in the life of the organisation. Writers have been writing, organisers
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organising. What is interesting is that the number of members has remained practically the same. Some have passed away, others have taken their places. No doubt,
the number could be higher; however, the present situation is determined by different reasons. Although the number of writers, especially prose writers, has grown
considerably in recent years, the requirements for the high quality of writing seem
to be too high a threshold for many. On the other hand, some promising young
writers view membership of the organisation with a dose of irony, and do not feel
inclined to join the dinosaurs. Scholars and critics have not been joining recently as well: either they are satisfied with their academic regalia, or they (the
younger ones in particular) do not meet the formal requirements for membership
(one of which is at least one published book). The number of new members-translators has also dropped, because of the recently founded Association of Literary
Translators, which has become more attractive from a professional point of view
and reflects their interests better.
The Writers Union plays an important role in the countrys literary life. Every
year, the Writers Club organises over 100 literary events, soirees and meetings.
The Writers Union Publishers publishes the largest number of books by Lithuanian authors. The union organises the annual Poetry Spring international poetry
festival, and publishes four literary periodicals (the monthly Metai, the weeklies
Literatûra ir menas and Nemunas, and The Vilnius Review, which also appears in
Russian). Recently a website has been launched. The Writers Union participates
in numerous projects, and grants literary awards. Much is done, but even more is
expected from the organisation. During the next four years, the new leadership will
have to decide how to fulfil those expectations.
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
The Vilnius Book Fair
BY EUGENIJUS ALIÐANKA
From 22 to 25 February, the Vilnius Book Fair, which has now become a regular
event, was held at the Litexpo exhibition centre. Started in 2000, it soon became
one of the most significant cultural events in Lithuania, and the largest book fair in
the Baltic States. Over 50,000 visitors attend it every year. This year, 270 participants from nine countries took part, and readers had the opportunity to meet with
more than 20 world-famous writers, among whom Frank McCourt, Robert Bringhurst,
Torgrim Eggen and Michael Krüger should be mentioned. Not only has the space of
the fair increased, but more cultural events were held, totalling nearly 250. Apart
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from literary meetings and presentations of books, 16 art exhibitions were presented.
The theme of this years book fair was childrens literature. Therefore, many
popular authors of childrens books from abroad were invited. A separate hall was
devoted to children, in which, apart from the usual stands, exhibitions were held,
performances were put on, and meetings with readers and other events took place.
Young readers could create a book by themselves in creative workshops, play shadow
theatre, and be entertained by their beloved Carlson, who lived on the roof and
arrived from Astrid Lindgrens stories. The first day of the fair was devoted to
young readers of school age, among whom, according to the organisers of the fair,
the book virus was raging. That day, groups of schoolchildren could attend the fair
free of charge. Family day, when parents could bring their children to the fair, was
also important to younger readers.
Adults were not forgotten, either. In two halls, visitors had an opportunity to
meet their favourite writers, or to buy the latest books cheaper than in bookshops.
Among the many book presentations, seminars and discussions, several events that
commanded special attention took place. During the fair, the results of the campaign Elections of the Book of the Year, organised by Lithuanian Radio and
Television and the Ministry of Culture, were announced, and its winners were
awarded. Salemonas Paltanavièius Velniukas ir vieversiukas (The Devil and the
Skylark) was acknowledged as best book for children. The best book for teenagers
was Daiva Vaitkevièiûtës Trise prieð mafijà (Three against the Mafia). Galina Dauguvietytës Post Scriptum was declared best book for adults.
Another event that attracted great interest was anti-prizes, announced for the
first time by the Lithuanian Union of Literary Translators, awarded for a translators neglect: for unsuccessful translations (a distortion of the original, bad Lithuanian language, or the blind imitation of another translation of the same work), for
violation of the translators copyright (not mentioning a translators name, or later
editions of translations without a contract), and for bad editing. Only a few publishers were awarded these anti-prizes. They, of course, did not come to collect them.
Anti-prizes testify to the fact that problems of quality are urgent not only in the
computer or car industry.
The fair was held during the few days when Vilnius was in the clutches of minus
20 degrees. However, participants and visitors felt as if they had found themselves
in a tropical oasis. That was not because of the hot radiators. The book also radiates
warmth.
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The Vilnius Review
is published twice
a year.
An annual subscription
is 15.
The magazine can
be ordered from:
The Vilnius Review
Mësiniø g. 4
LT-01133 Vilnius
Tel: (+370 5) 2613767
zurnalvilnius@takas.lt
Repro and layout by UAB Inter Se
Þygimantø g. 10, LT -01102 Vilnius
www.interse.lt
Printed by Arx Baltica Printing House
Veiveriø g. 142 B , LT -46353 Kaunas
www.arxbaltica.lt
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spring / summer 2007 | no 21
THE
VI LNIUS
REVIEW
○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○
NEW WRITING FROM LITHUANIA
Ramûnas Kasparavièius in Visø graþiausia (The Most Beautiful of all)
decrepit, slovenly,
cough, spit teeth,
rag-picker.
Sigitas Geda in Miegantis Teodendronas (Sleeping Theodendron)
ISSN 1648 -7354
Cover illustration
by Benediktas Januevièius
and Tomas S. Butkus
Vilnius_Magasine#9-COVER.p65
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