CHILDREN`S LITERATURE IN SLOVAKIA AT THE TURN OF

Transcription

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Opinion
C H I L D R E N ’ S L I T E R AT U R E
I N S LOVA K I A AT T H E T U R N
OF MILLENIA
Zuzana Stanislavová
T
he following comments are related to Slovak creative writing
for children and young adults in the 1990’s and in the first
years of the new millenium. Just a brief reminder – after the
fall of the totalitarian regime in Slovakia democratization of life led
to greater diversity in the field of culture which was until then
strictly monolithic. Substantial changes in literature for children
and young people were made in just a few years. Of course, this
process created many problems which in the late 90’s resulted in
significant stagnancy of aesthetic and moral values in children’s
literature. This was caused mainly by the commercialization of
culture, rapidly increasing prices of books, poor management of
distribution, lack of experience and professionality in some of the
newly established publishing houses, the uncontrolled import of
literary trash and, of course, the ever increasing influence of the
mass media. The 90’s were (to quote O. Čepan) characterized by
an “organic crisis” which was caused by “exhaustion” and
depreciation of the prevailing aesthetic code in children’s
literature, especially its imaginative-playful variety. Aesthetic
standards of literature for children established during the 60’s
were severely abused because there were too many provincial and
amateurish literary works and hardly any remarkable works were
created. Apart from lowered artistic standards a certain
disproportion in the traditional genres of children’s literature
became evident. A considerable lack of poetry was accompanied
by a significant decrease in stories about children’s lives. The
situation was partly saved by re-editions of classical and modern
books for children. However, during the 90’s publishers and
readers were quite cautious as if they had no trust in the
autheticity of values created by the former régime or those which
were ideologized by the totalitarian régime (this distrust was
related mainly to prewar social prose for children). However, in
the late 90’s some publishers came up with new editions of Slovak
literature for children and young adults and they did so
systematically; the credit goes to the publishing houses Mladé letá,
IKAR, Perfekt, Buvik, Q 111 and others. The Golden Fund of Slovak
children’s literature established in the 90’s also helped
considerably.
After 1989 an old-new phenomenon came up in the context of
new editions and original new works – spiritual literature for
children and young adults – mostly produced by spiritually
oriented authors of various denominations with an evident
christianization and pastoral ambitions. Here, explicit practical
appeal prevails over aesthetic standards. In this context it is
mainly the poetry of Milan Rúfus that is artistically authentic
(Little Prayers, Modlitbičky, 1992; Little Zodiac; Zvieratníček,
1994; Album. Prayers for a Child, Pamätníček. Modlitby za dieťa,
1996), the prosaic works of Daniel Pastirčák (Damian’s River,
Damianova rieka, 1994, Čintet, Čintet, 2000) and literary
adaptations of biblical texts by Ondrej Sliacky ( The Bible for
Children and Young People – Readings from the Old Testament,
Biblia pre deti a mládež – Čítanie zo Starého zákona, 1996; The
Bible for Children and Young People – Readings from the New
Testament, Biblia pre deti a mládež – Čítanie z Nového zákona,
1998). Democratization of culture as such also stimulates the
culture of minorities, namely the Romanies, who have a few
writers for children and young adults. The most outstanding
personality during the 90’s was Elena Lacková (Fairy tales of the
Romanies, Rómske rozprávky, 1992; her prose work The Violin
With Three Hearts, Husle s tromi srdcami has not been published
yet).
Creative writing for children was revived during the late 90’s
thanks to activities of authors belonging to the middle generation
and also young authors. Their presence and contribution to new
creative trends could no longer be ignored. One of these trends is
represented by a distinctive blend of practical information and
artistic imagination. Literature of this kind is related to the
tradition of “aesthesized play” which was the main characteristic
of children’s literature in the past, and it is also related to the
possibilities of quick access to information within the framework
of mass culture and an informational society. This kind of creative
writing describes facts through personal experience, stressing
knowledge as well as individual human perceptiveness. Instead of
analyzing and reasoning it prefers personalized, emotional and
empathic dealing with information. Encyclopaedic knowledge
thus becomes knowledge by experience. There are many varieties
of this kind of children’s literature: intimate poetical interpretation
(Jozef Urban: The Sorrows of a Young Poet, Utrpenie mladého
poeta, 1999), poetical comments on life (Daniel Hevier: They Call
Me Hevi, Volajú ma Hevi, 1997; Spooky, Strašidelník, 1999; The
Little Dog That Goes To Work, Psík, ktorý chodí do práce, 2000),
playful poetical and imaginative geography (Štefan Moravčík:
Merry Wanderings Around Slovakia, Veselé potulky po Slovensku,
1999; Want to See the Golden Bratislava?, Chcete vidieť zlatú
Bratislavu?, 2000, Merry Wanderings Around the World, Veselé
potulky po svete, 2001) and didactic narratives (Ján Uličiansky:
Dragon Flame, Drak Plamienok, 2000). This kind of writing can be
found in the works of younger authors too (Branislav Rezník:
Snow White as a Dog, Sneh biely ako pes. Tales About Slovak
Painters, Rozprávky o slovenských maliaroch, 1996; Martin
Môťovský and his fairy tale “textbook” of English language Tales
of the Little Girl Called Girl, Rozprávky o dievčatku Girl, 1998).
Some attempts, of course, were of lesser artistic quality (didacticutilitarian stories by Renáta Bočkayová-Vaseková Šťúplik and
Chosen Words, Šťúplik a vybrané slová, 1998, Tatrankos,
Tatrankovia, 2002 or Danuša Dragulová-Faktorová: Who Meets the
Little Lion, Wants To Be Friendly With Him, Kto spozná levíka, rád
si s ním potyká, 2002 etc.).
The creative trend directed at “aesthesized materiality” with its
specific use of fantasy and imagination is not in conflict with the
increasing hegemony of fairy tale genres. It would seem that the
fairy tale (folk as well as modern) is the most productive, both in
quality and in quantity, genre in Slovak literature for children.
Within this genre, most innovative works appear, most artistically
remarkable books, most promising authors. The trend towards
magical realism as shown in epic narratives or dreamy absurd
plays of associations definitely contributes to the blurring of lines
between children’s literature and literature for adults. This type of
writing is used by some authors of the middle and older
generation but has gained more strength thanks to authors who
started to publish during the 90’s. For example fairy tales with
elements of nonsense, humour and inventive play within the
genre by Ján Uličiansky (Snowman’s Islands, Snehuliacke ostrovy,
1990; We have Emma, Máme Emu, 1993; The Squirrel Called
Veronka, Veverička Veronka, 1996; Mister First-Grader, Pán
Prváčik, 2002; Tales of Seven Seas, Rozprávky siedmich morí,
2003). Uličiansky’s prose as well as fairy tales by Ján Milčák (The
Lantern Boy, Chlapec Lampášik, 1996; Susie and Mister Odilo,
Zuzanka a pán Odilo, 2004) or the first book by Peter Karpinský
(How We Knock-knocked With Knock-Knock, Ako sme s Ťukťukom
ťukťukovali, 2001) – all these books put stress on the elementary
values of life and human relationships. In some cases the
metaphorical character of the fairy tale became more important,
S l o va k L i t e r a r y R e v i e w
R e v u e d e r s l o wa k i s c h e n L i t e r a t u r
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Opinion
deepening its philosophical dimension (Daniel Pastirčák:
Damian’s River, Damianova rieka, 1994; Čintet or End of the World
Sea, Čintet alebo More na konci sveta, 2000; Erik Jakub Groch:
The Little Tramp and Klára, Tuláčik a Klára, 2001) Sometimes the
fairy tale verges on fantasy (Daniel Hevier: The Gurd Land; Krajina
Agord, 2001).
Many fairy tales have a strong affinity to the playful and
grotesque. Such a fairy tale sometimes takes on the form of
a postmodern compositition on a chosen topic (Viliam Klimáček
and Dezider Tóth: Leg to Leg, Noha k nohe, 1996) or the magical
grotesque (Jaroslava Blažková: Minka and Pyžaminka, Minka
a Pyžaminka, 2003) or subversion and mystification (Júlis
Satinský: Tales of Uncle Sausage, Rozprávky uja Klobásu, 1996;
Dušan Taragel: Tales for Disobedient Children and Their Caring
Parents, Rozprávky pre neposlušné deti a ich starostlivých
rodičov, 1997) and sometimes even satire (Július Balco: Wizard’s
Christmas, Strigôňove Vianoce, 1992; Wizard’s Vacation,
Strigôňove prázdniny, 1994; Wizard’s Year, Strigôňov rok, 1999).
For the most part fairly tales offer simple but playful ideas (e.g.
Alžbeta Verešpejová: Dainty Tales, Maškrtné rozprávky, 2003).
The genre of fairy tales is however overwhelmed by a strong realm
of commercial and amateur writing.
Poetry as one of the “traditional” genres of children’s literature
is evidently stagnating. One of the reasons may be the burnout of
aesthetic orientation at word games prevailing in the last few
decades, which after all does not have endless possibilities.
Another reason may be the lack of young poets. Children’s poetry
profile is still determined by authors of the middle and older
geneneration, namely the works of Štefan Moravčík (Blue From the
Heavens, Modré z neba, 1995; King of Words, Kráľ slova, 1996; Our
Dog Has a Chicken’s Head! Náš pes má kuraciu hlavu! 2000; Let’s
Have Fun! Vyhoďme si z kopýtka! 2004). Daniel Hevier no longer
writes poetry and his work is now focused on other genres (epic
and dramatic). Since the late 90’s the meditative poetical works of
Milan Rúfus are appearing only in re-editions. The works of other
authors are characterized by playful poetry of the HevierMoravčík kind (František Rojček, Danuša Dragulová-Faktorová) or
nonsense-imaginative poetical play (e.g. Valentín Šefčík: The Book
to Be Married, Kniha na vydaj, 2000; Boris Droppa: The Pony From
Poníky and Beetroots on Bicycle, Poník z Poník a cvikly na bicykli,
1998; Laktibrada Is Looking for a Little Woman, Laktibrada žienku
hľadá, 2000; The Flaming Crab and the Magpie With No Beak, Rak
ohnivák a straka bez zobáka, 2002). Quite rare are poems focusing
on the social-cognitive aspects of children’s lives (Ľubica
Kepštová: The Chimney Man, Komínový panáčik, 2001; Jana
Šimulčíková: Merry Phone, Veselý telefón, 2004). Like fairy tales,
children’s poetry is mainly represented by conventional works by
unremarkable authors. Evidently, there is practically no poetry for
teenagers apart from “functional poetry” of popular songs lyrics
(D. Hevier, P. Nagy, B. Filan, J. Urban, M. Zeman etc.). They are
often published in book form and their quality is comparable to
that of authentic poetry.
The situation in real life stories about children and young adults
was marked by a certain hesitation in the late 90’s. The first
decades were rich in autobiographical memoirs of varying literary
and moral quality. Many were just straightforward records of
childhood and growing up, some were mainly realistic
descriptions, but there were some books that fulfilled the higher
literary ambitions of their authors. However, no distinctive literary
achievement in stories inspired by memories was noted during the
late 90’s. The crisis of teenager literature became more evident.
A few books at least tried to respond to the problems of the present
day youth. Among them the novel for boys by Ján Navrátil, Lucia
Club, Klub Lucia (1996), novels for girls by Mariana Komorová,
The Diary of Majka from Maják, Denník Majky z Majáka (2002),
Vincent Šikula’s Gabriela the Angel, Anjel Gabriela (2000), Jana
Šimulčíková’s On the Swing, Na hojdačke (2000) and Don’t Be
a Fool. Flying to the Antipodes, Nebuť labuť. Úlet k protinožcom,
2003), a feminist analytical prose work tackling the theme of girls’
adolescence by Jana Juráňová (Just a Girl, Iba baba, 1999) and
some others. Peter Glocko’s novella Three Movements for the
Ospedal Orphans. Dancing in Shackles, Tri vety pre ospedalské
siroty. Tanec v okovách, 2003) focuses on sensitive issues in
children’s lives such as unemployment, alcoholism and domestic
violence. However, the literary image of current social problems in
the lives of today’s youngsters (i. e. drug addiction, bullying,
sexual freedom) still lacks authenticity. It seems that despite
obvious willingness the real world of present day youngsters is still
a big unknown. Young authors who grew up in the new social
environment after 1989 have not started writing yet.
The same goes for realistic fiction for younger children. Apart
from the traditional literary works of experienced authors (Paula
Sabolová, Ján Beňo, Božena Lenčová, Rudolf Dobiáš, Peter
Ševčovič) among the best are stories full of humour by Zuzana
Zemaníková When We Were Grownups, Keď sme boli veľké (1996)
and especially the lyrical prose of Jana Bodnárová (Broken
Necklace, Roztrhnuté korálky, 1995; The Girl From the Tower,
Dievčatko z veže, 1999, Barbora’s Cinema, Barborkino kino,
2001). Most popular among readers are funny stories by Gabriela
Futová (Our Mom is a Witch, Naša mama je bosorka, 2000;
Looking For a Better Mom, Hľadám lepšiu mamu, 2001; Don’t Be
Crazy, Mammy, Nezblázni sa, mamička, 2003; If I Were a Witch,
Keby som bola bosorka, 2003) in which the realistic blends with
fairy tale fantasies and children’s imagination. This kind of prosaic
work becomes a syncretic formation which stands somewhere
between a social or psychological prose and a modern fairy tale
(e.g. recently published Ester and the Albatross, Ester a Albatros,
2004 by Hana Naglik).
There are quite a few good authors within the genre of detective
stories for children like Jela Mlčochová (Adriana’s First Case,
Adrianin prvý prípad, 1997; The Lost Egyptian Treasure, Stratený
egyptský poklad, 2003). There is a considerable gap in sciencefiction for young people as opposed to the first half of the 90’s.
The folk fairy tale and legend is still very much alive. Many tales
from the famous collection of fairy tales by Pavol Dobšinský are
retold by different authors. Ľubomír Feldek recently retold some
of his fairy tales (The Great Book of Slovak Fairy Tales, Veľká kniha
slovenských rozprávok, 2003). The legend witnessed a certain
boom and this trend continued throughout the 90’s. Maybe it is
the reaction of a small nation to the new social and political order,
the lasting interest in the legend can be explained as the nation’s
need to express itself in terms of space, national identity and
history. But it could also be a self-preserving reflex responding to
the globalization of life and culture, an effort to preserve its
geocultural and mental identity and peculiarity. Anyway, the
legend belongs to the most frequently used and misused genres.
A certain quality is guaranteed namely by the project of Slovakia’s
“map of legends” (published by Vydavateľstvo Matice slovenskej
in Martin). This means reconstructing the folk variety of our
history in legends from all regions. Of course, many legends are
marked by a certain amateurism.
With the exception of legends there are only a few other
historical works of fiction. These are represented mainly by Nora
Baráthová and her story/legend Stars Under the Tatras, Hviezdy
pod Tatrami (1995), some adventurous stories from the historical
period of Great Morava and Samo’s Empire (František C.
Kubernát: Pribina, Pribina, 1996; Zuzana Zemaníková: Lulukaj,
Lulukaj, 2003), a romanticizing “historical novel of Bytča and
Žilina” by Zuzana Kuglerová (The Witch of Petrovice, Čarodejnica
z Petrovíc, 2004), or the fictional reconstruction of Hans Christian
Andersen’s visit to Bratislava in Peter Glocko: Prešporok Spells of
Mr. Christian, Prešporské čary pána Christiana, 2004).
The stagnation in literature for children and young people after
1989 was probably most deeply felt during the years 1994-1997.
Very slowly young authors begin to make their appearance on the
literary scene and that together with the activities of some
distinctive authors of the middle generation offers some hope that
Slovak children’s literature will prevail.
Translated by Alena Redlingerová
ZUZANA STANISLAVOVÁ (1951) is an university profesor at Prešov pursuing
her children’s literature career. She is the author of children’s literature
assessments published in magazines as well as the joint author of The History
of Slovak Literature III. children’s literature chapter The Origin and
Transformations of the Modern Children’s Literature (with the participation of
the main editor V. Marčok). Stanislavová is also the co-author of the entries of
authors in The Encyclopaedia of Slovak Children’s Writers.
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Ľubomír Feldek
Ľubomír Feldek
The Infecti ou s Word
P h o t o : Pe t e r P r o c h á z k a
podľa Vivaldiho 1979), The Two Plays On Truth (Dve
hry o pravde, 1990) which consists of the two
plays: The Feat Not To Leave (Umenie neodísť), an
allusion to his own novel Van Stiphout and the
second one Examination (Skúška), an allusion to
Molière’s Misanthrope (Mizantrop). Feldek’s latest
plays include Play the Leg, And Dance the Other
ĽUBOMÍR FELDEK (1936) poet, writer,
children’s literature writer, dramatist,
translator. Former chief editor of poetry in the
publishing house Slovenský spisovateľ. Since
1995 he has lived and worked in Prague.
Feldek is a leading representative of the
literary generation that during the Sixties
constituted modern Slovak literature for
children and adolescents built on partnership
with the child, directly inspired by children’s
imagination, language, perspective and their
wonderful gift for nonsense. The poem A Play
For Your Blue Eyes (Hra pre tvoje modré oči,
1959) is full of visual metaphors derived from
all the peculiar laws of children’s logic. His
other books are also based on these
principles: About Deaf Grandma and
Grandson Goldie (O hluchej babke a vnúčikovi
Zlatúšikovi, 1967), The Head I Used to Have
Then (Hlava, ktorú som mal vtedy, 1967), Lost
Menagerie (Stratený zverinec, 1968), Merry
Animal Album (Veselý album zvierat, 1979).
Feldek also wrote a puppet play Botafogo
(1967), in which he used V. Nezval’s poetic
inspiration to depict the boys’ dreams about
great achievements and their conflicts with the
pragmatic world of adults. His Blue Book of
Fairy Tales (Modrá kniha rozprávok, 1973)
and Green Book of Fairy Tales were awarded
a diploma of IBBY Honours List in 1976 and
the book of lyrical imaginative poems Amber
World (Jantárový svet, 1977) was added to the
H. C. Andersen Special Honours List in 1979.
Feldek’s most significant poetical works for
adults are: The Chalk Circle (1970), Two
Around The Table (1976), Crying Is Beautiful
(1990), The Smiling Father (1991), Farewell
Dance (1992) and 19 Broadside Ballads
(1992). His plays include: Metaphor,
(Metafora, 1977), The Auntie to Eat Up (Teta
na zjedenie, 1978), Jánošík by Vivaldi (Jánošík
One (Hraj noha, a ty druhá, tancuj, 2002), Horror
In A Gamekeeper’s Lodge (Horor v horárni, 2002).
Feldek belongs to the most significant Slovak
translators of poetry. With the help of linguists
Feldek has translated dozens of books, inlcuding
authors such as Shakespeare, Jeffers, Goethe,
Heine, Apollinaire, Rimbaud and others.
T
here was once – where? Where else but here in Fairytown – there was once a young
magician, Dr. Hocuspocus. Every young man is eligible for marriage. And whoever
is eligible for marriage must begin to look around him to see whether he can catch
sight of an eligible woman. Our Dr. Hocuspocus also began to look around him and, not
to stop just at looking, he took to approaching. Once, in the street, he approached Emily
Tender, a clerk in the Fairytown post office. The result was their first walk together. After
the first, the second. After the second, the third. What happened on their first walk?
Nothing in particular. Miss Emily learned from Dr. Hocuspocus how to pull a live Peter
Rabbit out of a magician’s empty top hat. What happened on their second walk? Nothing
in particular. Dr. Hocuspocus learned from Miss Emily how many postage stamps you
have to lick to satisfy a whole day’s hunger.
What happened on their third walk? Wonder of wonders! Dr. Hocuspocus suddenly
bent over to Miss Emily and whispered in her ear, ’Sweetheart!’
As Dr. Hocuspocus was a magician, that word was magic too. It was infectious. If it flew
into someone’s head through his ear, he had to let it out of his head through his mouth
without delay.
This word flew through her ear into the head of Miss Emily, Miss Emily turned towards
Dr. Hocuspocus and whispered into the wind, ‘Sweetheart!’
They immediately joined hands and went to the cinema, where they were showing
a Charlie Chaplin film – very funny. But – not to change the subject – much funnier were
the things that were going on meanwhile in Fairytown.
For, floating in the air over Fairytown was the infectious word ‘Sweetheart’.
The wind blew, wafting the infectious word straight through an open window into the
school.
In the school the teacher, J. B. Sandanus, was just explaining to the children what parts
make up the human body. He had a human skeleton and was using a pointer to draw
attention to the different parts.
“This here,” the teacher was saying, pointing to the leg of the skeleton, this is
a ‘sweetheart’.”
The poor teacher! He never understood how it could have happened to him! He had
wanted to say ‘leg’! Had wanted – but didn’t. For just at that moment the infectious word
flew into his ear and he had to let it out of his mouth. And from that unfortunate day on
not a schoolchild in the world has ever called J. B. Sandanus J. B. Sandanus. Everywhere
he is known as Sweetheart.
The infectious word flew on. Once more the wind blew and it wafted the infectious
word away from the school and into the hospital.
“What part of the body are we going to operate on?” Dr Ivan Luke asked Dr Milan Luke,
looking down at the patient on the operating table.
Dr Milan Luke wanted to say ‘the appendix’, but he opened his mouth and said, “We
are going to operate on his ‘sweetheart’”!
Before Dr Milan Luke could correct himself, Dr Ivan Luke had already cut open the
patient’s chest. He saw that just at that moment a pin with a blue head was moving along
an artery towards the patient’s heart. The patient had swallowed the pin when he was still
a little child. A moment later the pin would have pricked the patient right in the heart and
the patient would have died.
“Not his heart!” shouted Dr Milan Luke. “I made a mistake! I wanted to say we’re going
to operate on his appendix!”
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Ľubomír Feldek
“Who would have thought that mistakes could be so beneficial
to a person’s health,” said Dr Ivan Luke. With his thumb and
forefinger he picked the pin with the blue head out of the
patient’s artery and stuck it in the lapel of his white coat.
Then he cut open the patient’s abdomen and our quack doctors
got down to the originally planned operation on the appendix. But
it turned out that the patient’s appendix was perfectly sound. The
patient’s name was Martin Slovák.
The infectious word flew on. Once more the wind blew, wafting
the infectious word from the hospital into the telephone box.
In the telephone box Mrs. Anastasia Lilac was just telephoning
the shoe shop.
“Hallo! Is that the shoe shop? Could I speak to the manager
please? ‘Sweetheart’, have you got those red shoes with the silver
buckles yet?”
Mr. Augustine Lilac, Mrs. Anastasia’s husband, was standing
outside the telephone box and he overheard everything. You can
be sure Mr. Augustine Lilac was not happy to hear his wife call
anyone other than him ‘sweetheart’. It’s hardly surprising,
therefore, that he opened the door of the telephone box and
shouted, “Anastasia! Since when have you called the manager of
the shoe shop ‘sweetheart’?”
At the other end of the line the manager of the shoe shop
shouted into the receiver, “Madam! Since when have you called
me ‘sweetheart’?”
Poor Mrs. Anastasia! She just couldn’t understand it! She had
wanted to address the manager of the shoe shop as ‘sir’! How
could the word ‘sweetheart’ have come out of her mouth instead?
She just burst into tears in the telephone box. The tears fell from
Mrs. Anastasia’s eyes onto the receiver, and because there are
holes in the receiver, the tears ran right into the receiver through
the holes, where – as we know – a sensitive mechanism is hidden.
You can’t telephone from that telephone box any more. Mrs.
Anastasia’s tears have quite rusted the sensitive mechanism.
The infectious word flew on. The wind blew it here, it blew it
there. Where the wind didn’t blow it, it flew by itself. I could write
a hundred pages about all that happened on account of that
infectious word. But – I’m lazy. I don’t feel like writing a hundred
pages. So I’ll skip the raising of the alarm, the unsuccessful
vaccination, as well as the financial troubles the inventor of the
vaccine found himself in, how the Fairytowners caught the
infectious word on tape and exported it by taxi to nearby
Chatterton, because anyway they telephoned the infectious word
back to Fairytown from Chatterton the very next day. It will be
better if I tell you how it all ended without keeping you in
suspense.
Do you remember where Miss Emilia Tender was employed? Of
course you do. She was employed at Fairytown’s post office. It was
her job to answer telephone calls from foreign countries from eight
in the morning to four in the afternoon and to connect telephones
in foreign countries with telephones belonging to the inhabitants
of Fairytown. Every day at four o’clock a clerk, Hubert Hubert,
came to relieve her. He came that day, too, and asked,
“What’s new?”
“Nothing special,” Miss Emily replied as usual. “Just that there
has been a call twice from the island of Borneo for Mr. Thread, the
tailor, but Mr Thread wasn’t at home either time. Goodbye.”
Miss Emily prepared to leave.
But before she could open the door, Hubert Hubert called out,
”Miss Emily! Wait a minute! I must tell you something very
important! Did you know that I live quite alone in the world, like
a castaway? And even that’s a bad comparison. A castaway can at
least hope to be rescued, but who’s going to rescue me from my
lonely world?”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Emily.
“You don’t,” said Hubert Hubert. “And you don’t know
something else, too! You don’t know that I’ve had enough of this
loneliness and I have decided to get married. And do you know to
whom?”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Emily.
Hubert Hubert opened his arms wide and cried, “To you…”
He had wanted to say ‘sweetheart’, because – as you have
guessed – the wind had just wafted that infectious word
‘sweetheart’ into the post office, into the ear of Hubert Hubert the
clerk and he was about to let it out through his mouth.
But just at that very moment the telephone began ringing once
more.
“That’ll be the island of Borneo again! Take it, Mr. Hubert!” Miss
Emily called out, opening the door and disappearing through it
quickly.
What lady wouldn’t have disappeared in her situation? After all,
Miss Emily couldn’t stay there and tell Hubert Hubert that she
would become his wife, because the wedding invitations had
already been printed, announcing that she was soon to become the
wife of the magician, Dr. Hocuspocus.
So what did our clerk, Hubert Hubert do? Well, what could he
do? His jaws snapped shut before he could say a word. The
telephone from the island of Borneo rang and rang and Hubert
Hubert just stood and stood with open arms and snapped-shut
jaws, not picking up the receiver.
It took a while for him to come to his senses, and he came to his
senses because he felt that something was getting in the way in his
snapped-shut mouth. Of course you know what it was: the
infectious word ‘sweetheart’, which was waiting for nothing else
but for Hubert Hubert to open his mouth again, so that it could fly
out. But Hubert Hubert’s mouth was shut exceptionally tight.
Instead of opening his mouth, Hubert Hubert kept it tightly shut –
and swallowed. So the infectious word was swallowed, together
with saliva, and found its way to the clerk’s stomach, where it
dissolved in Hubert Hubert’s gastric juices.
That was the end of the infectious word’s pranks in Fairytown.
From that time on the inhabitants of our town once more said the
ordinary word ‘sweetheart’ and said it only when they felt like it.
With the exception of Hubert Hubert, of course.
Hubert Hubert never said it again.
He never felt like saying even the ordinary word ‘sweetheart’
again in his life.
Translated by Heather Trebatická
Feldek’s purpose is to awaken the childlike perceiver from a solipsistic, illusory apprehension
of a text to a partner-like communicative relationship... His entering into communication with
a child reader is a unique understanding of children of our time. However, this doesn’t mean
that the author is devalued. It is the opposite, it is the respect of something simple which
nevertheless has full value in the author’s eye.
FRANTIŠEK MIKO
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Peter Glocko
Peter Glocko
Three Movements For the
Orphans In the Ospedale
1. S E E ,
(extract)
T H E M YS T E RY O F I M P OV E R I S H M E N T !
O
PETER GLOCKO (1946), writer, children’s
writer. He worked as an editor in the publishing
houses Mladé letá, Smena and Slovenský
spisovateľ. His first book was a collection of
folktales and legends, Stories from Zamagurie
Fortune’s Pet or Happiness (Rozprávky zo
Zamaguria, Šťastenko, 1970). For children he
wrote the book How the Chimneysweep
Roamed the World (Ako kominárik putoval
svetom, 1974) and a book of tales Mereman’s
Golden Ducks (Vodníkove zlaté kačky, 1975).
He also wrote several books for young adults:
historical adventure novel A Rose for Jules
Verne (Ruža pre Jula Verna), I’m not Scared of
the Holidays (Ja sa prázdnin nebojím, 1980),
which received an award at the 12th European
Prize for Children at Padua and was entered in
IBBY on a list at the organization’s 1990
Congress in the USA. In 1990 he published
book for young adults Robinson and
Grandfather Millionaire (Robinson a dedo
Milionár). The works catching reader’s interest
are the novel The Happy Mr. Cyprián (Šťastný
pán Cyprián, 1980), the novellas Depth of
Focus (Hĺbka ostrosti, 1982) and the collection
of stories King of Hearts (Srdcový kráľ, 1984).
He is the author of several scripts for films for
children, such as Sad Lord and Wandering in
San Diego. The latest Glocko’s books are: The
Tale of Wise Ann, Smarty Little Head (O múdrej
Aničke, šalamúnskej hlavičke, 2000) and
Happiness and the Black Lord (Šťastenko
a Čierny pán, 2001). The novel Three
Movements For the Orphans In the Ospedale
depicts a contemporary family afflicted by
unemployement of the father who takes to
drinking. The story is set in Slovakia’s capital,
Bratislava. The family enviroment is thus
a big obstacle to talented guitarist Peter’s
developing flair for playing it.
nce again I have had a dream of Venice ... but this time I went all the way back to
the year 1707...
It is evening, and the doors of LA PIETŔ church are opening before me...
I hear Kotlár’s voice, spreading out from the depths of the church in a many-voiced
echo:
“Let’s say ... we’ll play the third movement, Thomas. The Allegro ... it’s quite fast, but
you mustn’t play it wild like the last time... play it with excitement ... in this church it’ll
be a joy to the ear ... your playing will have a different sound ...”
As we enter the church in dream, the first tones of Vivaldi’s composition ring out.
I know that the Allegro’s third part lasts approximately three minutes twenty nine
seconds... Again I am rushing to play it at top speed... It’s a strange dream because in it
I am playing the guitar, but at the same time I am moving about in the church... Kotlár
chides me during my playing:
“When I say excited, I mean moderately excited! You have your emotions under
control... not like those lunatics in the Ospedale della Pietŕ... that’s where Vivaldi taught,
in the Brothers of Mercy hospital... imagine, Thomas, he composed this music for those
unfortunate children... for those wretches marked by affliction... wasted by skeletal
tuberculosis, rickets... sit up straight, or you’ll get a hunchback too... maybe it was just
this Concert in C major that they played... it’s from Vivaldi’s early period... God, when did
the unfortunate Antonio get that done?! Consumption was destroying him, and in those
days it was fatal, Thomas... but he never rested... in that Ospedale... in that hospital,
which was a refuge both for orphans and old men, he even set up a conservatorium for
physically handicapped children... physically handicapped, but gifted with divine talent...
sit straight, Thomas, the guitar must not suffer, it’s supposed to live, let it sing in your
hands... don’t tear the strings by force... excellent, now you’re getting it... you’re playing
like a virtuoso! I’ve managed to teach you something!... Vivaldi loved his pupils, and
when he had taught them something, when once they had divinely mastered their
instruments and their vocals, he brought them before the public. That is a teacher’s finest
reward, Thomas!”
Antonio Vivaldi walks down the aisle between the benches. Vivaldi as I know him from
the period portrait – in red-gold wig, scarlet cloak, cream surplice, with a violin in his left
hand, swinging it as he walks; in his right hand he has his conductor’s baton, and he is
scrutinising the faces of those who have come to the church...
I stride behind him, and during that quick forward movement I see faces of striking
human types with a single thing in common: malevolence, ill-will upon their features.
I see their vicious grins and grimaces, full of the expectation of failure. As if all of them
wished only for – Vivaldi’s disgrace!
Vivaldi reminds me of my teacher Kotlár! Like him he gracefully bows...
He goes behind the grille, bangs it shut and - this is something I find strange - he locks
the little metal doors behind him! A resounding rap of his baton on the violin, and the
murmur in the church dies away. The first tones of Vivaldi’s little-known composition for
violin, guitar and flute ring out of a sudden. The splendid little voice of a girl is heard too,
and the harsh grins vanish from the people’s faces: before my eyes all those listeners are
mollified by an inner smile, which the wonderful music from behind the grille evokes in
them. And again I hear the voice of my teacher:
“I want to show what my pupils know... there’ll be a sudden sound of music in that
wonderful space, music that hides an explosive energy, and a ring of voices where, in
spite of life’s fetters, you feel an untamed passion... in those marvellous little voices that
issue from crippled bodies you feel the yearning to love... for love... and the cold church
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Peter Glocko
comes to life! Heaven and earth will delight in that music! In our
music-making! How many times I have dreamed of it, Thomas! I
played with the hospital orphans, I played with them!”
In that hospital dream I meanwhile approach the grille and
I have a disagreeable feeling, like when the caretaker shut me out
of school... Or when I came late to music practice and I used to
dance from one foot to the other before the doors, afraid to enter...
I hear the echo of coughing in the church – and the
conductor’s baton three times rapping on the wooden musicstand, which brings a complete hush. I draw nearer the grille,
where in the stealthy, trembling light of candles and the tinted
light from the stained-glass windows I see, as if in a haze, the
children’s faces... boys’ faces and girls’, absorbed in the playing of
the violin, guitar, flute...
And I can see a boy who looks like me! And one girl who is
singing looks like Marcella... I can even see Judita with her violin
under her chin! She is absorbed in her playing, and the little ruby
pearl is appearing, surfacing again, under her nose...
The faces of the listeners in the church benches soften, tears are
flowing on the cheeks of some, but I also see tics and rictuses on
those who are resisting the emotion and do not want to succumb
to the music, they resist its pure tones...
Among the Venetian plebs on the benches of La Pieta church
I also see a couple who remind me of my parents. Their faces are
twisted with an angry spasm of stubborn hatred towards a world
that is wronging them. The music behind the grille says nothing to
them; it does not dissolve their malevolence, it does not soften
their hearts...
Vivaldi sings with the voice of Kotlár:
“Egregi signori, gentili signore... signorine... this evening we
have gathered in the house of God, so that the orphans from the
Ospedale della Pieta may present their music to you...”
And here a pock-marked fellow in the front row piped up. He
reminds me of old Sifón. He yells:
“But where are those orphans of yours, maestro Vivaldi? Where
are those hospital orphans? Heh-heh! Why are you hiding them
behind a thick grille? Unlock it... open the grille, let us see them!”
Three raps of the baton sounded behind the grille and
Vivaldi’s voice, which as I heard it blended ever more completely
into the voice of Kotlár:
“Good people, please sit down on the benches... please, do not
torment my children!”
A woman’s voice screeches:
“Why are you hiding them from us, redhead? Perhaps you are
ashamed of their beauty?”
A man’s voice roared suddenly from the back:
“Our red gentleman of the clergy hides his hair under
a powdered wig, but it’s not as easy as that to escape suspicion!
You are dangerous, redlocks, even if you are a consecrated priest...
why are you hiding your girl pupils behind the dense grille?”
And again that woman’s voice:
“So that we won’t see them admiring you? And what are you
hiding under your soutane, redhead? Pull it off, sinful Antonio!”
It is a concert of human malice. But Vivaldi behind the bars cries
out:
“Hear how the devil mocks in the House of God!” Quietly he
adds: “Orphans of mine, let us play... let us force the devil into
a corner, let us drive off evil... Allegro, my children! Allegro!”
The Allegro’s vigorous tones are spoilt by the loudmouths’
yelling. They shout:
“What’s that they’re playing? What kind of caterwauling is it?
Mnyau! Mnyau! Vrrrrrr!”
I can hear Vivaldi praying behind the grille:
“O God, you see all this, and you hear! Everyone says that my
orphans are marked by your hand... that their twisted little bodies
are a punishment for the sins of their parents! You punished this
little boy with a hump, that little girl with one leg shorter than the
other, you deformed the hand of that girl there... But they play,
they sing, to your glory, Lord, to your glory... Hosanna, Hosanna!
We sing to you, O God!”
The clamour in the church increases, the music is shouted
down, because the people – or rather those rabid inhuman
creatures – are jerking at the grille and shaking it and bellowing:
“We want to see them! Open the grille! Pull it down! Push it in!”
We hear the clanking of the grille, we see muscular hands. The
bars cannot hold out for long. But we play on, although some of
the children, frightened out of their wits, are crying:
“Maestro Antonio! Signor Vivaldi! ... Maestro Vivaldi!”
“I am here, my little orphans! I am beside you, my little hospital
orphans! Don’t be afraid of that deaf mob! Play and sing bravely!
God will hear you! Only play, music will save you!”
We are playing as if for our lives and for our souls... no, not as
if, we really want to live, play, sing! The Allegro hurtles towards its
finale, the music mingled with the cries of the adults behind the
grille...
Suddenly the music is drowned out by the clatter of the grille,
which falls over with a crash that re-echoes through the church.
The silence is broken by a girl’s sobbing, which is succeeded by
a murmur and whispering of unconcealed astonishment. The
rabble draws back before the children’s faces; they withdraw
before us.
The sharp fragments of the broken grille on the church floor
make grating and scraping sounds under the mob’s feet...
And we, the hospital orphans, are gazing with dismay into the
eyes and faces of unknown people, any one of whom might be our
parent!
And these humans-inhumans whisper, appalled:
“The grille is down! Where are they?... There they are, sitting...
Why are they covering their faces?... Aach... that’s ghastly... look
at those crippled wretches... was it they who played so gracefully?
So sensitively... My God...”
But suddenly some sort of woman shrieks from behind:
“Wretches indeed! Every one is a beast with a mark... This is
desecration of the church... drive those monsters out!”
The pock-marked fellow from the front bench lashes out at
Vivaldi:
“Out, redhead! Drive out the red priest... drive the devil out of
the church!” The girls beside me are screaming:
“No! No! Please, no... father Vivaldi... maestro Vivaldi!”
Those adult monsters look on with amazement as the children
behind the broken grille embrace Vivaldi.
And suddenly he rounds on the mob with his violin:
“You are devils! You are evil! You vile creatures, who do not
have a good word for those unfortunate children... you, hatred
incarnate, you, deafest of the deaf... even divine music cannot melt
your icy hearts... and although I truly desire nothing from you,
only a good word for my orphans, one good word, one kind
sentence... for the beauty that they gave you... I must drive you
out! Out of this temple! Vanish!”
Vivaldi flogs that rabble pell-mell with his violin and bow, he
drives them down the aisle to the exit; the violin breaks in his
hands, the bow is fraying away!
We are standing in front of the church doors. We are smiling.
Vivaldi suddenly utters a strange remark:
“See, the mystery of impoverishment!”
Vivaldi raises his face to meet the blinding sun, and slowly he
pulls the red wig off his head. He embraces me as the black gypsy
curls of my teacher Tónko Kotlár peep out from under the wig...
He winks at me. Success! We drove diabolic impoverishment out
of the church!
Translated by John Minahane
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Daniel Hevier
Daniel Hevier
G
U R D L A N D
Yet Again (Nám sa už zase nechce spať, 1995). His
poetry The Car Chase (Naháňačka áut, 1993), The
Chocolate Moustache (Fúzy od čokolády, 1994)
and Ginger (Hrdzovláska, 1997) became very
successful and popular with grown ups. The
sensation and psychological coping with
information as such is the setting for Hevier’s books
DANIEL HEVIER (1955), poet, writer, author
of children’s books, publisher. Hevier is one of
the most remarkable contemporary Slovak
poets. He has published dozens of poetry
collections. The most succesful of them are
e. g.: In The Garden with My Father (S otcom
v záhrade, 1976), Bird Drinking From the Track
(Vták pije z koľaje, 1977), The Man Who Seeks
the Sea (Muž hľadá more, 1984), Gone to the
Dogs (Psí tridsiatok, 1990), All-Night Sale of
Hope (Nočný predaj nádeje, 1994) and
Poems From the Advertising Campaign For the
End of the World ( Básne z reklamnej
kampane na koniec sveta, 1996). The
spontaniety, playfulness and emotional ability
was reflected in his children’s books. His first
poetry volumes for children Dancing Birds
(Vtáci v tanci, 1978) and Don’t Stick Out Your
Tongue at the Lion (Nevyplazuj jazyk na leva,
1982) are composed of lyrical pictures, puns,
puzzles and calligrams. The next book
Wonderland (Krajina Zázračno, 1983) is
a combination of lyrical metaphorical
miniatures. Poems Will Help You (Básnička ti
pomôže, 1989) and the logopaedic manual
Talkie (Hovorníček, 1992) were written for little
children. His extensive work bears the mark of
quality, originality of form. Hevier started to
write poetry that was playful, light, and rich
with metaphors and humour. As far as his
prose is concerned, the most successful has
been Where Do the Icecream Men Go for
Winter (Kam chodia na zimu zmrzlinári,
1984), translated into five languages and
awarded with the IBBY Honours List diploma
in 1986. Hevier also developed the so-called
fantasy-entertaining fairy tale literary genre
in his book Aladár and Baltazár on
Merry-Go-Round (Aladár a Baltazár na
kolotoči, 1990) and We do not Want to Sleep
(extract)
Do You Want to Be Happy? (Chcete byť šťastný?,
1995) and They Call Me Hevi (Volajú ma Hevi,
1997). The current issues on children’s life are
dealt with in Strašidelník (1999) and A Dog That
Goes To Work (2000). His latest work The Gurdland
(Krajina AGORD, 2000) is an innovative way of
dealing with the problem of drug abuse.
K
nowing what to expect next – that was the most difficult thing. GURDLAND was
one moment a magical place full of wonderful sights, the next moment it was all
misery and gloom.
Everyone ought to be so happy here, Lucy Hallucy considered, after all, they are all
living like in a fairytale. But the blindfolded butterflies certainly hadn’t looked at all
happy.
Lucy Hallucy hadn’t even noticed that her feet had led her to a path paved with flat
stones. It was strewn here and there with dry leaves, which must once have had beautiful
colours. All of a sudden one of these crinkled leaves stretched itself out – it was
a butterfly! Then Lucy Hallucy realised that the dry leaves were all dead butterflies.
“Go back, Lucy Hallucy!” said the butterfly in an urgent whisper. “Go back home. If, of
course, you can go back now.”
“What do you mean?!” Lucy Hallucy exclaimed in alarm. “Surely no one can keep me
here?”
“Oh yes, they can,” the butterfly sighed. “Citocran.”
“The flower Citocran?” Lucy Hallucy asked in surprise. “But that gives you only
pleasant feelings. By the way, have you seen it anywhere? I’d like to smell it again. Only
sad and disturbing things have been happening to me lately.”
“You see,” said the butterfly. “It’s already beginning to attract you. But I haven’t got any
Citocran. Because if I had, I’d breathe in all its scent myself. I wouldn’t share it with
anyone, not even my own brother. Ah, Citocran, my bitter flower, my black honey, my
sweet poison, my one desire, you take me to the stars, you trap me in your net, precious
you are, and yet…”
The butterfly seemed to be delirious. Lucy Hallucy was afraid it might have
a temperature.
“Are you all right? Aren’t you feeling ill?” she blurted out.
“Of course I’m feeling ill. Terribly ill, because I haven’t got any Citocran! I’m ill without
it, my wings are burning, I’m tormented by thirst, my head’s going to burst… Run away,
Lucy Hallucy, run away from me and from the flower Citocran!”
Lucy Hallucy covered her ears and began running down the paved path, away from that
place.
Lucy Hallucy ran away. The butterfly had really scared her. In a lake she saw the
reflection of the branch of a tree and on that reflection stood a strange-looking man (but
was there anyone in GURDLAND who didn’t look strange?) and he was having no trouble
keeping his balance. A rare peacefulness radiated from him. He was holding a terribly
complicated clock (a cross between a wall clock, a bicycle with one wheel and a samovar).
A snail was stretched out at his feet.
“Good morning,” said Lucy Hallucy. And because the man inspired her with
confidence, she asked him: “Have you seen the boy they call Yresim?”
“That’s a difficult question,” the man said with a calm smile. But that’s all right. I have
been pondering over difficult questions all my life. I am Fossil, a natural philosopher. The
boy named Yresim is lost. However, his parents and his friends have not lost him, he has
lost himself. They will find him when he begins to look for himself.”
Lucy Hallucy rolled her eyes. She had put him such an easy, understandable question
and she had got such a complicated answer – she didn’t understand it at all.
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Daniel Hevier
“And… and… can you at least suggest where I might find the
flower Citocran?” she asked. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever
experienced.”
Fossil the Philosopher gazed thoughtfully at Lucy Hallucy, his
eyes half-closed: “The flower Citocran is a strange thing. You
needn’t look for it long, it will come to you of its own accord
sooner or later. It will slip into your hand and offer itself to you. It
will make you feel its strength, its magic, its power. It will make
you strong and set you free. But only in order to enslave you. Very
soon it will not serve you, but you it. When that time comes, it will
not jump into your hand of its own accord. You will have to look
for it, you will long for it more and more. And the more you
immerse yourself in its scent, the more you will need it. Not to fly
in the air, but just to take a step on the ground.”
Moving easily along the branch reflected in the water, the wise
man reached the bank. Lucy Hallucy would have liked to ask him
all kinds of things, but a voice stopped her: “Leave him be, let him
go! Philosophers are shady characters who just muddle
people’s minds.”
It was a shrill, grating and at the same time sweet, smooth voice.
It belonged to a elegant man in tall, shiny boots. He bowed and
introduced himself: “I’m Relaed, a happiness merchant. At your
service. I’m here to fulfil your dreams and desires.”
“A merchant?” Lucy Hallucy asked in surprise. “What do you
sell?”
“Ugh, what a rude word! I don’t sell. I’m not a door-to-door
salesman. I supply,” the man named Relaed put on an offended
expression.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy Hallucy said, looking ashamed. “So what do
you supply?”
“I should’ve thought that was obvious!” the merchant frowned
again. “I supply what everyone in this country of GURDLAND
wants. I’m the only one who has that precious thing. It is the
flower Ci-to-…”
“…cran!” Lucy Hallucy finished delightedly. “Citocran! Will you
give it to me?”
Relaed the merchant gave a wily grin: “I don’t give anyone my
goods. But as this is the first time, I won’t sell it to you either.
Let’s say that just this once I shall – supply it!”
He stretched his arms out in front of him, waved them like
a funny bird and from one of his wide sleeves there fell a flower –
Citocran. Lucy Hallucy quickly caught it in her hand.
“Is it really mine? Just for me?” she asked, not daring to believe
it and she stroked it with her finger.
“Who knows whether it is yours or you are its,” joked the
merchant, Relaed. “Now hurry up, take a deep breath and inhale
its scent, so you can breathe in your happiness. Because happiness
is a tricky creature. It has a golden head, but the body of a snake.
If you don’t grab it immediately, it will slip through your fingers!”
Relaed let out another rasping chuckle and turned on his heel.
Lucy Hallucy bent over the large flower and prepared to take
a deep breath.
Now, all of a sudden, a frightening creature appeared before her,
as if it had sprung up out of the ground. It was an old man. His
complexion was so furrowed with wrinkles that it looked like the
skin of a tortoise. He had a pointed hat on his head, at the end of
which a light was burning like the wick of a candle.
“Damned Galapagos!” Relaed hissed like the snake he had
spoken of a moment ago.
“You have given the little girl your gift, I’ll give her mine,” said
the figure called Galapagos. He pushed Relaed aside and turned to
Lucy Hallucy: “My child,” he addressed her. Do you know what
you are now holding in your hand?”
Lucy Hallucy stared at him in surprise. “The Citocran this man
gave me, of course.”
However, Galapagos bent towards her and said: “You are
mistaken. You are holding your freedom in your hand. You can
freely decide whether to breathe in the scent of that flower or not.
No one can forbid you to, and no one can order you to. Not even
your mother, who is now terribly far away from you – not even
I can. Only you, you and you alone can say: Yes, I want to, or No,
I don’t. But before you make up your mind what to do, I’ll take you
to where you will learn something about that flower that you
don’t know yet.”
“Ha… claptrap!” the merchant Relaed waved his hand. “This old
tortoise is letting his imagination run away with him. Don’t believe
a word he says, my friend. He’s only jealous because you can be
happy!”
However, Galapagos took Lucy Hallucy by the hand and they
slowly set off. Only now did she notice that he had an arrow stuck
through his hat, which quivered in the wind. Galapagos raised his
left hand in a stately manner and the ticking of a clock could be
heard. Embedded in his palm, which was far younger than his
face, was a dial with two little hands.
“One hand is going very slow and the other very fast!” Lucy
Hallucy remarked.
“Everything has its proper pace,” said Galapagos. “This slow
hand shows the time of the universe. This other, faster one, the
time of people.”
Once again, Lucy Hallucy felt puzzled, but she had no time to
think about these mysterious words, because they had come to
a small cave carved into some yellow rocks.
Galapagos said nothing, just pointed the way ahead. They
entered the half-darkness and there was a woman who looked as
sad as she was beautiful. If she hadn’t been dressed in such
unusual clothes, Lucy Hallucy might have thought she was her
mother.
The beautiful, sad lady noticed the Citocran flower in the
child’s hand and her eyes grew even more sorrowful.
“I see the flower has picked another child,” she sighed.
“What do you mean?” Lucy Hallucy did not understand. “People
pick flowers, not the other way round. This flower is wonderful –
it can make you float in the air.”
The lady bent towards her, took her little face in her hands and
said: “There was once a boy, a son. No one knows where he is
now. He breathed in that sweet scent and all he longs for is that
poison that leaves you in a daze… Now his feet are leading him
astray. He is running away from himself, hurrying through the
world in search of the Flower of all Flowers. It is a flower with
a terrible power, it turns light to darkness, it gnaws at your heart…
You think you are flying through the air, but meanwhile a wild
force is grinding the wings of your soul to dust. You fall to the
ground like a stone and you realise the flower has deceived you. It
has decomposed in your head. Nothing you see is real. Everything
is distorted. People become shadows. Children become old people.
You want to be as before. You go looking for that flower and you
ask it to return you your happiness. You want your trials to end
and so you take another dose. And so it goes on. You look for your
pair of wings. You try to escape from that flower, but you can’t –
it’s everywhere you go. It steals more and more of your life. You
are no longer flying. You are falling down into an abyss. There was
a son who had a mummy, until the flower enticed him away. Tell
me. Can you still go back? Or is this the end for you, too?”
This was the end, because the beautiful, sad woman fell silent.
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9
Ján Uličiansky
Ján Uličiansky
C o u n t Me n t h o l Christoph
T
JÁN ULIČIANSKY (1955), author of children’s
books, broadcasts and stage plays. His first work
was a series of tales entitled Adelka Zvončeková
(1981), in which symbolism is employed to provide
a metaphor of both people’s closeness and their
indifference, of friendship between parents and
their children, and of common civility. His next
books which gained considerable success were:
Sunday (Nedeľa, 1987) and a series entitled
Urchin Tales (Uličnícke rozprávky) in the anthology
Tale Cake (Rozprávková torta, 1990). The aspect of
parody, nonsense and playfulness was more
pronounced in a collection of tales which took as
its subject snow and snowmen as it was in the case
of the book Snowman’s Islands (Snehuliacke
ostrovy, 1990). Uličiansky’s next success was the
book We’ve Got Emma (Máme Emu, 1993) which
deals with the distant magic of Caroll’s Alice. In the
tale Veronica the Squirrel (Veverička Veronka,
1996) Uličiansky combines the animated story
with occasional parodying of human plans and the
use of word play. His puppet plays also met a large
artistic and popular response: Abracadabra (Čáry
Máry Fuk, 1978), Janko Pipora (1983), Raduz
and Ludmila (1984), Little Flint Stone, the Hero
(Bohatier Kremienok, 1986), Peter Kľúčik (1996).
Uličiansky inserts into contemporary drama and
prose for children speeches on the quality of life
and the relationships of human beings and does
this with narrative simplicity and originality.
Marvellous Stories of the Seven Seas
(Podivuhodné príbehy siedmich morí, 2003) deals
with issues, such as these questions: Would you
like to meet Regina, a queen of the seven seas and
a pirate, The Black Skin, her great admirer? Do you
know how chewing gum, ice-cream, peppermint
candies or orange juice originated? Uličiansky is
also the author of many essays, interviews, articles,
stage, television and radio plays. He was awarded
numerous prizes in Slovakia and abroad.
he next story is from the times when, right in the middle of the sea, there was
a mysterious green island. The story begins with an old nautical map…
Once upon a time, the map was discovered in his prison cell by a certain count.
The forgetful Queen Regina had ordered him to be locked up. Even she herself did not
know why. She forgot all about him, and that count, who was called Menthol Christoph,
spent thirty three years in the tower.
One day a powerful fit of sneezing shook the castle.
HA-HA-HA-PCHEE…!
The imprisoned Count had no idea what was happening. The tower shook and some of
the stones loosened in the wall of his cell, and in a crack between them he noticed
a crumpled roll of paper. It was an old nautical map. Goodness knows how long it had
been hidden there! A green island in the middle of the sea was marked with a red cross.
Certainly, that meant hidden treasure!
The Count only sighed, replaced the map in its hiding-place and looked out sadly
through the barred window. He could see the harbour’s mouth, where the queen’s sailingship, Finta, had been lying at anchor for years on end. The bored crew were asleep on
deck. The helmsman was snoring, flat out at his helm; the cook was in a barrel; the
deckhand was rocking to and fro in the net. They were torn from their sleep by the
repeated sneezing:HA-HA-HA-PCHEE…!
“Poor Queen Regina!” the deckhand cried. “She shouldn’t have stuffed herself with icecream!” the cook grumbled.
And the helmsman said, laughing:
“Queen Regina has now become Queen Angina!”
Really and truly!
Queen Regina was lying in her chamber in the middle of a huge canopied bed. She was
suffering from a cold. Her big royal nose was going round in circles. Regina was trying to
hold back the sneezing, but it was all in vain. Once she gave such a royal sneeze that the
canopy over her bed collapsed and the queen got all tangled up in it.
“Help! Help!” she cried from under the canopy. “Doctors! Healers! I’ll give my entire
kingdom for a medicine which will rid me of this ha-ha-hateful sneezing!”
News of the Queen’s pledge made its way even through the thick walls to the prisoner
in the tower.
“By the rusty windowbars! Now I know how I can recover my freedom and wealth!”
Menthol Christoph carefully pulled a loose stone from the wall. A niche was revealed.
He had a splendid working tool hidden there – a prison spoon! Menthol Christoph waited
until the Queen’s sneezing started again, and then he set to work. His spoon was chipping
into the wall all night long.
When the hole was big enough, Count Menthol Christoph looked round his cell for the
last time, then he tied a leather bag to his breast, with the rare old map in it, and set about
making his escape. He reached the outer walls of the guard tower. Carefully he let himself
down, using stones that jutted out from the wall as handholds. Suddenly there was
a resounding
HA-HA-HA-PCHEE…!
And immediately after that there was a loud
CHLYUP!
Count Menthol Christoph had dropped with a splash right into the sea!
On the deck of the sailing-ship Finta, idleness prevailed. It was night, so the lantern was
lighted on the mast. The crew was sitting round an empty barrel, throwing dice.
“This is a bore” the helmsman said, yawning.
“If only something would happen!” the ship’s cook wished.
And the deckhand mused:
“I’d sail all the way to where the world begins!”
“Don’t talk gibberish!” the helmsman chided him. Suddenly he thought he could hear
someone calling for help.
“Get a lifeline!” he ordered “Fast!”
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10
Ján Uličiansky
A little while later, the soaked fugitive appeared on the deck.
The helmsman immediately led him to the cabin, and the
deckhand covered him with a warm quilt. But instead of a thankyou they received only a loud
HA-HA-HA-PCHEE…!
When Menthol Christoph had pulled himself together, he drew
the old map from his bag and spread it out on the table. With
a trembling hand he pointed out the green island to the sailors…
“I am Count Menthol Christoph. For the present I cannot reveal
any more than that. But if you will go with me on a voyage of
adventure to find the treasure of the mysterious island, which
bears my name, Queen Regina will richly reward us all!…”
HA-HA-HA-PCHEE…!
The crew had never heard of any island called Menthol
Christoph, but the Count’s proposal meant unexpected adventure!
A little while later the sailing-ship Finta left the harbour’s mouth
and without the Queen’s knowledge set off to sea.
The mysterious count became captain of the ship. The
deckhand clipped his long hair, and the helmsman gave him
a ceremonial sailor’s uniform. It suited Menthol Christoph so well
that he certainly would have won the heart of a mermaid, if by any
chance they had met one on their journey…
After some time there was a shout from the crow’s-nest:
“Horizon on the island! Er, I beg your pardon,- island on the
horizon!”
The deckhand had finally spotted the secret island they were
seeking. The helmsman made straight for its green shore, and
shortly afterwards the sailors were hacking their way through
a green jungle.
“Ha-ha-ha-pchee…!” All of them suddenly began to sneeze. Not
because they’d caught a chill, but because of the intoxicating
scents which were wafting in the air all around.
The adventurers finally came to a clearing. There they found
a stone marked with a red cross. Exactly as it was in the old map!
The Count went behind the boulder and pushed it with all his
might. To no avail. It didn’t even move.
“Hey-rup! Hey-rup!” The others all came to help him.
When finally the boulder shifted, underneath they could see
a splendid wooden chest. Menthol Christoph cried out with relief:
“Oh-ho-ho! That’s my treasure!”
He opened the chest. It was full of green sweets! In the sunlight
they glinted like precious stones. Menthol Christoph reached into
the chest, took out one sweet, sniffed it, slipped it into his mouth,
cautiously bit it to see if it was genuine, and after that began to
suck it with pleasure.
“Yes,” he sighed, relieved. “That’s the real menthol!”
The crew goggled at the count. Then the helmsman, the
deckhand and the cook flung themselves on the menthol sweets.
“I want to taste this treasure too! Me too! That’s all mine!” they
shrieked in a frenzy, shoving each other away and stuffing tasty
menthols into their mouths.
“Enough!” Menthol Christoph commanded. “Everyone will
receive his share! And especially Queen Regina! For her it’s the
last chance!”
The adventurers loaded the chest of menthols onto the ship and
set out on the homeward journey. After some days’ sail, the
deckhand on the mast began a mighty
HA-HA-HA-PCHEE…!
That was a clear signal that they were approaching the harbour.
When they had anchored, Menthol Christoph unloaded the chest
and brought it before the old queen. She was sitting on her throne
amidst an assortment of potions, ointments and other medicines.
Regina was completely dazzled by the gleaming green menthol
cubes in the chest.
“Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh! What on earth is – hap-chee?! What are
those jewels called? And what is your own name, strange
voyager?”
“I am Count Menthol Christoph. I was confined for thirty three
years in your prison. And these are menthols, a treasure beyond
all treasures! You need only chew three of them – and your illness
will be gone!”
Queen Regina clasped her head.
“Oh, this sclerosis of mine! I completely forgot about you, my
dear Christoph! Why didn’t you leave the prison sooner?”
The mysterious count only smiled strangely and replied:
“It doesn’t matter in the least… Otherwise I would never have
found the map of the mysterious green island.”
The queen, sucking a menthol sweet, wanted to protest, but all
she could say was:
“Ha-ha-… ha-ppy ending for you; you shall have freedom and
the queen’s reward!”
Menthol Christoph had spoken the truth. After the third
menthol the queen relaxed so much that she completely forgot
about her illness. She ordered that the chest in which the count
had brought her the menthols should be filled to the top with
golden ducats.
But what happened to the mysterious green island in the middle
of the sea?
The sweet-toothed waves of the sea sucked away at it like candy,
and so now you won’t find it in any map of the world!
In the fairy tale world of Uličiansky, elements of the author’s autopsy and fantasy interpretation
of the world of events participate. The play is overwhelmed with its means of expression. There
are typical parables about human beings and they provide a starting point once for an ironic
persiflage and at another time for an immensely nostalgic tone. Uličiansky inserts into
contemporary drama and prose for children urgent speeches on the quality of life and the
relationships of contemporary human beings does this without over insistence, imaginatively
and sensitively with narrative simplicity and originality.
Z U Z A N A S TA N I S L A V O V Á
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11
Daniel Pas tirčák
Daniel Pastirčák
D amian’s
R iver
(extract)
I..
DANIEL PASTIRČÁK (1959), poet, writer,
essayist. After graduating from the Secondary
School of Arts he studied conservation and
theology. He is now a preacher of the Brethren
Church in Bratislava.
His first book of meditative stories “on love
and eternity” Damian’s River (Damianova
rieka, 1993) was awarded the IBBY
International Honorary Prize for books for
young people in Switzerland in 1996. In 2001
he published another book for children and
adults Chintet (Čintet) in which the realistic
world of children blends with the spiritual, with
imagination and mystery. It is a story of
human identity and freedom, dealing with
myth-making, imagination and play, through
which children change and grow up. He
illustrates all his books and his success in
doing so has been confirmed over and over
again – a one-man exhibition in London,
BIB 1997 in Bratislava and exhibitions of
Slovak book illustrations in Finland (1997),
in Japan (1998) and in Canada (2000).
His book of poems for adults Tehilim (1997)
reflects a lyrico-philosophical insight into
spiritual areas of human living. Archaic
symbols are dominant here as well as
archetypal metaphorics and an ever-present
trace of biblical word. The collection expresses
the cultural disintegration of the world as well
as the inner disintegration of human beings.
His works typify humanity and have spiritual
and mystical undertones. Pastirčák also wrote
screenplay Play on St. Dorothea (Hra o svätej
Dorote, 2004) and film-screenplay Awakened
(Prebudená, 2005).
Imagine one of the great cities, like Prague, Vienna, or London. In the center of the city,
imagine a square. In the square, through the six converging streets, rivers of smoke flow,
carrying the lacquered hulls of cars on waves of wheels. Can you see it? If you can, you
have just entered the square where this story begins.
The fact that the square is filled with noise, cries, and commotion is nothing out of the
ordinary. What is unusual is that there are two objects here, totally still and utterly silent.
The first is a large camera obscura mounted upon a wooden tripod. A bearded
photographer has set it up at the junction between two streets, burying his head under its
black drape, then standing motionless. The other fixed object is a statue which stands
beneath old oaks on the corner between two merging streets. The face of the statue,
carved from white sandstone, emanates peace. Its pierced hands are outstretched in that
mysterious gesture of giving. The stone at the foot of the statue shines faintly from the
wax of candles, which have flickered and then died through countless nights. And it was
on this exact statue that the photographer focused his camera.
Click, click-the dancing leaves above the statue are frozen in place; click-a detail of the
hands; click- the mysterious peace of his face…
II..
The photographer had a son. Although without a beard, the boy resembled his father
in nearly every way. Damian, (for that was his name), always waited expectantly with an
air of eager anticipation, for what his father would bring from his dark closet. This time it
was two photographs, but what photograph! The father hung them on a white board, and
was lost behind the closet door again. Damian stepped nearer to the photographs to take
a closer look. The first one carried a waft of the wet fragrance of oaks below which, half
hidden in the foliage, stood a mysterious statue. There must have been some peculiar
power in this statue. It took hold of him and drew him in towards itself.
He didn’t know how or when he crossed the white border of the photograph. Yet, he
now stood at the edge of the a broad meadow. Its opposite side was filled with colourful
tents. The meadow looked as if it was covered with a cloud of giant, multicoloured
butterflies. Next to the tents, horses grazed and next to the horses stood wooden carts
covered with rugs, woven as in the past, from old rags. Near the statue, (which stood as
inscrutable and unmoving as in the photograph), a large crowd had gathered. Damian
smelled the fragrance of incense. The breeze carried to him the monotonous murmur of
prayers. The white smoke, ascending from the censer, sprinkled the priests’ purple robes
with silver dust. The last song ended, and the crowd moved towards the camp. Damian
ran after them. He mingled with the crowd and was carried along by it until he grasped
the edge of the robe of one of the priest. The priest turned around. “What do you want?”
he asked sternly.
“Who is the statue of, the one you were praying at?” Damian blurted out.
“The Lord, who will hold you accountable for these kinds of jokes!” The reverend
father could not conceal his anger.
Damian heard nothing else. As he ran the fading voice was drowned out by the sound
of his own breathing. He stopped before the statue. Gasping for breath, he looked
searchingly into the stone face. Yet, in its enigmatic features he could not find the slightest
indication of what he had seen in the priest’s eyes.
Two lovers, almost noiselessly, approached the monument from the other side. The
dark-eyed boy carried a small bunch of forget-me-nots. “So you won’t forget,” he said
while placing the flowers at the feet of the statue.
“Who is it?” asked Damian, pointing to the statue.
They looked at him absent-mindedly as if being roused from a deep sleep. “Our love,
perhaps,” said the girl, kissing her boyfriend on the lips. The lovers disappeared into
the forest, and Damian returned to the camp.
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12
Daniel Pas tirčák
In the fading light of day, he saw the old man sitting at the table,
leaning over the pages of a book colored pink by the dusk. He was
quite relieved. After so many days of solitude, he was seeing
another human being again. The old man did not seem to notice
him, so, he went over to him and laid his hand on the
man’s shoulder. The shoulder, however, crumbled at his touch;
the old man disintegrated, and all that remained was a pile of dust,
swirling softly in the breeze blowing through the open window. He
fled as fast as he could.
He ran through the dimness of the forest into the arms of the
dark again. He repeatedly stumbled, fell and got back up again; he
did not know where to run nor to where he was running. He ran
until the dark crown of the trees above him drew back the curtain
of black foliage, revealing a sky full of stars gaping above his head.
Once again, he stood before the statue that had not yet revealed its
mystery to him.
As puzzled as he was at that moment, he began to recognize in
the space before him one of the squares of his hometown. The
streets, so busy by day and by night, were now unusually quiet.
There were no lights in any of the windows. The square, wrapped
in darkness, seemed vacant. Yet, after a while, on the sidewalks
between the houses, he could distinguish people in gray suits. Like
ghosts, noiselessly and solitary, they walked across the square in
all directions. One of these weird figures bumped into him.
Damian turned around, and in the faint starlight, he saw the face.
In the space where he expected to see eyes, only empty sockets
stared back at him. ‘They’re all blind,’ he thought to himself and
started running across the square, dodging in and out among the
wandering beings, not realizing how or when he had stepped back
across the white border of the photograph.
III..
Illustrated by Daniel Pastirčák
As if waking from a deep sleep, Damian slowly began to
recognize things in the room. The voices from the evening street
reached him from outside. Long shadows, drawn by the soft
beams of light, danced upon the walls of the room. The shadows
of lovers, peasants and a gaunt old sage noiselessly danced the
bolero. (Will those shadows never leave his child’s soul?)
Within this sudden silence he heard a murmur-firs, only
a distant humming, then the clearer tones of a quiet music. The
melodic beat of a drum united in a common rhythm with the
drumming of his heart and the whisper of his breathing. Yet, it was
not a harp, a flute, nor the strings of a violin; it was everything
together-and even more, within and around him-it was simply
everywhere.
“Who are you?” cried the boy’s whole being, and the music
replied, “Come…Come…” At the bottom of the well, he found
himself on the bank of an unknown river. Walking on the warm
sand between fragments of mother-of-pearl and empty conch
shells, he came to a smooth, almost unmoving river.
“Come…Come…” The music was carried against the current of the
mighty river. He walked along the bank of the river, following its
voice.
The stone statue had only imperfectly expressed the captivating
grandeur, the boundless power of love in his face. From the
wounds in his pierced hands flowed everfresh streams, giving life
to the well at his feet. “Lord, who are you?” Damian wasn’t sure
whether his lips had spoken the question out loud, or if his mind
had merely whispered it.
“I am the beginning and the end. I am the source, the course,
and the estuary of your river. I am the quest by which you have
sought me, and I am the eternal presence of this encounter.”
Damian didn’t hear the words; it seemed that the voice
resounded somewhere from deep within his own soul. Was it
actually a voice?”
“I am He who endures while everything else comes into being
and ceases to exist in a whirling dance of restless motion.”
“Why didn’t anyone I met on the road know you?”
“These peoples, Damian,” (Damian trembled when he heard his
own name),”they were you-different images of you in the future.
From the place where you are now standing, lead thousands of
roads and a different form of you is waiting at the end of each of
them. All those that you met were captives of the world that
perishes; therefore, they knew nothing about me. Human love, the
compass of the human spirit, or the entire richness of man’s lifethese are only tokens, merely the engagement ring given for the
wedding to come. The bride who has loved the shadow of her
beloved too much will never be able to see his true being.”
“I don’t want to become any of them!” Damian blurted it out
almost against his own will.
“I know; otherwise you would never have got this far. Come and
drink from my spring.” Damian drew water from the spring and
drank. The blood had the fragrance and taste of wine. He felt that
his old haughtiness was disintegrating. The proud spirit,
intoxicated with the wisdom from the old man’s books, was dying,
and in place of this decaying consciousness, the serene soul of
a child was born. It seemed to him that he was carried through the
gates of the cemetery. A cortege with candles, like a hedgerow full
of fireflies, followed behind along the dark alley. His heart,
however, was now filled with music, no longer distant, but his
own, gushing from the inside of the still unknown life. Then, he
clearly heard the peal of bell. When he tore his eyes from the
photograph, it was already late evening. The bells in the church
tower were still ringing. Everything was just the same as it always
was at this time of evening. He, however, knew that everything
was different. Beyond the flow of time, beyond boundless space,
beyond the inception and the extinction, there is always the
sanctuary, always the same peaceful river, and His eyes, forever
present.
Translated by
Colin Symes, Daniela Olejárová and Jana Klagová
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13
Jozef Urban
Jozef Urban
Die A benteuer der kleinen
Krähe Danička
und J. Litvák). Jozef Urban war ein Autor, der bereits
während seines Lebens sehr populär wurde. Sein
Buch Das Wasser, das mich überm Wasser hält
(Voda, čo ma drží nad vodou, 2000) hat mehrere
Auflagen erreicht und das gleichnamige Gedicht
wurde zum Schlager der jungen Generation. Weiter
erschienen die Bücher Heute ist kein Nikolaustag
(Dnes nie je Mikulkáša, 2000), Die Leiden des
JOZEF URBAN (1964 – 1999), Dichter,
Essayist, Kinderbuchautor, Publizist. In seinem
Debüt Der kleine zürnende Robinson (Malý
zúrivý Robinson, 1985) stellte er sich als
Dichter vor, der die Kontraste des Lebens sieht
und schildert. Als 20-jähriger Mann
verabschiedet er sich von der farbigen
Kinderwelt und tritt in die traurige graue Welt
der Erwachsenen ein. Für seine Gedichte ist
Ironie, Selbstironie, Humor und Sarkasmus
charakteristisch. Sie sind rhythmisch,
dynamisch, mit ihrer modernen Sprache zogen
sie vor allem die junge Generation an. Urban
gelang es, das Reichtum der klassischen
Poesie mit der Einfachheit des Poptexts zu
verbinden. Für sein Debüt erhielt er den
Krasko-Preis. Der nächste Band Taubstumme
Musik (Hluchonemá hudba, 1989) drückt die
Gefühle und Reflexionen der bewegten
Ereignisse dieser Zeit aus. Im Erzählungsband
Schneeglöckchen und Bibeln (Snežienky
a biblie, 1996) ist er bereits ein reifer,
erwachsener dreißigjähriger Mann. Seine
Poetik erweitert sich durch Intellekt und
Rationalität. Sie ist klar und scharf, die
Sprache trifft den Kern der Dinge. Er sucht
und findet die Balance zwischen dem Privaten
und der Welt der persönlichen und
gesellschaftlichen Beziehungen. Es folgen
Bände Das Buch der Halbtoten (Kniha
polomŕtvych, 1992) und Schuss von der
Hacke (Výstrel z motyky, 1990 – zusammen
mit zwei anderen Autoren M. Bančej
jungen Poeten (Utrpenie mladého poeta, 1999)
und Nah, aber immer weiter (Blízko, ale čoraz ďalej,
2001). Für Kinder schrieb er das ideenreiche Buch
die Abenteuer der kleinen Krähe Danička
(Dobrodružstvá Vranky Danky, 1995). Jozef Urban
hat auch das Hörspiel: Wir kennen unsere Leute
(Poznáme svojich ľudí) geschrieben. Er war auch
als Liedertextautor sehr erfolgreich.
Danička und die wertvollste
Sache der Welt
A
uf dem Tisch des Redakteurs Jožo klingelte das Telefon.
Der Chefredakteur bestellt uns zu sich“, sagte der Redakteur Jožo, als er
aufgelegt hatte. „Der wird wieder was wollen.“
„Na hund?“, lachte die kleine Krähe Danička. „Von jedem will mal hirgendwer
hirgendwas. Wenn niemand was von huns wollte, würden wir vielleicht nicht einmal
wissen, dass wir hauf der Welt sind.“
Der Redakteur Jožo nickte. Er sammelte auf dem Tisch seine Papiere ein, Danička
setzte sich ihm auf die Schulter und sie marschierten los, um beim Chefredakteur
anzutanzen. Natürlich zwang der Chefredakteur niemanden zu tanzen, ganz im
Gegenteil, er bot jedem höflich einen Platz in einem Sessel an. Wenn ihr bei jemandem
antanzen müsst, dann bedeutet das einfach, dass euch euer Vater oder eure Mutter oder
euer Lehrer zu sich ruft und euch fragt, was ihr da wieder angestellt habt. In solchen
Momenten ist einem ganz mulmig. Am liebsten würde man im Boden versinken.
Der Chefredakteur wollte jedoch weder den Redakteur Jožo noch die kleine Krähe
Danička für irgendetwas tadeln.
„Ich habe euch herbestellt“, sagte er, „weil wir uns eine weitere hübsche Aktion für die
Kinder ausdenken sollten.“
Die beiden atmeten auf. Sie stießen so einen tiefen Seufzer aus, dass sich Fenster und
Türen einen Spalt öffneten und ein Windhauch lustig durchs Zimmer huschte.
„Euer Zeichenwettbewerb war gut“, redete der Chefredakteur weiter. „Jetzt müsst ihr
wieder mal euern Verstand anwerfen.“
Und so grübelten sie gemeinsam. Sie grübelten eine Stunde. Zwei Stunden. Als es
schon schien, als würde ihnen nichts einfallen, rief Danička auf einmal:
„Hich hab’s! Wir laden die Kinder zu huns in den Sender hein, sie sollen huns das
Wertvollste mitbringen, was sie haben.“
Dem Redakteur Jožo kam der Einfall irgendwie komisch vor.
„Wertvolle Sachen sind meistens groß und teuer. Den wenigsten werden wohl die Eltern
erlauben, dass sie die von zu Hause in irgendeinen Radiosender mitnehmen. Was ist,
wenn irgendetwas kaputt geht oder abhanden kommt?“
„Meiner Meinung nach“, sagte Danička, „gibt hes hauch wertvolle Sachen, die man
nicht kaputt machen hund hauch nicht verlieren kann.“
Der Redakteur Jožo wollte sich immer noch nicht überzeugen lassen.
„Neulich habe ich mir von meinem ersparten Geld ein Mountainbike gekauft, und
gleich am nächsten Tag ist es mir gestohlen worden. Ist etwa ein Mountainbike nichts
Wertvolles? Und so etwas könnte den Kindern ja auch auf dem Weg zum Sender
passieren.“
„Streitet euch nicht“, sagte der Chefredakteur. „Geht ins Studio, ladet die Kinder zu uns
ein und dann werden wir schon sehen, was sie mitbringen. Schließlich könnte es ja
tatsächlich auch wertvolle Sachen geben, die kein Dieb stehlen würde.“
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14
Jozef Urban
Die kleine Krähe Danička flog also ins Studio und verkündete
den Aufruf an alle Kinder: „Liebe Freunde, wir laden heuch halle
zu huns hin den Sender ein. Kommt her hund schaut heuch han,
wie das hier bei huns halles so läuft, hund vergesst nicht, das
Wertvollste mitzubringen, was hihr habt. Wer wirklich die
wertvollste Sache mitbringt, den nehmen wir mit hauf heinen
Rundflug hin heinem Helikopter. Kommt, wir freuen huns hauf
heuch!“
Der Redakteur Jožo lief auf und ab, schüttelte den Kopf und
brummte: „Du wirst schon sehen: Es wird kein Mensch kommen.
Wer würde denn auch wertvolle Sachen durch die Stadt
schleppen, wenn er nicht muss?!” Dann ging er in die Kantine
Mittag essen. In seinem Bauch spielten die Musikanten schon so
laut, dass sich überall, wo er vorbeikam, die Leute nach ihm
umdrehten und mit ihm schimpften, er solle doch bitte das Radio
leiser stellen.
Als er vom Mittagessen zurückkam, traute der Redakteur Jožo
seinen Augen kaum. Er traute ihnen ja fast nie, aber jetzt hatte er
das Gefühl, dass sie ihm voller Schadenfreude etwas vorgaukelten.
Das Vestibül des Radiosenders war voller Kinder. Die
zurechtgestellten Tischchen bogen sich unter der Last der Dinge.
Gibt es wirklich auf der Welt so viele wertvolle Sachen?, dachte der
Redakteur Jožo bei sich.
Die Kinder hatten alles Mögliche mitgebracht. Der Redakteur
sah dort Baukästen, groß wie ein Kühlschrank, Flugzeuge und
Autos mit Fernsteuerung, Kassettenrecorder, Hi-Fi-Anlagen,
Mountainbikes, Computerspiele, Schiffsmodelle, Musikinstrumente. Als er näher heranging, erblickte er auch Ohrringe,
Anhänger, Armbänder, Ketten und Uhren. Ein paar Mädchen
waren in ihren schönsten Kleidern gekommen, die Jungs führten
ihre niegelnagelneuen Lederjacken vor. Der Redakteur Jožo
erkannte auch die Geschenke von Tóno aus der Kiste – die
beschenkten Kinder hielten sie für das Wertvollste auf der Welt.
Den meisten Lärm machte ein Junge mit einem Moped. Das
Moped brummte laut und stieß Rauchwolken aus. Die kleine
Krähe Danička stellte sich mit dem Mikrofon zu dem Jungen.
„Warum hast du denn hausgerechnet hein Moped mitgebracht?“,
fragte sie ihn.
„Weil es das Wertvollste ist. Nichts ist wertvoller als das Moped,
bloß unser Auto, aber das borgt mir mein Vater nicht. Ich gewinne
bestimmt den Rundflug mit dem Helikopter. Wenn ich Lust hab,
dann sag ich zu meinem Vater, dass er mir auch einen Helikopter
kaufen soll.“
Danička bedankte sich, schaltete das Mikro aus und setzte sich
ans Fenster in einer Ecke des Vestibüls, weit weg von all den
wertvollen Sachen. Dort fand sie der Redakteur Jožo.
„Warum bist du denn so traurig? Schau doch, wie viele Kinder
gekommen sind und wie viele wertvolle Sachen sie mitgebracht
haben“, versuchte er sie aufzuheitern.
„Hes hist doch fast halles das Gleiche. Niemand hat hetwas
Wertvolles mitgebracht, was die handeren nicht haben. Hich kann
keinen Sieger verkünden“, sagte Danička.
„Und was ist mit dem Mädchen dort?“, zeigte der Redakteur
Jožo auf ein hübsches Mädchen mit blonden Haaren und einer
rosa Schleife. „Wer weiß, was die hier macht, wo sie doch gar
nichts mitgebracht hat.“
Danička lebte auf, machte das Mikro wieder an und flog zu dem
Mädchen hinüber.
„Bist du heinfach nur so gucken gekommen? Hohne hetwas
Wertvolles? Hast du gar nichts mitgebracht?“, fragte sie.
„Na hör mal …! Ich selbst bin schließlich das Wertvollste auf der
Welt. Das sagt mein Papa, und meine Mama auch“, antwortete das
Mädchen hochnäsig.
Der Redakteur begriff, dass auch sie nicht die Siegerin sein
konnte. So ein aufgeblasenes Mädchen durfte man nicht auf einen
Rundflug mitnehmen, denn wer sich aufbläst, der platzt auch
irgendwann. Und was wäre, wenn das Mädchen ausgerechnet im
Helikopter platzen würde? Sie könnten abstürzen!
Es schien, als würde niemand gewinnen, als plötzlich ein ganz
normaler Junge hereinkam. Er hatte weder eine Lederjacke noch
einen Rekorder noch ein Moped. Er trug ein blau-weiß gestreiftes
T-Shirt und kurze Hosen.
„Guten Tag“, grüßte er. „Bin ich hier richtig beim Radiosender?
Ich habe gehört, dass jeder hierher kommen und die wertvollste
Sache der Welt vorzeigen darf. Ich heiße Laco und würde euch
gern diese Sache zeigen.“
„Ja, du bist hier ganz richtig“, nickte Danička. „Aber wo hast du
denn deine wertvollste Sache?“
„Ich hab sie vor der Tür gelassen.“
„Passt sie etwa nicht durch die Tür? Dass muss ja ein
ordentliches Monstrum sein“, wollte der Redakteur Jožo mal
wieder besonders schlau sein.
„Kommt doch und guckt nach!“
Vor der Tür war gar nichts. „Mach dich nicht über uns lustig“,
sagte der Redakteur Jožo. „Hier ist nichts.“
„Aber ja doch“, ließ Laco nicht locker und zeigte auf die Sonne.
„Dort oben ist die wertvollste Sache, die ich kenne.“
„Die Sonne!“, jauchzte Danička. „Hohne die Sonne würde hes
weder huns geben noch hunsere Heltern noch die handeren
wertvollen Sachen.“
„Und auch keine Mopeds“, ergänzte der Redakteur Jožo
schelmisch.
Die beiden freuten sich, dass sie einen Sieger gefunden hatten.
Und Laco freute sich, dass er während des Rundflugs mit dem
Helikopter der Sonne ein bisschen näher sein würde, und
vielleicht würde es ihm gelingen ihr Guten Tag zu sagen und sie
zu fragen, wie es ihr so geht.
Der Redakteur Jožo lächelte. Er wusste nun, dass es um uns
herum wirklich viele wertvolle Sachen gibt, die man weder
verlieren noch kaputt machen noch stehlen kann.
Übersetzt von Mirko Kraetsch
Illustrated by Ľubomír Guman
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Gabriela Futová
Gabriela Futová
Don’t Be Crazy, Mammy
(extract)
I
GABRIELA FUTOVÁ (1971), children’s
literaure writer. Earning a journalism degree,
she graduated from The Comenius University
in Bratislava. She decided not to dedicate her
life to this profession, though. She is
a freelance writer. At the beginning of her
writing career she intended to write for adult
readers. Actually, it was children and
children’s writing that woke her interest to
write solely for children. She says she loves
children which is marked by her endless
motivation to write about and for them. Her
first children’s book called Our Mum Is a Witch
(Naša mama je bosorka, 2000) kicked off her
creative writing. She attracted the The Club of
the Young Readers’ attention (Klub mladých
čitateľov). The reflection on what the right
mother should be is seriously and comically
depicted in her book I am Looking for a Better
Mum (Hľadám lepšiu mamu, 2001) in which
she gives a description of her childhood flight
from home. The book was awarded “The
Danube Region Romania Prize” and it was
also translated into Hungarian. Her inspiration
comes from acquaitances of hers called the
Lozinskys. She likes writing about them,
especially about their little twin brothers and
their little sister. This became the setting for
her next book Don’t Be Crazy, Mammy
(Nezblázni sa, mamička, 2003). She
considers humour and playfulness a very
important part of her writing. Although Futová
has emerged on the children’s literature scene
only recently, she has estabilished her writing
qualities as a gifted writer of common life,
spoken language and style. Her works are
often based on real situations and lightness of
language. By the means of her humour,
frankness and wit she has aroused both
readers’ and critics’ attention.
wouldn’t wish even my worst enemy to live through the morning that followed. After
our sleepless night we were completely worn out. One look in the mirror was enough
to confirm that I hadn’t just dreamt it all. The horror of that night was real. My head
was as bald as my knee. And Siso’s too.
Mama took one look at us and her coffee cup fell from her hand. And when I remember
the faces of our schoolmates ... To this day my cheeks burn with shame.
Even Siso, master of the situation at other times, was unable to pretend he didn’t care.
During the first two breaks he sat in the classroom as quiet as a mouse, but in the end he
was the one who showed most courage. After the fourth hour’s lessons he was flying
around the school corridors quite the same as before.
Suddenly it struck me that having the temperamental Siso as my twin was very
convenient. By his boldness he made all the gawpers familiar with the fact that we were
bald. And so when I myself finally dared to peep out of the classroom, nobody even
noticed me. Still, everyone must have found it very amusing to watch two equally hairless
lads running around the school.
We quickly came to terms with the loss of our hair; after all, the hair would grow again.
But we didn’t forgive our sister for her misdeed. Quite the contrary. We racked our brains
to think of a way we could make as much trouble for her as she had made for us. And then
the idea came to me.
“Siso?” I said, breaking in on my brother’s weighty thoughts. “I reckon I’ve come up
with something.”
“If you’re thinking of the razor, forget it. I thought of that already, but Dad has put it
away and I don’t know where. It could take us forever to find it.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the razor,” I explained to my brother. “I have something better in
mind.”
Siso immediately gave me his full attention.
“I thought of the photo albums. You know, the ones that Mama loves looking at.”
“What about them?”
“Do you remember how Dasha tore one photo out of our hands, the one that shows her
as a baby completely naked?”
“I remember, of course I do. She turned the whole flat into a circus,” Siso said,
beginning to smile. “Are you thinking of the same thing as me?”
“Exactly that!” I nodded.
“Let’s do it!” Siso jumped up and ran for the albums. We had no problem finding the
photo. I really don’t understand why people take such pleasure in snapping small
children without any clothes. Just so that later on the person in the photo will be
ashamed. There are similar photos of Siso and me, but we confiscated these immediately
so that our sister would be unable to take a similar revenge.
We put back the albums in their place. Until someone looked through them the photo
we had removed would not be missed.
In the morning we immediately put our plan into practice. We went to school a little bit
early and while I stood guard Siso pinned Dasha’s photo to the noticeboard in her
classroom. He put it quite high up so that our sister could not reach it, and with a red felt
pen he wrote beneath it: Dasha Naked.
That was all. We fled from the classroom before the first student entered, and we roared
laughing like lunatics.
Our laughter didn’t last the whole day. At lunchtime we saw Dasha in the canteen with
her classmates. She looked normal. In fact, when she noticed us she came over to us with
a smile on her face.
“Thank you, little brothers!” she said in a self-important tone. “Because of you I’m the
most popular girl in the class. Even the teacher praised me for my bright idea. Tomorrow
the others have to bring in their own photos as babies. It seems we’re to have an
exhibition on the noticeboard, so that we can see how this or that person has changed.”
She smiled at us contemptuously and off she went with an air of importance, to rejoin
her classmates.
I was completely at a loss for words. So too was Siso, evidently. How could our sister be
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Gabriela Futová
so fortunate. Why was she able to turn to her own benefit every
trap that we laid? It didn’t make sense. Well, she was so small!
The rest of that day brought us no joy. But the following day
took us totally by surprise.
We had no reason to hurry to school. And so when we finally
arrived, most of our fellow students were already in the classroom.
“Well then? Have you found the girlfriends already?” Milan
asked as soon as we got to the door.
“What are you on about? What girlfriends?” Siso demanded
angrily.
“Stop pretending!” the classmate said with a grin. “We all know
anyhow that you’re looking for girlfriends!”
“For kissing!” giggled the class gossip Dana, and immediately
withdrew into a huddle of tittering girls.
“What drivel are you talking?” I said, rushing in among them,
but the stupid creatures ran in all directions, whooping.
“About this!” Misho produced a piece of paper on which
someone had written in crooked letters with a coloured felt-tip
pen:
SISO AND PISHKO, THE ONE-AND-ONLY BALDHEADED
TWINS, ARE LOOKING FOR TWO GIRLFRIENDS FOR KISSING:
ANYONE WHO IS INTERESTED SHOULD REPORT TO 4B!
“Give me that!” Siso grabbed the paper from his hands.
“No use getting mad!” Misho chuckled. “It’s all over the school!”
I felt like giving him one in the teeth, the little sneerer, but there
was no time for that. Siso and I ran from the classroom as if for
dear life.
“She’s gone too far!” Siso said furiously as he ran. “Treacherous
creature! She let on nothing, and all the while she was plotting
vengeance! She’ll regret this!”
We ran into the sister’s classroom. Her teacher was standing in
front of the blackboard.
“What do you want, boys? The bell will go in a few minutes, you
ought to return to your classroom!”
“We ....” I gasped brokenly. “We, we need to speak with our
sister,” I blurted out finally.
Dasha looked at us with horror, then fixed her terrified eyes on
the teacher.
To our satisfaction the teacher nodded to her, signalling she
should go out to us. Reluctantly she approached.
“You viper!” Siso hissed quietly.
“If you touch me I’ll tell the teacher,” Dasha whispered in terror,
and together we went out to the corridor.
As soon as the door had closed Siso wanted to fling himself on
her, but I held him back.
“Dasha, if you tell us all the places where you left your
advertisements, we won’t beat you.”
“But ...” Siso wanted to protest. I yelled at him: “If you use force
on her, not alone will she tell you nothing but she’ll complain to
the teacher. And that’s something we really don’t need.”
I turned to our sister.
“So where are they?”
“In all the girls’ toilets. And on the canteen door.”
As soon as she had said this, she turned and ran off to the
classroom.
We had to move fast to get round all the toilets. We did indeed
find the advertisements, which we immediately tore up. If the bell
had rung in the meantime, so what? Our honour as boys was more
important than the Slovak lesson.
However, our teacher saw things differently. For being 15
minutes late we got marks in our attendance books. In the end she
threatened that if we made any more mischief she would want to
speak to our parents, and that was the very last thing we needed.
Once Mama had talked to the teacher she would pack us off to the
children’s home without any more delay.
Besides thrills and adventures employed in
Futová’s children’s literature books, the author
both profoundly and tactfully spells out the
ethical dimension of human thinking and
emphasizes the importance of family
background.
Futová deals with the issues of world of adults
viewed through the eyes of children’s eyes.
Her works which estabilish human relations
thus meet children’s needs for thrilling
reading.
ZUZANA STANISLAVOVÁ
Illustrated by Peter Cpin
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17
Peter Karpinský
Peter Karpinský
Mein
Leben mit Tocktock
Wie wir sauber gemacht haben
und wie in unserem Zimmer
ein Garten erblüht ist
PETER KARPINSKÝ (1971), Dichter,
Kinderbuchautor, Hörspielautor. Er
veröffentlichte seine Arbeiten und Fachstudien
in den Zeitschriften Dotyky, Slovenské
pohľady, Vlna, Literika, Bibiana usw.
Er debütierte 1997 mit dem Erzählungsband
Wir teilen allen Gräberinhabern mit
(Oznamujeme všetkým majiteľom hrobov).
2001 erschien sein erfolgreiches Märchenbuch Wie wir mit Tocktock tocktockten
(Ako sme s Ťukťukom ťukťukovali), in dem ein
ungewöhnlicher Märchenheld das tägliche
Leben kommentiert und mitgestaltet. Für
seine feinfühlige Komik, seinen Humor und
großen Sinn für die Poesie des Alltags erhielt
der Autor für dieses Buch die Auszeichnung
„Das beste Märchenbuch des Jahres 2001“.
Karpinský schrieb auch den Märchenzyklus
Märchen aus dem Museum der Rätsel und
der Geheimnisse (Rozprávky z Múzea záhad
a tajomstiev) sowie die Märchenhörspiele
Die Krone der Zeit und die blaue Ziege
(Koruna času a modrá koza) und Nektar aus
den Eisblumen (Nektár z ľadových kvetov).
D
urchs Fenster wehte ein frisches Frühlingslüftchen herein und große Staubflocken
trieben wie bewegliche Präriesträucher aus dem Wilden Westen über den Boden.
Aber Moment mal, wir lebten doch nicht in der Prärie, sondern unsere Wohnung
lag in einer Stadtrandsiedlung!
„Tocktock, könntest du für einen Augenblick mal hierher kommen?“, rief ich meinen
Freund und er kam auch gleich angerannt. Er wirbelte dabei so viel Staub auf, dass wir
fast fünf Minuten warten mussten, bis er sich wieder gelegt hatte. Danach sagte ich: „Ich
glaube, wir sollten hier mal sauber machen.“
„Warum denn?“, wollte Tocktock das nicht begreifen.
„Ja siehst du denn nicht, was hier für eine Unordnung herrscht?“
„Unordnung?“, fragte Tocktock mich ungläubig. Er sah sich im Zimmer um. Die
schmutzige Socke, die ihm zu Füßen lag, kickte er unter den Tisch. „So. Fertig!“,
verkündete er.
„Sofort hebst du sie auf!“, wurde ich böse.
„Komm raus da!“, befahl Tocktock der Socke, aber die bewegte sich kein Stück. „Es
sieht so aus, als hätte sie keine Lust“, sagte er, „und eigentlich hab auch ich keine Lust
sauber zu machen. Ich geh lieber spielen.“ Er drehte sich auf dem Absatz um und wollte
sich verdrücken.
„Wenn du jetzt gehst, dann …“, begann ich mit drohender Stimme, „dann kriegst du am
Sonntag nach dem Mittagessen keine Orangencreme.“ Für Tocktock war das die
allerschlimmste Drohung. Er beschloss also zu bleiben. „Was wolltest du gleich noch mal
machen?“, fragte er zur Sicherheit nach.
„Sauber machen.“
„Schon wieder?“
„Was heißt hier: schon wieder? Schließlich habe ich den ganzen Winter nicht sauber
gemacht. Guck doch, auf dem Fußboden liegen ganze Gebirge aus Staub. Anstelle von
Gardinen haben wir Spinnweben vor den Fenstern, und vor lauter Dreck kann man durch
sie nicht bis auf die Straße gucken. Ja, ich weiß nicht einmal, ob Tag oder Nacht ist.“
„So gefällt mir das“, stimmte Tocktock begeistert ein. „Das ist wie in einem
Spukschloss.“
„Ich werd dir helfen! Von wegen Spukschloss … Jetzt wird hier aufgeräumt und basta!“,
legte ich fest. „Du fegst den Boden und ich putz Fenster.“
Tocktock seufzte kläglich, aber trotzdem verjagte er aus dem Besen die Spinne Karola,
die sich dort gerade ein neues Netz spann, und begann zu fegen. Von rechts nach links
und von links nach rechts. Er stob mit solcher Kraft durchs Zimmer, dass der Dreck durch
die Luft flog wie in einem Wirbelsturm. Bis unter die Decke erhoben sich die Wolken aus
Staub, der sich dann an den unmöglichsten Stellen wieder absetzte. PENG! Im Eifer des
Reinemachens fegte Tocktock zusammen mit dem Staub auch ein Trinkglas weg. Ich
versuchte nicht darauf zu achten und putzte weiter meine Fenster. PENG, befreite
Tocktock die Welt von einer Kaffeetasse. Immer schön ruhig bleiben, sagte ich mir, es gibt
nichts mehr, was er noch kaputt machen könnte. PENG, fand Tocktock doch immer noch
etwas, zum Beispiel einen Porzellanteller. Aber ich biss die Zähne zusammen und
polierte, was das Zeug hielt, mit alten Zeitungen die Fensterscheiben. Dabei merkte ich
nicht einmal, wie sich der von Tocktock aufgewirbelte Staub sofort wieder auf ihnen
niederließ. Als ich die Fenster fertig geputzt hatte, waren sie noch schmutziger als vorher
und von weitem erinnerten sie an schlammige Felder nach dem Regen. Außerdem war zu
dem ganzen Dreck auch noch ein Haufen neuer Scherben hinzugekommen.
„So wird das nichts“, murrte ich. „Wir müssen uns was einfallen lassen.“
Illustrated by Svetozár Mydlo
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Peter Karpinský
„Mir ist schon was eingefallen“, meldete sich Tocktock, „wir
lassen alles so, wie es ist, und gehen spielen.“
„Nix ist!“, erwiderte ich barsch. „Heute machen wir sauber, und
wenn deswegen unser Wohnblock einstürzen sollte!“
„Wie du willst.“ Tocktock holte wieder mit dem Besen aus und
schon begann die wertvolle Vase, die auf dem Schränkchen stand,
bedenklich zu schwanken.
„Es reicht!“, schrie ich. Darauf hatte Tocktock nur gewartet. Er
ließ augenblicklich den Besen fallen und wollte sich verkrümeln,
aber ich packte ihn am Schlafittchen: „Ich weiß, wie
wir’s machen.“
„O je, o je“, seufzte er, denn er hatte begriffen, dass er mir heut
nicht so leicht entrinnen konnte.
Wir gingen beide zum Hausmeister und liehen uns von ihm die
Schaufel aus, mit der er im Winter auf der Straße Schnee schippte.
Mit vereinten Kräften stemmten wir uns gegen sie und mit Ach
und Krach schafften wir es, den Dreck auf dem Boden in die
Zimmermitte zu bugsieren. Ich kann euch sagen: Das war ein
Haufen, so groß wie die Hohe Tatra. Außer dem Staub fand sich
darin auch noch eine Menge interessanter Sachen wieder. Zum
Beispiel drei gelbe Socken. Das war wirklich seltsam, denn sowohl
ich als auch Tocktock hatten je zwei Beine. Wem also gehörte die
dritte Socke? Tocktock behauptete, dass uns bestimmt
Außerirdische besucht hätten, denn es war ja allgemein bekannt,
dass nur sie drei Beine haben konnten. Angeblich hätten die auch
den Staub hereingeschleppt, und wenn das also Weltraumstaub
wäre, dann wäre es schade ihn wegzuwerfen. Ich ließ mich nicht
rumkriegen ihn aufzuheben und schmiss den ganzen Dreck in den
Müll. In diesem Moment verkündete Tocktock: „Fertig!“
„Keineswegs! Was ist mit den Fenstern?“
„Wir schlagen die Scheiben kaputt und der Glaser setzt uns
saubere wieder ein. Das geht vollkommen ohne Mühe.“
Den Vorschlag fand ich gar nicht so übel, aber als ich
zusammenrechnete, was mich neue Fenster kosten würden,
kehrte ich lieber zur traditionellen Methode zurück, zu Wasser
und Lappen.
Wie verrückt schrubbten wir die blöden Fenster, aber der
Schmutz war hartnäckig. Mit Händen und Füßen hielt er sich am
Glas fest. Es war eine viehische Plackerei, die uns überhaupt nicht
von der Hand ging. Tocktock fiel zweimal fast aus dem Fenster, als
er versuchte es von draußen zu putzen. Nach ungefähr zwei
Stunden angestrengter Arbeit hatten wir es irgendwie geschafft.
An einigen Stellen waren noch schmutzige Flecken übrig
geblieben, meine Mutter hätte das bestimmt besser hingekriegt,
aber die Hauptsache war, dass es bei uns im Zimmer schlagartig
hell wurde.
„Fertig!“, sagte nun diesmal ich.
„Das ist ja großartig!“, jubelte Tocktock. Endlich können wir
spielen. Da, fang!“, rief er und warf das erstbeste Ding in meine
Richtung, das er in die Hand bekam. Unglücklicherweise war es
der schmutzige Lappen, mit dem er kurz vorher Fenster geputzt
hatte. Mit knapper Not schaffte ich es auszuweichen und der
Lappen blieb mit einem lauten Schmatzen an der Wand kleben.
Dann schmatzte es noch einmal und er fiel wieder von der Wand
ab. An der Tapete hinterließ er allerdings einen riesigen
Schmutzfleck.
„Nun sieh dir an, was du gemacht hast…!“, begann ich
vorwurfsvoll.
„Zufälligerweise ist der Fleck ziemlich hübsch“, unterbrach
mich Tocktock. „Er sieht aus wie ein großer liegender Hund. Ich
wollte schon immer ein Bild von einem Hund an der Wand
haben.“
„Wirklich, er sieht ein bisschen aus wie ein Hund“, musste ich
zugeben, „aber ein ganz schön hässlicher. Mir gefällt er überhaupt
nicht.“
„Wir könnten irgendein Bild vor diese Stelle an die Wand
nageln, oder wir schieben den Schrank davor“, schlug Tocktock
vor.
„Nein, jetzt muss ich das ganze Zimmer neu malern!“
„Hui …“, stöhnte Tocktock wieder.
Malern war eigentlich gar nicht schwer. Zuerst musste man sich
aus einer Zeitung einen Malerhut falten, dann borgte man sich
beim Nachbarn eine Leiter, aus dem Keller holte man die Pinsel
und im Geschäft kaufte man schließlich die Farbe. Wir teilten uns
die Arbeit. Tocktock malerte, weil er kleiner war, die untere Hälfte
der Wände, und ich, weil ich größer war und außerdem auf der
Leiter stand, die obere Hälfte und die Decke. Nach knapp drei
Stunden waren wir fertig. Tocktock wollte zum Schluss auch noch
die frisch geputzten Fenster anstreichen. Zur Sicherheit nahm ich
ihm lieber den Pinsel weg.
Mit dem Gefühl, gute Arbeit geleistet zu haben, traten wir einen
Schritt zurück, um unser Meisterwerk zu betrachten …
Es war eine Katastrophe!!! Wir haben zwar gemeinsam
gemalert, aber jeder mit einer anderen Farbe. Tocktock hatte Blau
genommen, ich Gelb. Eine Hälfte der Wände leuchtete jetzt wie
der Himmel, die andere strahlte wie die Sonne. Und da, wo sich
die Farben trafen, waren schmutziggrüne Kleckse entstanden, die
aussahen wie die Grünflächen in unserem Viertel.
„Und was machen wir jetzt?“, rief ich aus. Die Vorstellung, dass
wir noch einmal von vorn beginnen müssten, entsetzte mich.
„Ich hab eine Idee“, meldete sich nach einer Weile Tocktock zu
Wort, „aber wir brauchen noch mehr Farben. Rot, Braun, Violett,
Orange, Weiß…“ Anschließend machte er ein geheimnisvolles
Gesicht und mehr war aus ihm nicht herauszubekommen.
Ich rannte also los, um im Geschäft einen Haufen verschiedener
Farben zu kaufen.
„Wollen Sie einen Zirkus ausmalen?“, fragte belustigt die
Verkäuferin, als ich aus dem Laden ging.
„Ts, was werd ich der denn erklären“, winkte ich ab und mit
dem Arm voller Farbdosen sah ich zu, dass ich nach Hause kam.
Tocktock wartete schon und war in Bereitschaft, das
Malerhütchen hatte er sich schräg aufgesetzt wie ein richtiger
Künstler und seine Hand umklammerte fest den Pinsel. Zuerst
tunkte er ihn in die rote Farbe und malte auf die grüne
Klecksewiese eine Rose. Dann tauchte er den Pinsel in die braune
Farbe und zauberte auf die himmelblaue Wandhälfte ein
Vögelchen, ich glaube, es war eine Nachtigall. Außerdem malte er
noch einen bunten Schmetterling, eine Meise, eine Taube, eine
Mohnblüte, eine Kornblume, eine Spinne, eine riesige Biene, eine
Margerite, eine Glockenblume und eine Libelle … Nach einer
Weile sah unser Wohnzimmer wie eine riesige blühende Wiese
aus, über der Schwärme von allen möglichen Vögeln und Insekten
ihre Runden drehten.
„Ist das schön…“, flüsterte ich.
„Gefällt’s dir?“, fragte Tocktock.
Ich nickte. „Ich wusste gar nicht, dass du so schön malen
kannst. Das ist großartig, meine Wohnung hat noch nie so lustig
ausgesehen wie jetzt“, kam ich nicht aus dem Staunen heraus.
„Also krieg ich am Sonntag Mittag die Orangencreme?“, fragte
Tocktock.
„Natürlich, dafür kriegst du so viele Nachspeisen, wie du
willst.“
Tocktock leckte sich voller Vorfreude die Lippen und ich konnte
meinen Blick nicht von der ganzen Schönheit losreißen. Ich hatte
nicht einmal bemerkt, dass es vor unserem geputzten Fenster
schon dunkel geworden war.
Als ich mich ins Bett legte, hatte ich das Gefühl, als würde ich
den betörenden Duft von all den an die Wand gemalten
Zauberblumen riechen.
„Hörst du das?“, stupste Tocktock mich in die Seite.
Ich lauschte. In unserem Wohnzimmer sang eine Nachtigall.
Übersetzt von Mirko Kraetsch
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19
Marek Vadas
Marek Vadas
The Fairytales of
B lack Africa
The Antelope And the Leopard
T
MAREK VADAS (1971) is a representative of
the so-called Post-absurd literature of black
and green humour. His first collection of short
stories The Small Novel (Malý román, 1994)
was welcomed predominantly by young
readers. The novel The University (Univerzita)
came out in 1996. It criticised teachers for
their approach to students and for treating
them badly. The next book is the collection of
short stories called The Devil Under a Cap
(Diabol pod čapicou, 2002). Vadas’ latest
work is a collection of 37 short stories entitled
Why Does Death Laugh? (Prečo sa smrtka
smeje?, 2003) which deals with unusual
issues, such as: “Why is it so that Death
laughs?”, “What do voodoo cult and a bank
clerk have in common?”, etc.
The book of fairytales called The Fairytales of
Black Africa (Rozprávky z čiernej Afriky, 2004)
deals with stories about the continent which is
rich in stories of mystery and thrills. The story
narration of the forefathers of present Africa
was marked with their wisdom and the clarity
and simplicity with which they would tell their
stories to their audience. The stories clarified
laws on nature or explained the origin of many
things or phenomena. The mysterious stories
of Marek Vadas are full of ghosts and kings,
people and animals. There are many stories
which make us really think about things we are
just reading about. The book is divided into
three sections: the first is called The Animals
(Zvieratá), the second is called The Animals
and The People (Zvieratá a ľudia) and the third
one is called The People and The Ghosts
(Ľudia a duchovia). After a few journeys to
equatorial Africa, Marek Vadas has now
finished writing his Africa travelogue People of
Flesh and Bones.
he leopard once bet his life that he could track down any animal in the bush. The
antelope took him at his word and ran off to hide in the thick undergrowth. The
leopard set out to follow her trail, but lost it after the first puddle. He
couldn’t understand this because nothing like it had ever happened to him before. He
searched and searched and lost his way, until tired and perplexed he finally collapsed on
his bed.
In the morning the antelope woke him up. “Well? Haven’t you forgotten your bet? You
were meant to be looking for me, not sleeping!”
The leopard began to make all kinds of excuses. Apparently, he’d had a headache, the
weather had been bad, the antelope had run off too far and that’s not what they had
agreed, and so on. In the end, he said: This time I’ll go and hide in the bush, and if you
manage to find me by tomorrow, my life will be in your hands and you can decide for
yourself what you do with it.”
The antelope agreed and the leopard ran off. After a while, however, he stopped and
said to himself:” I’m not going to go running about the forest for nothing! I’ll collect a few
nuts to keep me going until the morning and I’ll lock myself up in my hut. No one can
possibly see me there.”
And that is what he did. He gathered a few nuts and put them in his bag. Then he crept
into his hut through the back door. Once there, he closed the shutters and barred the
door. In the morning he would run out into the yard and the bet would be won!
The leopard made himself comfortable in his favourite rocking chair and tucked into
the nuts. However, as soon as he cracked the first one, a beautiful young woman stepped
out of the shell. One look was enough for him to fall hopelessly in love with her. At that
moment he was willing to do anything whatsoever if only the woman would become his
wife.
“I’m not against it, but first you must pull out those ridiculous, clumsy claws,” said the
woman in answer to his proposal. The leopard immediately tore out his claws and gazed
at her expectantly.
“That’s better, but I can’t help it. Those teeth of yours look rather peculiar to me. They
stick out of your jaws as if they didn’t belong to you,” the woman went on, and then
happily watched while the leopard picked up a stone and with two strong blows knocked
out his sharp canine teeth and lower incisors.
“There. Do you like me now?” lisped the leopard.
“You look a lot better, believe me. Now all you need is to do something with your eyes.
They are so cold, they’re scary. I’d be afraid to lie down beside you, if you looked at me
like that,” smiled the beautiful woman.
The leopard was so fascinated by her beauty, that without a moment’s hesitation, he
gouged out both his eyes with a stick.
“Well? Will you become my wife?” he asked despairingly; but instead of a reply, he only
heard malicious laughter.
“Ha, ha, ha! You’ve lost your bet!” cried the beautiful woman, changing into an
antelope and abandoning the disfigured leopard to his fate.
That is why to this very day all leopards chase antelopes and eat them. They want to
avenge their humiliated ancestor.
A Country With No Graves
N
daye was not yet grown up when his mother died of a serious illness. He and his
brothers prepared the funeral and buried their mother with all due ceremony.
Next day, when they were sitting around the fire, Ndaye spoke to his brothers:
“I don’t like living in a country where people die. Struggling all your life, toiling in the
fields, building a home, and all of it wasted. Nothing lasts and one way or another you
end up in the grave.”
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Jana Bodnárová
“But that’s what happens to everyone. Don’t think about death,
think about life,” his brother replied.
“No! I’ve made up my mind. I’m off to find a country where
people don’t die. I can only live happily where there are no
graves,” said Ndaye and packed his things.
It wasn’t long before he really did set off southwards. After some
time, he came to a town where there were people with much paler
skins. They lived in completely different houses and worshipped
other gods. However, they looked happy; in the evening they all
danced and enjoyed themselves, so Ndaye stayed there for the
night.
“Everyone’s happy here. That must be because people in this
country don’t die…” he addressed an old man who was sitting
under a tree, chewing kola nuts.
“Nonsense,” the old man replied with a smile.
“But I haven’t seen any graves around here!” Ndaye said in
surprise.
“That’s because in our parts we bury the dead in our houses.
They rest in the ground beneath our kitchens and go on helping us
when we are in difficulty. They live with us even after death,” the
old man explained and the boy’s questions kept him laughing for
a long time.
So in the morning Ndaye packed his bag and went on his way,
in search of the country he longed so much to find. He traveled for
a long time through thick forests and swamps. He passed through
many towns, but there were graves everywhere. Some were
marked with piles of rocks, others only in a simple way at the edge
of the forest, some were covered with a smooth layer of soil just
outside the huts, others surrounded with sacrificial gifts and
protective statues of gods.
He had almost walked his legs off, when he came to another
country without graves.
“Good morning. Do you bury the dead in your houses as well?”
he eagerly asked someone at the market. The man burst out
laughing: “Oh, no, we don’t bury the dead.”
That was a weight off Ndaye’s mind! Relieved, he asked once
more, just to make sure: “So people don’t pass away in your
country?”
“No, indeed, they don’t pass away,” said the man and laughed
even more.
Ndaye felt happier than ever before in his life. He bought a jug
of beer at the market and in the evening he went to see the tribal
chief. He wanted to ask him whether he could stay and live in this
exceptional town.
The tribal chief granted his request and immediately invited him
to a feast. They sat around a fire, drank palm wine and the
servants began to bring them dishes of food. Ndaye was enticed by
the delicious smell of spices and his mouth began to water, but
when he reached out to take his share from the dish, he was taken
aback by the sight of an unusual bone among the roast meat.
“What did you prepare the feast from? I’ve never eaten an
animal like that at home,” he turned to the tribal chief, who was
sitting on his right.
The tribal chief roared with laughter, just like the man at the
market, but much louder and unrestrained. “What animal! Ha, ha,
ha! I haven’t heard that one before!” he guffawed, doubling up and
beating his fists in the dust.
Ndaye couldn’t understand what it was all about. He looked
round, hoping someone would explain what he’d said that was so
funny. Only then, in the glare of the flames from the torches
burning at the door to the shrine did he notice a shiny human
skull. Only now did he realize he had arrived in the land of
cannibals. That was why they didn’t bury the dead! That was why
people here did not pass away – as soon as they sensed they were
getting some illness, their relatives killed them and ate them.
Ndaye began to tremble and the crazed laughter of the tribal
chief echoed in his ears. In horror he slowly retreated from the fire
and the moment he was out of reach of the flames, he fled into the
darkness. He ran all night and all day and then he traveled for
several weeks to his home in the north. He returned to his brothers
and it never ever occurred to him again to look for a country
without graves. He had discovered that happiness and love could
only be found among ordinary people.
Like
“Beyond the Mirror”
Inter view with Jana Bodnárová,
b y M i r o s l a v a Va l l o v á
JANA BODNÁROVÁ (1950),
prose writer, poet, children’s writer, scenario writer. Her original and
remarkable literary work is already a lasting contribution to modern
Slovak literature.
MIROSLAVA VALLOVÁ: One of the giants of world literature once
remarked that a writer, for whom writing is no life’s necessity should
not attempt a writer’s career at all. That granted, let me ask you: what
compels a writer to write for children? Is writing for you a single
creative area or do you feel different when writing for children? You are
a versatile author: poet, fiction-writer, writer of essays, filmmaker, an
acclaimed dramatic author. What compelled you to try children
literature? Are the benefits equally satisfying?
Jana Bodnárová: My first impulse was a sudden, almost
compulsive need to achieve a certain clean and bright, sort of
initial state of my own mind. A state of mind that would be close
to that of a child’s. One reason could have been the “dirtiness” of
my own mind at that time. You know, I need to have it relaxed,
cleaned and transparent, more happy. This would require digging
through a multiple layers to the ability to see things “for the first
time”, looking at the world with insistence, curiosity and
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Jana Bodnárová
enthusiasm, which is just what children do. On the other hand,
though, I must say I find my writing takes place within a “single
creative space” whether writing for children or adults –
I can’t quite deny myself, my state of mind, which does not
contain only happy ideas. Nevertheless, writing for children
helps to tune in on a positive note. Thus far for the general
impulse. A more specific reason was provided by my own small
children, with whom I used to do a lot of reading. It was a matter
of time for me to start making up little stories for them: on the
raindrop, on the snowflake, on the strayed baby ant... or on the
“big things” of nature – rainbow, mist... and, obviously, children.
Modern children of our time. It is for them I am writing today,
although it has been 25 years in the making. It brings more inner
harmony, a feeling of relief, asylum from the harsh reality of the
adult world. Adult writing, on the other hand, is my secondchoice life. Call it escapism. But, then, it is escapism back
towards reality.
MIROSLAVA VALLOVÁ: Referring back to the opening question, what
are the specifics of children writing, if any? What are the musts and the
necessities?
Jana Bodnárová: I think children’s literature is specific especially
in terms of language. You can pick different themes, even certain
“edges of life”, yet, you must be able to find an appropriate
language for bringing these over to the kids. The language must
provide certain identification ground for them – playful, witty,
merry..., yet, still somewhat broader than their own language.
Such language can reach the child’s unconscious and backfeed
on its personality. Maybe children’s literature should contain
something of classical fairy-tales or ancient myths: a certain code
of ethics. A belief that good shall overcome evil. Children should
not be scared before life itself does the job.
MIROSLAVA VALLOVÁ: You majored in art history, which is evident in
your work as a writer in terms of topics and style. Some of your works
seem to have the glorious patina of ancient masters, while others shine
through a dramatic abstract painting. Is this the ongoing presence of
the visual conscious? Or is it so much part of you that osmosis simply
provides...
Jana Bodnárová: I don’t know. It could be partly an occupational
disease. For sure, I like the language of images more than that of
abstract ideas. The language of images is older, more deeply
ingrained in us. Closer to the “childhood of mankind”.
MIROSLAVA VALLOVÁ: I know you have been thinking about writing or
editing a sort of introduction or guidebook to art history for children
that should compel them to know how to read and decipher works of
art. Have you found any common ground for what would be an
interesting idea?
Jana Bodnárová: I don’t intend to educate children by feeding
them with any strictly accurate knowledge. It is true, though,
I have written a host of short texts – let’s say – miniature fictions
inspired by specific paintings and sculptures from the ancient
Greeks all the way to the 1960s. These are highly subjective texts.
But they can at least make the children feel able to get beyond
their surface. Like “beyond the mirror”. The book is waiting to be
published.
MIROSLAVA VALLOVÁ: Slovak children’s literature is traditionally of
some high order being written as it is mostly by excellent and
prominent writers and exquisitely illustrated. Needless to say, Slovakia
is, thanks to BIB, sometimes referred to as the capital of children’s
books illustration. What from the very best of Slovak children’s
literature do you find worthy of going international? And are the Slovak
kids still missing something?
Jana Bodnárová: A hard question to give a comprehensive
answer to. Essentially, in terms of literature, these would surely
be our fairy-tales (beautifully rendered by Ľubomír Feldek). The
Roma fairy-tales are true gems and I think have been translated
to French. As for the authors, the texts of Feldek, Ďuríčková,
Hevier, Uličiansky, Rúfus, Groch, Vášová, Tanská, Jarunková...
will certainly do. As for illustrators – Hložník, Brunovský, Kállay,
Kiselová-Siteková, and Uchnár, Palo and Kopták from the more
recent ones. I wish our children could lay their hands on the
highly cultured, original and explorable books published by
some Japanese and Korean publishers. And those great
Scandinavian children books should be back and retranslated!
MIROSLAVA VALLOVÁ: Last year you went to the Children’s Book Fair
in Bologna. The workshops with small Italian kindergarten kids gave
birth to your new work undertaken together with illustrator Miloš
Kopták.
Jana Bodnárová: Even now I recollect the tiny faces of different
races in the kindergartens of Bologna. Those mixed complexions
and markedly different features on one hand, and the typically
common responses of children on the other – expectations,
curiosity, openness, anxiousness of “I wanna paint!” in the Miloš
Kopták’s project. Their teachers told us the children liked to
“exchange” words from their respective mother tongues. Those
kindergartens can provide excellent schooling in terms of
tolerance and respect of otherness, which is still far from being
taken for granted anywhere in Europe. M. Kopták and I have
been working on that book of texts based on paintings and
sculptures by global artists. M. Kopták wants to have the
reproductions accompanied by additional, less striking
illustrations that will bring in the feeling of an imaginary gallery.
The title should be My First Gallery. Initially, I thought the
reproductions would be accompanied by their subjective
renditions in children’s illustrations. However, this proved too
much of a project.
MIROSLAVA VALLOVÁ: The Italian publisher Falzea is preparing the
translation of your book Dievčatko z veže (A Small Girl from the Tower).
The publisher says he was struck by the intertwining of reality and the
beautiful world of children’s fantasies. Any special well-wishing for your
“girl” before it hits the road?
Jana Bodnárová: A Small Girl from the Tower is a story of a ten-years-old Ajka, who lives with her single mother – an architect
in an ancient reconstructed tower. These are the “edges of life”,
to some extent, and yet, the girl is able to live her interesting life
fully, without having complexes, though with some typical
trouble. I am happy for the book to be published in Italy. I hope
I can find there as many rewarding readers as in this country.
Translated by Ľuben Urbánek
“Maybe children’s literature should contain something of classical fairy-tales or ancient myths:
a certain code of ethics. A belief that good shall overcome evil. Children should not be scared
before life itself does the job.”
JA N A B O D N Á ROVÁ
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Stanislav Rakús
Stanislav Rakús
An Un w ri tt e n N ov el
thus placed into the position of narrator and guide
of the story at the same time. Rakús shows here his
skills as a writer of feeling and, an accurate
A
STANISLAV RAKÚS (1940), prose writer,
literary scholar. The first book he wrote was a
novella called The Beggars (Žobráci, 1976).
The plot of the story is set in unspecified
period of monarchy. He builds on the
traditions of lyrical prose and naturism. Rakús
did not understand the theme (beggars) as
a social problem. He has concentrated on it as
a psychological phenomenon. He is interested
in people on the periphery of society and he
looks for their human dimension. His next
book was a collection of short stories and
novellas, The Song on Well Water (Pieseň
o studničnej vode, 1979). These stories also
bear tragic undertones going back to the late
19th and early 20th centuries. His inspiration
from the present is reflected in his novelette
Temporal Notes (Temporálne poznámky,
1993). In this piece, he wrote about his
personal and career experience as a man and
a teacher.
He is one of the few literary scholars who
devotes his time to artistic prose and literary
science. His first book on literary theory was
Prose and Reality (Próza a skutočnosť, 1982)
in which he concentrated on modern Slovak
prose textual analysis, research and literary
ontology, as well. This trend was followed by
Epic Attitudes (Epické postoje, 1988). In the
book Between Polysemy and Accuracy (Medzi
mnohoznačnosťou a presnosťou, 1993)
Rakús deals with perception in literary works.
His most complex work on literary theory
includes Poetics of Prosaic Text (Poetika
prozaického textu,1995). It is not poetics in
the right sense of the word. Rakús introduces
his new analyses on literary science here.
Unwritten novel is one of the author’s
masterpieces maintaining the trends of his
previous works. Here, the main character,
Adam Zachariáš, tells his story of Slovakia
before the year 1989. Zachariáš is depicted as
the author of what happens in the book. He is
(extract)
portrayer of human souls. His excellence at
depicting literary characters and penetrating into
their minds always attracts the reader’s attention.
ssistant Professor Firkner goes to the faculty regularly, of his own accord, without
being forced to. He sits around, walks about, stretches his limbs, reads the
newspaper and the post, talks to his heart’s content, telephones anyone and
everyone, expresses surprise over some trifle, has his elevenses in the snack bar and looks
forward to lunchtime. He eats two helpings of soup, followed by the main course, helps
himself to and drinks three lots of tea or chicory coffee, available from the same vending
machine as the tea. He puts four slices of bread into his pocket; three he takes home, one
he eats at work – bit by bit, just to pass the time, as if he were chewing gum. He dozes for
a while in his room, once more expresses surprise at something and begins to gather
together the documents necessary for the administrative reports. He usually takes the
materials home. Some of them he has already procured before lunch, after receiving three
orders from Frič. He looks through the material, contemplating how to go about it. His
preoccupation, the way he scratches his head, as well as the competent self-confidence
reflected in his face reminds one of a maintenance man who is considering the best way
to install electric wiring or where to start mending a refrigerator. Pondering whether he is
likely to come up against some difficulty or whether he has everything he needs, he
resembles a repairman working out how to proceed and checking to make sure he has all
the necessary tools. At such moments, as a sign of satisfaction, he always whistles quietly,
almost inaudibly, to himself. When he has put everything in his briefcase, he can visit the
administrative offices in the afternoon as well, or – if he finds anyone there – even the staff
rooms. He usually pays a visit to the staff rooms in the morning. Especially in one of those
periods when the Dean has sent an emphatic directive in writing to remind the teaching
staff of their duty to be present at the faculty on weekdays between eight and twelve. He
enters a room for three people. If no one is missing – after all, someone could be teaching
at that time, or they could be in the toilet, the library, the snack bar or somewhere else –
he sits down on a fourth chair. He begins to talk. He talks with ease and slowly, regardless
of whether there are three or just two people present. He speaks with ease and slowly
even if it is no more than one person.
The ease of his mode of expression arises from the fact that he burdens it minimally
with a topic; that without apparently doing so on purpose, he manages to keep the topic
secret. This is a strange tendency and a gift. It is hard to concentrate on such speech, but
no one tells Firkner that. Neither does anyone draw his attention to the fact that he is
disturbing them. After all, those who sit in the room disturb each other anyway, even
though they have promised themselves a thousand times that they will work in silence.
When they do manage to achieve this, more or less, the telephone rings or someone
knocks. A student, or perhaps a colleague from another room, and if there is no one else,
Firkner steps in with his art of concealing his topic. With his talent for producing words
lacking the features of and connection with concrete meaning, it is easy for him to draft
administrative reports. It is harder to read these reports or get to the bottom of what
Firkner is talking about. The people in the staff rooms pretend out of politeness. They nod
from time to time, grunt or wrinkle up their faces in simulated surprise. They are loath to
disturb the semblance of communication. They can only relax at those moments when,
under the influence of some practical, concrete issue, Firkner speaks comprehensibly.
His conduct, diligence and ambiguous wording when writing official documents raises
questions about the readership and use of the administrative materials. These written
documents circulate through the customary channels in the bowels of the faculty and the
most important thing about them seems to be the act of handing them in and receiving
them. If necessary, they should serve as evidence that something has taken place, that
work is being done in various fields at the departments, initiative is being shown and the
required tasks carried out. The sphere of initiative, which Firkner stylises equally well as
the sphere of taking stock, appears mainly in the genre of programmes and plans.
If someone read Firkner’s administrative texts carefully, they would discover that they
are above reproach from the orthographic, lexical, morphological and even syntactic
points of view. However, even a thorough reading will not make it possible to reveal more
clearly the nature of the hushed-up topic. In any case, the reader to whom Firkner’s texts
are addressed does not approach them with any such design. Their layout is good, they
are exemplary, free of typing errors. That in itself inspires confidence. Anyone who fails
to discover the topic in this linguist’s precisely written text, gives priority to the belief that
all is in order, rather than embarking on a tedious search.
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Stanislav Rakús
••••••••••••••••••
By keeping secret the nature of his topic, he has made a good
name for himself among the leading officials at the faculty. The
fact that they did not understand the dissertations he submitted on
time to achieve his qualifications won their respect and made
them feel the fault lay with them. They suppressed this unpleasant
feeling by ascribing the breakdown in communication to the
dissimilarity of the specialization in which their close, hardworking, modest colleague had achieved a high degree of
erudition.
From this point of view, too, Firkner could hold his own as Head
of Department – and in many other ways better than Frič.
However, some representatives of the faculty felt sorry for Frič, as
they couldn’t easily forget – and here we can see the strength of
their awareness of what is right and proper – that he had done his
best to help them achieve higher qualifications.
There is also a problem so far as Firkner is concerned. A weak
spot, which in spite of the positive results of all the assessments
cannot be eliminated. It is his bachelor status. It would be odd if
the faculty were to be represented at any level by someone who
was still single at such an age. An assistant professor! A doctor!
A PhD! For heaven’s sake, why hasn’t he got married? This
provokes suggestions of homosexuality, a feeling of abnormality
or – worst of all – the terrible impression that as a clandestine
clergyman he is held in check by vows of chastity. His firm,
unambiguously declared world view is against this. But every time
it is possible to combine the celebration of Teachers’ Day with that
of Good Friday, he will be one of those who must be watched, to
see how they behave when confronted with meat at the official
dinner, with what facial expression they approach whipped ham
paste or liver dumplings in the soup and how their eyes react to
pork cutlets fried in breadcrumbs. Such Teachers’ Day
celebrations allow for a greater degree of insouciance than
International Women’s Day. In contrast to the women’s special
day, for certain teachers grotesque inebriation would be more
convincing as a spontaneous expression of the fact that this
university teacher has rid himself of the silt of his past, his family
background and conservative upbringing, than the singular
confirmation in words of his manifested world view. The difficulty
lay in the fact that none of those under suspicion, including
Assistant Professor Firkner, got as drunk as some reliable
individuals whose world view was beyond question.
There were problems in particular with Vice Dean Barnáš, who,
when drunk, regularly went through stages of melancholy and
aggressiveness. At one Teachers’ Day party he forced them to let
him sing the folk ballad “They cut down the birch tree” with the
band from the army garrison that sponsored them. The musically
capable band put him off for as long as they could, but in the end
they had to resign themselves to it. They began to play the ballad
and let Barnáš sing it solo. In the middle of the second verse the
Vice Dean burst into tears. About an hour later he was banging his
fist on the table and beginning to rant and rave. It was rumoured
that after one business trip he had a fight with his chauffeur that
drew blood. Having made a night of it, he first asked the chauffeur
to let him make himself presentable in his studio flat before being
driven home and then, when he had drunk two or three vodkas,
he responded to his chauffeur’s hospitality and a badly phrased
comment by hitting him in the face with his fist. The chauffeur
gave as good as he got, they fought for a while and then he threw
the Vice Dean out onto the street. Barnáš had to go home on foot.
••••••••••••••••••
Within the closed walls of the university building they
didn’t usually bring up serious or dangerous issues, but played it
safe with frivolous gossip. The favourite and most frequent subject
of these discussions was provided by those not present and
especially things about them which, under other circumstances,
would not have drawn much attention or made people want to talk
about them.
For example, Assistant Professor Bót had noticed much earlier
that whenever his colleague, Associate Professor Ján Augustín,
who shared a room with him, ate something, he then devoted time
23
to his teeth, but it was only during one of the periods of
compulsory attendance that he began to talk about it. Augustín
would eat a little fruit or some biscuits and then immediately go to
the washbasin. He would take out a section of his teeth and when
he had first given the teeth that remained in his mouth a thorough
rinse, he would turn his attention to the teeth he held in his hand.
The whole of this process was not accomplished in silence, but
was accompanied by loud noises. When rinsing his mouth,
Augustín used the water to produce an effect reminiscent of
gargling when you have a sore throat. It was a good thing the basin
was next to the door. He kept it closed with the front part of his
foot, in order to avoid being caught in the act by some female
student while he had half his teeth in his hand and half in his
mouth.
Bót, however, was not the only one to disclose what went on
behind the closed door to their office. He himself became the
target of Augustín’s revelations. Apparently, his colleague Bót had
once asked him out of the blue whether he wouldn’t mind if he
took off his trousers. Well, thanks very much, thought Augustín,
so shocked that for a moment he couldn’t utter a word. When
he’d recovered his wits, he said: “By all means take your trousers
off. As you like! But in the meantime I’m going to the snack bar!”
Sure enough, on days when it rained, Bót would come to the
faculty in his “rain trousers” and when he was alone in his office,
he would change into a clean pair. This even happened two or
three times in Augustín’s presence, while hidden behind the open
door of the cupboard. Such gossip spread like wildfire and now
and then those concerned came to hear about it. That’s how it was
in Bót’s case, too. He couldn’t deny the trousers, but he defended
himself by saying that he had never mentioned taking his trousers
off to Augustín, only changing his trousers. In fact these two
colleagues made each other look ridiculous on account of their
unusual concern for cleanliness. While Ján Augustín was
especially finicky about oral hygiene, Rudolf Bót was very
particular about the cleanliness of his trousers and shoes. Of
course, only during periods when he was abstaining from alcohol.
The moment he returned to drinking, his trousers and shoes gave
him away.
Firkner would never talk about Augustín’s teeth or Bót’s
trousers. He gives the impression that he cannot concentrate on
gossip like that. When whoever is speaking has finished, instead
of responding in some way, he immediately begins to talk in his
obscure manner on some serious topic. In his clear,
comprehensible moments, he turns people’s attention to things no
one else has noticed. He is taken aback by the fact that Mária
Bubínová, senior lecturer at the Department of Pedagogy and
Psychology, has a diacritical mark over the letter “i” missing from
her name in this year’s faculty bulletin. He has already brought
this to her attention. She herself had not noticed the mistake in her
surname. Maybe Doctor Bubínová, a thirty-eight-year-old single
mother, thought that Firkner’s attention to her surname was an
idiosyncratic form of courtship on his part, or even a sign of what
might possibly be serious interest. That was not the case. Firkner
was interested in nothing more than the diacritical mark.
Adam Zachariáš was interested in such things as Augustín’s
teeth and Bót’s trousers. His interest was also aroused by
Firkner’s meticulous reading of the faculty’s bulletins.
They used to come out every year in September and most of the
text was literally identical to that in the previous one. Usually, the
only changes were in the list of teachers and employees. Titles
were added to some names, others announced marriages and yet
others the arrival of a new member of a department. The names of
those who had changed their jobs, died prematurely, retired or
who had had to leave the faculty against their will were dropped
from the list. Apart from Lipník, in the new academic year one
such name was that of Zachariáš, because in the course of time it
had come to light that in the critical years he had appeared in
a radio programme which Assistant Professor Bartoš, a member of
the assessment commission, labelled as subversive and hostile.
Zachariáš immediately realized he could no longer stay at the
faculty. He had to look for a new job. His former neighbour, Imrich
Dúdor, helped him to get into the theatre.
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24
Ivan Štrpk a
EUROPA IST
EIN OFFENER KONTEXT
Ivan Štrpka (1944)
Ursula Macht
Ivan Štrpka
MEISTER MU FÜR DIE PRESSE
D
ichter, Schriftsteller und Übersetzer.
Gründete 1963 mit Ivan Laučík und
Peter Repka im Umfeld der Zeitschrift
„Junges Schaffen“ die Dichtergruppe
„Einsame Läufer“, deren Manifest er
federführend mitverfasste. Für sein Debüt
erhielt er den Krasko-Preis. Versteht
Schreiben und Leben von Anfang an als
Einheit, als Prozess, spricht vom „offenen
Gedicht“. Nach einem Studium der Slawistik
und Romanistik in Bratislava arbeitete Štrpka
als Redakteur bei der demokratischen
Wochenzeitschrift „Kultur-Leben“, die nach
der Okkupation verboten wurde. Erst im
Zuge der Liberalisierungstendenzen Anfang
der 80er Jahre konnte er wieder
veröffentlichen, die Gedichtbände „Jetzt und
andere Inseln“ (1981) und „Vor der
Verwandlung“ (1982) erschienen in rascher
Folge, 1985 kam der Band „Nachrichten aus
dem Apfel“ heraus. Prosagedichte, die er 1989
unter dem Titel „Alles ist in der Eierschale“
veröffentlichte, stellen mit ihrer Botschaft von
Auf- und Umbruch ein literarisches
Vorzeichen der kurz darauf stattfindenden
Ereignisse dar. Im November 1989 engagierte
er sich in vorderster Reihe für die
demokratische Bürgerbewegung. 1991
veröffentlichte Štrpka mit „Schöne nackte
Welt“ eine Gedichtsammlung, die auch Verse
aus den späten sechziger und frühen
siebziger Jahren enthält, die damals nicht
mehr hatten publiziert werden dürfen. Dass
I. GESCHÄFT!
Zur Sicherheit (und zum ewigen Ruhm
der Grillen) schlußendlich noch blitzschnell ein paar Aufnahmen
(Foto Rimbaud, 1993).
Die neuen Reichen lächeln distinguiert in den Blitz und
laden (mich mit leichter Gebärde) ein auf ihr schwebendes Ufer.
Mein Verhältnis zum Geld hat
sich nach dem Krach (des Kommunismus)
überhaupt nicht verändert. Auch nicht das Verhältnis des Geldes (zu mir). Man kann nicht
sagen, daß wir einander sonderlich gesucht hätten.
„Und das ist gut so,“ sage ich ganz am Rande (schnell
aus der feuchten Fotografie gehend wie ein Schatten) wie eine verwischte
Wolke, (gerade) dabei, auf den Kopf zu fallen. (Foto Rimbaud). Wäre doch
kein einziges Auge in der Stadt trocken geblieben.
Geschäft! Gold und Waffen. Göttlicher (legaler und illegaler) Verkauf von Waffen (und noch lebender Organe) pulsierend
(noch wie ein heißes, blutiges) wildes Herz, (Se-kun-de) bevor
(das alles) explodiert im flinken Rhythmus KOSTE ES, WAS ES WOLLE!
Schließlich – wie kann Geld schmutzig sein? „Denn (lauter)
Schmutz (selber) putzt,“ lehrt uns der Klassiker (auch um Mitternacht, Joyce).
Und der Knipser Rimbaud (ursprünglich von Beruf Schmuggler von Illuminationen und Explosionen) (in Habesch) war dabei!
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Ivan Štrpk a
II. INTERVIEW
„Schließlich ...“ (Es bleibt uns nur ein ellenlanges, nervendes und
trostloses Interview.) Ich lächle in den Löwenrachen
der (grinsenden) Medien: „Jahre schon lebe ich
ökologisch – von der Hand in den Mund. Ich häufe keine
Vorräte an, vermehre keinen Abfall. Auch keinen Staub. Ich hoffe, daß
meine Kinder mich verstehen. Ich liebe die Geschwindigkeit (des Geistes, der Bewegung und des Ortswechsels). Ein Auto
hatte ich nie. Leider,
der öffentliche Verkehr ist im Niedergang. Eisenbahnen verschwinden
nach einer unerbittlichen Logik, anstelle des Individualismus
blüht der Automobilismus ... Ach ja, ich habe im Sinn
diese triumphale Verhaftung, diese berauschende
Einschließung in der blitzenden Eierschale aus Metall, Benzin und Glas,
aus der unser unzerbrechliches Ich schlüpft,
unsere Macht über den Raum und der improvisierte Tod; diese
tolle schnelle Verpackung der sich nicht erfüllenden Freiheit ...
Diese Metapher! ROSTE ES, WAS ES WOLLE!“
III. HEISSE BOTSCHAFT
Und die Reichen lächeln distinguiert in die Sonne
laden (mich mit leichter Gebärde) ein auf ihr sich entfernendes
Ufer. Ich lächle und (-Foto Rimbaud-) aus dem Augenwinkel
meines Schattens trieft unwillkürlich der erste (regenbogenfarbene) Tropfen
reinen Hasses. Loderndes (vorzeitliches, tief sich verbergendes) Verlangen
nach Reichtum. Heiße Botschaft
an (leere Gegenden und Monitore) meines Geistes
irgendeine (entzündliche, dringende, undeutliche) Stimme
aufgeregt stets im Kreise redend; dünner Gesang
vom entfernten Turm (den man nicht sieht); leise und
eindringliche Stimme, die ich beständig unterbewußt jage,
kreuzend den Tag in der löchrigen Brise (des Rundfunks, Fernsehens und
des wiederkäuenden) Massengeplappers, lärmender Zähne der Macht
und des Kreischens der (aufsteigenden, zündenden) Gebärdensprache (der Macht)
des Neuen Reichtums, der oft keine sauberen Hände hat,
und sie deshalb (immer tiefer) elegant versenkt in den reißenden
flüssigen (mörderisch kalten) Geist des schwellenden
und blendenden Goldes. Kreuzend
(diesen Moment, diese) stotternd und stockend ansteigende Welle,
fange und entziffere ich konzentriert (weiter) diese sich beharrlich artikulierende und immer deutlichere Stimme, diese Botschaft von innen, dieses Trugbild
dies (erwachte) Reden der stillen Wüste in mir, die
in ihrer ganzen unstillbaren Nacktheit und blankem Glanz
(-Foto Rimbaud-) bis ins letzte Körnchen (ohne jeden Schatten)
leuchtet und (sich spiegelt) im Reichtum.
25
ein „Leben in Wahrheit“ (Havel) indes auch
weiterhin nicht ohne Kampf und persönliches
Risiko möglich sein würde, erfuhr Štrpka nur
allzu bald: sein Engagement für die
Wiederbelebung der 1970 verbotenen
Zeitschrift „Kultur-Leben“ zog das Missfallen
der Regierung Mečiar auf sich, die die
Zeitschrift durch Streichung der Zuschüsse
systematisch aushungerte. Auch sein 1993
fertiggestelltes Manuskript „Zwischenspiele
Puppen (um) einen kopf kürzer“ durfte von
keinem slowakischen Verlag gedruckt werden
und erschien erst 1998 in Prag, zwei Monate
nach der deutschen Übersetzung. In seinem
1995 publizierten Essay „Der Krampf der
geöffneten Hand“ befasst sich Štrpka mit der
Identität des Menschen in der posttotalitären
Gesellschaft, in der der Einzelne sich oft
weniger glücklich befreit als bis zu
Dissoziation und Selbstauflösung entgrenzt
sehe. Das Lebensgefühl vom Anfang aber,
das Gefühl der Einsamkeit des Läufers, bleibt
auch heute, in der Freiheit eines geeinten
Europa die Grundlage seines Schreibens:
„Auf dem Horizont des Eingeschlossenseins
in orthodoxe Bewegungslosigkeit ist seine
eigene Bewegung verwirklichte Offenheit.
Der Lauf selbst ist Nichtfixiertheit,
Nichtdefiniertheit, Kontinuität des Wandels
wie auch das Wiederfinden eines Ortes. Und
es ist dies der lebendige, offene Ort sich
herausbildender, gerade vergehender und
sich enthüllender Bedeutungen – intensives
Leben in der Gegenwart, in direkter Aktion.
Einfach – der ideale Ort für das Gedicht.“
Heute ist Ivan Štrpka Chefredakteur der
angesehenen Literaturzeitschrift „Romboid“.
Er übersetzte u. a. Werke von Cervantes,
Borges und Pessoa und erhielt 1998 das
Pessoa-Stipendium, das ihm einen
mehrmonatigen Aufenthalt in Lissabon
ermöglichte, 2004 wurde er u. a. zu einer
Vortragsreise nach Brasilien eingeladen. Der
überzeugte Europäer ist inzwischen in vielen
Sprachen zu lesen. Etliche Texte wurden
auch ins Deutsche übersetzt und in
Anthologien publiziert, zuletzt der Essay
„Ach, Kinder, beschmiert mit Honig und
Blut“, sein Beitrag zum großen Symposium
„Europa schreibt“ in Hamburg 2003,
außerdem Zeitschriftenbeiträge, so im Heft
208 der „horen“. Der Hamburger Essay wurde
mit Erstaunen und Anerkennung
aufgenommen – aber wohl ebenso nicht von
allen in seiner ganzen Tragweite begriffen,
wie z. B. auch die „Zwischenspiele...“, deren
brennende Aktualität für ihren Lebensplan
am ehesten deutsche Gymnasiasten anläßlich
einer Lesung erkannten.
Seiner Zeit voraus, hat Ivan Štrpka noch
immer nicht die internationale Anerkennung,
die seinem Werk gebührt. Das sollte sich
ändern.
Übersetzt von Ursula Macht
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26
Irena Brežná
Irena Brežná
E intag sfl i eg e a l s S u bj ekt
B
IRENA BREŽNÁ (1950), Schriftstellerin,
Publizistin. Geboren 1950 in Bratislava. 1968
wurde sie – wie sie in den Slowakischen
Fragmenten schreibt – „von ihrer Mutter in die
Schweiz emigriert“. Studium der Slawistik,
Philosophie und Psychologie an der Universität in
Basel. Tätigkeiten als Psychologin in der
medizinischen Forschung, als Russischlehrerin und
Dolmetscherin. Seit 1980 Schriftstellerin und freie
Journalistin. Engagement für Menschenrechte,
z. B. Amnesty International. 1996 Kriegsberichterstatterin in Tschetschenien. Seitdem auch
Engagement in humanitären Frauenprojekten
gegen den Krieg in Tschetschenien. Ausgezeichnet
mit mehreren Preisen, zuletzt 2002 Journalistinnenpreis der Zeitschrift „Emma“ und TheodorWolff-Preis 2002. Irena Brežná hat sieben Bücher
veröffentlicht; u. a. 1991 Karibischer Ball.
Reportagen und Erzählungen aus Afrika und der
Karibik und 1996 Flüssiger Fetisch. Reportagen
und Essays aus Mittel- und Osteuropa nach der
Wende; sowie 1997 ein Buch literarischer
Reportagen über tschetschenische Frauen unter
dem Titel Die Wölfinnen von Sernowodsk. Nach
1989 mehrere Veröffentlichungen in slowakischen
Zeitungen und Zeitschriften. 1992 erschien ihr
Buch Die Schuppenhaut in der slowakischen
Übersetzung. Seit 1993 Zusammenarbeit mit der
slowakischen feministischen Kulturzeitschrift
Aspekt. Eine Auswahl ihrer Erzählungen und
Reportagen Flüssiger Fetisch (Tekutý fetiš)
erscheint 2004 in der Buchreihe von ASPEKT.
Für die literarische Reportage Sammlerin der
Seelen erhielt sie den Theodor-Wolff-Preis 2002.
Unter diesem Titel erschien 2003 Brežná’s neuste
Buch der literarischen Reportagen aus Ost- und
Mitteleuropa.
eim Frühstück las ich in der Zeitung, dass über Aegypten ein Sandsturm gekommen
war, kalte Luft aus Europa und heisses afrikanisches Wetter waren
aufeinandergeprallt, und der Zusammenstoss hatte Finsternis über Aegypten
gebracht, und in der Finsternis klammerten sich Menschen an Bäume, um nicht
weggefegt zu werden. Der Sturm bediente sich dessen, was er vorgefunden hatte, des
Sandes. Wenn in Aegypten Worte frei gelegen hätten, hätte er diese aufgewirbelt, sie den
Menschen ins Gesicht gepeitscht, und die Menschen hätten Bäume umarmt, die ohne
Worte sind und daher zuversichtlich, und sie würden sich an sie schmiegen, ihre Wangen
an die Baumrinde drücken und wortlos schreien. Sie hätten keine Sprache mehr, durch
Aegypten würden atomisierte Worte rasen und sich neu vermischen.
Da wachte mein zehnjähriger Sohn auf, und ich zeigte ihm einen Knaben in der Zeitung
mit einem Mehlsack über der Schulter und sagte, dies sei ein Albaner, der, weil hungrig,
gerade einen Laden geplündert habe. Die dunklen Locken meines Sohnes, standen noch
gestreckt vom Schlaf empor, und schon malte er sich aufgeregt Raubzüge in unserem
Quartier aus, berechnete, wie lange uns im Falle eines Bürgerkrieges die Vorräte reichen
würden, ass im Geiste zuerst Brot mit Butter auf, dann Reis und Kartoffeln und Nudeln
und zuletzt seine Bonbonsammlung vom Fasnachtsumzug.
•••••
Mein älterer Sohn kam in die Küche. Ich bewunderte seinen länglichen Schädel, und
als er wieder gegangen war, fiel mir ein, er könnte den Kleinen zum Friseur begleiten. Ich
rannte hinaus, rief gedehnt seinen Namen, und da ging an unserem Tor eine Gruppe
Männer vorbei, die aus der gegenüberliegenden Moschee gekommen war, und die
Männer blickten mich ernst an. Mein kleiner Sohn schüttelte den Kopf: „Wie ich mich für
dich schäme.“ „Aber nein“, sagte ich, „die Männer schauten mich nicht an, weil sie mein
Benehmen unpassend finden, sie erkannten in mir ihre Frauen und Mütter wieder, denn
in ihren Ländern rufen alle Mütter laut nach ihren Söhnen.“
•••••
Ich trug Creme auf die Wangen auf und rötete den Mund und beschloss, meinen Alltag
zu beschreiben.
•••••
Und schon kam der Cheflektor aus Deutschland angereist. Ich goss uns Tee ein, aber
ich verschüttete ihn, denn ich werde linkisch, wenn Gäste kommen und ich meine, eine
andere sein zu müssen. Die Dinge wissen es und entfremden sich mir. Wenn ich mit den
Kindern Tee trinke, gehören auch die Dinge zur Familie, und je angeschlagener sie sind,
um so mehr. Ich bot dem Cheflektor Kuchen an und las ihm das Vorwort zum neuen Buch
vor und bekam rote Wangen und der Cheflektor blasse. Dann sagte ich beschämt, ich lege
die Wörter nicht mehr wie Ziegel aufeinander und nebeneinander, sondern schreibe
flüssig, das Schreiben überkommt mich, und ich werde haltlos darin. Der Cheflektor
nannte es eine Begegnung mit dem sich ausgiessenden Selbst, und als er ging, nieselte es,
und im Nieselregen dankte er mir für das Vertrauen
•••••
Schon näherte sich das aufregende Geräusch von metallenen Briefkästen, wenn diese
vom Briefträger auf- und zugeklappt werden. Meine Post bestand aus drei
Spendenaufrufen, von denen einer so anfing: „Wir retten Leben am anderen Ende der
Welt.“ Im anderen Brief war der Flüchtlingstag angekündigt mit der Fotomontage einer
Röhre, und darin lachte der Kopf eines Afrikaners. Seine Augen blickten verschwommen
ins Nichts, als wäre es ein blinder Afrikaner. Die Röhre war aus glattem, grauem Metall,
eine sich drehende Scheibe, die den Afrikaner von seinem Körper absägte, so dass der
Kopf in Europa ankam, während der Körper in Afrika zurückblieb. Der Kopf lachte
trotzdem, wohl aus Gewohnheit, aus einer afrikanischen Konvention heraus.
•••••
Da rief der Redaktor eines slowakischen Radiosenders an, machte mit mir ein
politisches Interview in meiner intimsten Sprache, in der ich meinem Sohn Märchen
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Irena Brežná
27
vorlese und mich mit meiner Freundin in Bratislava über die Liebe
unterhalte. Ich überschlug mich am Telephon in dieser Sprache,
raste in ihr, um die tausend Kilometer, die mich seit bald drei
Jahrzehnten von ihr trennen, zu überbrücken, in Angst, der
Redaktor könnte das Gekeuche hinter meiner Muttersprache her
bemerken, und ich würde die Nationalitätenprüfung nicht
bestehen, aber meine Stimme klang unverfänglich slowakisch, die
Wörter, die Sätze fügten sich ins vertraute Raster ein.
•••••
begiessen und leicht mit der Rute zu schlagen, wofür sie von
den Begossenen und sanft Berührten mit Eiern und Schnaps
beschenkt werden. Der Landsmann sagte betrübt, die
Schweizerinnen fänden diese Folklore barbarisch. Oh nein,
beruhigte ich ihn, unsere Sitte sei keineswegs barbarisch, sondern
ein grossartiger Flirt, und ob er denn nicht bemerkt hätte, der
Schweizer Flirt verlaufe anders. Wie, fragte er. Oh, das wisse ich
auch nicht, sagte ich und hängte auf, weil das Huhn anbrannte.
•••••
Mein kleiner Sohn kam kurzgeschoren zurück. Ich streichelte
seinen hart gewordenen Kopf und fragte: „Wast hast du bloss
getan?“ Er erschrack: „Liebst du mich nicht mehr ohne Locken?“
Ich versicherte, ich würde ihn auch ohne Gesicht lieben, falls es
ihm der sibirische Bär fressen würde. Er kennt die Geschichte vom
sibirischen Bären, der einem Förster das Gesicht leergefressen hat.
Eine Filmerin hatte sie mir erzählt, und ich riet ihr, in ihrem
Dokumentarfilm über das ausgefressene Gesicht dieses ja nicht zu
filmen, um es dem Förster nicht ein zweites Mal zu stehlen. Nun,
das gehe nicht, meinte sie, das nicht vorhandene Gesicht habe sie
schon gefilmt. An seiner Stelle werde in Bern kostenlos ein neues
inplantiert, und bald werde das westliche Gesicht des Oestlers
zurückkehren an den Ort seines Verlustes, im Kameravisier der
Filmerin, die hinzufügte, der sibirische Förster erinnere sich an
das Geräusch, mit dem der Bär an seinem Fleisch gekaut habe,
und sie staunte, dass er im Gottesglauben sein Schicksal annehme,
und sie fragte mich, ob das eine slawische Eigenschaft sei.
•••••
Ich schrieb und entdeckte, dass das Schreiben über den Alltag
meine ureigenste Schreibform sei, dem Lebensentwurf einer
Eintagsfliege selbst entspreche, die nur diesen einen Tag lebe, falls
sie den nächsten auch lebe, sei es wiederum nur ein Tag. Endlich
sehe die Fliege sich selbst mit ihren Facettenaugen, und ich
bekannte mich dazu, eine Realistin zu sein, die sich nichts
ausdenken könne, bloss das Geschehene vom Boden leicht
anhebe, damit es sich verschiebe. Und ich schrieb und war
zerstreut und wach zugleich, arbeitete fieberhaft und in Musse,
und dieses Schreiben war ein Sein. Und ich schwor, nie mehr
etwas anderes zu tun als diesen einen Tag zu beschreiben. Da fiel
mir ein, die Eintagsfliege könne für den nächsten Tag nichts
beschliessen.
•••••
Ich kochte einen roten Früchtetee, trank ihn und las in einer
Zeitungsnotiz „Neues Leben durch Feuer und Rauch“, dass
amerikanische Forscher Pflanzen gefunden hätten, die unbedingt
brennen müssen, bevor sie keimen.
•••••
Ich setzte mich mit einem Haufen weisser Socken aufs Sofa und
fing an, sie zu paaren, legte sie nebeneinander wie Bräute und
suchte ihre Partner nach der grösstmöglichen Aehnlichkeit aus. Es
geht aber nie auf, nach jedem Waschgang bleiben ein paar Socken
paarlos, und ich paare sie vorübergehend mit ungleichen
Partnern, und wenn der alte Partner wieder auftaucht, löse ich die
neue Verbindung zugunsten der alten auf, doch immer bleibt
irgend eine Socke ungebunden, ich werfe sie nicht weg in der
Hoffnung, ihr Partner werde zurückkehren. Wie ich so
unbekümmert das Schicksal der Socken mitlenkte, bekam ich
schlechtes Gewissen und verstand die verlorenen Socken, die sich
der Zweisamkeit durch Flucht entzogen hatten.
•••••
Und da klopfte unser Hausbesitzer an die Tür und fragte, was
die Kabel am Boden im Wohnzimmer seien. Ich erwiderte, ich
verstünde auch nicht, warum sich Telephon- und Faxleitungen mit
Lampenkabeln ineinander verweben, ich zwänge ihnen nichts
auf, und je mehr sie sich selbst überlassen seien, um so
verworrener würden sie. Nun beabsichtigte ich nicht, sie zu
entwirren, da er uns sowieso gekündigt habe, und er fragte noch,
ob alle Sicherungen in Ordnung seien, und ich meinte, es gebe
eine, bei der ich der Ansicht sei, sie funktioniere, aber der
Elektriker bestreite es. Nun wunderte sich der Hausbesitzer, dass
man über die Funktionstüchtigkeit einer Sicherung verschiedener
Ansicht sein könne, ich aber gab zu bedenken, dass er, bevor er
Hausbesitzer wurde, Dichter war.
•••••
Da rief jemand aus dem Berner Oberland an, der mich auf
slowakisch fragte, wie ich es mit unserer Ostersitte halte, nach der
die slowakischen Männer und Knaben am Ostermontag das Recht
und die Pflicht haben, die Slowakinnen mit Wasser und Parfüm zu
Aus München rief ein krimtatarischer Künstler an, erzählte auf
russisch, er habe die Werke eines Malers gesehen, der den Wind
male, und jene Kunst sei wie die unsere, denn wir arbeiteten
ebenfalls mit dem Nichts.
•••••
Mein kleiner Sohn eilte zum Begräbnis der Frau seines Lehrers
im violetten T-Shirt, und ich machte ihn darauf aufmerksam, dass
die Farbe des christlichen Todes schwarz sei. Das gefiel ihm, und
er fand es richtig, dass der Mensch nicht wisse, was die Seele nach
dem Tod tue, denn so strenge sich der Mensch an, und einmal in
fünf Jahren schicke ihm Gott einen neuen Gedanken zum Thema
Jenseits, aber ja nicht zwei. Und er fragte mich, wann ich sterben
werde, und fand das Begräbnis eine gute Uebung für später.
•••••
Das Telephon läutete, eine schale Frauenstimme bot mir eine
Lesung an einem Ort an, den ich sogleich vergass. Auch den
Namen der Frau und das Datum der Lesung vergass ich, nur die
Höhe des Honorars behielt ich. Da hatte ich den Einfall, die
Langweile als Motor zum Geldverdienen einzusetzen, denn wenn
ich meine Worte aus Leidenschaft verkaufe, vergesse ich
wiederum ihren Preis. Auf die Leidenschaft verzichten wollte ich
aber doch nicht, und so überlegte ich, ob sich Leidenschaft und
Wort und Geld miteinander verbinden liessen. Ich merkte sofort,
dass dabei eines zuviel war, das Wort nämlich. So stellte ich mir
also sowohl das Geld als auch meine Augen leuchtend vor, wie bei
Filmgangstern, wenn sie ein Safe knacken. Aber das Geld
entbehrte der Geschmeidigkeit des Wortes, auch seines Zaubers
und des Reichtums, und Gedanken über das Geld gefielen mir
besser als es selbst.
•••••
Da kam meine österreichische Freundin, und wir gingen wie
gewohnt ins nahe Schwimmbad. Neben mir schwamm ein
dunkelhäutiger Schwimmer, und ich sagte ihm auf englisch, unser
letztes Schwimmbadgespräch habe mir klar gemacht, dass ich
früher die Haut mit der Innenwelt verwechselt habe; ich habe
nämlich gemeint, die schwarze Haut in Europa sei eine radikale
innere Fremdheit, und das habe mir besser gefallen, als sich weiss
zu tarnen. Der Schwimmer lachte und meinte, in der Tat, die
dunkle Haut und die innere Fremdheit seien zwei verschiedene
Sachen und es sei ein Trugschluss zu meinen, sie seien identisch,
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28
Irena Brežná
obwohl sie in Europa oft zusammenfielen. Er schlug mir einen
Schwimmwettbewerb vor und gewann in drei Stilen, ich dafür im
Rückenschwimmen.
•••••
Auf dem Rückweg raste ich mit dem Fahrrad durch den Park,
und eine Passantin stellte sich mir in den Weg, Arme ausgebreitet:
„Fahrverbot“. Gewöhnlich fahre ich wortlos um solche
Hindernisse herum übers Gras, aber diesmal stieg ich ab. Mein
Anhalten war keine Erniedrigung, es war mein eigenster Wille, der
genau mit dem Willen der Passantin zusammenfiel. Ich führte
diese sanfte Koinzidenz auf mein neues akribisches Schreiben
zurück und schob das Fahrrad weiter den Hügel hoch, auf dem ich
einen Basler Bekannten traf, der behauptete, der sozialistische
Realismus sei kein Realismus gewesen.
•••••
Ich kam am Gefängnis vorbei, blickte hinauf zu den Fenstern,
sah die helle Silhouette eines Mannes, winkte ihm, und er streckte
beide Arme durch das Gitter, kreiste mit ihnen in grossen Bögen,
und ich fuhr langsam und hörte nicht auf zu winken und ihn
anzuschauen, und er hörte nicht auf, seine Kreise zu ziehen, und
unsere Liebe war frei, da die Stacheldrahtballen sich auf der
Mauer stauten und an der Ecke einen dornigen Busch bildeten. Ich
fuhr aufgeregt und behutsam über rosa Blüten, die von den
Kastanienbäumen entlang des Gefängnisses abgefallen waren, als
führe ich über etwas Wertvolles, denn noch hatten sie die
Strassenfeger nicht entdeckt und noch dufteten die Blüten.
•••••
Zu Hause kochte ich eine ungarische Wurst, die ich wegen des
Ungarischen meiner Grossmutter gekauft hatte. Ich ass die rote
Wurst mit weissen Fettbrocken zu einer Scheibe trockenen
Biobrotes und dachte, dass diese nicht zueinandergehörenden
Speisen in meinem Mund zusammenfinden.
•••••
Da besuchte mich meine Bündner Freundin, die soeben aus
Deutschland gekommen war, und erzählte, in jenem Land sei eine
Frau entweder vernünftig oder geniesserisch und die weibliche
Kreuzung zwischen Sinnlichkeit und Intellektualität gebe es dort
selten, und daher fürchte sich der deutsche Mann vor solch einer
Mulattin. Ich fragte, ob das wirklich stimme, und da stellte unser
Nachbar gerade einen Spiegel auf die Strasse, und meine Bündner
Freundin nahm und schenkte ihn mir. Ich stellte den Spiegel in
den Keller und trug nasse Wäsche hinauf und hängte sie auf der
Veranda auf, als es gerade zu stürmen anfing. Ich stand eine Weile
auf der Veranda, leicht und durchsichtig, im Durchzug aller Dinge,
die mich passierten, ohne sich in mir niederzulassen, und
trotzdem gab es mich.
•••••
Dann legte ich mich ins Bett und schrieb. Ich war mit dem
Schreiben weit hinter dem Erlebten zurück. Jede Einzelheit wollte
ich ausloten, tiefer hinabsteigen wie ins Bild eines Malers, der
seine eigene Hand mit Pinsel malt, die ein Bild der Hand mit Pinsel
malt, die wiederum die Hand malt und so weiter, immer kleiner
bis ins Unendliche.
•••••
Ich eilte zum Stadtrand, betrat eine Kellerwohnung, die mit
dicken Teppichen und Kissen ausgelegt war. Schweizer
Musliminnen sassen entlang der Wände, ich setzte mich hin und
las eine Geschichte vor. In meinen Worten waren Frauen, vor mir
auf Kissen sassen Frauen, und wir waren weich wie Gänsefedern,
auf denen wir sassen, tief in die Erde eingedrückt, und unsere
Stimmen ertönten leise, aber wir verstanden sie. Und eine
Schweizer Muslimin fragte mich mit geröteten Augen wie ich es
mit dem Islam halte, und ich sah, sie liebte den Islam mit der Kraft
weinender Augen.
•••••
Abends ging ich mit einem ukrainischen Musiker ins Kino. Wir
schauten uns einen Film über die Freundschaft eines
tschechischen Musikers zu einem russischen Knaben an, und wie
jene wuchs, so vermischten sich das Tschechische mit dem
Russischen und das Russische mit dem Tschechischen zu einem
slawischen Kauderwelsch aus Wörtern beider Sprachen und aus
der Melodie des Russischen, die ungezwungen beliebige Silben
betont, und der Melodie des Tschechischen, die sich in der
Betonung der jeweils ersten Silbe geboren fühlt. Als wir aus dem
Kino herauskamen, sagte ich zum ukrainischen Freund auf
russisch mit slowakischem Akzent, die Liebe sei ein
Kauderwelsch, sonst sei sie keine, und es regnete stark, und er
stülpte seinen gelben Regenschutz über mich, zog mir die spitze
Kapuze über den Kopf und aus den Seitenöffnungen die Arme
heraus, unter dem Kinn schnürte er mich fest zu einer gelben
Larve, die, je weniger sie sich rührte, um so inniger berührt war.
•••••
Ich kam nach Hause, als mein kleiner Sohn gerade lehmig vom
Fussballspielen eintraf. Er legte sich in die Badewanne,
bewunderte seinen Körper, diese an allen Stellen sich öffnende
und hart werdende Männlichkeit, entdeckte zwei Haare in der
Achselhöhle und trocknete sich fest mit einem blauen Handtuch
ab, unter dem sich die Haut in graublauen Röllchen schälte. Er
schrie, das Handtuch nehme ihm seinen Körper weg, aber ich
sagte, das sei nicht das Handtuch, sondern der Frühling, und der
gebe ihm dafür einen neuen.
•••••
Es war schon dunkel, ich setzte mich mit beiden Söhnen vor das
Fernsehgerät, wir assen heissen Milchreis mit Zimt und Zucker
und schauten den Film „Mikrokosmos“ an. Dort rollte ein Käfer
beharrlich eine Lehmkugel vor sich her, eine Mücke trug ein
weisses Brautgewand und verrenkte ballerinenartig ihre Beinchen,
zwei Käfer kämpften ritterlich miteinander, eine Spinne schaute
eindringlich einen Grashüpfer an, der dann in ihre Netze sprang,
worauf sie ihn umgarnte, bis er im weissen gehäkelten Sarg
unbeweglich hängenblieb, zwei Schnecken drückten sich feucht
aneinander, und keine wich vor der anderen zurück,
Tausendfüssler zogen in einer Prozession über ausgetrockneten
Boden, formierten sich zu einem geheimnisvollen Rechteck, als
beteten sie zum Regengott. Als endlich ein Regentropfen auf einen
Marienkäfer fiel und ihn vom Blatt warf, stiessen wir
Schmerzensschreie aus.
•••••
Da verkündete mein älterer Sohn die Ankunft des Kometen. Wir
rannten hinaus auf die Strasse und fanden den Kometen über der
Moschee hängen. Sofort habe ich ihn wahnsinnig geliebt, seine
runde Form, sein wehendes Haar, dass er so selbstverständlich
und gross gekommen war, und ich schrieb bis Mitternacht diese
Zeilen nieder und sah ihn dabei vor mir. Als ich die Augen schloss,
verschmolz der Komet mit jenem schwarzen Käfer, der die
Lehmkugel rollt.
•••••
Ich träumte, ich sitze auf einem Buch und fahre darauf neben
einem Freund, der auf dem Fahrad fährt und mich fragt, wie ich es
mache und da halte ich an, springe ab, ziehe unter dem Buch
einen faustgrossen Stein hervor, einen runden, ungeschliffenen,
einen gewöhnlichen Stein, und sage: „Der Stein fährt mich.“
Basel, Frühling 1997.
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29
Alla Mašková
Slovakia Is My
Fate And Destiny
Inter view with Slovak studies scholar
and translator Alla Mašková,
Photo: Archiv
by Anna Blahová-Šikulová
Slovak studies scholar and translator
Alla Mašková
Anna Blahová-Šikulová: You work as a university teacher, literary
scholar and translator. Do you perceive any insufficiencies in terms of
teaching aids and literature for your work?
Alla Mašková: Admittedly, when I started teaching Slovak
literature, we had no text books whatsoever. The only thing we
had was Slovenská literatúra, published by the Slavic Institute of
the Russian Academy of Sciences in 1970, which, however, only
had a brief coverage of old Slovak literature, with nothing on the
post-1939 literature. So, the students had to rely on lectures to
learn from. I have prepared together with my Slovak colleagues
three textbooks of Slovak literature: one solely on postwar fiction
(1987), co-written by V. Petrík, J. Števček and I. Sulík. There was
to be a sequel, yet then came 1989, and our cooperation was
discontinued only to be resumed in ten years time... when we
managed, with funding from the Pro Slovakia fund, the Ministry
of Culture of the Russian Federation, with our Slovak colleagues
and our Slovak scholars, to publish two more volumes: Slovak
Literature From its Beginnings to the 19th Century (1997)
and Slovak Literature of the 20th Century (2003). On this
occasion, I would like to acknowledge the work of our Slovak
colleagues. In 2002 the anthology of Slovak poetry from the
beginnings to the present-day, entitled Hlasy storočia (Voices of
the Century) came out, which I have compiled together with my
former student, now an accomplished translator and poet
N. Švedová. Unfortunately, Slovak fiction is a different matter.
Following 1989, the exchange of books and periodicals came
virtually to a standstill, so the only way for me to lay my hands
on literature is to visit Slovakia and buy on my own or get things
from the people I know well, such as Mr. I. Čičmanec
from Norway, who keeps me informed and sends books. I have
also received books from L. Ťažký and I. Kadlečík.
Anna Blahová-Šikulová: What is the purpose of your current visit in
Slovakia? What are your expectations?
Alla Mašková: This is only a short visit, and I am pursuing my
professional interests. For ten years, I have been studying Slovak
naturizmus. It was originally suggested to me by Professor Ján
Števček. I have now read and written extensively on the subject.
I have prepared a monograph, which had a good reception with
my department colleagues at Moscow State University,
recommending it for a doctoral dissertation. All I need to do is to
make things more accurate in terms of bibliographies, and check
some data.
Anna Blahová-Šikulová: Do you find an appropriate echo for your work in
Slovakia?
Alla Mašková: Let me use this opportunity to express my
gratitude to the management of Comenius University
in Bratislava, School of Humanities and Studia Academica
Slovaca for their acknowledgement of my work. I received
a medal on the occasion of the 85th anniversary of Comenius
University for my research in Slovak studies and promoting
Slovak studies abroad. I feel much honored for such an
acknowledgment of my work. As for the echo, that’s a different
story, much less appreciated, it seems. It is a pity, as it can serve
to promote Slovak literature globally, not only in Russia. For
instance, I have received requests from the Americans, among
others.
Anna Blahová-Šikulová: What Slovak writers or literary scholars have
you been in personal contact with, and what authors do you like the
most?
Alla Mašková: Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to meet the authors
on whose works I have written; I only met Margita Figuli. It was
one month before she died, her last interview. I was impressed
by the breadth of her knowledge, her femininity, and courage.
What I found there was a true artist, and making this personal
acquaintance helped me to have a better understanding of her
work. I was also very impressed visiting one of my favorite
writers, Milo Urban – we came together with J. Števček. I knew
the by now classic writers of Slovak literature: M. Rúfus,
P. Bunčák, R. Sloboda, V. Šikula, and I have made personal
friends with the latest generation of writers as well.
Anna Blahová-Šikulová: What scholars of Slovak literature do you find
most inspiring for your work? What names of Slovak literature or literary
scholarship do you usually rely on in your scholarship...?
Alla Mašková: Slovak literary scholarship has long and
outstanding traditions. I enjoy reading the brilliant classics such
as S. H. Vajanský and J. Škultéty, Š. Krčméry, M. Bakoš,
O. Čepan, J. Felix. I was lucky to be able to hear the lectures by
M. Pišút and J. Števček. Števček made a lasting impression on me
as a human being, lecturer and scholar. He is my Slovak teacher,
whom I most often find in my recollections, and feel indebted to.
It is to his memory that I dedicate my book on naturizmus.
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30
Reviews
( S E L B S T ) I RO N I E — Ü B E R S LOWA K I S C H E I D E N T I TÄT
Fabrizio Iurlano
Pavel Vilikovský
E’ sempre verde
Edizioni Anfora, Milano 2004
Übersetzt von Alessandra Mura
Mit der italienischen, von Alessandra Mura
besorgten Übersetzung von Pavel Vilikovskýs
Večne je zelený... (E’ sempre verde..., dt.: Ewig
ist er grün...) bringt der Mailänder Verlag
Anfora nicht nur einen der größten mitteleuropäischen Prosaautoren der Gegenwart,
sondern auch eine frische, kühne Seite der bis
heute in Italien wenig bekannten slowakischen
Literatur auf den Buchmarkt.
Hauptperson und zugleich Erzähler des Buchs
ist ein ehemaliger Agent der Geheimdienste, der
einem jungen Rekruten aus seiner eigenen
Vergangenheit erzählt, insbesondere von seiner
Liebschaft mit Oberst Alfredl und von seinen
Erlebnissen als großformatiger Spion. Der junge
Rekrut, dessen Identität bis zum Ende des
Buchs unbekannt bleibt, ist ausschließlich
Zuhörer: Er wird einfach angesprochen, hin
und wieder verhöhnt oder gar verbal erniedrigt.
Was daraus resultiert, ist eine provokatorische
Appellstruktur, die wie ein roter Faden das
ganze Buch durchzieht und ihm einen
lebhaften, fast gesprochenen Stil verleiht,
dessen Ausdruckspalette von kultivierten
Zitaten aus verschiedenen Literaturen über
einen scherzhaften Umgang mit Volks- und
Popkultur bis hin zu einem unverblümten
Gebrauch ordinärer Ausdrücke reicht.
Was der Rekrut – und mit ihm der Leser –
serviert bekommt, ist nicht so sehr eine
Geschichte, vielmehr handelt es sich um
zahlreiche Anekdoten, die lediglich als Impulse
für Betrachtungen über alles Mögliche dienen:
über subtile Machtverhältnisse, über die
notwendigen Eigenschaften eines Spions, vor
allem aber über das Mitteleuropa des 20.
Jahrhunderts, über verschiedene europäische
Länder und Völker sowie – mit sprudelnder,
zeitweise beißender (Selbst)Ironie – über
slowakische Identität.
Kleine Anmerkungen am Rande des Textes –
ein Paralleltext, der wie eine Art
Inhaltsverzeichnis einzelne, in der Erzählung
vorkommende Namen, Zahlen und Begriffe
wieder aufgreift – machen die thematische
Sprunghaftigkeit und die essayistische Struktur
desselben unmittelbar erkennbar. Ersichtlich
werden aber dabei nicht nur das assoziative
Ineinanderfließen der Inhalte, sondern auch
gewisse von Vilikovský in Anspruch
genommene Kunstgriffe, etwa das ironische
Spiel mit literarischem Wissen und literarischen
Formen oder das ständige Ineinandergreifen
von Erzählstoff und Erzählsituation.
Letzteres mutet am Anfang des Buchs, als die
Hauptperson an das eigene Sich-Einlassen in
die Beziehung mit Alfredl erinnert, fast
programmatisch an: „In dem Spiel, dessen
Regeln ich nicht kannte, ja, vielmehr, dessen
Regeln für mich mit Absicht bis zum Ende ein
Geheimnis bleiben sollten, beschloss ich,
eigene Regeln zu schaffen“. Genauso
ausgeklügelt handelt Vilikovský, der in diesem
Buch gewohnte literarische Konventionen mit
eigenen Regeln austrickst und aufhebt.
Dem slowakischen Leser, der über das
Hintergrundwissen verfügt, auf dem der
Erzählstoff, die witzigen Bemerkungen und die
vielen Anspielungen basieren, bietet das Buch
die Möglichkeit, über viele Aspekte
slowakischer Identität zu lachen – nicht zuletzt
über das vermeintlich ewige Über-sich-selbstKlagen der Slowaken.
Für den italienischen Leser stellt diese Lektüre
eine hervorragende Gelegenheit dar, sich auf
nicht klischeehafte Art und Weise Wissen über
die Slowaken anzueignen: über ihre
Verwurzelung in der Geschichte und in der
Kultur Mitteleuropas, über die multikulturellen
Fassetten ihrer Identität und zu guter Letzt über
ihren Nationalstolz und ihre Fähigkeit, sich
damit mit Witz und Humor
auseinanderzusetzen.
A GOOD BARGAIN
Alejandro Hermida
Martin Kukučín
The Spotted Heifer
Centro de Linguistica Aplicada Atenea, 2004
Translated by Salustio Alvarado
and Renáta Bojničanová
There are not many Slovak literary works in
Spanish translation. Thus, every translation
from Slovak literature into Spanish is welcome,
let alone speak of translations of Martin
Kukučín’s books. Apart from his texts translated
into Spanish by Rudolf Josef Slabý in the period
between the two wars, Kukučín’s The Spotted
Heifer (Rysavá jalovica) is the first real chance
for Spanish readers to meet Kukučín’s work.
The translators and editors Salustio Alvarado
and Renáta Bojničanová have already translated
Janko Jesenský’s Ms Rafiková (La vicceregenta,
Centro de Lingüística Aplicada Atenea, Madrid
2002). Both translations allow Spanish readers
to become aware of Slovak literature.
A slickness and professional approach to the
translation guarantee its accuracy and the
quality of its stylistic implementation. As stated
in the preface, the book is addressed to Slovak
students at Madrid University. The text which is
preceded by a detailed preface and followed by
special explanations, is thus bilingual. After
introducing Kukučín and his works, the book
sets about its task of presenting material and
spiritual culture, it depicts the values of
a typical Slovak farmer from the past and how
he once lived: his dwelling, clothing, food,
customs, traditions. The classic prose of the
Slovak Literary Realism period into which
Kukučín is ranked is said to reflect every
national culture at its best and in the most
realistic way. Therefore, the demand for the
Spanish edition of The Spotted Heifer and the
willingness to meet the cultural diversity of
today’s united Europe is current and justified.
Translated by Peter Chovan
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Reviews
S A RC A S T I C TA K E O N “ H I G H ” L I T E R AT U R E
Juliana Szolnokiová
and The Babeta Is Setting Out Into the World,
Babeta ide do sveta, (2003). Her fiction The Old
Tom Cat’s Pain (Utrpenie starého kocúra,
Aspekt 2000) is an ironic take on the literary
establishment. The scope (or quality?) of
today’s Slovak literary scene, despite
scandalous disclosures, suffices for but a tiny
mor(t)ality – or is it something else still?
The murder plot and a mysterious insertion –
manuscript from an ancient monastery with all
the nuns dead save for the abbess scribbling her
memoirs – indicate that these one hundred odd
pages are but the tip of a huge iceberg. Deeper,
though, there is another motive: if in literature
abuse of women becomes a public matter of
“spiritual culture”, this, too, can have its
consequences – at least in this Utrpenie starého
kocúra appeared in excellent Hungarian
translation (by Erika Horváth) from the AB-ART
publishing house.
Jana Juráňová
The Old Tom Cat’s Pain
AB ART Publishing House, 2005
Translated by Erika Horváth
Jana Juráňová (1957) studied at the School of
Humanities, Comenius University in Bratislava,
majoring in two great literatures – English
and Russian. She always felt close to theatre
(monodrama Salomé, 1989, and Silver Bowls,
Excellent Vessels, Misky strieborné, nádoby
výborné, 1998, which were produced at
alternative stages and published). She writes
short stories and fiction that is playful, ironic
and full of clear-cut images of the outside world
(Menagerie, Zverinec, 1993; Nets, Siete, 1993).
As a co-founder and current co-chairperson
of feminist cultural journal Aspekt she has
written books for girls and boys Only A Girl,
Iba baba, (1999), Bubbles, Bubliny (2002)
Pavol Dobšinský
Only a Girl
(Slovak Folktales)
B-Print, Trnava, 2004
Slovak Folktales by Pavol Dobšinský is
a collection of traditional Slovak fairy-tales in
English translation. Storytelling which was
handed down from generation to generation is
said to be a tradition. Storytelling and folktales
are the natural reflection of people’s everyday
lives, traditions they once mantained. They
express the identity of the people, their culture
and life as well. Slovak folk tales focus on the
Slovak people. Slovak folk tales are fascinating
and universal at the same time. They estabilish
human mutuality and human relationships.
According to Ľudovít Reuss of Ľudovít
Štúr‘s Romantic generation, these relics of
ancient times might have been created from the
7th until the 9th centuries, even before the
Christianization of the ancient Slovaks.The
Slovak people performing in the Slovak folktales
become wise thanks to their misfortunes. They
set out on journeys to look for truth of their
identity being somewhere in the world.
Otherwise, their own world could not exist.
Therefore, the main characters of the tales went
out into the world to find their fortunes, or to
solve painful problems at home. The
determination to leave was inspired by the will
to overcome their difficult circumstances.The
main character often undergoes a task that
seemingly cannot be fulfilled at all: e. g. the
main character in the tale Three Golden Pears
takes to task bringing three golden pears to his
bride which is a feature characteristic of Slovak
fairy tales. The feature of differences plays
a crucial role here. It can be e. g. either the
conflict between dilligence and laziness, or
power or weakness. Other elements featured
may also concern dragons, devils and nature
Translated by Ľuben Urbánek
itself. The main characters are often idealised.
Slovak folktales existed among ordinary people
for many years. These tales were collected by
young Slovak intellectuals such as Samuel
Reuss, Janko Francisci, A. H. Škultéty, Pavol
Dobšinský and others. The Evangelical pastor
Pavol Dobšinský devoted much of his life to
collecting Slovak folk tales. He collected 153
folktales and published them in magazines. He
then published the tales in three volumes
entitled Slovak National Folktales. According to
him, Slovak folk tales spelled out the faith, the
longing and the hope that have been in the
nation’s soul for thousands of years. Dobšinský
adjusted the collected folktales using the
grammatical rules of the newly codified Slovak
language. The tales became a means to keep, to
preserve, and to spread the Slovak language.
They remain as a means to keep the
Slovaks’ deep belief in justice and in the victory
of good over evil.
Peter Chovan
Monika Kompaníková
Miesto pre samotu
(A Place For Loneliness)
Koloman Kertész Bagala, L.C.A. Publishers Group,
Levice 2003
Monika Kompaníková’s short story debut, to
borrow from Ivan Krasko “resounds with a shy
accord”. What the debuting author apparently
offers is a six-pack of diverse stories on the
loneliness of introverted individuals,
representing “minor” lives and abiding a space
beyond normal human life. Their defilé
provides the opportunity to gain insight into the
inner world of loners confronted with
life’s stagnation and conformity.
The opener, Miesto pre samotu, already sees the
essential question, namely, what to make of the
interconnectedness of both substances in the
eponymous title of the book. The issue, though,
is not whether or not loneliness should or
should not have its place in the life of a human
being – albeit initially, this assumption does
find ground – in deed, what we encounter is
a state of mind where a specific need remains
unfulfilled. The primary assumption would be
unreasonable to address as loneliness
understood in terms of a voluntary intimacy is
one of life’s necessities.
Kompaníková’s loneliness is, then, anchored in
the author’s own mind who is trying to
compensate a need for a unique kind of
satisfaction.
Deep down, Aristotle’s zoon politikon is
paradoxically a loner, longing for intimate
contact wherein only lies the possibility to
succumb to, accept or resist the intensity and
form of being lonely. This way, the protagonists
are sensitized in their perception of the outside
world. A most prominent example of this seems
to be the story Mantis, presenting two people as
conceptual opposites. While the main
protagonist, young Tereza, finds “this life
rolling from one side to the other” pleasurable,
the character of a forty years old woman needs
activity to be able to overcome her feeling of
being “buried alive”, yet, ultimately, lacks the
necessary vitality and remains imprisoned in
daily routines.
Loneliness is a kind of universe, where details
become essential for existence. The closed
entities are mapping their own universes,
getting to know their structures. Lucia of the
first story uses “eyes and nose sensitive to
tracks people leave with things, their smell in
rooms, imprints of a grease complexion at
furniture and window glasses”. Her “soothing
constancy of life”, however, is prone to outside
intervention. When, in the end, the system
breaks down, demolition of a dilapidated
building, Lucia and her observed objects are
suddenly all at the same level. They become
translucent, even invisible, after all, they
became white dust “as the workers drove them
SLR/1-32/def/1/05
6.6.2005
12:59
Stránka 32
32
away” and nobody noticed they were in
pajamas and barefoot.
The author does not primarily explore the
shattering restlessness engendered by
unwanted loneliness, or the involuntary
monotony, hence, some sort of literary sketches
not unlike the illustrations in text rather than
deep psychological analysis are at work here.
In brief, the shattering loneliness is peripheral,
failing to reach completeness; although
perceivable, it is so in very tiny and
inconclusive indications. Kompaníková
manages to circumvent this either by
employing the devices of absurdity or simply
by escape, as is the case of the story Slávko.
What, then, amounts to the unifying element
more or less capable of mitigating loneliness?
Without a doubt, it is the intimate contact,
longing for touch. Making a place – that is
otherwise occupied by loneliness – abound
with something sensitive and sensual is
perhaps the essential meaning of togetherness.
Sexuality in its biological and emotional form
becomes the vehicle for filling out this place.
“Even water is capable of touching” says the
omnipotent narrator in the closing story, yet
Klára wants to be water that spills out and
becomes soft. Physical love becomes a source
of new quality for Ema in the story Hladina
ustálená (Stable Level). “She shook herself,
growing dark with a tickling sensation in her
underbelly triggered by his touch. She was hot
but the water was soothing. She could feel the
man’s fingers – or was it watering traveling
down her stomach – running lower and lower,
sensing their pressure and heat under her
bathing suite.”
For her young age, Kompaníková’s texts
indicate the opening stage of her creative
development, and some of her stories could
benefit from several final touches from her
more experienced colleagues. Nevertheless, the
accord resounding in the words is well-tuned
and opens prospects of vital compositions yet
to come.
Peter František Jílek
Etela Farkašová
Uvidieť hudbu a iné eseje
(Musik betrachten und andere
Essays)
Bratislava, Vydavateľstvo Spolku slovenských
spisovateľov 2003)
Die Essays der Schriftstellerin und Philosophin
E. Farkašová wenden sich eher an
anspruchsvollere Leser/innen. Gleich nach
dem Erscheinen der Essays erschienen viele
positive Rezensionen dazu. Die Autorin beruft
sich auf Aussprüche und geflügelte Worte
vieler antiker Philosophen, Denker und Dichter
und bietet dadurch jedem interessierten Leser
einen großen Genuss und reiches Wissen.
Dieses Buch mit dem Untertitel (Ich will auch
diese Musik sehen, sagte das Mädchen auf der
Gartenterrasse) entstand durch eine spezielle
Methode – wie die Autorin auf dem
Buchumschlag anführt – durch
Aneinanderketten. Das heißt, sie schrieb den
Text in kleinen Abschnitten, jeweils über das
Wahrnehmen und Empfinden der Welt um sie
Reviews
herum. Sie schrieb an dem Buch, als sie
Entspannung zwischen vielen Pflichten suchte,
als Mittel gegen das Niedergeschlagensein. Sie
nimmt die Welt als undurchsichtig, kompliziert
und anspruchsvoll wahr, sie versucht, durch
ihre subjektiven Botschaften, dem heutigen
Leser etwas zu sagen.
Die einzelnen Essays benannte sie Textkreise.
Sie spielt nämlich mit den Wörtern, sie erfindet
oft neue gemeinsprachliche aber auch private
Wörter, z. B. Vorräume der Urwörter, VorStimme, das Umschichten u. viele weitere, was
an Heideggers Sprachspielereien erinnert. In
dem Kapitel über das Sehen der Musik
behauptet die Autorin, dass man sich durch
Musik, mit Hilfe von Tönen besser ausdrücken
kann. Die Art und Weise des Durchfühlens –
Durchlebens der musikalischen Botschaft oder
das Aufnehmen des Mitgeteilten empfindet sie
als vollkommen.
In die Textkreise II reihte sie das Essay Über
die „Nebengestalten“ in der Literatur, in
welchem sie diese aus anderem Blickwinkel
beobachtet. Ihre Existenz ermöglicht uns, das
Geschehen aus einem anderen Blickpunkt zu
betrachten und zu ergänzen und dadurch die
Taten der Hauptprotagonisten besser zu
verstehen.
Die Textkreise III mit dem Untertitel
Doppelrealität, Doppelgegenwart schließen das
Überlegen der Autorin in dem Sinne ein, dass
auch diese Essays keine definitiven Aussagen
sein können, sie erlauben es uns, sich in
Zwischenräumen zu bewegen, den ewigen
Kontrasten und der Oszillation dazwischen zu
entfliehen.
Diese kleinen Büchlein gesellen sich zu Recht
zu den Essays bekannter Philosophen, die das
Sein und dessen Formen in der Kunst
darstellen.
Elena Ehrgangová
Mária Bátorová
Jozef Cíger Hronský
und die Moderne
Übersetzung Inge Stahlová
Peter Lang GmbH, Frankfurt am Main 2004
Die Vorlage für diese Monographie bildete die
literaturhistorische, literaturwissenschaftliche
und komparatistische Forschungsarbeit, die mit
Veröffentlichungen in in- und ausländischen
Literaturperiodika angefangen hatte.
Neue Studien zeigten, dass Hronský in der
Zwischenkriegszeit die zerfallenden
traditionellen Werte der alten Welt festhielt und
in seinem vielschichtigen Werk die
Veränderungen aufzeichnete, die auch die
slowakische Gesellschaft durchmachte. Der
Schriftsteller konzentrierte sich besonders auf
die Psyche der Figuren und sein Werk zeichnet
sich besonders durch seinen lyrischen Ton aus,
der ein Grundelement seiner Poetik bildet.
Hronský gründete eine Zeitschrift für Kinder,
Slniečko, und schrieb Lehr- und Lesebücher für
alle Jahrgänge bis zum Abiturientenjahrgang
(Illustrierung von Martin Benko), wobei er
neben dem Inhalt auch auf die Ästhetik großen
Wert legte. Für Kinder schrieb er auch Märchen
und Sagen. Der Kommentar im Buch bringt
auch neue und interessante Erkenntnisse zum
Lebenslauf des Schriftstellers.
Die Grundlage für diese literaturwissenschaftliche Studie bildet der Begriff der literarischen
Moderne, der ununterbrochen diskutiert, aber
nie eindeutig definiert wird. M. Bátorová
verglich das Werk von Hronský mit
ausgewählten Werken und Motiven von
zentralen Autoren der Weltliteratur, wie z. B.
F. M. Dostojevski (Motiv der Schuld), St. Zweig
und A. Schnitzler (Motiv der Erotik),
A. Strindberg (Motiv der Frau), K. Hamsun
(Motiv der Erde), Th. Mann (Motiv des
Dämonischen), W. Falkner (Motiv des
Enterbten), W. Gombrowicz und S. Márai
(Motiv der Emigration) sowie K. Čapek und
E. Kästner (Widerstand der kindlichen Welt
und Humor gegenüber Gewalt). Dieses
originelle Vorgehen gründet auf der Forschung
einzelner konkreter Autoren und Werke im
Rahmen der einzelnen Literaturen. Der Beitrag
von Bátorová liegt in der Einführung des
anthropologischen und psychologischen
Aspekts, im interdisziplinarischen Zugang zur
literaturwissenschaftlichen Problematik, der
Anwendung von Soziologie, Philosophie und
der Geschichtswissenschaft.
(Red)
Viliam Marčok et al.
History Of Slovak Literature III
(Paths of Slovak literature in the late 20th century)
Literárne informačné centrum Bratislava, 2004
This third volume of Slovak literary history is
an editorial and chronological sequel to its
predecessors, Volume I and II, by leading Slovak
literary historian Stanislav Šmatlák, thus
rounding off a particular perspective on the
developmental complexities of Slovak poetry
and fiction, full of inner tensions and requiring
a delicate approach and understanding of the
complex historical situation and the place of
literature in Slovak culture.
The nine historical chapters published by the
Centre for Information on Literature contain
the history and the story of Slovak literature of
the passed fifty years, capturing the destinies of
Slovak poetry, fiction, dramatic literature and
non-fiction. The author and main editor, Viliam
Marčok, was able to match his specific
approach with that of his colleagues, including
J. Šrank writing on most recent poetry,
O. Herec on the rise and developments of
modern fantasy literature, Z. Stanislavová on
modern literature for children, J. Hvišč on the
literature of exile and emigration and
M. Babiak on Slovak literature abroad. Dealing
with works written from 1945 – 2000, the book
features the first historical chapter on Slovak
literature abroad and the literature of exiled
authors.
This is a modern piece of literary history
conceived not only historically but,
importantly, through the individual optics of its
main editor, his interpretation of individual
authors, their works and lives, as well as his
own professional affiliations with Slovak
literature, of which he has been actively
involved as scholar, professor and critic.
Anna Blahová-Šikulová

CHILDREN`S LITERATURE IN SLOVAKIA AT THE TURN OF

Transcription

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