Kada sam razmisljala o tome kako da obelezim rodjendan dragog Oskara shvatila sam da mi je potpuno nemogucno da to uradim sensibly : Oskar pripada onoj skupini o kojima mi je veoma tesko da pisem jer ih toliko volim; iz preterane ljubavi prema takvima gubim svu objektivnost, postajem sklona preterivanjima razne vrste a onda se neretko u svemu tome i poprilicno izgubim. Kako zbog svega toga ne bih pocela da dešperiram odlucila sam se ovom prilikom za srednje resenje : navescu neke Oskarove citate koje cu onda pokusati da propratim nekim svojim komentarima. Ali, beware u svakom slucaju ovo ce biti jedan veoma dugacak blog ;)
Kada se pomene Oskar Vajld najcesce se pomisli na njegov jedini roman - Slika Dorijana Greja; neko bi se mozda setio i pojedinih njegovih komada a vec retko ko njegovih bajki ili pak poezije. Zapravo, iako su citali ili su im citane ove njegove divne tuzne bajke, vecina ipak ni ne zna da su one zapravo njegove; takav je bio slucaj i samnom sve dok nisam saznala da je on uopste i postojao (u detinjstvu tako sta najcesce ipak ne znamo). To su pre svega Srecni princ i Sebicni dzin, bajke koje su se nalazile, prepricane, u onim kompletima zutih i plavih knjizica koje je vecina nas imala u detinjstvu. Oskarove bajke su drugacije, pa cak i tako prepricane zadrzavale su taj neki sasvim poseban smek koji valjda dolazi, izmedju ostalog, i od toga sto su zaista veoma tuzne : tu se najcesce neko zrtvuje zarad nekog ili neceg drugog te se sve cesto zavrsava smrcu - sebicni dzin umire na kraju bajke, slavuj se svojevoljno nabada na trn, probijajuci sebi srce, kako bi mladic dobio tu specijalnu crvenu ruzu za svoju dragu, srecni princ se odrice svih svojih ukrasa, na kraju i safira iz ociju a lastavicu koja mu je pomagala noseci te dragulje siromasnima zatice zima, te umire kraj stopala srecnog princa ... ovu bajku sam mozda i najvise od svih volela iako je taj sretni princ izgledao tako tuzno bez svih tih svojih ukrasa dok me je lastavicina smrt dovodila do suza.
Knjigu bajki The Happy Prince and other stories Oskar je izdao 1888. godine : jos uvek ne jako proslavljen iako je pisao za novine i zurnale, pa je cak imao i poneki neuspeli komad, on je poznatiji bio kao neobicna figura koja drzi predavanja (u Americi i Francuskoj kao i u Engleskoj) o estetizmu i dekadenciji nego po svojim delima. Do tada on je vec bio ozenjen Konstancom (My constant Constance) sa kojom je dobio i dva sina; medjutim, vec je dve godine znao i za svoju pravu prirodu koju mu je otkrio mladi Robi Ros koji je nacinio svojim zadatkom da Oskara zavede. To je takodje vreme kada Oskar pocinje ozbiljno da pise (ili - da pise ozbiljne stvari) : napustivsi zurnale on se posvecuje razvijanju svojih ideja kroz eseje poput The Soul of Man Under Socialism ili The Decay of Lying ; no ono najvaznije bilo je to da je u ovom periodu napisao i svoj jedini roman, toliko poznati The Picture of Dorian Gray.
The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.
Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.
When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door where the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. ‘Good-bye, dear Prince!’ he murmured, ‘will you let me kiss your hand?’
‘I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,’ said the Prince, ‘you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.’
‘It is not to Egypt that I am going,’ said the Swallow. ‘I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?’
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: ‘Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!’ he said.
‘How shabby indeed!’ cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.
‘The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,’ said the Mayor; ‘in fact, he is little better than a beggar!’
‘Little better than a beggar’ said the Town councillors.
‘And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!’ continued the Mayor. ‘We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.’ And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. ‘As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,’ said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. ‘We must have another statue, of course,’ he said, ‘and it shall be a statue of myself.’
‘Of myself,’ said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
‘What a strange thing!’ said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. ‘This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.’ So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
‘Bring me the two most precious things in the city,’ said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
‘You have rightly chosen,’ said God, ‘for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.’
The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.
Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.
When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.
The Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray
Roman Slika Dorijana Greja isprva nije izasao kao knjiga vec je svoju premijeru imao u casopisu Lippincott's Monthly Magazine 1890. godine; pred izlazak romana u formi knjige (1891.) Oskar je ovaj tekst dosta izmenio : pored toga sto je izbacio neke nezgodne delove koji su se cinili suvise dekadentnim i onih previse homoerotskih, Oskar je dodao i citavih sest ili sedam poglavlja koji u prethodnom izdanju nisu postojali. Takodje, ovom prilikom dodat je i taj predgovor koji sam dala a koji se sastoji iz mnostva njegovih epigrama i izreka koji se cesto citiraju i van konteksta, kako je to cesto i sa ostalim njegovim delima. All art is quite useless tako moze delovati cudno dok se ne procita sve ono sto tome prethodi. Ovaj predgovor jeste zapravo neka vrsta odgovora i odbrane romana; nakon sto je izlazio u magazinu on nije docekan dobro, iako je izazvao izvesnu skandalizovanu zainteresovanost; kritika ga je smatrala u najboljem slucaju osrednjim dok je obicne ljude zgrazavao sav taj greh te su ga smatrali podlim i ruznim. Medjutim, sada se Slika Dorijana Greja nalazi vec i u lektirama srednjoskolaca; lepota i savrsenost Oskarovog jezika i stila, taj nenadmasni wit koji je on tako naizgled lako prosipao iz sebe zadrzali su jos dugo interesovanje za ovo mracno delo o tastini, grehu, zlocinu i umetnosti. Cak postoji, mada naucno nepriznat, Dorijan Grej sindrom; dok je sam lik bezgranicno interesantan i aktuelan te stalno iznova vaskrsava u popularnoj kulturi.
Filmski pokusaji sa Dorijanom veoma su brojni : prvi je film (nemi) snimljen jos 1913. godine a da se od tada od njega uopste ne odustaje. Ponekad je to doslovna ekranizacija, sve sa nazivom The Picture of Dorian Gray; ponekad je to, pak, Dorian Gray in disguise pa tako on moze biti i zena. O svemu ovome a narocito o jedinom filmu koji ja licno priznajem, vec sam podrobno pisala u postu I have been haunted by the Picture of Dorian Gray ..., tako da se sada radije ne bih ponavljala. Za one koje mrzi da sada to citaju samo cu napomenuti da je to onaj film iz 1945. godine, crno beli (sem u delovima kada se pokazuje slika, sto je vazan i jedinstven postupak) a koji je rezirao Albert Levin, izuzetno zanimljiva figura. Svakako ga preporucujem - ne samo stoga sto je realno najbolji vec i zato sto se tu moze videti i veoma mlada Andjela Lensberi ;) kao i uzivati u fantasticnom izvodjenju Dzordza Sandersa u ulozi Herija; jedini koji ga uspesno zamenjuje, u ovoj novoj verziji, jeste - Kolin Firt. Njegova izvedba je u principu i jedino sto zaista valja u ovom najnovijem Dorijan ostvarenju.
Pored samog prelepog i strasnog Dorijana i nesretnog slikara Bazila koji je taj portret izradio, najprominentnija i najupecatljivija od svih njih (mozda cak i samoga Dorijana) jeste figura Harija (Lord Henry Wotton) koji odvlaci Dorijana u taj strahotni ambis. Henri mnogo prica, on je prototip tadasnjeg dendija (po principu Bo Bramela o kome sam ranije pisala), hedonista koji svojim nacinom zivota zaludjuje Dorijana. Uticaj koji on ima na Dorijana poguban je i presudan medjutim on nije nikakav djavo koji je dosao po Dorijanovu dusu; pollovinu od toga sto on govori on zapravo ne misli; on je idle a pri tom zastrasujuce elokventan no zapravo nije zao. Mnoge od najvrcavijih recenica u romanu pripadaju njemu iako su neke od njih upravo outrageous. Kako Bazil kaze - on nikada ne govori nista dobro ali takodje i ne cini nista lose. On je zapravo veliki kriticar celokupne viktorijanske kulture koju smatra uzasno laznom i pritvornom. Ono sto su za Harija reci i hedonizam, medjutim, kod Dorijana se pretvara u zlocin. I pored price koja je prilicno strasna jer dotice onaj sustinski strah koji svi delimo - od prolaznosti mladosti, lepote i, na kraju, od smrti, ovaj roman zaista zasluzuje da se nadje u lektiri i stoga sto je tu Oskarov wit i way with words dosao do punog izrazaja, sto ce nesto kasnije svoj vrhunac, po meni, dostici u njegovim komadima. Da bi se u tom sjajnom, britkom, savrsenom pisanju zaista uzivalo - trebalo bi ga ipak citati na engleskom.
Evo i par jako poznatih Oskarovih citata iz ovog dela, koji, kao i vecina njegovih opste poznatih recenica, ima zivot van samog dela te se cesto zaboravlja odakle uopste i poticu; ovde uglavnom iz uma i usta Harija Votona :
There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
Conscience and cowardice are really the same things.
A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love; it is the faithless who know love's tragedies.
The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it.
The one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties.
Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself.
Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one.
The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.
The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.
It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible
Beauty is a form of genius - is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation.
I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones.
Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.
Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.
When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others.
A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely facinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistable. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.
Nakon Dorijana Greja Oskar je lako mogao reci ono sto je Bajron ranije izjavio I woke up one day to find myself famous : bio je sada medju najpoznatijim ljudima u Londonu, mada vise infamous no bilo sta drugo. Njemu se izgleda ovo i dopalo, bio je talk of the town, briljirao je na raznim vecerinkama i svi su ga na ulici prepoznavali iako je i ranije bio dosta upadljiv svojom fizickom velicinom i ektravagantnim odevanjem. Tako da je onda odlucio da jos malo prodrma svoje sunarodnike : tokom posete Francuskoj napisao je komad Saloma. Pisanje ovog komada sada je vec skoro pa legenda : tokom svog boravka u Parizu Oskar se mnogo druzio sa ondasnjim umetnicima (na primer posecivao je Malarmea i njegov kruzook koji se sastajao utorcima - po cemu se cela ova intelektualna grupa zvala Mardistes) gde je ucestvovao u raspravama o umetnosti i filozofiji. Nakon jedne takve rasprave kada se govorilo o liku Salome i kako je ona predstavljana u umetnosti kroz vekove, Oskar je seo i napisao komad, zeleci da zabelezi ono o cemu je tom prilikom govorio. Napisao ju je na francuskom jeziku, prakticno on the spur of the moment. Kasnije je ona prevedena na engleski; kao prevodilac stoji zapisan Lord Alfred Daglas, jedan mali kreten o kome cu kasnije nesto reci. Njegov prevod je, medjutim, bio upravo katastrofalan pa je Oskar, na kraju, uzeo i sam preveo svoje delo. Ime malog degenerika medjutim je ostalo jer Oskar nije hteo da se svadja sa tim razmazenim histerikom koga je , medjutim, voleo.
O Salomi moze mnogo da se govori; bar toliko, ako ne cak i vise, koliko i o Dorijanu Greju. Ovde su i mrak i skandal zapravo jos veci jer se govori o biblijskim licnostima. Upravo stoga izvodjenje ovog komada bilo je zabranjeno u Engleskoj : tamo je jos uvek vazio zakon po kome nije bilo dozvoljeno prikazivati biblijske licnosti na pozornici. Ova zabrana ostala je na snazi sve do 1931. godine (!) kada je Saloma premijerno izvedena u Londonu. Francuzi, s druge strane, nisu imali taj problem ;) Komad je postavljen 1896. godine u Parizu; u tom trenutku ovo postavljanje drame bilo je zapravo jedan snazan odgovor francuskih umetnika na sve sto se u medjuvremenu desilo Oskaru. Stoga je ova prva postavka postala gotovo the stuff of legend : okupili su se najveci umetnici tog trenutka bilo u ulozi publike ili kao ucesnici ovog spektakla - recimo - Tuluz Lotrek je nacinio programe za to vece :) Na zalost, on je tada vec bio u zatvoru tako da nije mogao prisustvovati ovom dogadjaju. Medjutim, dok je jos uvek bio slobodan, a nakon zabrane izvodjenja u Engleskoj, on se potrudio da makar ovaj svoj komad stampa. Tako je 1893. izaslo i englesko izdanje sve sa legendarnim ilustracijama mladog Obri Birdslija. Ove ilustracije, danas toliko poznate i obozavane, nisu se medjutim svidele Oskaru koji ih je smatrao "suvise vizantijskim"; pored toga - Oskar se pojavljuje na par njih u vidu svojevrsne karikature, sto mu se verovatno takodje nije mnogo dopalo. O ovim ilustracijama takodje se moze mnogo pisati (ceo jedan seminarski rad na primer;) no za sada cu se zadrzati samo na postavljanju par njih :)
Ono sto je toliko outrage-ovalo tadasnji svet jeste Oskarova interpretacija biblijske price. Za razliku od Novog Zaveta gde je sama Saloma slabo predstavljena - samo kao orudje kojim njena majka dobija ono sto zeli - ona je ovde famme fatale i glavni uzrocnik smrti obezglavljivanjem Jovana Krstitelja. Ovo, samo po sebi, nije potpuno nova ideja : u to vreme, narocito u Francuskoj tokom ere simbolizma, ali i ranije, pojavljuju se odjednom te fatalne zene - razne Judite, Meduze i Salome; predstavljaju se rado, kao neka privlacna, pogubna i mracna sila, kako u knjizevnosti, tako i u likovnim umetnostima. One u isto vreme radjaju zelju (seksualnu, koja se granici sa pomamom) ali i stravu : vladavinom njihovog neodoljivog erosa one, gotovo bukvalno, prozdiru muskarce i dovode ih do njihove potpune propasti. Ono sto je zapocelo jos ranije, a pod cijim utiskom je bio i Oskar tokom svoje posete Parizu ( a sto se narocito odnosi na slike Gistava Moroa) on sada ovde koristi - ideju da se akcenat stavlja na Salomu radije nego na njenu majku - te ide jos i dalje : razlog zasto Saloma tako zudi za Jovanovom glavom na tanjiru jeste taj sto ga ona zeli a on je ipak odbija. Scenu kada Saloma dobija bezivotnu glavu Jovana on je tako nacinio klimaksom svog komada. Ovakva interpretacija novozavetne price zgrazala je isto kao i trenutak koji mu prethodi : kada Saloma izvodi cuveni ples sedam velova sa vrlo malo odece na sebi ;) O ostalim postupcima, temama i motivima, o odnosu prema simbolizmu i ostalom - mozda neki drugi put; sada bih samo navela taj, po meni, najsnazniji i najstrasniji deo kada Saloma prica sa mrtvom Jovanovom glavom.
SALOME: [Holding the severed head of Iokanaan.] Ah! thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan. Well! I will kiss it now. I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes, I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan. I said it; did I not say it? I said it. Ah! I will kiss it now. But wherefore dost thou not look at me, Iokanaan? Thine eyes that were so terrible, so full of rage and scorn, are shut now. Wherefore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up thine eyelids, Iokanaan! Wherefore dost thou not look at me? Art thou afraid of me, Iokanaan, that thou wilt not look at me? And thy tongue, that was like a red snake darting poison, it moves no more, it speaks no words, Iokanaan, that scarlet viper that spat its venom upon me. It is strange, is it not? How is it that the red viper stirs no longer? Thou wouldst have none of me, Iokanaan. Thou rejectedest me. Thou didst speak evil words against me. Thou didst bear thyself toward me as to a harlot, as to a woman that is a wanton, to me, Salome, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judaea! Well, I still live, but thou art dead, and thy head belongs to me. I can do with it what I will. I can throw it to the dogs and to the birds of the air. That which the dogs leave, the birds of the air shall devour. Ah, Iokanaan, Iokanaan, thou wert the man that I loved alone among men! All other men were hateful to me. But thou wert beautiful! Thy body was a column of ivory set upon feet of silver. It was a garden full of doves and lilies of silver. It was a tower of silver decked with shields of ivory. There was nothing in the world so white as thy body.
There was nothing in the world so black as thy hair. In the whole world there was nothing so red as thy mouth. Thy voice was a censer that scattered strange perfumes, and when I looked on thee I heard strange music. Ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me, Iokanaan? With the cloak of thine hands, and with the cloak of thy blasphemies thou didst hide thy face. Thou didst put upon thine eyes the covering of him who would see God. Well, thou hast seen thy God, Iokanaan, but me, me, thou didst never see me. If thou hadst seen me thou hadst loved me. I saw thee, and I loved thee. Oh, how I loved thee! I love thee yet, Iokanaan. I love only thee. I am athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor apples can appease my desire. What shall I do now, Iokanaan? Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my passion. I was a princess, and thou didst scorn me. I was a virgin, and thou didst take my virginity from me. I was chaste, and thou didst fill my veins with fire. Ah! ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me? [She kisses the head.] Ah! I have kissed thy mouth, Iokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth. There was a bitter taste on thy lips. Was it the taste of blood? Nay; but perchance it was the taste of love. They say that love hath a bitter taste. But what matter? what matter? I have kissed thy mouth.
Nakon mracnog erosa i strave ove Salome Oskar se ponovo vratio kritici drustva, ovaj put sasvim otvorenoj ali datoj u fanatasticnim komedijama; ovih komada ima vise i svi su bozanstveni te smatram da bi se morali uvrstiti u nekakve liste i programe. Zapravo, mislim da bi se preko Oskarovih dela, a narocito preko ovih komedija, trebalo uciti engleskom jeziku. Serija ovih veoma uspesnih i voljenih komada pocinje sa Lady Windermere's Fan, iz 1892. godine; slede potom A Woman of No Importance iz 1893. i An Ideal Husband napisan naredne, 1894. godine. Svi ovi komadi prepuni su tipicno vajldovske elokvencije i nenadmasnog humora; mnoge od poznatih njegovih citata nalaze se upravo u njima. Na sceni ovi komadi doziveli su fantastican uspeh a svi se izvode i dan - danas posvuda u svetu. Brojne su i filmske adaptacije. Medjutim najbolji i najpoznatiji Oskarov komad, onaj koga ce se setiti i manje odusevljeni citalac, jeste The Importance of Being Earnest, njegov, na zalost, poslednji komad, koji je takodje nastao 1894. godine. Ipak, brilijantnost Oskarovog dela ali narocito komada - gubi se znacajno u prevodu koji najcesce ipak ne moze propratiti njegov humor, igru reci i lepotu izraza; kao sto sam vec rekla - trebalo bi ga citati na engleskom. Ovo postaje narocito (bolno) ocigledno vec u samom nazivu Ernesta : prevod Vazno je zvati se Ernest uopste ne otkriva igru reci koja je u originalu prisutna i koja je toliko vazna za ceo ovaj komad : Earnest jeste ime ali i rec koja oznacava iskrenost i (cak) ozbiljnost. Dakle, nije vazno zvati se Ernest vec biti (u isto vreme) Ernest i earnest to jest - iskren. Vaznost ove igre reci jasna je kada se komad procita ;) Ovaj divni komad filmovan je mnogo puta; iako volim i staru verziju ovog puta mnogo vise pak uzivam u novijoj - onoj iz 2002. godine - sa Kolinim Firtom, Rupertom Everetom, Dzudi Denc, Tom Vilkinsonom i Riz Viterspun. Ovu verziju moja sestra i ja gledale smo i u bioskopu; i, dok smo se nas dve valjale od smeha zacudila nas je tisina u Sava Centru : izgleda ipak treba imati nekakav taste za ovu vrstu humora. Publika se dosta retko smejala a kada je to i cinila bilo je to u onim retkim ne-smesnim momentima.; potrebno je vise Oskara na ovim prostorima :) Trejler za ovaj film moze se videti ovde dok za podjednako zabavni An Ideal Husband (takodje sa Rupertom ali i sa Kejt Blanset, Mini Drajver i Dzulijen Mur) ovde.
Tesko je odabrati deo iz Ernesta koji bih najradije navela jer su gotovo svi pisicni ali sam se nekako odlucila za deo kada se vodi razgovor izmedju Lady Bracknell i Jack-a povodom njegove veridbe sa Gwendolen :
Lady Bracknell. [Sitting down.] You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.
[Looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.]
Jack. Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.
Lady Bracknell. [Pencil and note-book in hand.] I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although I have the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?
Jack. Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.
Lady Bracknell. I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?
Jack. Twenty-nine.
Lady Bracknell. A very good age to be married at. I have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?
Jack. [After some hesitation.] I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.
Lady Bracknell. I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?
Jack. Between seven and eight thousand a year.
Lady Bracknell. [Makes a note in her book.] In land, or in investments?
Jack. In investments, chiefly.
Lady Bracknell. That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one during one’s lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one’s death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position, and prevents one from keeping it up. That’s all that can be said about land.
Jack. I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don’t depend on that for my real income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only people who make anything out of it.
Lady Bracknell. A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple, unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country.
Jack. Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six months’ notice.
Lady Bracknell. Lady Bloxham? I don’t know her.
Jack. Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably advanced in years.
Lady Bracknell. Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of character. What number in Belgrave Square?
Jack. 149.
Lady Bracknell. [Shaking her head.] The unfashionable side. I thought there was something. However, that could easily be altered.
Jack. Do you mean the fashion, or the side?
Lady Bracknell. [Sternly.] Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your polities?
Jack. Well, I am afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.
Lady Bracknell. Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents living?
Jack. I have lost both my parents.
Lady Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?
Jack. I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me… I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was… well, I was found.
Lady Bracknell. Found!
Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.
Lady Bracknell. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?
Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.
Lady Bracknell. A hand-bag?
Jack. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag—a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it—an ordinary hand-bag in fact.
Lady Bracknell. In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?
Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.
Lady Bracknell. The cloak-room at Victoria Station?
Jack. Yes. The Brighton line.
Lady Bracknell. The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion—has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now-but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society.
Jack. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.
Lady Bracknell. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.
Jack. Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.
Lady Bracknell. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter—a girl brought up with the utmost care—to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!
[Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.]
No, all good things come to an end, a Oskarov zalosni kraj, tacnije - pocetak kraja - desio se bas u vreme premijere Ernesta : besan na to sto Vajld odbija da se povinuje njegovoj zapovesti da prekine da vidja njegovog sina Alfreda, zvanog Bouzi (Bosie) Lord i markiz Kvinsberi isplanirao je da Oskara na premijeri zatrpa gnjilim povrcem. Ovo mu nije uspelo jer je Oskaru unapred dojavljeno sta taj covek planira te je sprecen da uopste i udje u pozoriste. Naravno, ovo je markiza samo jos vise razbesnelo te je uskoro poslao svoju kartu sa natpisom To Oscar Wilde posing somdomite; naravno, hteo je da napise sodomite ali nije bio dobar u spelovanju. Medjutim, ostavivsi ovako posvecenu poruku na javnom mestu svi su mogli da shvate o cemu se zapravo radi. Nahuskan Bouzijem, koji je vodio life long rat sa svojim ocem, Oskar je odlucio da markiza tuzi za klevetu iako su mu svi prijatelji savetovali da to ne radi vec da na neko vreme mozda napusti Englesku. Jedino je Bouzi navijao da se sa tim procesom zapocne iz sebicne potreba da ponizi oca, ni ne razmisljajuci kakve ce posledice to imati po Oskara.
Uopste, malog kretena uopste nikada i nije interesovalo nista sem njega samog; narcisoidan, opsednut samim sobom i svojim zadovoljstvima on je redovno i veoma okrutno maltretirao Oskara koji se veoma mnogo trudio da mu u bas svemu ugodi, obasipajuci ga paznjom, poklonima i ljubavlju. Jer, Bouzi, iako je bio takav (mali razmazeni skot) bio je ljubav njegovog zivota. On se te ljubavi nije mogao osloboditi, redovno joj je ponovo podlegao i u njoj se gubio. Posle svakog ponizenja i uvrede Oskar bi ga ponovo primao k sebi, iako je onda kada je bivao sa njim najmanje pisao. Za razliku od njegovih prethodnih veza, sa Robijem Rosom na primer koji mu je bio prvi ljubavnik, citav Oskarov zivot trpeo je i patio od ove veze : kako njegova porodica koju bi tim prilikama zanemarivao do krajnosti, tako i njegova umetnost. Jer, Bouzi je bio ona sveprozimajuca strast kojoj se sve zrtvuje a koja, uglavnom, za uzvrat unistava. Istina, Bouzi je imao oca sadistu koji je sve redom maltretirao; jedan brat cak mu se i ubio, te je Bouzi veoma mnogo to koristio kako bi emotivno ucenjivao Oskara koji je onda zeleo da se suprotstavi monstrumu i spase ga. S druge strane, Bouzi je bio daleko od nekog nevinasceta kojem je spasenje odista potrebno : iako tako mlad bio je lord i razmazen a sebi je dozvoljavao upravo sve. Odavao se precesto razvratu i bludu, terajuci i Oskara da sa njim posecuje razne rent-boy(eve). Upravo to je ono sto je Oskara upropastilo : ne samo usud koji je bio Bouzi himself vec i te muske prostitutke koji su naterani da svedoce tokom sudjenja protiv Oskara. Tako, posto je izgubio svoju tuzbu, Oskar je optuzen i uhapsen za sodomy and gross indecency. Pre hapsenja prijatelji su mu opet savetovali beg, no Oskar je ostao : jedino ga je njegova majka Lady Wilde savetovala da ostane i brani se.
Tokom sudjenja poteglo se i pitanje sta je to Love that dare not speak its name o kojoj govori Bouzi u jednoj od svojih pesama (da, Bouzi je pisao i pesme;); Oskar je odgovorio kratkim govorom koji je ostao upamcen i rado je citiran ali koji mu ni malo nije pomogao u odbrani :
The love that dare not speak its name" in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art, like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as "the love that dare not speak its name," and on that account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an older and a younger man, when the older man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. That it should be so, the world does not understand. The world mocks at it, and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it.
Dok je ziveo sa Robijem, nakon zatvora, Oskar je napisao poznatu pesmu The Ballad of the Readin Gaol koja se cesto citira; ova pesma govori o coveku koji je ubio svoju zenu zbog preljube ali zapravo najvise o Oskarovom zatvorskom iskustvu i svemu onome svemu sto mu se desilo. Ovu pesmu potpisao je sa C.3.3 sto je broj celije u zatvoru Readin Gaul gde je sluzio svoju kaznu. Najpoznatiji stihovi ove pesme su ovi :
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
And alien tears will fill for himPity's long-broken urn,For his mourners will be outcast men,And outcasts always mourn.
Pepeo sa urnom vernog Robija polozena je u ovu grobnicu, sto je i bila njegova zelja, 1950. godine kada je i on umro.
Drugo sto sam jos htela da kazem odnosi se na sjajan film Wilde iz 1997. godine sa fabuloznim Stivenom Frajem i Dzudom kao Bouzijem, izmedju ostalih. Zna se vec koliko volim Dzuda; u ovom filmu , medjutim, aktivno ga mrzim, sto valjda govori da je odlicno izveo svoju ulogu. Svakako preporucujem ovaj film, a evo i dela u sudnici, dakle govora o Love that dare not speak its name ...
Zaista fascinantan čovek beše.
ReplyDeleteTo say the least ...
ReplyDeleteOski :))) Ja sam imala u Earnestu the 1st kao zvucni fajl da mi tako zvoni telefon taj deo "Yet each man kills the thing he loves", i svaki stih je citao neko drugi a jedan deo cita deda :)
ReplyDeleteOvo mogu da razumem samo ja :)))
ReplyDelete