Category Archives: Serbian Literature

Srba Ignjatović: OVAPLOĆENI SAN DEJANA STOJANOVIĆA

Document-page-001

Dejan Stojanović: Svet u nigdini

Može zazvučati iznenađujuće ali držim da nas petoknjižje Dejana Stojanovića Svet u nigdini najpre suočava sa pitanjem da li je ep danas moguć, a potom i onim o tome kakav je odnos današnjeg pesnika prema epu. Na prvo moguće pitanje Stojanovićev odgovor je afirmativan i delotvoran. Odnosno, ne obraća se on uzalud, već samim početkom Ozara, Homeru. Homer valja da bude njegov putovođa, mada će mu se kasnije, u istom svojstvu, pridružiti Šekspir (a naći će se tu i Dante, i mnogi drugi).
Homer je prizvan kao ovaploćenje čitavog jednog sveta – antičkog, dakako, ali i putokazni rapsod. Pogotovu je epski pevač onaj koji je zaslužan za „paralelizam“ božanskog i ljudskog – uzvišenog i ovozemaljskog.
Ista rukovodna ambicija vidna je i u znatnom delu pevanja Dejana Stojanovića.
Epsko, naravno, nije zamislivo bez mita. I Stojanović, stoga, nastoji da bude poeta-„mitograf“.
Ep je nezamisliv bez junaka-heroja. Isto važi i za mit.
Ko je, zapravo, Stojanovićev Ozar?
Pesnik nam je pomogao vlastitom dešifracijom. Ozar je anagram, muški analogon Zore.
Pridodajem tome vlastito učitavanje, lirsko, pa Ozara dovodim i u vezu s ozarenjem. Ne moram da budem u pravu, ali neka to bude moj čitalački „udeo“.
A zašto Šekspir?
Podsetiću, po sećanju, na stihove rumunskog pesnika Marina Soreskua o tome kako je Šekspir stvorio svet za šest dana…
Ukoliko sam, uz pomoć Soreskua, na dobrom tragu, onda je, i kod Stojanovića, Šekspir sinonim „književnog demijurga“, tvoritelja-stvoritelja čitavog jednog „čovečanskog sveta“. Ali, naravno, ni taj svet nije bez prisenaka-primesa mitskog i legendarnih igrarija i igrokaza.
Obratimo sada pažnju na nešto drugo – na književnu „arhitektoniku“ Stojanovićevog petoknjižja, na „strukturu“.
Pojedine knjige, delovi petoknjižja Svet u nigdini, mogle bi se imenovati i kao spevovi. Pojam je to koji je u novije doba obično vezivan s imenom našeg Miodraga Pavlovića.
I, kao i kod Pavlovića, „epska disciplina“ pevanja u Stojanovićevom slučaju većma naginje intelektu i erudiciji no nečemu što se obično podrazumeva pod lirskim vrednotama.
Biće da je to ne samo očekivano, nego, na određeni način, i logično. Jer – ne zaboravimo – reč je o zamašnim postupcima, o tzv. „dugom dahu“ i, konačno, konstruktima (u dobrom smislu te reči) koji su prožeti filozofskim nabojem, često „silogistički“ ustrojeni, podstaknuti pitanjem o krajnjem smislu i besmislu bivanja i sveta (pogotovu „smeštenog“ u nigdinu).
Kada je već tako postavio „stvari“, kako dalje gradi naš autor?
Gradi – razgrađujući, gotovo destruirajući, iznutra preoblikujući (prekrajajući, transformišući) začeto.
Otuda u knjigama – „sastavcima“ njegovog petoknjižja – tolika množina formi stihovanja, ali i (hotimično) sudaranje i susretanje stiha i proznog teksta, stiha i zapisa, stiha i rasprave, stiha i esejističkog začetka, stiha i prozaide, odnosno lirske epifanije.
Sve to je, u stvari, „poprište“ na kojem se susreću dva lika jednog pesnika: jedan odan veledelu sa drugim ovovremenim i skeptičnim, opredeljenim za fragment, isečak, atomizovanu i disperzivnu sliku sveta kao samu suprotnost drevnoj i mitskoj, zagubljenoj celovitosti.
Ali sva ova formalna a pogotovu smisaona protivurečja imaju svoju ulogu i daju doprinos iznutra dinamizujući čitav zahvat; moglo bi se gotovo reći i da formotvorno „modernizuju“ sam koncept.
Po cenu paradoksa, primetiće skeptik.
Da, upravo po cenu paradoksa. Nalazim da i to jeste jedan od autorovih nauma: igrati i na paradoks, negovati ga.
U riznici svetske literature – bez ikakve želje za doslovnim povezivanjima i poređenjima – još jedan dalji „međaš“ kompleksnim naumima ove vrste mogao bi da bude Geteov Faust.
Želja za konačnim saznanjem/saznanjima?
Ima i te želje u našeg autora.
Na drugoj strani – pevanje u beskonačnost/beskonačje.
Vredi se, tim povodom, spomenuti nikad dokončanih Kantosa Ezre Paunda.
Kao što je intelektualni brid hotimična „korekcija“ (gotovo „suspenzija“) lirskog poja (setimo se T. S. Eliota).
Najzad, kad se već ispomažem analogijama i njihovim prisencima: svest da i u malome može da izbiva veliko, karakteristika poetskog koncepta Vaska Pope, nezaobilazno se javlja i u Stojanovićevom pothvatu.
Već je primećeno – i to nedvosmisleno i neskriveno jeste tako – da i ovde, u Svetu u nigdini, konkretno u knjizi Dom svetlosti, postoji „zona kontakta“ s Malom kutijom Vaska Pope.
Stojanović svakako zna da osim velikog u malom i osim Kosmosa sa velikim k postoji i kosmos malih stvari, običan, ljudski, emocijama počesto nabijen, i u ime te svesti obelodanjuje u čitavom poznijem nizu pesama i vlastiti lirski glas, lirsku nit.
Kompleksno pevanje, kompleksan autor, pesnik s velikim rasponom, sa složenim registrom nijansi može (ili mora?) i to sebi da omogući.
Kako bi i bilo drugačije ako je Svet u nigdini – petoknjižje zasad dostupno kao jedinstveni poetski kodeks umnožen u malom broju primeraka, upravo za upotrebu ove raspre čiji smo učesnici – utopijska apsolutna knjiga Dejana Stojanovića, dakle malarmeovski apsolut, u neku ruku.
Parafraziraću, opet po sećanju, Borhesa.
Apsolutna priča, ili apsolutna knjiga, po Borhesu jeste knjiga pustinje. Peščana, zrnasto nedogledna i čestično neprebrojna… U isti mah jedna vizija i himera.
Zar upravo to nije razlog da žudimo za apsolutnom knjigom?
Svet u nigdini Dejana Stojanovića jeste, na njegov način, taj ovaploćeni san.

Dejan Stojanović: Svet u nigdini

У УДРУЖЕЊУ КЊИЖЕВНИКА СРБИЈЕ ОДРЖАН ЈЕ ОКРУГЛИ СТО ПОСВЕЋЕН ОБЈАВЉИВАЊУ ПЕНТАЛОГИЈЕ ДЕЈАНА СТОЈАНОВИЋА, СВЕТ У НИГДИНИ

Поводом објављивања пенталогије Дејана Стојановића, Свет у нигдини, у Удружењу књижевника Србије одржан је 27. јуна 2017. године Округли сто посвећен овом петокњижју. Појединачни наслови пет књига ове пенталогије јесу Озар, Свет и Бог, Свет у нигдини, Свет и људи, Дом светлости. Ових дана изашао је из штампе Зборник радова који садржи текстове учесника Округлог стола, као и оних аутора који су своје радове приложили за Зборник.

Модератор Округлог стола био је Миљурко Вукадиновић, чији текст служи и као уводни текст Зборника, док се текст самог аутора пенталогије, Дејана Стојановића, налази у Зборнику као завршни. Учесници Округлог стола били су Срба Игњатовић, Душко Новаковић, Душан Стојковић, Зорица Арсић Мандарић, Гордана Влаховић, Драган Коларевић, Видак Масловарић, Милан Лукић и сам аутор пенталогије, Дејан Стојановић. Аутори који због других обавеза нису могли да присуствују Округлом столу, приложили су накнадно своје радове за Зборник, а то су Братислав Р. Милановић, Давид Кецман Дако, Иван Цветановић, Никола Маринковић и Јово Цвјетковић.

Сви учесници Округлог стола говорили су надахнуто о најновијој књизи, пенталогији, Дејана Стојановића и општи закључак Округлог стола био је да је реч о несвакидашњем делу у српској литератури. Срба Игњатовић је истакао чињеницу да ова пенталогија задовољава критеријуме епа те да слободно може бити названа модерним епом.

Главни закључак Округлог стола садржан је у идеји да је пенталогија Свет у нигдини Дејана Стојановића велики датум у савременој српској књижевности и књижевни пројекат који ће тек доживети праву рецепцију и признање у годинама које су пред нама.

Кратки изводи из текстова у Зборнику:

РЕКЛИ СУ О СВЕТУ У НИГДИНИ

Свет у нигдини је утопијска апсолутна књига Дејана Стојановића, дакле малармеовски апсолут, у неку руку. Апсолутна прича, или апсолутна књига, по Борхесу јесте књига пустиње. Пешчана, зрнасто недогледна и честично непребројна… У исти мах једна визија и химера. Зар управо то није разлог да жудимо за апсолутном књигом? Свет у нигдини Дејана Стојановића јесте, на његов начин, тај оваплоћени сан.”
—Срба Игњатовић

„Увек сам се питао, и поводом свог песничког стваралаштва, шта је то тотална песма… Може ли се петокњижје Дејана Стојановића назвати тоталном песмом, оном о којој сваки озбиљан песник сања, још од Хомера? Осетио сам неке такве импулсе приликом читања Света у нигдини. Ово је једна апсолутна песма, једног апсолутног мисаоног система који ради уздуж и попреко свих наших цивилизацијских наслеђа.”
—Душко Новаковић

(Свет у нигдини нуди) радост спознаје због открића која завређују Нобела…”
—Милан Лукић

„Одавно нисмо имали, ако смо икада и били у прилици да се у српској поезији са тим уопште и сусретнемо, песничку пенталогију.”
—Душан Стојковић

„Сан сваког песника јесте да напише своју велику, јединствену, свеобухватну књигу у којој ће на прави начин изнети све своје мисли и осећања што се јављају у дугим разговорима са светом. Под оним свет подразумевам све појавно и апстрактно што у језику постоји. Што је именовано и што се може именовати. Oбимом замашна пенталогија Дејана Стојановића Свет у нигдини је покушај да се напише таква књига. Ово петокњижје о свету и светлости амбициозан је подухват.“
—Братислав Р. Милановић

„Пенталогија, односно петокњижје Дејана Стојановића Свет у нигдини, необичан је подухват у српској књижевности.”
—Никола Маринковић

„Песнички подухват, Свет у нигдини Дејана Стојановића, у овом тренутку је посебна појава у српском језику.”
—Драган Коларевић

„Мало је оваквих књига у српској књижевности.”
—Иван Цветановић

„[Објављивање Света у нигдини јесте) крупан датум у савременој српској поезији.”
—Миљурко Вукадиновић

„Постојан и доследан, Дејан Стојановић се свим својим круговањима у свету песништва као и филозофије, и увек нешто више од свега тога, остварио као мислећи човек непрекинуте стваралачке мисли. Од оног је стваралачког соја који делом доказује постојаност давно успостављеног јединства Мистика и Мага. Оног који пуно зна, који је, по Бели Хамвашу, Мистик, и оног другог, са именом Маг, који такође зна, али знање му је у функцији подстицаја, одраз порива да провири и у ону другу, мање знану или потпуно неистражену страну медаље до које првим погледом светлост не допире.“
—Давид Кецман Дако

„Аутор је дубоко зароњен у покушај проницања суштине свемира, те смисла постанка и трајања бића у њему. Трага за равнотежом и могућношћу успостављања хармоније у наоко неспојивим, дисхармоничним појавама и појмовима.“
—Гордана Влаховић

„Најновију књигу, Свет у нигдини, Дејан Стојановић нам приноси као духовну антологију. Ово је амбициозни поетско-есејистички пројекат у претежно философском, густом и слојевитом петокњижју о човештву као извору и ушћу свих видљивих и невидљивих светова. Рукопис је у иновативној, авангардној форми… Дејан Стојановић мудро и зналачки преплиће поезију и прозу, епско и лирско али и теоријско-критичко.“
—Зорица Арсић Мандарић

„Стојановићева наглашена контемплативност чини га особеним у савременом песничком творењу, једним од ретких који нема дилему око једнакости поезије и филозофије и неопходности њиховог ваљаног разумевања, колико и мудријег одгонетања значења речи, те његово трагање у песничкој књизи Свет у нигдини разумем као трагање за смислом елементарног опстанка у времену отуђеном, сурово стварном, загледаном у све и ништа.“
—Видак Масловарић

„Стојановићев песнички, прозни и драмски проседе представља у еминентном смислу дефиле основних појмова и егзистенцијалија човековог бивствовања, његове земаљске и космичке судбине. Реч је о слободи, Апсолуту, Богу, Ђаволу, хаосу, реду, истини, свету итд. Филозофско, религијско и песничко чине основно језгро у тумачењу и разумевању онтологије људског опстајања.“
—Јово Цвјетковић

Three Dreams by Dejan Stojanovic

A Fairy

Dejan Stojanović

Dejan Stojanović

In the foggy desires of my dreams, I often returned to the starry landscapes of the cosmic fatherland, recognizing the unknown outlines and imagining real and never-declared truths.  Forests, fogs and whirlpools rose above this thought, this enchantment and this real place.

Along with this dream was born another, a dream about a woman who was never sung about or fully described or understood.  The dream was being born about a fairy, Laura, Beatrice, the non-existent Jelena, a cat woman, and a snake woman—a dream about all women and all the madness, jealousies, fears, passions, torments and crimes committed because of women.

This secret of secrets and truth of truths hovers over us, and in us, almost from times immemorial: the picture of the ideal, imagined woman not dreamed of enough, unattainable and unreachable. This picture replaces and enhances reality as if by God’s creation: A woman is an illusion, an obsession, a fulfillment of one’s ego; she is an initiator, a paradox, and a destroyer.

On a hill I often hiked, after a longer walk and meditation, I sat down to rest, contemplating, and fell asleep.  I caught sight of her contours in the mist.  This enigmatic and somewhat melancholy beauty was approaching, moving closer and closer.  She wore only a cloak made of mist, which further emphasized her dreamy curves.  She touched me with her fingers.  Trembling, I thought that my heart might jump from my chest.  I woke up in a cold sweat, but soon afterwards fell asleep again.

The fog lifted and I could see the shape of the city below.  There were attractive but strange streets, as if haunted.  I appeared even to myself as a stranger in the city that should be mine, but seemed not to be.  I then went to a park by the lake.  The park was full of different types of flowers, and the lake was well known for its great variety of birds.

Walking through the park, at one point, I decided to make a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers, which were growing everywhere.  With bouquet in hand, I reached the lake and started throwing small flat stones at the water, watching how they skipped along the water’s surface, recalling how this was my favorite game in childhood.  The small stones skimmed the farthest, almost reaching the island.  One reached the island itself and ended up in the hand of the woman in the mist.

This was truly jolting.  I thought that this terrible dream belonged to the past, that I had woken up and liberated myself from this nightmare, but here again, she appeared.  She was the most beautiful and captivating, yet disturbing being.  Why is she here, in my city, and where did she acquire this skill to catch so effortlessly the small stone with her tender hand?  Although it was evening and she was not that near, I clearly saw her smile at me and invite me to join her.

I took a nearby rowboat and paddled to the island.  I found myself on a deserted island, clearly recognizing that the woman was dressed in a bright light, not mist.  She flew above me and I realized that she was a fairy.  I always wanted to meet a fairy.

A Mountain and a Fairy

 I looked at the edges of the mountain’s majestic beauty, which ripped into the never-ending clear sky.  Yellow, like the hue of a halo, started to appear at the very edge of the mountain.  It spread and changed into a single-colored dazzling yellow rainbow, engulfing the mountain edge meeting the heavenly space.

The halo slowly lost its intensity, acquiring white-like colors covering the whole mountain.  Although enveloped in mist, I could still discern the mountain’s shape, which had somehow become more slender, with only a reminder of the former halo that had descended from the very top of the mountain face, like the golden, luxuriant mane of a woman.  The fairy again reappeared.  Her splendid, white face, in such vast dimensions, presented not only a God-like expression, but a fearsome one as well.

If there is truth, it must be here, in this sensual tension and genuineness of a visual occurrence that fulfills and negates me, bringing me to the edge of disappearance or transforming me into something else, which—with a cathartic and enlightening feeling of a personal change—appears before me in all of its greatness.

 An Island in Emptiness

The night was approaching and a breeze was blowing; the street lights were already spreading the light…. I could hear people murmuring and cars on the road and see couples in love passing by, including some who were passionately kissing.  The people seemed beautiful, but I was in a world of my own visions.  I was still chased by the thought of an ideal woman.

I arrived at the gates of my house.  I passed through the garden of varied flowers with fluttering petals, which always attracted my attention, but now, for some unknown reason, I hardly noticed.  I entered the house and sat in my favorite armchair and, within a few minutes, had fallen into a deep sleep.

I found myself in endless darkness and emptiness.  And then suddenly, as if in an explosion, a sea surfaced.  All around me, there was only the sea.  Where am I now?  I am neither at the coast nor in some aircraft, neither in the water nor above it.  Out of the boundless sea a strange dot appeared, gradually developing into a beautiful, paradise-like island.

On the island, I noted a nice sandy path and next to the beaches flourished seemingly cultivated vegetation.  But again the question nagged at me: Where am I?  Just like earlier with the sea, now the island began spreading, but I felt as if I was not on it, although I know I was.

Now, I was looking at the space between one of the island’s beaches, and a fairy tale-like garden from which appeared a snake, quickly—and gracefully for a snake—slithering toward the shore.  As soon as it plunged into the water, the snake transformed into a woman.  It was she, the fairy, more beautiful than ever before, like a goddess.  I felt a strong tremor in my heart, while before my eyes a hurricane-like storm was approaching, its walls of water shredding everything in its path; beaches were not the same, and trees receded under the assault of the destructive power of the flood waters.  Everything was disappearing as the uncontrollable winds and water raged.  She, the fairy, was hovering over this storm dressed in a mist and observing.  She was watching lightly, yet with some arrogance in her face, the drama of nature, as if it were a theatrical performance.  This ambiguous and elusive facial expression of hers drove me crazy, for it was a cross between a promiscuous woman and a Madonna, dominating the performance of the nature’s fury.  It was the end of the world, yet she was so calm.

And again, there was an endless darkness and emptiness…. 

Translated by Branko and Nellie Mikasinovich

 Note: These excerpts were written in 1993 and are from Dejan Stojanović’s unpublished work, The World in Nothingness.

Serbian Fantastic Prose

Miloš Crnjanski – A Garden of Blessed Women

Serbian Fantastic Prose

Miloš Crnjanski (1893—1977)

Miloš Crnjanski (1893—1977)

Miloš Crnjanski was born in Čongrad, October 26, 1893. He was a poet, novelist, story-teller, dramatist, essayist and travel-writer. After completing gymnasium (high school) in Temišvar (Romania) at a Catholic school, he attended art history and philosophy institutes in Vienna in 1913. After his participation in the World War I and after receiving his degree in Arts & Science in Belgrade in 1922, he worked as a journalist and a gymnasium instructor (1923—1928) before joining the cultural section of Yugoslav embassies in Berlin, Rome, Lisbon and London (1928—1945). After the war, he lived unhappily as an emigrant-journalist in London. He returned to Yugoslavia in 1965.

Crnjanski belongs to the postwar generation of Serbian modernist writers. He began his writing career with his collection of lyrics, Lirika Itake (Lyrics of Ithaca), which expressed eclectic and varied elements of the protest against the war and the martial myths which gave raise to it, and universal and romantic concepts of ecstasy. As a prose writer he is perhaps best known for his long novel Seobe (Migrations) in three volumes; the first volume appearing in 1929 and the third one in 1962. It is a historical novel of the life of Serbs in Austria-Hungary in the 18th century, vividly portraying in the person of Pavle Isaković, the historic and social circumstances of Serbian immigrants from the Ottoman Empire in Austria-Hungary. The first volume of Migrations is considered to be the best of Crnjanski’s works. Crnjanski’s protest against the war is expressed in his short novel Dnevnik o  Čarnojeviću (The Diary About Čarnojević, 1921). His travelogues which include Ljubav u Toskani (Love in Tuscany, 1930), and Knjiga o Nemačkoj (The Book about Germany, 1931), are also significant achievements.

In his most recent novel Roman o Londonu (A Novel about London, 1972), Crnjanski returns to the theme of the futility and emptiness of life in exile. This seems to be an autobiographical novel in which the experiences of the two Russian protagonists of this work, a couple, displaced by the Russian Revolution, desperately trying to retain their status in London after World War I, reflect the experiences of the author. This work, however, is not equal in scope and depth to Seobe.

Crnjanski’s “A Garden of Blessed Women” can be considered the cornerstone of Serbian fantastic literature. Crnjanski treats a profane subject with the lyrical language of a poet who understands poetry and the destiny of poets.

A GARDEN OF BLESSED WOMEN

On that day when the miracle began, the sky was a flock of little white clouds, restless and small like butterflies on their green gown, dismal as a field before the evening. The west was rosy and full of smiles, but that smile and that rosiness were not clear and happy as in the summer, but full of faded and scattered violets. Clouds did not rush happily to the east as they used to on spring mornings. They tiredly tangled and disentangled, wandering through a heavenly infinity which neither smelled of roses as on spring afternoons nor shone with purity as it used to do on wintry, snowy evenings. It spread now, opaque above the garden, like an old haystack, faded from sun and wind, embroidered with gold, silk and silver.

At the end of the garden slept ornate palace. Its windows were flushed and rosy with laziness, nude cherubs with their little shirts shamelessly torn by rococo, rode on them, and yellow curtains folded to guard white stoves so that they would not see those nude, smiling rascals and blush with shame.

The fountains skipped below. They whispered, tired and breathless. Their plump green sphinxes, wet under a water shower, smiled mockingly, their faces full of designs, tassels and cracks, their smiles as tangled up as words, leaves, branches and clouds.

It was late fall, and yet the garden was in full bloom. Little children in white socks chased each other on the grass. Old grandmothers sat on branches. Above their bent heads enormous bronze clocks resounded heavily from misty, black towers which were grounded in the earth like spears of heroes who died somewhere, not far away.

Fall arrived and dragged herself dirty and ragged along broad dark streets, through which yellow streetcars ran back and forth. They chattered, giggled, squealed, roared, bent and turned as if they were crazy. Smoke twisted around the roofs and made dirty all walls and bright windows; from time to time dirty, wet snow would blow in; while in the garden not far from all this, sphinxes, white nymphs and boarded fauns pinched and embraced one another, rode on each other and grinned. Silver Dianas were stretching bows and walking with a step supple, fast and refines as an arrow. Their look was directed to the sky, which was green and turbid like an old faded haystack, but the garden stood in full bloom.

Children and grandmothers played and sang on benches and grass. From the harbor, the chains of awesomely heavy galleys were thundering and falling into the sea with a horrible scream. It was quiet and warm in the garden. The sun was setting. Camellias, oleanders, orchids, and lilacs bloomed. Garden-keepers took them out from their dusty little glass houses.

Then, one evening, a grandmother clapped her hands with wonder and began to shout and cheer. She noticed violets in the grass.

Motley-colored guards, wearing on their chests shiny numbered crescents, came running and a tumult arose. Grandmothers threw away tied-up socks and began to shake their arms in a trance, to turn around, clapping their hands. They noticed that there was something uncanny about a garden in bloom at the end of December. The old woman who had first started clapping her hands jumped and shook her head and then ran away screaming. A chase began among the shrubs and underbrush. Old men and police hurried in and the news spread around town that the royal garden had become insane, that it was blooming while other gardens in town had withered long ago. The whole town became excited as if there were a fire nearby. Dark roofs could hardly be seen in the smoke and fog, faraway blue lights shone on masts, and ramparts wet and bright reflected on the oily pavement, but the garden stood in full bloom. People stopped, asked, grinned, smiled, pushed, and crowded around.

All this soon passed away. There was talk about this miracle in the theaters and taverns, but soon they switched the conversation to the subject of kings.

Women became talkative; the newspapers announced a collection for a monument to a general, and they spoke of socialism which would save the world and about the army which was ready to die.

But, the next day, the whole garden was still in bloom and the people started stopping again in the middle of the town. The first to come was Doctor Meoyk, the director of the botanical garden, with his students all dressed in black. They brought with them countless pots, laboratory glassware, long binoculars and small instruments full of lightning. They walked under trees, crawled in the shrubbery, scattered around, and began to look closely at the grass and leaves, shouted to each other, and jotted down words and numbers. People laughed in the beginning. Before the evening, when there was less work to be done they crowded iron fences, smelled the camellias and stretched out their necks to the green and mighty fir trees which were rustling. The trees, pruned and cropped, began to extend their branches to the ground. The town laughed happily at the crazy garden. First lovers began to gather there. They would sneak in at dusk and sighs of delight could be heard in the shrubbery at night. There was no place left on the grass in the darkness for the couples who kept coming. Some black butterflies started multiplying, until then unknown around there, and insolent mosquitoes tormented the especially old, plump women. In the garden at night there would be some whispering, some growling and arguing, and at other times lyrical poems recited.

In the morning the poor old gardeners would be staggering on the grass, swearing furiously and beating trampled flowers with sticks in their despair. The garden paths were full of women’s torn linen, dirty rags, motley-colored paper, sweets and bread, all kinds of ointments, bottles and glasses, bits of candles and thousands of crushed matches, hairpins and golden rings, forgotten umbrellas and vests, swords and watches lost in the grass.

The town laughed, but it became worse. People started committing suicide in the garden. Often, at night, it seemed to the gardeners (who were afraid of going under dark branches) that they heard cries and screams. One of them claimed to hear every night a voice, beautiful, young and loving, calling, “Oh, moonlight mother of mine. Oh moonlight, mother of mine.”

In the beginning they were young men. They would find them on the grass, soft-haired, foreheads covered with droplets of dew and sweat, with bloody chests on which weapons and camellias were lying, or violets and white roses. Most often there would be an image of some woman’s face smiling with puckered lips, whose face and eyes were directed toward the sky like a little angel’s.

Later it became even worse. Old men hanging from the tree branches were frequently seen, and nobody could say why they killed themselves. All of them were happy, rich and merry men, but in the morning they would find them hung like dirty, discarded tramps. Some newspapers attacked the garden, demanding that it should be closed, mentioning Smith and Emerson. They criticized the lack of morality in our country and predicted a new and better generation, the motivation of honor and work, happiness in a wonderful state, for whose sake many should sacrifice themselves.

But even worse things started happening. Thieves loitered near the garden and in the heart of the town. They hid in little bushes near the marble nude Venus, Agamemnon and Achilles. Then something horrible happened.

One morning, they found three little girls, three little countesses, on the grass. They had silk on their little legs, dancing slippers, and in their hands some sweets and grass. They were covered in blood and their bellies were cut through, while above them stood fir trees, slim and green, slimmer and greener than in the spring. The blue eyes stared with horror, but on their mouths lingered smiles of pleasure and desire. Only then did the newspapers bray in commotion and the town became excited as if a fire were nearby. There was talk everywhere about the garden which did not want to fade away and everybody suggested that it should be destroyed. Nobody dared to suggest forgiveness. Snow fell and winter fogs were frequent, while in the heart of the town a miracle bloomed, with rosy flowers shining through the fence and poplars smelling far away.  Bishops and priests held sermons in churches and venomously attacked nonbelievers who, according to them, were responsible for everything. Their house, which they have built near the observatory, in the middle of the town, had an inscription written with golden letters “per ruinas homo ad astra.”*

There was an assembly in a magnificent building. Meoyk, the great botanist, suspected some new structure in the leaves which retained the heat from the sun for an especially long time. He also suspected geological conflagration under the garden. He talked in a confusing way and, as a layman, biologists laughed at him. Even medical associations and their council became involved in this argument. A journalist wrote about honesty. A famous actor demanded that the garden be used for Shakespeare’s plays. A great poet, the pride of the entire people, whom the king liked to invite for dinner and who wrote hymns to patriotism, convened a ladies’ charity organization and in front of them made a majestic speech in which he began to praise Dante. He finished his speech with something like this: “Who knows why these flowers found the desire to attempt immortality? Botany is in vain; it cannot explain this occurrence. Perhaps the life of plants and gardens is above ours, and knows the delights and depths which ours lacks. Let them bloom. Leave them; let them try the bitter cup of immortality, ladies. We are too weak for that; we lost the legacies and the blessings of our mother earth, and let me tell you frankly, we are disappointed in immortality, are we not?”

The ladies applauded with enthusiasm and their delegation gave him a bouquet of flowers from that accursed garden. Everything would have ended well were it not for the lawyers’ association, which also became involved. They decided to submit a memorandum to His Majesty and to ask that the garden be destroyed and closed. Parliament found out about it one day. It was unbearable, really. The Secretary of Defense was suffering from stomach cramps on that day; he seldom responded to socialists. That morning, he mentioned the army ten times, which was ready to die and looking for glory. A fleet was enclosed before the town and there was a reprisal there. Two sailors were hanged whom the court had proved without a shadow of a doubt to be the cutthroats of those noble girls. The next day, however, it turned out that the murderer was a genius painter. There were horrible arguments in the parliament. People ran to see that funny garden in even greater numbers. Strangers began arriving to the town, and children played truant from school. Crowds kept standing for days on end before the locked iron gates; before them stood thoughtful guards, serious and gloomy. The army surrounded the town-walls and occupied the roads, while scientists, professors and astronomers with sextants kept coming in and out. All of these visitors were bald and wore glasses.

Then something horrible happened. The court accepted, God only knows why, the suggestion of a famous admiral. He suggested that the garden be destroyed with guns. Some anarchists were entrenched there. Nobody had ever seen them, but everybody felt that they must be there because murders, church arsons and bombs had become so frequent in front of the royal palace.

The admiral was a famous hero—his right arm was cut off in a war. He had big guns which shot so accurately that the street cars could travel nearby without a worry. “Not an inch of the city beyond the garden would feel their shells.” Before evening, the first bullets began falling on the opposite side, into the courtyard of the royal palace. Boats full of generals rushed there and the committee came in a ship. What went wrong? The admiral killed himself in despair. They sat up a court and hanged more than one hundred sailors until one day the matter was cleared up. The admiral himself used to assign a target for the guns. He would just stretch his left arm and thumb, and in such a way, without help, he would issue a command about the coordinates of a target. The vice-admiral would recalculate, taking into account some small differences between measuring with the admiral’s left hand and his right. On that day, the admiral did it himself, the confusion about the target arose, and women and children were killed.

People swarmed on the streets; there was laughter and screams, the mingling of weeping and swearing. Fires broke out around the town and some people started moving from the town. The garden, however, bloomed on and on. Some long-haired men began climbing on walls. They shouted and incited people to rebellion. Two fast trains jumped from their tracks and crashed from a bridge into water. Days passed and the streets were covered more and more with people who stood all day long near the garden.

A secret fear spread around the town. Then, one day, the women’s charitable organizations tried to save everything.

They greeted great poet before evening, when he got up from his bed which he had described so wonderfully in his poems that all the town-dwellers knew about it, although nobody ever saw it. They dragged him to the garden and forced him to make a speech. They felt sorry for all this evil, for children who ran dirty and hungry in the streets, for workers who fought each other, and for soldiers who secretly killed each other. The poet climbed on the wall. Long hair fell on his shoulders, his white hands waived in the air, while thick lace covered his chest. For this speech he dressed quite the same as Dante did once, and he really resembled him. He had tremendous forehead and eyebrows, a strong nose, the same smile on his mouth, a powerful voice, cultivated and marvelous. When he was recognized, chaos ensued and women were shouting. He was short-sighted and he stood restlessly at this height. When he was young, he had tied his eyes with black silk and went around like this day and night. He wanted to hear the sound of stars, but his eyes became afflicted. He waved his hand and a horrible uproar arose. Some shouted: “Down with the poet!” “Down with the prostitute!” “Flirt!” “Clown!” “Idiot!” “President of the Academy of Sciences!”  “Ox!” “Horse!” “Jackass!” “He-goat!” “Homosexual!”

Others shouted, “Long live!” “Genius!” “Apollo!” “Our blue sea!” “Our star!” “My heart!” shouted a lady; the crowd pushed, shoved, and having seized him, tore all his cloths. The mob ran unrestrained to the gates, women and their jewelry fell on the ground, children were trampled and the gates shook under a shower of stones. The guards dressed in white, looked around sadly once more, fell with blood all over their bodies, and died without uttering a word. The gates, however, were powerful. They stormed the ramparts and the walls, but the walls were sturdy. Guns kept a steady fire on them; streets were full of dead people, of wailing and weeping, but the tumult and the noise continued. New faces appeared, unknown and foreign, as well as children and girls. Everything became dark in the fog, and very gradually they became quiet. The streets were full of blood and dead people, and all over the town there was crying and howling. Fires broke out through the night, and frightful and awful moans could be heard. When dawn came, the streets could be seen devastated and bloody, burnt and full of smoke. His majesty stood by a window, surrounded by cabinet ministers and advisers. He was pale and frightened, his fingers trembled, and his eyes were full of tears. His favorite bay horse had burnt that night in the stable. Suddenly he came to his senses, looked up and pointed with his finger to the streets on the other side of the royal palace. There in the garden on the hill, the trees were fading. Crowds which, stood there before the gates, began scattering suddenly. Dead were buried in the town, hungry bare-footed children ran in the alleys, while the newspapers were full of news about complications in Africa. The fleet sailed away to die for the glory of the fatherland, soldiers were cheered on in the streets and treated with tobacco, while Parliament praised their coolness, In the hills, some new disease broke out and the garden was quickly forgotten. The crowds stood a few days longer to look at the branches and paths full of faded leaves. Then a storm blew in, frost became fierce, houses disappeared in the fog, the sea was tormented in a terrible hurricane, and the harbor was collapsing in the wind. Days were passing by and a heavy snow was falling. The garden had been long forgotten. One day, a long time afterwards, a white, opaque light appeared in the sky. Soon, the snow began to melt and some little birds flew in. The howl from the sea was no longer heard at night and the street noises stopped; white cats appeared on the roofs. The sun hid in the fog and its light, pale yellow and soft silk, spread around the houses.

The sky glowed softly, clearly, and bells began tolling long and sadly. The snow did not melt sadly; however, it sang, giggled, and dripped on one’s neck. It revealed a little bit of ground to the small birds. They would fly in happily, but they would not find anything; they would perch, hop a couple of times and then fly away without coming back. Only the fir trees longed for the snow. They lost their white feathers with which they fluttered in the moonlight. They became yellow, dry, wrinkled, and they lost their innocence. Winter was departing, stars became darker and nights were not so frosty, resonant and bright, but quieter and full of some sad charm.

Spring was coming. Trees took on leaves, branches blossomed, and squirrels wandered from forests and ran over school yards. Long red shadows fell on the streets, and the young sky embraced the roofs, tired from the rustling of the grass. All the gardens began to shine, turn green, and rustle.

The old women came out, bringing the children, who chased each other in their white socks, white as hyacinths and quiet like lambs playing on grass.

Whispers began around the town about the garden which did not want to fade and now, it seems, did not want to put on leaves. These whispers were quiet and hidden first. People stood, asked questions, grinned and looked flabbergasted. When all around all gardens bloomed, that garden remained wizened, dead and dry. Talk about it began in the theaters and taverns. The newspapers announced a collection of money for a monument to a bishop who preached world peace, and they featured many articles about socialism which would save the world and about the army which was ready to die. When? Where? June passed. Then, one day Doctor Meoy K, the director of the botanical garden, appeared with his students all dressed in black. They brought countless pots, a lot of glasses, long binoculars and small instruments full of lightnings, crawled  in the shrubbery and scattered in the underbrush, calling each other and jotting down some words and numbers. Before the evening, when there would be less work, they crowded before the gates. They soon disappeared. In their place, some hunchbacks and cripples would come every day to help the gardeners tie up the branches. They would haul water from a river for the flower beds and trees, they would bring heavy stones and pound the earth, and not until dusk would they leave hungry and thirsty, looking back sadly. The garden, however, neither became green nor put on leaves. They would appear in vain the next day to lift the branches, tie them up, support and water them. All gardens had blossomed long ago, but this one did not have even leaves. Nobody talked about it in the city. A rich widow gave much money so that the garden could be put in order, cleaned and dug over, but everything was in vain. His Majesty stood every morning at the window and looked at the garden, but nobody knew anything new about it and nobody cared.

His cabinet ministers deceived him and said that the garden had been donated to a hospital. They talked reluctantly about the garden. His Majesty was surprised and sad, but afterwards he liked the idea that the garden was donated to a maternity hospital for poor women, and said that he would visit it as soon as he found time. The cabinet minister paled, left without a word and, as soon as he arrived home, fainted. It was necessary to do something. He pursued his friends fast. The next day, the garden and the royal palace were donated to the maternity hospital for poor women. In a week, the palace was emptied and whitewashed. Red pillows and wooden beds were set up; cars arrived full of pregnant women, heavy and clumsy, who went slowly down the stairs. The newspapers wrote articles about royal generosity and about socialism, which would save the world. The king stood every morning at the window and looked in the direction of the garden. It seemed as if he were waiting to see the first green leaf somewhere. But the garden was parched and empty, the stairs were crumbling and the trees were cracking dead and dry. Then, one day His Majesty visited the garden which had not wanted to fade away and now did not want to put on leaves. Mothers-to-be were dressed in white and stood, heavy and sluggish, all in a row. The king was escorted everywhere and shown everything. He smiled and nodded his head. His silver spurs clinked quietly, and around him everyone walked quietly and talked in whispers. It seemed as if His Majesty’s eyes were looking for something, and indeed his glance wandered restlessly along the flower-beds where, once, among the flowers, stood the Nymphs and Dianas. He looked down the path where there had been very beautiful orchids; he remembered how in his childhood he used to walk this path and his eyes became misty with something troubling, and desperate. The cabinet ministers did not know what his bitter thoughts were about and they began to show him the places where that horrible bloody struggle had roared. It seemed as though His Majesty did not hear. He looked at the garden, the palace, the tree-lined paths and towers with some frightful expression in his eyes, as if he remembered something, as if he searched for something. In the tree-lined paths stood heavy, sluggish, pregnant women, all in a row. His Majesty noticed them; the doctors and his escorts quickened their pace and also lined up. A gentleman in black approached and prepared to speak. A pregnant woman with a bouquet of flowers came out.

All of a sudden, His Majesty stared strangely at the garden, whispered something and began to laugh. Nobody recognized this laughter and everybody was astounded. He turned and went back. The cabinet ministers, generals and escorts stopped immediately, looking at each other dumbfounded, and then followed him. At the gates, His Majesty again turned and looked at the garden. Below, next to the flower bed, stood the frightened, white, sluggish, heavy women. Behind them there was nothing but dry trees and dark sky. His Majesty laughed again and his laughter resounded like a broken crown or a copper kettle, reverberating in the garden which had not wanted to fade and now did not want to blossom. Cabinet ministers, generals, councilors, soldiers, and servants all stood flabbergasted and frightened. This shameful, horrible and evil guffaw broke out once again, and they felt that either they or His Majesty or the women or the garden became insane.

And they bowed low before His Majesty.

Translated by Dragan Milivojević

* Through the ruins man advances to the stars.