Your elusive creative genius | Elizabeth Gilbert

Translator: Raimonds Jaks Reviewer: Ilze Garda

Es esmu rakstniece.

I am a writer.

Writing books is my profession but it's more than that, of course.

Grāmatu rakstīšana ir mana profesija, bet tas, protams, ir kas vairāk.

It is also my great lifelong love and fascination.

Tā ir arī mana lielā mūža mīlestība un aizraušanās.

And I don't expect that that's ever going to change.

Un es nedomāju, ka tas jelkad mainīsies.

Tomēr nesen ir noticis kaut kas nedaudz īpatnējs

But, that said, something kind of peculiar has happened recently

in my life and in my career,

manā dzīvē un karjerā,

which has caused me to have to recalibrate my whole relationship with this work.

kas ir licis man pārdomāt visas savas attiecības ar šo darbu.

And the peculiar thing is that I recently wrote this book,

Un šis īpatnējais ir tas, ka es nesen sarakstīju grāmatu,

this memoir called "Eat, Pray, Love"

šo memuāru, kas saucas "Ēd, lūdzies, mīli",

which, decidedly unlike any of my previous books,

kas pavisam droši, atšķirībā no visām manām iepriekšējām grāmatām,

went out in the world for some reason, and became this big,

kaut kāda iemesla dēļ izgāja pasaulē

un kļuva par milzīgu megasensāciju, starptautisku bestselleru.

mega-sensation, international bestseller thing.

The result of which is that everywhere I go now,

Tā rezultātā visur, kur tagad parādos,

pret mani izturas kā pret nolemto.

people treat me like I'm doomed.

Seriously -- doomed, doomed!

Nopietni – nolemto, nolemto!

Like, they come up to me now, all worried, and they say,

Tagad man nāk klāt un ar rūpjpilnu izteiksmi jautā:

"Vai jūs nebaidāties, ka nekad to nespēsiet pārspēt?

"Aren't you afraid you're never going to be able to top that?

Aren't you afraid you're going to keep writing for your whole life

Vai nebaidāties, ka visu mūžu turpināsiet rakstīt

and you're never again going to create a book

un nekad vairs neuzrakstīsiet tādu grāmatu,

that anybody in the world cares about at all,

kas kādam pasaulē šķistu svarīga?

ever again?"

Nu, nekad vairs?"

So that's reassuring, you know.

Tas iedrošina, ziniet.

Bet mēdz būt vēl ļaunāk, izņemot to, ka es kaut kā atceros,

But it would be worse, except for that I happen to remember

ka pirms 20 gadiem, pusaudža gados, kad sāku apkārtējiem stāstīt,

that over 20 years ago, when I was a teenager,

when I first started telling people that I wanted to be a writer,

ka vēlos kļūt par rakstnieci,

es sastapos ar to pašu bailēs sakņoto reakciju.

I was met with this same sort of fear-based reaction.

Un man mēdza teikt: "Vai tu nebaidies, ka nekad negūsi panākumus?

And people would say, "Aren't you afraid you're never going to have any success?

Vai nebaidies, ka nevarēsi izturēt atteikuma pazemojumu?

Aren't you afraid the humiliation of rejection will kill you?

Vai nebaidies, ka strādāsi šajā arodā visu mūžu

Aren't you afraid that you're going to work your whole life at this craft

un no tā nekas neiznāks, un tu nomirsi uz sabrukušu sapņu drupu kaudzes

and nothing's ever going to come of it

and you're going to die on a scrap heap of broken dreams

ar zaudējuma pelnu rūgto garšu mutē?"

with your mouth filled with bitter ash of failure?"

(Smiekli)

(Laughter)

Like that, you know.

Apmēram tā.

The answer -- the short answer to all those questions is, "Yes."

Atbilde, īsā atbilde, uz šiem jautājumiem ir: "Jā."

Yes, I'm afraid of all those things.

Jā, es no tā visa baidos un vienmēr esmu baidījusies.

And I always have been.

Es arī baidos no daudzām citām lietām,

And I'm afraid of many, many more things besides

that people can't even guess at,

ko citi pat nevar iedomāties,

like seaweed and other things that are scary.

piemēram, ūdenszālēm un citām biedējošām lietām.

But, when it comes to writing,

Bet, ja runā par rakstīšanu,

the thing that I've been sort of thinking about lately, and wondering about lately,

tas, par ko pēdējā laikā esmu domājusi un prātojusi, ir:

kāpēc?

is why?

Vai tas ir racionāli?

You know, is it rational?

Vai tas ir loģiski, ka kādam būtu jābaidās no darba,

Is it logical that anybody should be expected

to be afraid of the work that they feel they were put on this Earth to do.

ko jūt kā savu sūtību šajā pasaulē?

Un kas tieši radošajos darbos ir tas,

And what is it specifically about creative ventures

that seems to make us really nervous about each other's mental health

kas liek uztraukties par mūsu garīgo veselību?

in a way that other careers kind of don't do, you know?

Jo citās karjerās tā īsti nav.

Like my dad, for example, was a chemical engineer

Mans tēvs, piemēram, bija ķīmijas inženieris,

and I don't recall once in his 40 years of chemical engineering

un es neatceros, ka jelkad viņa 40 gadu ilgajā ķīmijas inženiera karjerā

anybody asking him if he was afraid to be a chemical engineer, you know?

kāds viņam būtu prasījis, vai viņam ir bail būt ķīmijas inženierim.

"That chemical-engineering block, John, how's it going?"

"Kā veicas, Džon, ar to ķīmiskās inženierijas bloku?"

It just didn't come up like that, you know?

Šādu jautājumu vienkārši nekad neuzdeva.

Bet, godīgi sakot, ķīmijas inženieri kopumā

But to be fair, chemical engineers as a group

haven't really earned a reputation over the centuries

nav gadsimtu garumā izpelnījušies ar depresiju apsēstu alkoholiķu slavu.

for being alcoholic manic-depressives.

(Smiekli)

(Laughter)

We writers, we kind of do have that reputation,

Mums, rakstniekiem, šķiet, šāda slava piemīt,

and not just writers, but creative people across all genres,

un ne tikai rakstniekiem, bet gan visu žanru radošajiem cilvēkiem

it seems, have this reputation for being enormously mentally unstable.

mēdz būt garīgi ārkārtīgi nestabilu ļaužu reputācija.

Atliek tikai palūkoties uz lielo skaitu nelāgā nāvē mirušo,

And all you have to do is look at the very grim death count

in the 20th century alone, of really magnificent creative minds

patiešām apbrīnojamo radošo prātu 20. gadsimtā vien,

who died young and often at their own hands, you know?

kas miruši jauni un bieži vien pašnāvībā.

And even the ones who didn't literally commit suicide

Un pat tos, kas nav izdarījuši pašnāvību burtiski,

seem to be really undone by their gifts, you know.

šķiet, ir pieveicis pašu talants.

Normans Meilers īsi pirms nāves pēdējā intervijā teica:

Norman Mailer, just before he died, last interview, he said,

"Katra mana grāmata ir mani mazliet nogalinājusi."

"Every one of my books has killed me a little more."

Neparasta atziņa par savas dzīves darbu.

An extraordinary statement to make about your life's work.

But we don't even blink when we hear somebody say this,

Bet mēs pat nepamirkšķinām ne acu, kad dzirdam kādu tā sakām,

because we've heard that kind of stuff for so long

jo esam tādas lietas dzirdējuši pārāk ilgi

and somehow we've completely internalized and accepted collectively

un kolektīvi kaut kā pilnībā pieņēmuši

this notion that creativity and suffering are somehow inherently linked

šo uzskatu, ka radošums un ciešanas ir kaut kā nenovēršami saistīti

un ka mākslinieciskums galu galā vienmēr noved pie mokām.

and that artistry, in the end, will always ultimately lead to anguish.

Jautājums, ko es visiem gribu šodien uzdot, ir:

And the question that I want to ask everybody here today

is are you guys all cool with that idea?

vai jūs ar šo domu esat mierā?

Vai jūs tas apmierina?

Are you comfortable with that?

Because you look at it even from an inch away and, you know --

Jo, ja uz to paskatās pat no sprīža attāluma,

I'm not at all comfortable with that assumption.

mani šis pieņēmums neapmierina nemaz.

I think it's odious.

Es domāju, ka tas ir riebīgs un arī bīstams,

And I also think it's dangerous,

un es negribu, ka tas tā turpinās arī nākamajā gadsimtā.

and I don't want to see it perpetuated into the next century.

Es domāju, ka ir labāk, ja mēs iedrošinām savus lieliskos radošos prātus dzīvot.

I think it's better if we encourage our great creative minds to live.

And I definitely know that, in my case -- in my situation --

Un es noteikti zinu, ka manā gadījumā, manā situācijā,

it would be very dangerous for me to start sort of leaking down that dark path

būtu ļoti bīstami sākt soli pa solītim doties pa šo tumšo pieņēmumu taku,

of assumption,

particularly given the circumstance that I'm in right now in my career.

sevišķi ņemot vērā manas karjeras pašreizējos apstākļus.

Which is -- you know, like check it out,

Tas ir, es esmu diezgan jauna, man ir tikai ap 40 gadu,

I'm pretty young, I'm only about 40 years old.

man priekšā ir, iespējams, vēl 40 darba gadu,

I still have maybe another four decades of work left in me.

And it's exceedingly likely that anything I write from this point forward

un arvien ticamāk šķiet, ka visu, ko nākotnē uzrakstīšu,

is going to be judged by the world as the work that came after

pasaule uzlūkos kā darbu

pēc manas pēdējās grāmatas nenormālajiem panākumiem, vai ne?

the freakish success of my last book, right?

I should just put it bluntly, because we're all sort of friends here now --

Man tas jāpasaka skaidri un gaiši, jo mēs te visi esam kā draugi.

Arvien ticamāk šķiet, ka mani lielākie panākumi ir man aiz muguras.

it's exceedingly likely that my greatest success is behind me.

So Jesus, what a thought!

Jēziņ! Kas par domu!

That's the kind of thought that could lead a person

Tādas domas var novest cilvēku pie džina dzeršanas deviņos no rīta,

to start drinking gin at nine o'clock in the morning,

and I don't want to go there.

(Smiekli)

un es nevēlos pie tā nonākt.

(Laughter)

Es vēlētos turpināt darīt šo darbu, kas man patīk,

I would prefer to keep doing this work that I love.

tāpēc rodas jautājums: kā?

And so, the question becomes, how?

And so, it seems to me, upon a lot of reflection,

Pēc ilgām pārdomām man šķiet,

ka veids, kā man tagad jāstrādā, lai turpinātu rakstīt,

that the way that I have to work now, in order to continue writing,

is that I have to create some sort of protective psychological construct, right?

ir kaut kāda psiholoģiskās aizsardzības mehānisma radīšana, vai ne?

I have to sort of find some way to have a safe distance

Man jāatrod kaut kāda droša distance

between me, as I am writing, and my very natural anxiety

starp manu rakstīšanu

un dabisko nemieru par to, kā uz manis rakstīto nākotnē reaģēs.

about what the reaction to that writing is going to be, from now on.

And, as I've been looking, over the last year,

Pēdējā gada laikā meklējot veidus, kā to paveikt,

for models for how to do that,

I've been sort of looking across time,

esmu pārskatījusi dažādus laikmetus

and I've been trying to find other societies

un mēģinājusi atrast citas sabiedrības,

kas varētu sniegt par mūsējām labākas un saprātīgākas idejas,

to see if they might have had better and saner ideas than we have

kā palīdzēt radošiem cilvēkiem

about how to help creative people

tikt galā ar radošumam raksturīgajiem emocionālajiem riskiem.

sort of manage the inherent emotional risks of creativity.

Un šie meklējumi mani noveda antīkajā Grieķijā un Romā.

And that search has led me to ancient Greece and ancient Rome.

Sekojiet manai domai, jo tā šaudīsies šurpu turpu.

So stay with me, because it does circle around and back.

But, ancient Greece and ancient Rome --

Antīkajā Grieķijā un Romā

people did not happen to believe that creativity

cilvēki neuzskatīja, ka radošums

came from human beings back then, OK?

nāk no pašiem cilvēkiem.

People believed that creativity was this divine attendant spirit

Ļaudis ticēja, ka radošums ir dievišķs pavadošais gars,

kas pie cilvēkiem atnāk no kādas tālas un nezināmas vietas,

that came to human beings from some distant and unknowable source,

tālu un nezināmu iemeslu vadīts.

for distant and unknowable reasons.

The Greeks famously called these divine attendant spirits of creativity "daemons."

Grieķi šos radošumu pavadošos garus sauca labi zināmajā vārdā par "dēmoniem".

Sokrāts, kā zināms, ticēja, ka viņam piemita dēmons,

Socrates, famously, believed that he had a daemon

kas viņu mācīja no tālienes.

who spoke wisdom to him from afar.

The Romans had the same idea,

Romiešiem bija tāda pati doma,

bet viņi šo bezķermenisko radošo garu dēvēja par ģēniju,

but they called that sort of disembodied creative spirit a genius.

Which is great, because the Romans did not actually think

kas ir lieliski, jo romieši patiesībā neuzskatīja,

ka ģēnijs ir kāds sevišķi gudrs cilvēks.

that a genius was a particularly clever individual.

Viņi ticēja, ka ģēnijs ir tāda kā maģiska dievišķa būtne,

They believed that a genius was this, sort of magical divine entity,

who was believed to literally live in the walls of an artist's studio,

kas, viņuprāt, burtiski dzīvoja mākslinieka darbnīcas sienās

kind of like Dobby the house elf,

kā tāds Dobijs, mājas elfs,

and who would come out

un kas nāk ārā un neredzami palīdz māksliniekam viņa darbā,

and sort of invisibly assist the artist with their work

un ietekmē šī darba rezultātu.

and would shape the outcome of that work.

So brilliant -- there it is, right there, that distance that I'm talking about --

Brīnišķīgi! Te nu tas ir!

Tieši tā distance, par ko es runāju,

tas psiholoģiskais mehānisms, kas aizsargā no darba iznākuma.

that psychological construct to protect you from the results of your work.

And everyone knew that this is how it functioned, right?

Un visi zināja, ka tas tā ir.

Tāpēc antīkais mākslinieks bija pasargāts no noteiktām lietām,

So the ancient artist was protected from certain things,

like, for example, too much narcissism, right?

piemēram, pārāk liela narcisisma.

Ja darbs bija lielisks, jūs nevarējāt piesavināties visus nopelnus,

If your work was brilliant, you couldn't take all the credit for it,

everybody knew that you had this disembodied genius who had helped you.

jo visi zināja, ka jums ir šis gaisīgais ģēnijs, kas jums palīdzējis.

Ja darbs nekam neder, tā nav tikai jūsu vaina.

If your work bombed, not entirely your fault, you know?

Everyone knew your genius was kind of lame.

Visi zināja, ka jūsu ģēnijs bijis drusku neveikls.

(Laughter)

(Smiekli)

And this is how people thought about creativity in the West

Un tā ļaudis Rietumos domāja par radošumu ļoti ilgu laiku.

for a really long time.

Tad nāca renesanse, un viss mainījās,

And then the Renaissance came and everything changed,

un mums radās varena doma, un varenā domā bija:

and we had this big idea, and the big idea was,

let's put the individual human being at the center of the universe

noliksim cilvēku Visuma centrā, pāri visiem dieviem un mistērijām,

above all gods and mysteries,

and there's no more room for mystical creatures

un mistiskiem, dievišķā vadītiem radījumiem vairs nebija vietas.

who take dictation from the divine.

And it's the beginning of rational humanism,

Tas bija racionālā humānisma sākums,

and people started to believe that creativity

un cilvēki sāka ticēt, ka radošums pilnībā nāk no paša cilvēka,

came completely from the self of the individual.

And for the first time in history,

un pirmo reizi vēsturē

you start to hear people referring to this or that artist as being a genius,

sāka dēvēt to vai citu mākslinieku par ģēniju,

rather than having a genius.

nevis kādu, kam ir ģēnijs.

And I got to tell you, I think that was a huge error.

Jāsaka, ka, manuprāt, tā bija milzīga kļūda.

You know, I think that allowing somebody, one mere person

Es domāju, ka atļaut kādam, vienam cilvēkam,

to believe that he or she is like, the vessel,

ticēt, ka viņš vai viņa ir kā trauks,

you know, like the font and the essence and the source

kā avots un esence, un pirmsākums

visai dievišķajai, radošajai, nezināmajai, mūžīgajai mistērijai,

of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery

is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile, human psyche.

nozīmē uzlikt mazliet par daudz atbildības trauslajai cilvēka psihei.

It's like asking somebody to swallow the sun.

Tas ir kā likt kādam aprīt sauli.

Tas pilnībā pārvērš un izkropļo ego,

It just completely warps and distorts egos,

and it creates all these unmanageable expectations about performance.

un rada visas šīs nepiepildāmās cerības uz panākumiem.

And I think the pressure of that

Es domāju, ka šis spiediens

has been killing off our artists for the last 500 years.

ir nāvējis mūsu māksliniekus pēdējo 500 gadu garumā.

And, if this is true,

Ja tas tā ir,

– un es domāju, ka tā ir –,

and I think it is true,

the question becomes, what now?

rodas jautājums: ko darīt?

Can we do this differently?

Vai mēs varam kaut ko mainīt?

Maybe go back to some more ancient understanding

Varbūt atgriezties pie kādas senākas saprašanas

par attiecībām starp cilvēkiem un radošo mistēriju.

about the relationship between humans and the creative mystery.

Maybe not.

Varbūt ne.

Maybe we can't just erase 500 years of rational humanistic thought

Varbūt nevaram vienkārši izdzēst 500 racionālā humānisma gadus

in one 18 minute speech.

ar 18 minūšu garu runu.

And there's probably people in this audience

Un šajā auditorijā droši vien ir cilvēki,

who would raise really legitimate scientific suspicions

kas izteiktu zinātniski ļoti pamatotas aizdomas

about the notion of, basically, fairies

par tādām idejām kā fejas, kas visur seko cilvēkam

who follow people around rubbing fairy juice on their projects and stuff.

un iesmērē tā projektus un ieceres ar savu brīnumziedi.

Es droši vien nevarēšu līdz galam par to pārliecināt.

I'm not, probably, going to bring you all along with me on this.

But the question that I kind of want to pose is --

Bet jautājums, ko es vēlos uzdot, ir:

ziniet, kāpēc gan ne?

you know, why not?

Kāpēc to neuztvert šādi?

Why not think about it this way?

Jo tas ir tikpat saprotami kā jebkas cits, ko jelkad esmu dzirdējusi

Because it makes as much sense as anything else I have ever heard

in terms of explaining the utter maddening capriciousness

kā skaidrojumu absolūti tracinošajai radošā procesa kaprizitātei.

of the creative process.

A process which, as anybody who has ever tried to make something --

Šī procesa, kas, kā ikviens, kas jelkad mēģinājis kaut ko radīt,

– principā visi klātesošie –, zina,

which is to say basically everyone here ---

knows does not always behave rationally.

ne vienmēr ir racionāls.

Un patiesībā tas dažreiz liekas gluži vai paranormāls.

And, in fact, can sometimes feel downright paranormal.

I had this encounter recently

Nesen es tikos ar neparasto amerikāņu dzejnieci Rutu Stounu,

where I met the extraordinary American poet Ruth Stone,

who's now in her 90s, but she's been a poet her entire life

kas nu ir vairāk nekā 90 gadu veca, bet visu dzīvi bijusi dzejniece,

and she told me that when she was growing up in rural Virginia,

un viņa man teica, ka, augot Virdžīnijas lauku apvidū,

she would be out working in the fields,

dažreiz strādājot uz lauka,

viņa jutusi un dzirdējusi dzejoli

and she said she would feel and hear a poem

nākam pie viņas pār laukiem.

coming at her from over the landscape.

Viņa teica, ka tas tuvojies kā pērkona negaiss.

And she said it was like a thunderous train of air.

And it would come barreling down at her over the landscape.

Tas brāzies pār laukiem viņai pretim.

Un, jūtot to nākam, – jo zeme zem kājām drebējusi –,

And she felt it coming, because it would shake the earth under her feet.

viņa zinājusi, ka tobrīd viņai atliek tikai viens,

She knew that she had only one thing to do at that point,

un tas, viņas vārdiem, bijis "skriet, ko kājas nes."

and that was to, in her words, "run like hell."

And she would run like hell to the house

Viņa skrējusi, ko kājas nes, uz mājām, un dzejolis viņai dzinies pa pēdām,

and she would be getting chased by this poem,

un viss, kas viņai bijis jādara, bija jādabū papīrs un zīmulis,

and the whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper and a pencil

lai paspētu to savākt kopā un pierakstīt, kad tas dārdēs viņai cauri.

fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it

Dažreiz viņa nebijusi gana ātra,

and grab it on the page.

And other times she wouldn't be fast enough,

viņa skrējusi un skrējusi, bet nepaspējusi uz mājām,

so she'd be running and running, and she wouldn't get to the house

un dzejolis izdārdējis caur viņu, un viņa to palaidusi garām.

and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it

Viņa teica, ka tas aizgājis tālāk pāri laukiem,

and she said it would continue on across the landscape,

viņas vārdiem, "meklēt citu dzejnieku".

looking, as she put it "for another poet."

Un dažreiz esot bijis tā, – šo vietu es nekad neaizmirsīšu –,

And then there were these times --

this is the piece I never forgot --

she said that there were moments where she would almost miss it, right?

viņa teica, ka dažreiz viņa gandrīz to palaidusi garām.

Viņa skrējusi uz mājām un meklējusi papīru,

So, she's running to the house and she's looking for the paper

un dzejolis gājis viņai cauri,

and the poem passes through her,

and she grabs a pencil just as it's going through her,

un viņa tvērusi zīmuli tieši tobrīd, kad tas gājis caur viņu.

and then she said, it was like she would reach out with her other hand

Tas bijis tā, it kā viņa pasniegtos ar otru roku un noķertu to.

and she would catch it.

Viņa noķērusi dzejoli aiz astes

She would catch the poem by its tail,

un vilkusi to atpakaļ sevī,

and she would pull it backwards into her body

as she was transcribing on the page.

pierakstīdama uz papīra.

And in these instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact

Un šādās reizēs uzrakstīts dzejolis izdevies perfekts un nevainojams,

but backwards, from the last word to the first.

bet no otras puses, lasot no pēdējā vārda uz sākumu.

(Laughter)

(Smiekli)

So when I heard that I was like -- that's uncanny,

To dzirdot, es nodomāju:

"Tas ir baismīgi, tas ir tieši tā, kā notiek mans radošais process."

that's exactly what my creative process is like.

(Laughter)

(Smiekli)

Tas it nemaz nelīdzinās manam procesam, es neesmu tāda caurule.

That's not at all what my creative process is -- I'm not the pipeline!

I'm a mule, and the way that I have to work

Es esmu darba zirgs, un man jāstrādā tā,

is I have to get up at the same time every day,

ka jāceļas katru rītu vienā laikā

un jāsvīst, un jāstrādā, un jānopūlas grūtā darbā.

and sweat and labor and barrel through it really awkwardly.

Bet pat es, ar savu darba zirga dabu,

But even I, in my mulishness,

even I have brushed up against that thing, at times.

pat es esmu ar to dažreiz sadūrusies

And I would imagine that a lot of you have too.

un domāju, ka daudzi no jums arī.

You know, even I have had work or ideas come through me from a source

Pat man ir bijuši darbi vai domas, kas iet man cauri no kāda avota,

ko es, godīgi sakot, nespēju noteikt.

that I honestly cannot identify.

And what is that thing?

Un kas tas īsti ir?

Un kā lai mēs pret to attiecamies tā, lai nesajuktu prātā,

And how are we to relate to it in a way that will not make us lose our minds,

but, in fact, might actually keep us sane?

bet gan gluži otrādi paliktu pieskaitāmi?

Manā skatījumā labākais mūsdienu piemērs, kā to paveikt,

And for me, the best contemporary example that I have of how to do that

ir mūziķis Toms Veitss,

is the musician Tom Waits,

who I got to interview several years ago on a magazine assignment.

ko intervēju pirms dažiem gadiem kāda žurnāla uzdevumā.

And we were talking about this,

Mēs par to runājām,

and you know, Tom, for most of his life, he was pretty much the embodiment

un, ziniet, Toms lielāko daļu savas dzīves

ir bijis gluži vai iedvesmas plosīta mūsdienu mākslinieka iemiesojums,

of the tormented contemporary modern artist,

kas mēģina kontrolēt, vadīt un pārvaldīt

trying to control and manage and dominate

these sort of uncontrollable creative impulses

šos it kā nekontrolējamos radošos impulsus,

that were totally internalized.

kas ir pilnībā saplūduši ar viņu.

But then he got older, he got calmer,

Bet tad viņš kļuva vecāks, rāmāks,

and one day he was driving down the freeway in Los Angeles,

un kādu dienu, braucot pa Losandželosas lielceļu,

and this is when it all changed for him.

viss viņā mainījās.

And he's speeding along, and all of a sudden

Viņš traucas uz priekšu

un pēkšņi dzird īsu melodijas fragmentu,

he hears this little fragment of melody,

kas iešaujas viņa prātā, kā to bieži dara iedvesma,

that comes into his head as inspiration often comes, elusive and tantalizing,

nenotverami un mokoši.

Viņš to grib, tā ir lieliska,

and he wants it, it's gorgeous,

and he longs for it, but he has no way to get it.

un viņš pēc tās tīko, bet nekādi nevar to dabūt.

He doesn't have a piece of paper, or a pencil, or a tape recorder.

Viņam nav ne papīra, ne zīmuļa, ne diktofona.

So he starts to feel all of that old anxiety start to rise in him

Tā nu viņš sajūt atkal sakāpjam veco nemieru:

like, "I'm going to lose this thing,

"Es to pazaudēšu, un šī dziesma mani vajās mūžīgi.

and I'll be be haunted by this song forever.

I'm not good enough, and I can't do it."

Es neesmu pietiekoši labs, es to nespēju."

And instead of panicking, he just stopped.

Un tā vietā, lai kristu panikā, viņš apstājās.

He just stopped that whole mental process and he did something completely novel.

Viņš apturēja visu šo prāta procesu un izdarīja kaut ko pilnīgi jaunu.

He just looked up at the sky, and he said,

Viņš vienkārši paraudzījās debesīs un teica:

"Excuse me, can you not see that I'm driving?"

"Atvaino, vai neredzi, ka es esmu pie stūres?"

(Laughter)

(Smiekli)

"Vai tad izskatās, ka es tagad varu pierakstīt dziesmu?

"Do I look like I can write down a song right now?

If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment

Ja tu tiešām vēlies eksistēt, atnāc kādā piemērotākā brīdī,

when I can take care of you.

kad es varu par tevi parūpēties.

Otherwise, go bother somebody else today.

Ja ne, tad ej un uzmācies kādam citam!

Go bother Leonard Cohen."

Ej, uzmācies Leonardam Koenam!"

(Smiekli)

And his whole work process changed after that.

Un viss viņa darba process kopš tā brīža mainījās.

Not the work, the work was still oftentimes as dark as ever.

Ne pats darbs – pats darbs bieži vien arvien bija tikpat tumšs kā iepriekš.

But the process, and the heavy anxiety around it

Bet process un ar to saistītais smagnējais nemiers bija atbrīvots,

was released when he took the genie, the genius out of him

kad viņš šo džinu, ģēniju bija izlaidis no sevis, kur tas tikai traucēja,

where it was causing nothing but trouble, and released it back where it came from,

un palaidis to atpakaļ, no kurienes tas nācis,

un sapratis, ka tam nav jāmīt viņā iekšā un jāmoka.

and realized that this didn't have to be this internalized, tormented thing.

Tā var būt šī savādā, brīnumainā, dīvainā sadarbība,

It could be this peculiar, wondrous, bizarre collaboration,

it kā saruna starp Tomu un svešo, ārējo,

kind of conversation between Tom and the strange, external thing

that was not quite Tom.

kas nav gluži Toms.

When I heard that story, it started to shift a little bit

Kad dzirdēju šo stāstu, tas sāka mazliet mainīt arī to,

kā es pati strādāju, un reiz šī doma mani paglāba.

the way that I worked too, and this idea already saved me once.

It saved me when I was in the middle of writing "Eat, Pray, Love,"

Tā mani paglāba, kad biju pusē ar "Ēd, lūdzies, mīli"

and I fell into one of those sort of pits of despair

un iekritu vienā no tām izmisuma bedrēm,

kur mēs visi iekrītam, kad pie kaut kā strādājam un tas nepadodas,

that we all fall into when we're working on something and it's not coming

and you start to think this is going to be a disaster, the worst book ever written.

un tu sāc domāt, ka tas būs šausmīgi, tā būs sliktākā jebkad uzrakstītā grāmata.

Ne tikai slikta, bet pati sliktākā jebkad uzrakstītā grāmata.

Not just bad, but the worst book ever written.

Es sāku domāt, ka man jāatmet šis projekts.

And I started to think I should just dump this project.

But then I remembered Tom talking to the open air

Bet tad es atcerējos Tomu, kas runāja uz debesīm,

and I tried it.

un es pamēģināju to.

So I just lifted my face up from the manuscript

Es vienkārši pacēlu galvu no manuskripta

un uzrunāju tukšu istabas kaktu.

and I directed my comments to an empty corner of the room.

Es skaļi teicu: "Klau, tu, kaut kas,

And I said aloud, "Listen you, thing,

you and I both know that if this book isn't brilliant

mēs abi zinām, ja šī grāmata nebūs lieliska,

that is not entirely my fault, right?

tad tā nebūs tikai mana vaina.

Because you can see that I am putting everything I have into this,

Jo tu redzi, ka es tajā ieguldu visu, kas man ir,

I don't have any more than this.

man nav nekā vairāk.

Ja gribi, lai tā būtu labāka, tev jāierodas un jādara savs darbs.

If you want it to be better, you've got to show up and do your part of the deal.

Bet, ja tu to nedarīsi, zini ko, pie velna to visu!

But if you don't do that, you know what, the hell with it.

Es turpināšu rakstīt tik un tā, jo tas ir mans darbs.

I'm going to keep writing anyway because that's my job.

And I would please like the record to reflect today

Un es gribētu, lūdzu, atzīmēt,

ka es savu darba daļu šodien esmu izdarījusi."

that I showed up for my part of the job."

(Smiekli)

(Laughter)

Because --

Jo...

(Aplausi)

(Applause)

Because in the end it's like this, OK --

Jo galu galā tas ir tā...

centuries ago in the deserts of North Africa,

pirms vairākiem gadsimtiem Ziemeļāfrikas tuksnešos

cilvēki mēdza sanākt uz mēnesnīcas dejām, kas bija rituālas dejas un mūzika.

people used to gather for these moonlight dances of sacred dance and music

that would go on for hours and hours, until dawn.

Tās ilga stundām ilgi līdz rītausmai.

They were always magnificent, because the dancers were professionals

Tās vienmēr bija krāšņas, jo dejotāji bija profesionāļi

and they were terrific, right?

un viņi bija lieliski.

Bet šad tad, ļoti reti, kaut kas notika,

But every once in a while, very rarely, something would happen,

and one of these performers would actually become transcendent.

un kāds no šiem māksliniekiem kļuva patiešām neparasti izcils.

And I know you know what I'm talking about,

Es zinu, ka jūs zināt, par ko es runāju,

jo zinu, ka jūs visi savā mūžā esat redzējuši šādu uzstāšanos.

because I know you've all seen, at some point in your life,

a performance like this.

Tas bija tā, it kā laiks apstātos

It was like time would stop,

un dejotājs izkāptu caur kādu portālu,

and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal

un viņš nedarīja neko citādāk,

and he wasn't doing anything different

kā vienmēr bija darījis, tūkstošiem nakšu,

than he had ever done, 1,000 nights before,

bet viss nostājās savās vietās.

but everything would align.

And all of a sudden, he would no longer appear to be merely human.

Pēkšņi viņš vairs nebija cilvēks vien.

Viņš iekšēji staroja un bija zemes apstarots,

He would be lit from within, and lit from below

and all lit up on fire with divinity.

un viss staroja dievišķā gaismā.

Un, kad tas notika, toreiz,

And when this happened, back then,

people knew it for what it was, you know, they called it by its name.

ļaudis zināja, kā to dēvēt, tam bija vārds.

They would put their hands together and they would start to chant,

Tie sadevās rokās un skandēja:

"Allah, Allah, Allah, God, God, God."

"Allāh, Allāh, Allāh." Dievs, Dievs, Dievs.

That's God, you know.

Tas ir Dievs.

Curious historical footnote:

Interesanta vēsturiska piezīme:

kad mauri iekaroja Dienvidspāniju, viņi atveda šo paražu sev līdzi,

when the Moors invaded southern Spain, they took this custom with them

un izruna gadsimtu gaitā mainījās

and the pronunciation changed over the centuries

no "Allāh, Allāh, Allāh," uz "Olē, olē, olē!",

from "Allah, Allah, Allah," to "Olé, olé, olé,"

ko vēl arvien var dzirdēt vēršu cīņās un flamenko dejās.

which you still hear in bullfights and in flamenco dances.

Spānijā, kad mākslinieks paveicis kaut ko neiespējamu un maģisku:

In Spain, when a performer has done something impossible and magic,

"Allah, olé, olé, Allah, magnificent, bravo,"

"Allāh, olē, olē, Allāh, brīnišķīgi, bravo!"

Neaptverami, re, kur tas ir: dievišķais mirklis.

incomprehensible, there it is -- a glimpse of God.

Which is great, because we need that.

Tas ir lieliski, jo mums tas ir vajadzīgs.

But, the tricky bit comes the next morning,

Bet pašam dejotājam grūtākais brīdis ir nākamais rīts,

for the dancer himself, when he wakes up and discovers

kad viņš pamostas un atklāj,

that it's Tuesday at 11 a.m., and he's no longer a glimpse of God.

ka ir otrdiena, pulksten 11, un viņš vairs nav dievišķais mirklis.

He's just an aging mortal with really bad knees,

Viņš ir vienkāršs, novecojošs mirstīgais ar sāpošiem ceļgaliem

and maybe he's never going to ascend to that height again.

un varbūt nekad vairs nesasniegs tādas virsotnes.

Un varbūt neviens vairs nekad neskandēs Dieva vārdu, viņam dejojot,

And maybe nobody will ever chant God's name again as he spins,

and what is he then to do with the rest of his life?

un ko gan viņam atliek darīt visu atlikušo mūžu?

This is hard.

Tas ir grūti.

Tā ir ļoti sāpīga samierināšanās radošajā dzīvē.

This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make

in a creative life.

Bet varbūt tai nav jābūt gluži tik mokošai,

But maybe it doesn't have to be quite so full of anguish

ja jau no paša sākuma neesi ticējis,

if you never happened to believe, in the first place,

that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you.

ka pašas neparastākās tavas būtības šķautnes nāk no tevis paša.

But maybe if you just believed that they were on loan to you

Bet varbūt, ja tu ticētu, ka tās tev bija aizdotas

from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life

no kāda neiedomājama avota uz kādu spožu tavas dzīves brīdi,

lai tās nodotu tālāk kādam citam, kad darbs pabeigts,

to be passed along when you're finished,

with somebody else.

And, you know, if we think about it this way, it starts to change everything.

Un, ziniet, ja mēs tā to uztveram, tas visu sāk mainīt.

This is how I've started to think,

Tā es esmu sākusi domāt,

un tā es noteikti esmu domājusi šos pēdējos mēnešus,

and this is certainly how I've been thinking in the last few months

as I've been working on the book that will soon be published,

strādājot pie grāmatas, kas drīz nāks klajā,

as the dangerously, frighteningly over-anticipated follow up

kas ir bīstami un biedējoši lielām cerībām apkrauts sekotājs

to my freakish success.

maniem nenormālajiem panākumiem.

And what I have to sort of keep telling myself

Un man sev nemitīgi jāatgādina

brīžos, kad es no tā krītu izmisumā: nebaidies!

when I get really psyched out about that is don't be afraid.

Neļaujies iebiedēties! Dari savu darbu!

Don't be daunted. Just do your job.

Continue to show up for your piece of it, whatever that might be.

Turpini darīt savu darba daļu, lai kāda tā arī būtu!

If your job is to dance, do your dance.

Ja tavs darbs ir dejot, tad dejo.

If the divine, cockeyed genius assigned to your case

Ja dievišķais šķelmis ģēnijs, kas nozīmēts tavam darbam,

decides to let some sort of wonderment be glimpsed, for just one moment

nolemj uz mirklīti piešķirt kādu brīnuma daļiņu

through your efforts, then "Olé!"

caur taviem pūliņiem, tad "Olē!"

Bet, ja ne, dejo tik un tā!

And if not, do your dance anyhow.

Un "Olē!" tev par tavu darbu.

And "Olé!" to you, nonetheless.

I believe this and I feel that we must teach it.

Es tam ticu un jūtu, ka mums tas jāmāca.

"Olē!" jums par jūsu darbu,

"Olé!" to you, nonetheless,

just for having the sheer human love and stubbornness

vienkārši par jūsu cilvēcisko mīlestību un spītu,

to keep showing up.

ka darat savu darba daļu.

Thank you.

Paldies.

(Aplausi)

(Applause)

Thank you.

Paldies.

(Aplausi)

(Applause)

Džūna Koena: Olē!

June Cohen: Olé!

(Applause)

(Aplausi)