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n fapt, singurtatea unui artist este totdeauna contradictorie,

pentru c el se retrage n singurtate nu pentru a tcea. i, cu ct e mai


singur, cu att e mai nsetat s-o spun cuiva, contestndu-i
singurtatea chiar prin faptul c o mrturisete. Concluzia, mi se pare,
se impune: acolo unde singurtatea eueaz, triumf arta. Nici un
scriitor nu s-a confesat pentru c a fost singur, ci pentru c n
singurtate n-a consimit s devin mut, n-a renunat la dorina de
comunicare. n chiar momentul cnd ncepe s scrie, el recunoate c
trebuie s ias dincolo de limitele sale, c nu poate tri fr alii. Ce
credei c sunt n realitate invectivele sarcastice aruncate uneori din
singurtate de un artist-solitar? Eu v propun s vedei n ele strigte
mndre de ajutor. Cnd nu mai are curaj s spun c iubete lumea,
artistul pretinde c o dispreuiete. Dar dispreul su nu e dect un mod
de a ascunde o iubire care sngereaz. Eu sunt singur, n timp ce ei, ei
sunt toi, spune cineva n Dostoievski. Artistul nu poate nainta prea
departe pe acest drum. n singurtate, el descoper ceea ce l face
solidar.
Dar e oare necesar s fim singuri pentru a face aceast
descoperire? ntr-adevr, o asemenea ntrebare trebuie pus. De ea
depinde n bun msur soarta scriitorului. Pentru c i scriitorul vrea
s se bucure de lumea n care triete. Numai c pentru a iubi lumea
trebuie, cum zicea Leonardo, s-o cunoatem, iar pentru a o cunoate
trebuie mai nti s ne cunoatem pe noi.
O legend din Mexic spune c arborele universului are dou
brae. Unul al dragostei, altul al durerii. i m gndesc c, poate, i
artistul e un astfel de arbore. Pe de o parte singur, pe de alt parte
solidar, el i obine tocmai n singurtate dreptul de a iubi. i uneori se
rateaz nu pentru c n-a dorit s fie solidar, ci pentru c n-a ndrznit s
fie singur, nu s-a cufundat destul de adnc n adevrul su, fr de care
ar sfri prin a repeta numai ceea ce aude la alii. Problema cea mai
spinoas a unui artist e tocmai aceasta, s in o cumpn dreapt.
ntruct, trind la o rspntie, ntre eu i noi, el n-are voie s uite c
rostul singurtii sale nu poate fi dect acela de treapt spre o
solidaritate mai adnc.
V cer scuze, n ncheiere, dac nu v-am convins.
(O. Paler, Artistul i arborele universului, 1991)

In actual fact, the artists solitude is always discrepant because the


reason why he retreats into isolation is not to cease from speaking. The more
alone he is, the more wishful he becomes to confess to someone, disputing
his solitude by the act of recognizing. I consider that the conclusion should
be drawn when the solitude fails and the art wins. No writer did the act of
confession from loneliness, but because while being alone, he did not
consent to becoming silent, he did not resign to his desire of communication.
In the very moment when he begins to write, he admits that he has to surpass
the limits, that he cannot live without the others. What do you think that
hides behind the witty invectives the recluse-artists sometimes address from
solitude? I propose to unravel them as proud shouts for help. When the artist
is not brave enough to admit he loves the world, he pretends to despise it.
Yet, his contempt is nothing but a way of hiding a bleeding love: I am alone
while they are all together, says a Dostoievskian character. The artist cannot
advance too much on this path. In solitude he discovers what makes him
liable.
But is it really necessary to be alone in order to discover this? This
question should indeed be asked. It is on it that the writers fate depends on
mainly. Because the writer too wants to enjoy the world he lives in. Only
that to love the world we have to know it, as Leonardo said, and we can do
this only if we know ourselves.
A legend from Mexico says that the tree of the universe has two
branches. One of love and the other of pain. And I consider that the artist
may also be sort of a tree. Either alone, either liable, it is in solitude where
he gains the right to love. And sometimes he fails not because he did not
want to be sympathetic, but because he did not dare to be alone, he did not
immerge deep enough in his truth, without which he would end in imitating
what the others say. The most ticklish problem of an artist is exactly this, to
keep a fair balance. For living in a ramie, between me and us, he is not
allowed to forget that the purpose of his solitude is that of a stage towards a
deeper fellowship.
In the end, I apologize for not been able to convince you.
(O. Paler, Artistul i arborele universului, 1991)