Palaima (La Dicha)

Jorge Luis Borges


Kas apkabina moterį, yra Adomas.

O moteris yra Ieva.

Viskas nutinka pirmąkart.

Mačiau šį tą baltuojant danguje.

Jie sako man, jog tai yra mėnulis.

Bet ką gi veikti man su žodžiu ir mitologija?

Ir medžiai gąsdina mane šiek tiek.

Užgniaužia kvapą grožis jų.

Gyvūnai romūs priartėja

idant galėčiau jų vardus ištart.

Ir knygos bibliotekoje neturi raidžių.

Pabyra jos atvėrus viršelius.

Vartydamas aš atlasą matau Sumatros formą.

Kas tik degtuką uždega tamsoj – išranda ugnį.

O veidrody tas Kitas laukia pasaloj.

Kas žvelgia vandenynan, Angliją jis mato.

Kas sukužda eilutę Lilienkrono, tas mūšin stoja.

Kartaginą aš sapnavau ir ją sugriovusius legionus.

Ir kalaviją su svarstyklėm sapnavau.

Išaukštinta tebūna meilė,

Kurioj nėra nei savininko, nei jam priklausančio.

Bet kur abudu pasiduoda viens kitam.

Tebus išaukštintas košmaras,

Kuris mums primena, kad turim galią kurti pragarą.

Kas leidžiasi upe, tas Gangu leidžias.

Kas žvelgia smėlio laikrodin, tas mato nuosmukį imperijos.

Durklu kas žaidžia, mirtį Cezario nuspėja.

Ir kas sapnuoja, tas žmogus yra kiekvienas.

Mačiau aš jauną Sfinksą dykumoj tik pastatytą.

Nėra po Saule nieko dar senesnio.

Nutinka viskas pirmąkart, tačiau kartu tai amžina yra.

Žodžius kas skaito mano, pats juos išranda.


(laisvas mano paties vertimas)

Little Gidding

T. S. Eliot


Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart’s heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul’s sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time’s covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer?

If you came this way,
Taking the route you would be likely to take
From the place you would be likely to come from,
If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges
White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.
It would be the same at the end of the journey,
If you came at night like a broken king,
If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
Which also are the world’s end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city–
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.

If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.


Ash on an old man’s sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house-
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
This is the death of air.

There are flood and drouth
Over the eyes and in the mouth,
Dead water and dead sand
Contending for the upper hand.
The parched eviscerate soil
Gapes at the vanity of toil,
Laughs without mirth.
This is the death of earth.

Water and fire succeed
The town, the pasture and the weed.
Water and fire deride
The sacrifice that we denied.
Water and fire shall rot
The marred foundations we forgot,
Of sanctuary and choir.
This is the death of water and fire.

In the uncertain hour before the morning
Near the ending of interminable night
At the recurrent end of the unending
After the dark dove with the flickering tongue
Had passed below the horizon of his homing
While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin
Over the asphalt where no other sound was
Between three districts whence the smoke arose
I met one walking, loitering and hurried
As if blown towards me like the metal leaves
Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.
And as I fixed upon the down-turned face
That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge
The first-met stranger in the waning dusk
I caught the sudden look of some dead master
Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled
Both one and many; in the brown baked features
The eyes of a familiar compound ghost
Both intimate and unidentifiable.
So I assumed a double part, and cried
And heard another’s voice cry: “What! are you here?”
Although we were not. I was still the same,
Knowing myself yet being someone other–
And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
To compel the recognition they preceded.
And so, compliant to the common wind,
Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,
In concord at this intersection time
Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,
We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.
I said: “The wonder that I feel is easy,
Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:
I may not comprehend, may not remember.”
And he: “I am not eager to rehearse
My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.
These things have served their purpose: let them be.
So with your own, and pray they be forgiven
By others, as I pray you to forgive
Both bad and good. Last season’s fruit is eaten
And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak
In streets I never thought I should revisit
When I left my body on a distant shore.
Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us
To purify the dialect of the tribe
And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,
Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime’s effort.
First, the cold fricton of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
As body and sould begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of things ill done and done to others’ harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
Then fools’ approval stings, and honour stains.
From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit
Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire
Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.”
The day was breaking. In the disfigured street
He left me, with a kind of valediction,
And faded on the blowing of the horn.


There are three conditions which often look alike
Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference
Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
Being between two lives – unflowering, between
The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
For liberation – not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country
Begins as an attachment to our own field of action
And comes to find that action of little importance
Though never indifferent. History may be servitude,
History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.
Sin is Behovely, but
All shall be well, and
All manner of thing shall be well.
If I think, again, of this place,
And of people, not wholly commendable,
Of not immediate kin or kindness,
But of some peculiar genius,
All touched by a common genius,
United in the strife which divided them;
If I think of a king at nightfall,
Of three men, and more, on the scaffold
And a few who died forgotten
In other places, here and abroad,
And of one who died blind and quiet,
Why should we celebrate
These dead men more than the dying?
It is not to ring the bell backward
Nor is it an incantation
To summon the spectre of a Rose.
We cannot revive old factions
We cannot restore old policies
Or follow an antique drum.
These men, and those who opposed them
And those whom they opposed
Accept the constitution of silence
And are folded in a single party.
Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
We have taken from the defeated
What they had to leave us – a symbol:
A symbol perfected in death.
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching.


The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one dischage from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.


What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always–
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

Rudyard Kipling
Rewards and Fairies (Macmillan Uniform Edition), 1910

Apie dorovės pabaigą ir totalitarizmo gimimą

Totalitarinių sąjūdžių patrauklumas elitui, kol jie dar nėra užgrobę valdžios, glumina todėl, kad prašalaičiui ir paprasčiausiam stebėtojui pirmiausia krinta į akis ne bendra nuotaika, persmelkianti ikitotalitarinę atmosferą,  o akivaizdžios ir savavališkos pozityvios totalitarizmo doktrinos. Tos doktrinos taip skiriasi nuo visuotinai pripažintų intelektualinių, kultūrinių ir moralinių normų, kad galima prieiti išvadą, jog tik pamatinis intelektualui būdingas charakterio trūkumas, „la trahison des clercs“ (J. Benda), arba iškrypėliška dvasios neapykanta pačiai sau, paaiškina džiūgavimą, su kuriuo elitas priimdavo minios „idėjas“. Humanizmo ir liberalizmo propaguotojai, karčiai nusivylę ir neturėję platesnio tos epochos patyrimo, dažniausiai nepastebėdavo, kad atmosfera, kurioje išgaravo visos tradicinės vertybės ir principai (XIX a. ideologijoms paneigus vienai kitą ir praradus gyvastingumą), tam tikra prasme pradėjo pripažinti akivaizdžiai absurdiškus principus, visai kitokius nei senos tiesos, tapusios šventeiviškomis banalybėmis kaip tik todėl, jog buvo nebeįmanoma tikėtis, kad tuos absurdus kas nors dar priims rimtai. Vulgarybė, ciniškai atmetanti gerbiamas normas ir pripažintas teorijas, kartu atvirai pripažino tai, kas blogiausia, ir nepaisė jokių pretenzijų, lengvabūdiškai tapatinamų su drąsa ir nauju gyvenimo stiliumi. Vis labiau įsivyraujant minios požiūriams ir įsitikinimams – kurie, tiesą sakant, iš tikrųjų buvo veidmainystės nusikračiusios buržuazijos požiūriai ir įsitikinimai, – tie, kurie tradiciškai nekentė buržuazijos ir savo valia išeidavo iš respektabilios visuomenės, matė tik veidmainystės ir respektabilumo stoką, o ne patį turinį.

Kadangi buržuazija pretendavo būti Vakarų tradicijų gynėja ir suardė visus moralinius principus, viešai demonstruodama dorybes, kurių ji privačiame ir verslo gyvenime ne tik neturėjo, bet, tiesą sakant, niekino, [daugeliui] pradėjo atrodyti labai revoliucinga pripažinti žiaurumą, niekinti žmogaus vertybes ir mėgautis visuotiniu amoralumu, nes visa tai, mažų mažiausiai, griovė tą dviveidystę, kuria, kaip atrodė, remiasi visuomenė. Kokia pagunda sublizgėti kraštutiniais požiūriais veidmainiškoje dvejopų moralės normų prieblandoje, kokia pagunda viešai dėvėti žiaurumo kaukę, jei nė vienas atvirai nesiskaito su kitu ir apsimeta kilniaširdis, kokia pagunda demonstruoti sugedimą tokiame pasaulyje, kuris yra ne sugedęs, o tiesiog menkas! Trečiojo dešimtmečio intelektualinis elitas, beveik nieko nežinojęs apie ankstesnius minios ir buržuazijos ryšius, buvo įsitikinęs, kad senasis épater le bourgeois žaidimas gali būti žaidžiamas tobulai, jei pradedama šokiruoti visuomenę, rodant jai ironiškai perdėtą jos pačios elgesio paveikslą.

Arendt, H. Totalitarizmo ištakos, Vilnius: Tyto Alba, 2001, p. 330-331

Protas ir instinktas

Galiausiai kultūrinė maksima „visa, kas nežmogiška, man nesvetima“ puikiai prigijo šiuolaikinėje politinėje erdvėje, įkūnydama liberalizmo ilgai ugdytą mąstyseną, pagal kurią žmogui svarbiausia ne tai, kas jį išskiria iš gyvūnų pasaulio, bet tai, kas su juo subendrina: maitinimasis (vartojimas), kova dėl vietos po saule (konkurencija, karjera), saugumas ir reprodukcija. Mėginimai apeliuoti į aukštesnius standartus pasmerkiami kaip nejautrumas „paprastam žmogui“, kuriam nesvetima visų pirma tai, kas nepriaugę iki žmogiškumo. Klasikinė tradicija yra išreiškusi savo požiūrį į šią nuostatą: jausena ir mityba pagrįstas gyvenimas yra būdingas tiek žmogui, tiek jaučiui, ir paprasčiausiai laikytinas gyvulišku. Žmogų iš gyvūnų išskiria modernizmo sumenkintas protas ir jo teikiama geba skirti gėrį nuo blogio, teisinga nuo neteisinga.

Modernizmui būdinga vaizduoti, kad protas, racionalizmas slopina gyvybingumą. Vakarų kultūroje visuomet būta įtampos tarp racionalumo ir neracionalumo, tarp proto ir valios, proto ir instinkto. Racionalus vertinimas tradiciškai buvo laikomas hierarchiškai aukštesniu, ir tokia tvarka vyravo veik du tūkstantmečius. Modernizmas šią hierarchiją griauna: nuo Hobbeso ir Jacques’o Russeau laikų protas kryptingai verstas norų ir aistrų vergu.  Tradicinis modernizmas siekia religiją ar moralę pakeisti estetiniu gyvenimo pateisinimu. Postmodernizmas savo ruožtu atveda modernizmo logiką iki kraštutinumų. Kaip sako Bellas, porno-pop kultūra yra šio proceso padarinys. „Postmodernizmas estetinį gyvenimo pateisinimą visiškai pakeitė instinktu. Tik impulsas ir malonumas yra tikri ir teigia gyvenimą; visa kita – neurozė ir mirtis.“ Pramogų moralė šiandien išstūmė gerumo moralę. „Nesilinksminančiam žmogui yra ko savimi susirūpinti: Kas gi man atsitiko?“ – turėtų vis klausti jis.

Laučius, V. Kultūros ir politikos santykis klasikinės tradicijos požiūriu // (Sud.) Adomėnas, M. Libertas & Pietas. Lietuviškasis konservatizmas. Antologija 1993-2010, Vilnius: Eugrimas, 2010, p. 159-160