An introduction to the talk about Patrick Rothfuss’ ”The Name of the Wind” / Uvod u priču o knjizi Patrika Rotfusa ”Ime vetra”

ime vetra

”Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts. There are seven words that will make a person love you. There are ten words that will break a strong man’s will. But a word is nothing but a painting of a fire. A name is the fire itself.” 

During my exchange program in Budapest, I was attending a class on cinematography. There was a boy in the first row who would always wear a dark green hoodie. I remembered him because he had a funny goatee and ridiculously thick glasses. His prescription must have been enormous. I bumped into him everywhere – in the corridors of Károli (the name of my host university), in the 30A bus home, in the Metro line number four, until I realized he lived in my dorm. Took me long enough.

One Friday, we watched a film by Fábri Zoltán called Az ötödik pecsét (The Fifth Seal) which I warmly recommend to all of you. If it rings a bell, it’s probably because of Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. It might be fun to check the Bible and the art of Hieronymus Bosch prior to watching. The film struck a cord within me and I was discussing it with my dorm family (if you guys are reading this, I love you so much and think about every single one of you every day). There was a moral dilemma which I won’t put here because I have a no-spoiler policy (I have no idea how I am going to write about books with this philosophy), but the boy from the first passage took an opposite stand from the one I took. That was the first time I talked to him. We had a heated discussion because, apparently, I do not build relationships with a proper introduction. Somehow, though, we became friends, instantly.

He would crack my neck (please don’t tell my mom) and we would have these coffees and teas in the middle of the night in the second floor kitchen, or outside; we drank cheap beer from the corner tobacco store, we drank an overpriced whiskey and ate caramel pudding. He played the guitar. He was really good with Scarborough Fair and some Beatles. We talked about books, mostly, though. I mentioned having read two books from an unfinished trilogy by Patrick Rothfuss called The Kingkiller Chronicle. The titles are The Name of the Wind and Wise Man’s Fear. You know how you can hear the click that happens when two people bond over a common interest? That’s what happened with the boy in the green hoodie and me. We ranted about the author’s laziness and how it’s been years since the second book came out. We tried to imagine what the music from the book would sound like. We drank tea. I recommended Paul Auster to him. He sent me excerpts from Moon Palace that he found meaningful.  I always had and have chocolate with me, and we ate tons of yogurt-strawberry chocolates. He said I was a dealer of literature, chocolate, and happiness. He made me a little boat from a wine cork. I lost it at a party. He died on April 23. It was an accident. He will never read the third book. We will never get meaningless stupid matching tattoos. He will never read Auster anymore, or any other book I read and think he’d like. ”I want you to know you’re the heart of my temple of thought.”

This blog is dedicated to him. What he said to me is blooming and I’m cherishing it forever. This blog is a kind of a promise to him that I’ll continue sharing literature and happiness with the world around me. There is such an abundance of sadness in the world that I’ll do my best that everyone who has any connection to me feels it at least a tiny bit less. And I’ve found literature to be an inexhaustible source of happiness. So once again, welcome.

I wanted the first book that I’d talk about to be The Name of the Wind. However, I’ve read it some seven years ago, and I don’t remember so much the plot and the details as  much as the overall feeling and the fact that I would often catch myself thinking how every single sentence is absolutely perfect. So, I promise to read it again after I finish my current trilogy and write a kingkiller post. Until then, let’s talk about Auster.

Skål, András.

Hugs.

Tatjana


”Reči su blede senke zaboravljenih imena. Kao što imena imaju moć, i reči imaju moć. Reči mogu da zapale vatre u umovima ljudi. Reči mogu da iscede suze i iz najtvrđih srca. Sedam reči će učiniti da vas neko zavoli. Deset reči će slomiti volju snažnog čoveka. Ali reč je ništa više do slika vatre. Ime je sama vatra.”

Tokom svoje razmene u Budimpešti pohađala sam predavanja o kinematografiji. U prvom redu je bio momak koji je uvek nosio tamnozelenu jaknu s kapuljačom. Zapamtila sam ga zbog čudnjikave bradice i neverovatno debelih naočara. Mora da mu je dioptrija bila ogromna. Svuda sam naletala na njega — u hodnicima Karolija (mog univerziteta tamo), u tridesetici, u metrou broj četiri, dok nisam ukapirala da je živeo u mom domu. Dugo mi je trebalo.

Jednog petka gledali smo film Zoltana Fabrija Peti pečat koji toplo preporučujem svima vama. Ako zvuči poznato, verovatno je zbog Bergmanovog Sedmog pečata. Možda bi bilo zanimljivo pogledati Bibliju i umetnost Hieronimusa Boša pre gledanja. Taj film me je izuzetno dirnuo i u domu sam pričala o njemu sa svojom tamošnjom porodicom (ako čitate ovo, iako ne razumete ovaj deo, volim vas puno i na svakog od vas mislim svakog dana). Film postavlja jednu moralnu dilemu koju neću sad reći jer ne volim spojlere (i nemam pojma kako ću pričati o knjigama s tim stavom), ali momak iz prvog pasusa je odabrao suprotnu stranu dileme. Tad smo prvi put pričali. Imali smo žustru raspravu jer ja očigledno ne umem da gradim odnos običnim upoznavanjem. Nekako, ipak, postali smo prijatelji, istog trenutka.

On bi mi krckao vrat (molim vas nemojte reći mojoj mami) i pili bismo kafe i čajeve usred noći u kuhinji na drugom spratu, ili napolju; pili smo jeftino pivo iz prodavnice duvana na ćošku, pili smo preskupi viski i jeli puding od karamele. Svirao je giraru. Lepo je svirao Scarborough Fair i nešto Bitlsa. Ipak, uglavnom smo pričali o knjigama. Pomenula sam da sam pročitala dva romana iz nedovršene trilogije Patrika Rotfusa pod imenom Hronika o kraljoubici. Naslovi su Ime vetra Strah mudroga. Znate ono kad možete da čujete onaj klik kad se dvoje ljudi zbliže preko zajedničkih interesovanja? To se desilo meni s momkom u zelenoj jakni. Besneli smo o piščevoj lenjosti i kako su već godine prošle od kad je izašla druga knjiga. Pokušali smo da zamislimo kako bi zvučala muzika iz romana. Pili smo čaj. Preporučila sam mu Pola Ostera. Slao mi je odlomke iz Mesečeve palate koji su mu bili značajni. Uvek sam imala i imam čokoladu kod sebe, i jeli smo na tone čokolade s jagodom i jogurtom. Napravio mi je mali čamac od pampura. Izgubila sam ga na žurci. Poginuo je dvadeset trećeg aprila. Nesrećnim slučajem. Nikad neće pročitati treći deo. Nikad više neće čitati Ostera, niti ijedan drugi roman koji ja pročitam i pomislim da bi mu se svideo. ”Želim da znaš da si središte mog hrama misli.”

Ovaj blog je posvećen njemu. Ono što mi je rekao cveta u meni i čuvaću to zauvek. Ovaj blog je neka vrsta mog obećanja njemu da ću nastaviti da delim književnost i sreću sa svetom oko sebe. Na svetu je toliko neverovatno mnogo tuge da želim da dam sve od sebe kako bi je svako ko ima ikakvih dodirnih tačaka sa mnom osetio makar malo manje. I otkrila sam da je književnost nepresušan izvor sreće. Stoga još jednom, dobrodošli.

Želela sam da prva knjiga o kojoj ću pričati bude Ime vetra. Međutim, pročitala sam je pre nekih sedam godina, i ne sećam se toliko radnje i detalja koliko tog opšteg osećaja i kako bih često zatekla sebe da razmišljam o tome kako je svaka rečenica potpuno savršena. Tako da obećavam da ću je ponovo pročitati čim završim sadašnju trilogiju, i onda ću napisati kraljoubilačku objavu. Do tada, hajde da pričamo o Osteru.

Skål, Andraš.

Grlim.

Tatjana

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