Toti caram in spate o poveste, de la nastere pana la ultima suflare suntem un roman in devenire, un bestseller pe care prea putini au rabdarea sa-l citeaca si sa-l interpreteze, o opera epica traita cu indrazneala de a nu respecta, de cele mai multe ori, "momentele subiectului". Pentru ca intriga se lasa mult asteptata, expozitiunea se confunda cu desfasurarea actiunii iar despre punctul culminant si deznodamantrul sosit uneori prea devreme, ce sa mai vorbim...
"S-a sinucis Madalina Manole" suna altfel decat "S-a sinucis un anonim", cum scria Minulescu. Sau suna absolut identic, dar suntem prea superficiali sa ne dam seama. O femeie, urcata pe un podium de unde deznodamantul povestii ei a rupt cate ceva in toate sufletele care au varsat cel putin o lacrima ascultand "Suflet gol".
Azi povestea se sfarseste, fara ca sensul gestului extrem sa fie vreodata clar pentru cineva. In lacomia noastra de a devora viata lor, a celor care refuza sa mai fie anonimi, aveam pretentia de a intelege, de a diseca un suflet si de a ne droga cu durerea din el. Suntem parca dezamagiti ca nu a aparut nimic murdar, noroi cu care sa aruncam in memoria ei. Si tragem azi cortina peste tot, odata cu prima lopata de tarana asternuta pe sicriul ei alb, prea imaculat ca sa faca deliciul publicului.
Nu, nu am fost fan, nu ma pot bate cu pumnii in piept ca am stiut ceva depre viata ei cat timp si-a purtat povestea printre noi. Ii fredonam refrenele din inertie, ii admiram vocea incredibila si feminitatea demna pe care o afisa in public, si-atat. Poate de-asta moartea ei este, pentru mine, o drama la fel de mare ca moartea unui anonim, nepatata de cinismele lumii mondene.
Odihneste-te in pace, suflet trist, nu gol, ci prea plin de simtaminte ca sa fii inteleasa de o lume nebuna!
***
We learned in schools, one after the other, about the epic subject moments, in literature, with applicability in life, or vice versa, rather. Any narrative or life should, theoretically speaking, have exposition, plot, unfolding action, climax and denouement. A successful attempt, for a while, to universalize and standardize stories.
We all carry a story, from birth to last breath we are a novel in the making, a bestseller that too few have the patience to read and interpret, an epic work lived with the audacity to disregard, more often than not, the "moments of the story". Because the plot is left long overdue, the exposition is confused with the unfolding of the action and the climax and denouement sometimes arrives too soon, what to speak of...
"Madalina Manole committed suicide" sounds different than "An anonymous person committed suicide", as Minulescu wrote. Or it sounds absolutely identical, but we're too shallow to notice. A woman, standing on a podium where the outcome of her story broke something in all the souls who shed at least one tear listening to "Empthy soul".
Today the story ends, without the meaning of the extreme gesture ever being clear to anyone. In our greed to devour their lives, of those who refuse to be anonymous anymore, we had the pretense of understanding, of dissecting a soul and getting high on the pain in it. We are seemingly disappointed that nothing dirty, nothing muddy has emerged to throw at her memory. And we draw the curtain over everything today, with the first shovelful of tarana laid on her white coffin, too immaculate to delight the public.
No, I wasn't a fan, I can't pretend that I knew anything about her life while she carried her story among us. I hummed her choruses out of inertia, admired her incredible voice and the dignified femininity she displayed in public, and that was it. Maybe that's why her death is, for me, as much a drama as the death of an anonymous person, untouched by the cynicism of the mundane world.
Rest in peace, sad soul, not empty, but too full of feeling to be understood by a mad world!
