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The writer & the reader
by Adrian BUZ
“I write. Who is reading me?” This was the theme of the main meeting on
the forth edition of the International Festival of Literature from Neptun
- the Black Sea resort Uniunea Scriitorilor din România chose as location
for this event. Well, I have to admit that the use of the I & me
ego-pack in such a short declaration of confusion stirred some wonder
in my mind: is really the writer a very unique creature from Neptune? But
despite this exaggeration the question has its meaning, as the writer
feels these days the threat of what seems an endless media & electronic
revolution; he just looses his readers. Terminator is out there and it
looks like he is doing a fine job. On the other side another question waits
a fair answer to make a guideline of it: what is the role of the writer
in the modern society? Serious matters to think about. No wonder that from
a certain moment the writer may look like a creature from a remote planet.
I write. Who is reading me? Good selling doesn’t prove to be
the right answer, neither bad selling – after all, some appeal to the
legend better-wait-till-I-die, a major prize doesn’t always guarantees a
better understanding of his literature, and there are critics who are a
bit too eager to spoil a marriage that works with effort – novels written
by Martin Walser or William Burroughs express the feelings they nurtured
for their critics; besides, the Nobel looks like a serious leftist
business, though a humanist leftism.
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This theoretical endeavor to question something that by its nature remains
abstract and unsatisfactory looses the human factor. It’s the secret
emotional stash the writer return to for coloring the face of a statistic
ghost. I don’t make an exception, that’s why I am able to tell you who is
reading my books and not only mine - with unexpected results. Bamba. Bamba
is a short and heavy man in his sixty. I met him for the first time many
years ago in my father’s painting studio. At that time people - most of
them local artists - were gathering every Sunday morning in the large and
light room for a chat and a glass of wine. Bamba – as everybody was
calling him, nobody or perhaps just a few knew his real name - was always
there and what stroke me about him was the contrast between his rough look
and the sharp observations he made during discussions. Though an
uneducated man, he enjoyed the company of various artsy groups in town,
and he finally got contaminated. He was a kind of petty hustler, a small
smuggler, a minor black market operator, but a man with a strange fine
taste, and a firm respect for arts and artists. On those black times of
the old regime, he offered many times his help and support in various
matters for people he cared about. He usually did it through his
underground connections and every time with a certain style and
discretion. He was also the protagonist of an anecdote that traveled
around the city. For a while, he worked as a taxi driver, rather a cover
for his real fishy occupations. One day, he was sitting in his working
office as he was calling his cab, on a crisscross downtown near some
official building, hopelessly caught in the novel he red. An important guy
working there picked him up and asked him to take him to an address. But
Bamba gave him an amused look and told him: “What’s the matter with you?
Can’t you see am busy here?” Because the guy became pushy, he started the
engine and moved his office to the next corner to finish the book.
I haven’t seen him for a while, but then I met him many years after the
regime had changed. He told he had been traveling abroad with some
businesses he couldn’t talk about. He knew I’d just published my first
book and he asked me to give him one. Then I met him again recently and
strangely enough it was at the precise moment my second book was out. He
knew about that and he wanted to tell me that he brought it himself from a
local books shop. He made few brief comments on some of the short stories
that impressed him, and then put me in comparison with some other Romanian
or foreign writes, and he did that naturally, in a way I never thought
about. Finally he concluded: “Man, gotta tell you… first you got me
confused all right with your stile, but then I understood what you meant
by that, and finally I enjoyed it. You lingered in my mind for days… I
mean you don’t give humans a second chance, do you?” I was stoned, it was
a feedback I didn’t expected – not only the observations he made, but his
knowledge in contemporary literature was remarkable. In fact, I was so
impressed I deposited him in my emotional gallery.
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