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The archaic roots of Balkan surrealism: A study of modern Serbian and Greek poetry.

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The archaic roots of Balkan surrealism: A study of modern Serbian and Greek poetry.

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Content THE ARCHAIC ROOTS OF BALKAN SURREALISM: A STUDY OF MODERN SERBIAN AND GREEK POETRY Volume I by Maria Budisavljevic-Oparnica A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (Comparative Literature) August 1990 Copyright 1990 Maria Budisavljevid-Oparnica UMI Number: DP22555 All rights reserved INFORMATION TO ALL USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. Dissertation Publishing UMI DP22555 Published by ProQuest LLC (2014). Copyright in the Dissertation held by the Author. Microform Edition © ProQuest LLC. All rights reserved. This work is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code ProQuest LLC. 789 East Eisenhower Parkway P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106- 1346 UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CAUFORNIA THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY PARK LOS ANGELES, CAUFORNIA 90089 This dissertation, written by HA RIA ^ ^ BUDISAVLJEVIC-OPARNIC A under the direction of h..er. Dissertation Committee; and approved by all its members, has been presented to and accepted by The Graduate School, in partial fulfillm ent of re quirements fo r the degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY D ean o f Graduate Studies Date DISSERTATION COMMITTEE Moshe Lazar Q Jco -G h atrp e rs o n „ t z U s Z L... Glori^t)ren stein “ft— AJL For my son, Jaime, and for young Serbs everywhere, with the wish that years from now, they will still be recounting the tales of the tribe. Ac k now1edgmen t s During the time I was writing this disserta tion, I gradually became aware that it had a scope much greater than that which I had anticipated. It seemed to have an imperative of its own which led to any number of unexpected but nevertheless intriguing corri dors of thought, and it was often difficult for me to know which turn to take or how far to go. I don't think I could have completed this labyrinthine journey without the very strong support, both intellectual and moral, of my committee members, Professors Moshe Lazar, Thomas Eekman, Gloria Orenstein, and Andrei Simi<5. I have received nothing but constructive criticism and encouragement from every one of them, and I am very grateful for their patience and faith in me during the last several years. Furthermore, their own high academic standards both challenged and inspired me, and compelled me to endeavor to fulfill their expecta tions for this project. I would also like to express my thanks to Professor Mateja Matejic, who was kind enough to read and comment on sections of the text; and to Professor Vasa D. Mihailovich, who generously lent me books and offered advice. I am also indebted to Father Janko iv Trbovich, whom I called on from time to time for clarification and/or verification of various theological and historical points. The time, interest, and effort of all of these scholars is greatly appreciated. Locating texts here in the United States was often my greatest obstacle. I do want ‘ to thank the Interlibrary Loan staff at Arizona State University for their assistance and efforts in this regard. I would also like to acknowledge the help of Archimandrite Hilary, OCA Diocese of the Midwest, for his help in obtaining liturgical texts. Often, I had to appeal to friends in Yugoslavia and Greece for research materials, however. In this regard, I especially want to thank my Kumovi Mile Lazarevic and Dr. Sonja Petrovic-Lazarevic in Belgrade for their generosity and tireless efforts on my behalf to locate and/or photocopy texts and obtain and/or verify information, and for their many helpful suggestions and constant emotional support. I am also indebted to Yiannis Pendefountis in Athens, who not only sent me books I needed, but took the initiative to search out others, as well. I have also been encouraged and supported by some very close friends who, during the last few years, have been exceptionally understanding about my "period of confinement." Kim Corsnitz has been a great help V to me in many times of need. She often volunteered to run errands and perform tasks which I was unable to do because of ray commitment to my dissertation, and she assisted, as well, with the preparation of the final text. Drs. Deborah and Earl Linderman have supplied me with love, art, and vitamin "B" for the past three years, and their encouragement has been a great source of energy, both physical and spiritual, to me. Lorayne and James Burns have also shown an extraordinary measure of understanding about my dissertation. Despite the fact that they have seen very little of me since I began writing, in time of crisis, they did not hesitate to respond; had they not done so, this project might not have been completed. It surely would not have been completed without the help of Nikos Sakiotis, who has been a constant source of strength and comfort during the past three years. Nikos has aided me in any number of ways--tracking down and obtaining books from Greece, taking over my daily chores, reading and proofing the text, and offering incisive, critical comments and suggestions.' The many hours of work he contributed to the preparation of the final version of the text are especially appreciated. Finally, I want to thank the individual members of my family who have influenced and/or been affected by this project. I would like to express my • gratitude to my aunt, Jelena Budisavljevic Luzaic and her family in Yugoslavia, for their love and generosity during the time my son and I resided there. She not only fed and loved us, but also taught us how to measure time from Mitrovdan to -Durdfevdan. I also appreciate the understanding and sensitivity of my sister, Danica Oparnica-Wilkinson, whom I have seen all too rarely since beginning my dissertation; I hope that will change now. To my mother, Mara Budisavljevid-Oparnica, I give thanks for teaching me to recognize and love art in all its forms. I thank my father, George Theodore Oparnica, who in death, compelled me to reach out to art. I thank my grand father, Milan Budisavljevid, who gave me the tales of the tribe and the confidence with which to shape my art. And finally, I thank my son, James Arminius Struckmeyer III, the next link in the chain, whose existence obligated me to try. vii Table of Contents Introduction 1 Chapter I: The French Connection 18 Endnotes 71 Chapter II: The Other Side of the Crescent: 7 5 A Psychohistorical Perspective Endnotes 19 3 Chapter III: Toward A World without Measure 214 Endnotes 3 20 Chapter IV: The Cosmic Guardianship of 3 28 Vasko Popa Endnotes 514 Chapter V: More Signals from the Homeland 534 Endnotes 6 33 Chapter VI: A Parallel Quest: Surrealism in 642 the Greek Alphabet Endnotes 7 22 Afterword 731 Bibliography 734 Appendix "A": The Pagan Slavic Gods 758 Appendix "B": The Wolf Cult 765 Appendix "C": Plates 776 1 Introduction 2 This study will introduce the reader to a type of surrealist verse which may be quite unlike that which he or- she has previously encountered. In con trast to the French model, Balkan surrealism is motiva ted by a desire to reaffirm and revalorize rather than to repudiate and overthrow cultural tradition. As a result of this philosophical objective, it presents a unique synthesis of ancient and modern features: a thematic base of indigenous mythical, folkloric, his torical, and religious elements enhanced by a modified surrealist form. Moreover, these themes are not selected randomly, but represent racial archetypes which have been preserved in the collective sub conscious and have specific cultural associations. Although it reflects the incongruous imagery, concrete language, syntactical compression, and presentational quality which characterize French surrealist poetry, Balkan surrealism diverges from its French counterpart in two critical ways: (l)Its composition is highly structured, in some cases, almost formulaic— images are consciously ordered, subject unity is a regular feature, and the form itself is often an integral part of the poetic message; and (2)its thematic content consistently manifests a strong national orientation. Consequently, although it is 3 popularly described as surrealism or neo-surrealism, the poetry which will be examined here often appears to be in conflict with the original premises of the French school, for while it does consistently incor porate certain surrealist principles, it cannot be defined strictly according to those principles, but manifests a unique poetic reality of its own. The purpose of this discussion, then is to provide a definition of Balkan surrealism as dis tinct from the French model and to place it within the context of comparative literature. My method is analytical and descriptive. My approach is somewhat speculative in that I have tended to focus on the philosophical rather than the technical, that is, to deal largely with abstract, intangible concepts rather than with empirical, factual data. However, the subject is such that a wholly cognitive approach would not adequately accomodate it. Concentrating primarily on the poetry of Serbia, the study traces the development of the surrealist verse which emerged in Serbian letters during the post-World War II period. It attempts to show that although the poetry of this period does reflect certain poetic techniques which are generally considered to be characteristic of French 4 surrealism, their presence can be more accurately attributed to the influence of earlier Serbian poets who, in their efforts to revitalize the native literary tradition developed in epic and folklore, introduced these techniques into Serbian letters even before the advent of the Parisian surrealist group. Drawing on research from a variety of disciplines, the study seeks to demonstrate that the development of Serbian surrealism is the natural expression of the holistic world view of the Serbian people, and that this holism derives in great part from the social forces and historical events which have dominated Serbian culture since ancient times. Finally, it will more briefly address the parallel example of Greek surrealism which developed almost simultaneously but apparently independently of Serbian surrealism, and which evidences the same poetic synthesis. Surrealism has traditionally enjoyed a warm reception in Serbia, the largest republic of the six republics and two autonomous provinces which comprise present-day Yugoslavia. Owing to the cultural diversity of Yugoslavia— a country in which three major languages (and a myriad of dialects) are spoken and two alphabets are used— four major national literatures--Croatian, Macedonian, Serbian and 5 Slovenian— and a variety of minority literatures are recognized. In the twentieth century, these literatures have been shaped to a great degree by two literary movements: In the North, German Expressionism has had a significant effect on the literature of Croatia and Slovenia, while in the South, French Surrealism substantially influenced the literature of Serbia. In the early 1920's, at about the same time that expressionism was introduced in Croatia by writers such as Miroslav Krleza (1893-1981) and Antun Branko Simic (1898-1925), and in Slovenia by Edvard Kocbek (1904-1981) and Srecko Kosovel (1904- 1926), surrealism first appeared in Serbian letters when a group of thirteen writers in Belgrade began to experiment with surrealist poetics. The members of the Belgrade Group, as it came to be called, adhered closely to the doctrinal ideals and techniques, in cluding the revolutionary stance and the practice of automatic writing, advocated by the French group. They sought, in effect, to practice French surrealism in the Serbo-Croatian language. However, their enter prise did not meet with the success which they antici pated, perhaps, as some critics feel, because of their insistence on conformity to the French model. In any case, by the mid-1930's, the group had almost 6 completely disbanded. Later, in the early 1950s, the surrealist trend reemerged in the poetry of the post- World War II generation. The new surrealism, however, does not follow from the work of the Belgrade Group. On the contrary, these poets approached surrealism quite differently. They did not attempt to approxi mate the French model, but to modify it according to their own poetic aims, selectively integrating certain surrealist techniques which would enhance the national focus of their own verse. The combination of an indigenous thematic base and a modified surrealist form which they developed not only expressed the national spirit, but expanded the original surrealist premises, and thus constituted something entirely new in Serbian literature as well as in surrealist poetics. In order to better appreciate the literary significance of this new poetic synthesis, a brief background of surrealism as it was conceived by Andre Breton and the Parisian surrealist group seems to be an appropriate point of departure. Therefore, this dissertation begins by considering the salient features of French surrealism and the social milieu in which it arose. Chapter I reviews the philoso phical position of the surrealists, the Western 7 rationalist tradition against which they revolted, and their poetic and philosophical aims. The surrealist mode is viewed as the culmination of the shift from the representational or epiphoric poetry of the neo classical period to the presentational or diaphoric poetry of the modern era. The literary lineage of the surrealist image is discussed, in particular, the influence of the Romantics, Baudelaire, Lautreamont, Rimbaud, Saint-Pol-Roux, and Reverdy on its develop ment. The characteristics of surrealist poetry and the types of surrealist images are delineated, and examples are cited. The chapter addresses, as well, the role of esotericism in shaping the views of Breton and the other surrealists, specifically the concept of the supreme point, the notion of objective chance as a means of accessing it, and the materialistic mysticism of Eliphas Levi. It discusses, as well, the psychoanalytic theories of Freud, Janet, and Jung and their function in surrealist exploration. Chapter II shifts to the Balkan peninsula, and introduces the particular social and historical milieu of the area. In keeping with the comparative nature of this study, this chapter attempts to provide some background as to the sociological and historical influences which appear to have had some bearing on the development of the literature at hand. This is a transitional, explanatory chapter which explores the Serbian cultural setting and those aspects of it which may have provided a particularly fertile environment for the concept of surreality. It examines the Serbian world view from a psycho- historical point of view, focusing on the historical events and social institutions which shaped it. The argument is made that as a result of these forces, the Serb, in contrast to the Westerner, retained a relatively holistic world view of existence. Particu lar attention is given to concepts of time and space as manifested in modern Serbian culture, and parallels are drawn from anthropological studies; these include Hall's polychronic model, the archaic-traditional model of Eliade, and the primitive model of Levy-Bruhl, all of which appear to evince spatiotemporal perspec tives similar to that identified in Serbian culture, and all of which are compatible to the concept of the surreal. This spatiotemporal perspective is attributed to two sources: (l)the impact of the Ottoman domina tion; and (2)the cultural conditioning of the social institutions of agrarianism, the zadruga, and Eastern Orthodoxy. The point is made that as a result of its isolation during the period of Turkish rule, Serbia 9 was not influenced by the Western rationalist tradi tion to the same degree as was that of Western Europe, . and thus was able to avert the dualism and suppression of intuitive and imaginative faculties which the post- Renaissance West experienced. Consequently, the Serb retained a relatively holistic world view. It is speculated that this holism may have been further enhanced by the social institutions referred to above. Each of these institutions is described and considered separately, and their individual effects on the Serbian psychological perspective are analyzed. Although this is a highly speculative chapter, it does draw the tentative conclusion that, as a consequence.of the social and historical forces at work in their culture, the Serbs developed a view of the world which appears to be quite harmonious with the philosophical tenets of surrealism. Chapter III introduces the phenomenon of Balkan surrealism and traces its genesis. Although it takes note of the French influence on Serbian cultural development, and acknowledges the existence of the Serbian surrealist group of the interwar period which was inspired by the Parisian surrealists, it maintains that the synthesis which emerged in the poetry of the post-World War II generation was 10 pioneered prior to and independent of French influence. It is argued that the establishment of this synthesis occurred in stages, and that its development can be observed in the verse of four poets--Vladislav * ' j * Petkovic-Dis, Miiutm Bojic, Rastko Petrovic and s f , f Momcilo Nastasijevic--who appear to be the authentic precursors of modern Serbian surrealism. The specific contributions of these poets to this new form are treated individually. The point is made that the vision of another, more complete reality can be ob served in, and indeed, directs the poetry of all four writers. Dis, however, was the first of these modern Serbian poets to express the awareness of this other hidden, inaccessible reality in terms of a fusion be tween conscious and sub-conscious states. Furthermore, he was also the first to indicate a shift from repre sentational poetry in that he expresses a desire to escape to rather than from reality. This same pheno menon is observed in the poetry of Bojic, who infused Serbian verse with a new vitality through his use of colorful, dramatic imagery and concrete language. His most important contribution to the new form, however, is judged to be his innovative treatment of historical figures. By approaching these characters objectively and humanistically, he is able to retreive the 11 authentic human personalities which have been sub merged beneath the idealized, abstract images that history has imposed on them. This technique con stituted a new direction in Serbian poetry, and was developed more fully in the surrealist verse of the post-World War II generation. It is in the work of Petrovic, however, that the synthesis of indigenous themes and surrealist techniques is definitively established. Petrovic attempts to penetrate the other, more complete reality--what he terms, "the world with out measure"— by merging the personal subconscious with the collective subconscious of Slavic origins, a feature which has become the hallmark of Balkan surrealism. Finally, Nastasijevic’s contribution to the development of this new synthesis is considered. The influence of his radical innovations in language and form on the surrealists is discussed. Particular attention is given, however, to the principle of sym metrical opposition which directs his work, and which functions as a means of expressing the unity and in terdependency of the cosmic order that underlies the apparent disparity and randomness of phenomena. While / in Nastasi]evic1s verse, the concentration on this principle frequently results in a certain hermetic quality, the surrealists who subsequently adopted it 12 were able to avoid this hermeticism through the in terplay of mythological and historical figures and events which have immediate associations in the cul tural consciousness. The concept of symmetrical opposition is a basic structural principle in the poetry of Vasko Popa, the first of the post-World War II surrealist poets to be considered here. Chapter IV focuses ex clusively on Popa. It examines his complex poetic schema and the way in which the surrealist mode func tions in and enhances it. Popa1s poetry offers a wealth of mythological, folkloric, historical and religious elements, many of which this chapter attempts to iden tify and explicate. It assesses, as well, the sig nificance of Popa1s humor, specifically the way in which it differs from surrealist Black Humor, and elaborates upon the oriental influences in his work which, to my knowledge, have not been sufficiently explicated in the past. Chapter V addresses the surrealist presence / r r in the works of Pavlovic, Lalic and Miljkovic, but is concerned primarily with that of Pavlovic. His intel lectual approach is discussed at length, and examined from the standpoint of the differences between Western and Eastern perspectives of intellectualism. The 13 concept of self-identity which is manifested in his poetry, that is, as a means of expressing both personal and national identities, is compared to the more individualistic outlook of Western and particu larly of Anglo-Saxon cultures. Further, the chapter explores the development of Pavlovic's poetic style and identifies and elaborates upon the numerous indi genous themes in his work. Next, the chapter turns to ✓ Lalic's verse, again taking note of the native thematic elements, and the manner in which they func tion in the surrealist context. Lalic's symbolism and imagery are analyzed and compared with examples from French surrealist texts. Finally, evidence of the Serbian surrealist form is observed in the poetry of Miljkovic. The unevenness of Miljkovic's surrealism— he was also influenced by symbolism--is acknowledged, as is his thematic base— many of his poems are con cerned with death and/or the poet's craft. It is nevertheless concluded that much of his verse reflects definite surrealist tendencies as well as the national orientation which characterizes Serbian surrealism. Finally, Chapter VI presents an overview of Greek surrealist poetry. The purpose of this chapter is to illustrate the similarities between Serbian and Greek surrealism and to further define the 14 Balkan surrealist form. The poetry discussed here reflects the same synthesis of indigenous thematic elements and surrealist techniques which is described in previous chapters. It is speculated that the emergence of this synthesis in Serbia and Greece may result from the certain commonalities in ethos in the two cultures, commonalities which although developed independently, are the consequence of simi lar historical backgrounds and social and religious traditions. The chapter follows the development of Greek surrealist poetry by focusing on six poets: Nicolas Calas, Andreas Embirikos, Odysseus Elytis, Nikos Engonopoulos, Nikos Gatsos and Yiannis Ritsos. The place of Calas as a transitional figure is asses sed. Although the symbolist and decadent influences in his work are acknowledged, initial attempts at tech niques which would subsequently characterize sur realist verse— such as concrete language and imagery and juxtaposition and contradictions aimed at dis orienting the reader— are also observed. His role as impressario of the surrealist movement is also noted. Embirikos is considered to be the first Greek sur realist poet; inasmuch as he adopted the principles and techniques of the French movement, a parallel is drawn between his work and that of the Belgrade Group. 15 However, in contrast to that group, his frequent treatment of the natural world, particularly that of the mediterranean landscape which figures prominently in the imagery of subsequent surrealists, can be said to at least imply a national orientation. This type of sea and sun imagery became the hallmark of the lyrical poetry of Elytis, who elevated it nearly to the point of a religion, particularly in his early col lections. However, the point is made that even in his first volumes, other indigenous elements of myth, folklore and history and religion appear and continue to appear, increasing as his poetic style develops. And, as is the case of the Serbian poets, Elytis skillfully applies the principles of surrealism in order to enrich this thematic base.. Although Engonopoulos is a peripheral figure for the present study, he is included here because of his important place in the overall development of sur realism in Greece. Like Embirikos, he was directed primarily by Parisian surrealism, and although there is some evidence of a national dimension in his work, it is extremely uneven. The poetry of Gatsos, on the other hand, in many ways typifies Balkan surrealism. However, because he subsequently abandoned literary ■ life and devoted himself to song lyricism, his verse was for many years underrated. This chapter examines one of his best known poems and identifies and elabor ates on the rich mixture of indigenous and surrealist elements which it presents. The last poet considered here is Ritsos, the most prolific and versatile of the Greek surrealists. This chapter focuses on his dramatic monologues, long narrative poems which weave together the ancient and the modern in striking, often humorous, occasionally disorienting ways, and in which surrealism functions as a means of refreshing both mythical and concrete reality. As is the case with much of the poetry discussed in this study, the purpose of the monologues is to reassess and reaffirm cultural identity. Their form, however, is inordi nately effective, and what is more, constitutes some thing entirely unique in modern Greek literature, and perhaps in the field of comparative literature as well. For these reasons, the monologues are judged to be one of the most successful achievements of Balkan surrealism. In addition to defining and delineating the Balkan surrealist form, I hope that this dissertation will also convey to some degree the spiritual breadth and the intellectual complexity of the Balkan peoples. Its long, complicated history of foreign domination 17 and intervention, ethnic diversity, regional animosi ties, and political intrigue and instability have made the Balkan peninsula an international symbol of histor ical and cultural enmeshment on the one hand, and of political and geographical fractionalization on the other. This multi-faceted and often conflicting image has tended to obscure the true spirit of the Balkan peoples. It is therefore timely, and I believe critical, in this era which has been touted as the coming of age of Eastern Europe, that the cultural contributions of the nations considered here be reassessed and acknowledged. What better way to approach such a task than through the study of litera ture, since literature often reflects the cultural consciousness of a nation and records its range of experience more accurately and more comprehensively than any other human endeavor. Moreover, it is hoped that the reader encountering this poetry for the first time will discover in the Balkan reality many new worlds within him- or herself and will return again and again, to be refreshed by its timeless poetic climate. 18 Chapter I The French Connection 19 It was a question of going back to the sources of poetic inspiration, and what is more, remaining there. --Andre Breton 20 Surrealism, as Andre Breton (1896-1966) initially formulated it, was conceived as a remedy for the spiritual disorientation which, in his view, afflicted modern Western culture. The surrealists held that the primary source of this disorientation was the Western rationalist tradition which had come more and more to dominate every phase of modern human life. This tradition had only succeeded, as Breton contended in the first Manifesto of Surrealism (1924), in reducing modern man to a "readymade human type" driven by the "incurable mania of wanting to make the unknown known, classifiable," and he condemned it as "the reign of logic": We are still living under the reign of logic. . . . But in this day and age logical methods are applicable only to solving problems of secondary interest. The absolute rationalism that is still in vogue allows us to consider only facts relating directly to our experience. Logical ends, on the contrary, escape us. It is pointless to add that experience itself has found itself increasingly circumscribed. It paces back and forth in a cage from which it is more and more difficult to make it emerge. It too leans for support on what is most immediately expedient, and it is protected by the sentinels of common sense. Under the pretense of civilization and progress, we have managed to banish from the mind everything that may rightly or wrongly be termed superstition, or 21 fancy; forbidden is any kind of search for truth which is not in conformance with accepted practices.1 In the surrealists' view, the disorientation and despair which followed in the wake of World War I, and indeed, the war itself, were proof of the failure of this tradition; reason and order had produced only chaos and destruction. An alternative had to be found if humanity was to deflect the disastrous course on which it seemed to be headed. The surrealists' solution to this dilemma was a radical one, and took the form of a sweeping philosophical and social revolt: By rejecting all of the philosophical precepts and social institutions which traditionally constituted Western civilization, and by offering the concept of surreality as a positive alternative, they attempted to overthrow the Western rationalist tradition and to "remake human understanding." Based on intellectual trust in the scientific, logical principles of inquiry, the rationalist tradition had prevailed in the Western world since the time of Rene Descartes (1596-1650). Cartesian rationalism proliferated in the philosophical doctrines of English empiricists such as Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679), John Locke (1632-1704) and David Hume (1711-1776); it was further elaborated in the monadic universe of Gottfried von Leibnitz (1646-1716), and culminated in the positivism of Auguste Comte (1798-1857). Each of these philosophers had progressively relied on experience as the only true measure of human knowledge. As a result, man's inner, spiritual life— the imaginative and intuitive faculties which had guided primitive man, helping him to evolve and realize his human potential— was subordinated to his intellectual development, as an increasingly mechanistic view of the world evolved. In literature, the rise of philosophical rationalism was parallelled by the emergence of neoclassicism which occurred in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries throughout Europe when the neoplatonic grounding of the Renaissance, with its characteristic flexibility and its concern for the unseen world, gave way to an Aristotelian orientation which stressed formality, order and knowledge of the visible universe. The neoclassicists tended to rely on intellect rather than intuition and to emphasize logic and restraint rather than emotion and imagination, didacticism rather than revelation, and form rather than content. Their concept of the poetic image was not image, but rather allegory, mannerisms, emblematic themes, etc., and was thus concrete, one-dimensional and 23 finite. Elements— what in the twentieth century would be considered as images— were subordinated to the broader design of the allegorical theme. It was a concept which emphasized the general rather than the particular, and which was firmly rooted in the physical world, well-delineated and contained in a fixed, concrete environment. Moreover, prose was frequently the medium of choice. In France, for instance, the poetic form was of only marginal importance to the neoclassicists who, according to Geoffrey Brereton, regarded it primarily as intellectual exercise: It would be fair to say that no poetry had been written in France since Racine's Athalie in 1691, if one expects from poetry some effective communication of feeling. This might be found in the epic, the ode, the hymn, and the satire and does not limit us to a narrow reliance on 'lyric' poetry, but it does suppose some trace of direct feeling beyond the writer's pleasure in his work as an aesthetic creation. Good though they are, LaFontaine1s Fablea are something other than poetry; so are Boileau's Satires— there is not enough hate in them. With such examples before it, it was natural, if wrong-headed, for the eighteenth century to ask: What can poetry express which prose cannot express better and more easily?^ The literary revolt against ncoclassicism began to develop in Europe in the late eighteenth 24 century, and was motivated in part by the libertarian ideals of the French revolution and the philosophical doctrines of the Swiss-French philosopher, Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778), who espoused human individuality and advocated a return to nature. The elevation of poetry was characteristic of this revolt, for only the poetic form could accomodate the creativity and grace of the imagination in rebellion which distinguished the Romantic spirit. Only the organic language of poetry could frame the overwhelming philosophical questions which began to emerge as a result of the spiritual conflict spawned by rationalism; only the intensity of the poetic form, with its rhythm, concision, focus, and evocative power, could transmute the longing for the lost, inner world into verbal ritual; only the poetic image could make the invisible visible; and only the sacred, incantatory tone of poetry could be offered up as prayer. These poetic properties are evident in the mystical verse of the English poet, William Blake (1757- 1827), who influenced the Romantic movement, and to whose work the historical lineage of the surrealist image can be traced. In "The Tyger," for instance, Blake uses rhythm and imagery to explore the paradoxical nature of God: 25 Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes! On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? And what dread feet? What the hammer? What the chain? . In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp? Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee? Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?^ Although the poem is presented as an inquiry, the line of questioning exceeds the confines of objective, rational experience, for the poet is concerned with the mystical, invisible cosmic order which he intuits in the natural world. The opening lines suggest magic incantation, the momentum of the poem building as the rhythmic repetition of "What" falls on the psyche like a series of hammer blows. The image of the tiger "burning bright" emanating from "the forests of the night" intimates a common source of light and darkness. 26 Moreover, the image of the "forests" is important because it seems to anticipate the "forests of symbols" which Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) would write of half a century later. Also significant for the present study is Blake's use of the image of fire, and particularly its association with the furnace and the idea of forging because it implies the alchemical reference of transmutation through fire which was to become a prominent element of much surrealist poetry. Commenting on the role of the fire image in surrealist verse, Anna Balakian writes, "The most important among the key expressions on which the alchemy centers are all the words that suggest fire, for it is indeed the most basic agent of transformation.Even more important here is the concentrated focus on the image— in this case, the flame-like, fiery light of the tiger— which diverges radically from the diffused, restrained images of the neoclassicists. Here, the image is not only a means of representing reality, but a probe, as well, with which the poet tests and attempts to make manifest the numinous, that is, what Gordon E. Bigelow defines as a force which has "the power to seize men and compel them to some kind of total r e s p o n s e . This new concept of the image will become more pronounced in the poetry of the Romantics. 27 Other poets subsequently responded to the same spiritual crisis which had impelled much of Blake's work, and it was primarily through the poetic medium that the spirit of the Romantic age was expressed. These poets, however, were no longer constrained by the fixed ideas of literary theory which had governed the neoclassicists, and their poetry reflected this new freedom. In Romantic poetry, nature was revered more for its irregularities than for its symmetry; the individual became the center of life and the vessel of art; the senses were regarded as the antennae with which to "tune in" to the other, hidden reality emanating from the phenomena of the natural world; the past was no longer perceived as static, but as a dynamic, complementary part of the present, and was regarded with a new and sympathetic interest; primitivism was favored over culture; simple things were valued over the complex; and mysticism and the arcane were enthusiastically explored. These attitudes and interests led to the adaptation of various experimental verse forms and innovations in poetic diction. The language of the Romantics was fresh, bold, and often exotic, and their imagery was rich, intense, and wide- r a n g i n g . Moreover, the Romantic perspective 28 necessitated a functional aspect of poetic language, and the image took on a new, dynamic dimension. This development is perhaps most clearly reflected in the Romantics' approach to nature. In their desire to reinstate the spiritual life of man as a legitimate, and indeed, essential concern of literature, the Romantic poets turned increasingly to nature as a source of revelation. They perceived the natural world as a repository of mysterious, supernatural forces which the Western rationalist tradition had conditioned them to ignore, but which they could nevertheless intuit through the senses. William Wordsworth (1770-1850), for instance, expresses the view that the intellect distorts nature in "The Tables Turned": Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.6 Furthermore, the Romantics held that the numinous which they perceived in the external world has a complementary reference in the internal psychic realm, and that both 29 emanate from a common source. They attempted to use the image as a vehicle to express this commonality, that is, to give the intangible a tangible form. This concept is apparent, for example, in the following lines from Wordsworth's "Ode on Intimations of Immortality": Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home:7 Here, man's divine nature is likened to "trailing clouds of glory," an image which suggests that although the essence of this divine side is fragmentary and intangible, it is nevertheless fundamental and omnipresent; and therefore, man does not exist "in entire forgetfulness" nor "in utter nakedness," that is, without direction and meaning. The poet does not merely describe here, but attempts to use the image as a vehicle to translate the "immortality" which nature "intimates," and thereby to reassert the fullness of man's nature. This concept of the image is critical because it will be developed by subsequent schools of poetry. It will bo amplified in the "Correspondences" of Baudelaire as the phenomenon concealed in the 30 noumenon, and later, it will be recast in the enigmatic imagery of Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) which unites subject and object— or "I" and "another"— in a single persona. It foreshadows, as well, the surrealist notion of the image as the "spark" which, through the process of poetic combustion, ignites the similar elements in dissimilar things in order to reveal the hidden unity of opposites. Thus we can follow an increasing tendency— from Romanticism, through Baudelaire and Rimbaud, to surrealism— to regard the poetic image not as a static representation of but as a vehicle for transmuting, and ultimately transcending reality. A related concept which is also reflected in Wordsworth's lines is the notion of knowledge as recollection, and it, too, will become more distinct in Baudelaire's verse, and later, in the poetry of the surrealists, as well. This concept refers to the Platonic theory of anamnesis, the idea that in order to know the self, one must first recognize and acknowledge the divine nature of the self. In Phaedrus. Plato develops this theory in Socrates' discussion of the immortality of the soul. The soul, he says, constitutes the immortal element of man, and he uses the metaphor of wings to explain what sets the mortal apart from the immortal: 31 The soul in her totality has the care of inanimate being everywhere, and traverses the whole heaven in diverse forms appearing:— when perfect and fully winged, she soars upward, and orders the whole world; whereas the imperfect soul, losing her wings and drooping in her flight at last settles on the solid ground- -there, finding a home, she receives an earthly frame which appears to be self-moved, but is really moved by her power; and this composition of soul and body is called a living and mortal creature.8 While it is still "perfect and fully winged," the soul soars high into the celestial regions where the host of the twelve gods reveals to it the divine reality of absolute truth. After becoming incarnate, however, it loses its wings, but it retains the memory of the "plain of truth," and always yearns to return there: The reason why the souls exhibit this exceeding eagerness to behold the plain of truth is that pasturage is found there, which is suited to the highest part of the soul; and the wing on which the soul soars is nourished with this.9 But this yearning is thwarted by man's mortal nature, and the vision of divine reality recedes in him. It is not completely lost, however, but merely forgotten. It remains accessible to man; he has only to recollect it. In Plato's view, this recollection is facilitated through the senses which enable man to intuit in the 32 phenomena of the natural world the reflections emanating from that other, divine world which has been obscured owing to the accident of birth. Thus, for the Romantics, the validity of the reality presented by the poetic image is buttressed by the belief that that reality constitutes to some degree the recovery of the divine. This concept of poetic reality as divine revelation played an important role in the development of the Romantic perspective. "Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of the divinity of man," wrote Percy Bysshe Shelley (17 92-1822)10; and Alfred de Vigny (1797- 1863) declared that "in the celestial sight of the Poet everything on earth blends into a single globe lit by a beam of light from on high."H In France, this attitude was reinforced by poets such as Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869), Victor Hugo (1802-1885), and Gerard de Nerval (1805-1855), who were all preoccupied with various forms of mysticism and the occult. These poets were fascinated by the revelations they encountered in these esoteric pursuits: Abstract cosmic patterns seemed to be illuminated; mysterious relationships of the terrestrial world were disclosed; and the dualism conventionally attributed to man's nature was dissolved. But in the Romantics' view, such prophetic visions could not be grasped by the common eye, nor conveyed through the common word. Only the third eye of the visionary could discern and only the revelatory power of pure poetic language could express their essence. Consequently, the Romantic poet tended more and more to regard himself as a prophet, a seer charged with the holy obligation of articulating the manifestations of that other, greater reality which he experienced in the ephemeral world. As a result, two critical characteristics began to emerge in the poetry of the period: (l)The tone was distinguished by a profoundly vatic quality; and (2)the image, in order to serve as the vehicle for the expression of this other reality, acquired the notion of function. It is these two tendencies which Baudelaire and subsequently the surrealists would develop, refine, and ultimately make the essence of modern poetry. In 1836, writing about Romanticism, Alfred de Musset (1810-1857) strained to define it in abstract images of the natural world: Romanticism is the star that weeps, the wind that wails, the night that shivers, the flower that flies, and the bird that exudes perfume. Romanticism is the unhoped-for ray of light, Ihe languorous rapture, the oasis beneath the palm-trees, ruby hope with its thousand loves, the angel and the pearl, the willow 34 in its white garb. Oh, sir, what a beautiful thing! It is the infinite and the star, heat, the fragmentary, the sober (yet at the same time complete and full); the diametrical, the pyramidal, the Oriental, the living nude, the embraceable, the kissable, the whirlwind.12 But ten years later, Baudelaire was more succinct in his definition, and more critical, as well, inasmuch as he pointed out what he considered to be the inadequacy of the Romantic movement: Romanticism is precisely situated neither in choice of subjects nor in exact truth, but in a mode of feeling. They looked for it outside themselves, but it was only to be found within. Baudelaire's condemnation of the Romantics' concentration on the external rather than on the internal realm is significant not only in terms of an evaluation of Romanticism, but because it indicates the orientation of Baudelaire's poetics and consequently, that of the symbolist and surrealist movements, as well. In Baudelaire's verse, the Romantic concept of the image as a means of transmuting reality shifts to one of transcending reality, as the poetic persona becomes secondary, and is subordinated to the reality of 35 the image itself. Consequently, as Balakian observes of Baudelaire's work: [Mjetaphors come to be considered by the artist as actual realities rather than literary representations of perceptions. It brings about an almost complete transmutation of the 'I,1 an escape from the human form itself; it produces the complete dehumanization that Jose Ortega y Gasset notes in modern a r t . But it is the image itself which promotes this dehumanization, or depersonalization, to use Hugo Friedrich's t e r m . 15 This transmutative process seems to be effected in Baudelaire's verse in much the same way that Octavio Paz (1914— ) describes: The image transmutes man and converts him in turn into an image, that is, into a space where opposites fuse. And man himself, split asunder since birth, is reconciled with himself when he becomes an image, when he becomes another.15 Baudelaire achieved this reconciliation by introducing various innovative techniques— deobjectificati.on, imaginative decomposition, and the logic of the absurd— and by imposing overall a notion of "correspondences" rooted in Emmanuel Swedenborg's (1688-1772) system of universal analogies. Thus, he completed the transformation initiated by the Romanticists, and became 36 the herald of an entirely new era of poetics, one of the chief characteristics of which is a concept of the image which posits a correlate or "correspondence" within the subject. It is a concept on which all modern poetry, and particularly surrealism is based. In Baudelaire's pantoum, "Evening Harmony" ("Harmonie du soir"), for example, the degree to which the Romantic concept has been transformed is apparent: This is the time when each vibrating flower like a censer, is breathing forth its scent; perfumes and sounds in the evening air are blent; melancholy waltz and dizzy languor! Each flower, like a censer breathes its scent; the violin quivers, like a heart that suffers; melancholy waltz and dizzy languor! The sky, like an altar, is sad and magnificent. The violin quivers, like a heart that suffers, hating the Nothing's vast and black extent! The sky, like an altar, is sad and magnificent; drowning in curdled blood, the sun sinks lower. A heart that hates the Nothing's black extent each vestige of past radiance must gather! Drowning in curdled blood, the sun sinks lower. Your memory shines in me like the Sacrament! 37 Void venir les temps ou vibrant sur sa tige Chaque fleur s 'evapore ainsi qu'un encensoir; Les sons et les parfums tournent dans 1 'air du soir; Valse melancolique et langoureux vertige! Chaque fleur s 'evapore ainsi qu'un encensoir; Le viol on fremit comme un coeur qu'on afflige; Valse melancolique et langoureux vertige! Le del est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir. Le viol on fremit comme un coeur qu 'on affliger Un coeur tendre, qui hait le neant vaste et noirl Le del est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir; Le soleil s 'est noye dans son sang qui se jtige. Un coeur tendre, qui hait le neant vaste et noir, Du passe lumineux recueille tout vestige! Le soleil s 'est noye dans son sang qui se fige. Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir'17 In this poem, Baudelaire succeeds in capturing the elusive "mode of feeling" which the Romantics had only attempted to express by concretizing it in images of the visible world. Each image presents a reality which correlates to that of the object— in this case, a woman, of the poem. Thus: deserted garden = absent woman. But it is not a matter of merely linking one to the other through metaphor. Rather, as C.F. MacIntyre 38 observes, "The last line reveals the woman of whom the poet is thinking; and she has not merely been in the deserted garden, she is the garden."!® It is the same phenomenon which, according to Everett W. Knight, is a regular feature of modern French literature: "[W]ords can be made to exist like things instead of simply representing things not present. The poem also reflects other new poetic directions which Baudelaire initiated. Whereas in Romantic poetry, nature seems to present vague reflections, Baudelaire's landscapes provide startling insights; and whereas Romanticism was motivated by a quest for happiness, Baudelaire is fascinated by.the "Nothing's vast and black extent." These developments diverge radically from the philosophical precepts of the Romantics: First, for Baudelaire, the natural world is no longer merely a medium awaiting articulation, but rather, the barrier to absolute reality which he wishes to conquer and transform to serve his own poetic objectives; and second, in this quest, he considers the dark forces of human nature to be a valid and indeed, the richest source of poetic revelation. As a result of Baudelaire's poetic experiments, two very different poetic tendencies subsequently emerged: (l)a tendency toward the abstraction of poetic expression; 39 and (2)a tendency toward the concretization of poetic expression. Friedrich attributes the former to Stephane Mallarme (1842-1898), characterizing the poetry which resulted as "intellectual [and] stringently formalistic"; and the latter to Rimbaud, describing it as "form-free, alogical poetry."20 The proponents of the first tendency— symbolist poets such as Mallarme, Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) and Paul Valery (1871-1945)— developed a concept of the image which is still essentially representational, or "epiphoric, 1 1 to use Philip Wheelwright's term,21 inasmuch as it operates on the principle of comparison. It is primarily cerebral; as Friedrich notes, it subscribes to Valery's dictum that "A poem should be a festival of the intellect."22 The image is abstract and tends toward diffusion and indirection; in presenting the harmonious similarities of elements, it creates a mood through refinement, rarefaction and reflection of words, and extremely elliptical syntax, and in its most refined model, achieves a sublime musicality. Hence, this poetic model approximates what Balakian refers to as the "spiritualization of reality."23 Motivated by nostalgia and a desire for solitude, it is a highly internal poetry which necessarily limits the reader's participation in that it tends toward indirection and 40 diffusion, often to such a degree that it is altogether inaccessible, a characteristic which prompts Friedrich's statement that Mallarme’s work "is the most remote edifice ever built by a modern p o e t . "24 The second poetic tendency which derived from Baudelaire’s innovative vision is accomplished by poetic techniques which are in almost total opposition to those of the symbolists. This tendency toward the concrete, while incorporating the theory of external/internal references presented in "Correspondences," finds its true springboard in the last stanza of Baudelaire's "The Voyage" ("Le Voyage"): Pour us your poison, let us be comforted! Once we have burned our brains out, we can plunge to Hell or Heaven— any abyss will do— deep in the Unknown to find the new! Verse-nous ton poison pour qu'il nous re con forte! Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brule le cerveau, Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe? Au fond de 1 *inconnu pour trouver du nouveau J25 As Balakian points out, the ideas in these lines cannot be linked to the Romanticists or to the symbolists: First, there is the desire to penetrate into the ’gouffre1 itself rather than be satisfied with nature's intermediary symbols; 41 second, in his pursuit of something entirely new, the poet is willing to risk human and divine values of good and evil: 'Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe.'26 However, she continues, it is precisely from these ideas that a new modern poetic tradition will evolve, one that will ultimately culminate in the surrealist adventure. This tradition is based on a concept of the image which is essentially presentational, or what Wheelwright refers to as "diaphoric," and which operates on the principle of contrast rather than comparison. It relies on intuition rather than intellect, a distinction which Friedrich emphasizes, citing Breton's admonition that "A poem should be the collapse of the intellect."27 The elements of the image are concrete and tend toward density and direction. They appear to be disparate, but the penetrative power of the image is in direct proportion to the degree of this disparity. When linked together, the individual elements are divested of their conventional associations in order to form a new union which shatters existing patterns of thought, and out of this disintegration, a wholly new reality— born of the illumination and amelioration of those elements in a new, unfamiliar environment— is revealed. This reality, or what would eventually come to be known as "surreality," results from the juxtaposition of these 42 unlike elements which, acting as electrical conductors, generate or "spark" a series of associative meanings. The result is a poetry which invites the reader— who brings to the poem his own unique life experiences and emotional and psychological referents— to act as both witness and collaborator, and thereby to participate fully in the dynamic merging of the subject and object which the poem promotes. It is an evocative poetry in which the image functions as a vehicle of semantic explosion, an explosion which presents the reader with a fresh and revelatory reality, and which enables him to proceed toward the rediscovery and ultimate reunion of the internal and external realms of human existence. As a result of Baudelaire's dictum, the plunge "in the Unknown to find the new" became the quest of modern poetry. But it was Rimbaud who charted the course, or as he proclaimed, "invented" it: I am an inventor more deserving far than all those who have preceded me; a musician, moreover, who has discovered something like the key of love. At present, a country gentleman of a bleak land with a sober sky, I try to rouse myself with the memory of my beggar childhood. Je suis un inventeur bien autrement meritant que tous ceux qui m'ont precede; un musicien meme, qui ai trouve quelque chose comme la clef de 1 'amour. A present, gentilhomme 43 d'une campagne aigre au del sobre, j ’essaye de m ’emouvoir au souvenir de l ’enfance mendiante.28 The "key” which Rimbaud discovered was not only the "key of love, 1 1 but the key of the self, or more specifically, to use Rimbaud's term, the key to the "other." By employing Baudelaire's logic of the absurd, juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane, imaginative decomposition, deobjectification, and dehumanization as the foundation of his poetic expression, and further extending the limits by means of temporal and spatial negation, Rimbaud delineated the poetic principles which would prevail in modern poetry. Furthermore, his verse makes it clear that the image is no longer merely a symbol with which to represent something else. Rather, the image becomes the absolute focus of. the poem; it overwhelms the dialectical tension and becomes the dialectic itself. "The Drunken Boat" ("Le Bateau ivre") is one of the most effective examples of this poetic treatment. Unlike Baudelaire's "Voyage" which was concerned primarily with the destination, "The Drunken Boat" emphasizes the nature of the journey. In addition, Rimbaud's poetic adventure is not an escape from, but an escape to reality, a reality which unites subject and object; this foreshadows the surrealists' view of the subconscious as a repository of "sunken 44 treasures" to which they were attempting to gain access. First, Rimbaud renders the human form unnecessary by making the boat the persona of the poem. Then he suspends time and space in order to reveal the hidden order of things which reposes beneath the surface of the chaos of daily life. Balakian notes that this spatiotemporal suspension "aids the poet in the descent into himself" and is important because it anticipates the surrealists' "repudiation of limit."^9 And finally, Rimbaud develops and refines the synaesthesia which Baudelaire had only begun to explore. These innovative trends were gradually integrated into and became the regular features in modern poetry. In "The Drunken Boat," then, Rimbaud establishes the surrealist perspective in two critical ways. First, through its innovative poetic techniques, the poem establishes contact with "the other," the inner self. This contact is preparatory to the recovery of the whole self. Surrealism, too, strives toward all that draws man out of himself and to himself, but it is not so much a synthesis of two worlds— as in the case of the Romantics or of Baudelaire— as it is the passage. at will, between them, and this concept of passage between two worlds is the force that impels "The Drunken Boat." Rimbaud's poem also anticipates surrealism in that the 45 aim of this passage is the recovery of the inner world, and thus of the whole, indivisible self. The value of the passage is proportionate to the degree of recovery it achieves. As in surrealist verse, Rimbaud's images are juxtapositions of apparently disparate elements which present rather than represent reality. In the startling juxtaposition of these elements, their common properties are revealed. Rimbaud accomplishes this by fusing together the world within and the world without at the intersection of the two, which is man himself. Thus, as Marjorie Perloff comments, by entering "the objects of his field of vision," the poet dissolves the dualism of subject and object: If the 'I1 becomes 'another,' the Romantic dualism of subject and object is resolved; the self no longer contemplates nature-but becomes part of its operational processes.30 The constant shifting between these two worlds became the dialectic of surrealism, and the vehicle of passage was the surrealist image. Thus, the concept of reunion of the internal and external realms of human existence initially conceived on Baudelaire's "sad and magnificent altar" became, through the regenerative forces of surrealism, a continually evolving process of uncompromised self-recovery. It is this recovery, then, 46 to which Breton refers when he speaks of the surrealist aim of returning to poetic sources and "remaining there." The vehicle of this access, however, was not the conventional figurative language of the neoclassic and Romantic poets, not the traditional simile or metaphor which merely represents reality, but rather, pure image which discloses a reality of its own. Writing about the origins and functions of imagery, Silvano Arieti offers insight into the surrealist concept of the image: [I]magery is a way of dealing with the 'absent,' of giving it a psychological presence or existence. Here the word 'absent' can mean two different things. It can mean something that exists (a friend, food, an object), but is not available at the present time because it is located elsewhere. But the word can also mean that which does not exist and has to be created in order to exist. That is, although imagery has the function of reproducing what is not available, it also acquires the function— at least in its earliest rudimentary forms— of producing what was never present. To possess the absent in the form of a mental representation may be wish-fulfilling in both cases. It may be not only an attempt to gratify a longing for that which is not available, but also a springboard to creativity. Imagery is thus the first function that permits the human being not to adapt passively to reality, not to 47 be forced to accept the limitations of reality.31 As Arieti notes, the image may function as a means "of producing what was never present." In the case of the surrealists, it functions similarly: Their aim is to regenerate— by returning to "the sources of poetic inspiration"— a reality which initially appears to be a wholly new one, i.e., "never present," but in fact, is one which has only been submerged in the substratum of the psyche, and which resurfaces of its own volition in the environment of the surrealist image. This image was born, then, not of a desire to give poetic expression to visible reality, but of the belief in an invisible surreality which can be penetrated through the spontaneous coition of words. This concept of the image found its critical, initial direction in Rimbaud's verse, but it was enhanced by other influences, as well, and each one further enriched the poetic schema which Rimbaud had outlined. In the well known lines of Comte de Lautreamont (Isidore Ducasse) (1846-1870), for instance, the surrealists found the prototype of the surrealist image: "Beautiful like the fortuitous meeting, on a dissection table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella." 48 But in Balakian's view, it was Lautreamont's rebellious spirit which most impressed the surrealists: Lautreamont1s imagery, its hallucinatory force, the sub conscious train of thought which it reveals, its occasional basis in the absurd create a point of contact with the surrealists. But it is his moral and spiritual perspective more than these literary manifestations of change that indicated a major departure from his contemporaries and brought him closer in line with twentieth-century aesthetic and philosophic thought.32 Lautreamont's "moral and spiritual perspective" was in part a reaction to Charles Darwin's (1809-1882) theory of evolution, which contradicted basic assumptions about man's place in the world, portraying him not as a privileged creature, but rather merely as an accidental consequence of natural forces. As Balakian writes: Lautreamont's work is closely involved with the spiritual upheaval caused by the theory of evolution in the second half of the nineteenth century. This scientific event proved as disturbing to that epoch as non-euclidian geometry has been to our own e r a . 33 Lautreamont's response to this scientific development took the form of a rebellion against society. This spirit of rebellion appealed to the surrealists because it paralleled their own reaction to the catastrophic 49 events of World War I. In their view, the traditional ideas and institutions which constituted civilization had proven to be fallacious; in order to save itself, it was necessary for mankind to find new alternatives. The surrealists also admired in Lautreamont his equation of the evil, the ugly and the profane with the good, the beautiful and the sacred. Although Baudelaire had innovated the juxtaposition of these polarities, it was Lautreamont who, in The Songs of Maldoror (Les Chants de Maldoror), assigned them equal value in the fantastic metamorphoses of man and beast which he depicted. This encouraged the surrealist viewpoint that these apparent opposites actually mirrored each other, that is, that good is in fact the spouse of evil, that beauty is only the other side of ugliness, and that the sacred and the profane have a common origin. The surrealist image was also shaped, in part, by the poetic theories of Saint-Pol-Roux (1861-1940) and Pierre Reverdy (1889-1960). Saint-Pol-Roux1s optimistic, prophetic voice mobilized the surrealist forces with the poetic dictum: "Why say again, not say? Why do again, not do? Why copy, not create?"^ He endorsed Rimbaud's view of the poet as seer, but unlike Rimbaud, his enthusiasm and hope for the future never waned. He believed in the coming of a new age of 50 spiritual recovery, and that poets were able, and furthermore, were obligated to hasten the coming of that age through the transformative power of poetic alchemy. Saint-Pol-Roux1s poetic dictum is reflected in the definition of the image which Reverdy conceived and which Breton acknowledged in the Manifesto of 1924: The image is a pure creation of the mind. It cannot be born from a comparison but from a juxtaposition of two more or less distant realities. The more the relationship between the two juxtaposed realities is distant and true, the stronger the image will be— the greater its emotional power and poetic reality.35 But Reverdy's concept required premeditation, formulation, structure and conscious control. Although Breton initially adopted this concept, he soon turned to other sources, retaining the fundamental 1 1 juxtaposition of two more or less distant realities," but insisting on the spontaneous, sub-conscious disclosure of those realities. This was essential since the aim of surrealism was to develop a poetic mode which would accomodate the authentic discourse of the internal realm. Two rather diverse sources were central to the development of this mode: esotericism and 51 psychoanalytic theory. First, of course, esotericism provided the target of surrealist poetics: the supreme point. The concept of the supreme point is the basic principle of alchemy, Cabala, Hermeticism, Sufism, and of several oriental philosophies. It is the center of being from which all energy emanates, and at which all antinomies are resolved. It is the singular source of darkness and light, of nothingness and somethingness, of chaos and order; it is the point at which exterior and interior realities merge and complete each other; and it is the moment in which the indivisible unity of the cosmos, the totality of the real, is made manifest. The belief in the absolute reality of the supreme point, then, directs all surrealist activity, a fact which Breton emphasizes in the Second Manifesto of Surrealism (1930) : Everything tends to make us believe that there exists a certain point of the mind at which life and death, the real and the imagined, past and future, the communicable and the incommunicable, high and low, cease to be perceived as contradictions. Now, search as one may one will never find any other motivating force in the activities of the Surrealists than the hope of finding and fixing this point.36 52 The supreme point is not merely a theoretical viewpoint, however, but a real point in the psychic domain. As Michel Carrouges contends: This supreme point must not be taken for a mere theoretical viewpoint from which contraries can become reconcilable; it is a real point, truly surreal and central, situated both in the subjective reality of the consciousness and in the exterior universe. In a word, it is the living focal-point of the totality of the world in which it is no longer possible to perceive the diverse forms of being as essentially heterogeneous realities. It is not a theoretical point, but rather a superhuman domain which will not forever remain inaccessible to exploration by man.37 In Breton’s view, the ’ ’superhuman domain" of the supreme point is sensed from time to time in both conscious and sub-conscious states, but due to our rationalist conditioning— or in Breton's terms, the "reign of logic"— we largely ignore these emanations. He believed that by attending to and pursuing them, it is possible to gain access to this inner domain and thereby restore the fullness of man’s nature: ”[T]he idea of Surrealism aims quite simply at the total recovery of our psychic force by a means which is nothing other than the dizzying descent into o u r s e l v e s ."38 53 In seeking to gain access to the interior domain of the supreme point, however, Breton's goal was not to transcend exterior concrete existence, but to actualize its hidden potential, to bring about its completion; he did not believe that these two realms were autonomous and sequential, but interrelated and coincidental. Indeed, it is the very indivisibility of these realities which constitutes absolute reality or surreality, and Breton's goal was to disclose the forces of the surreal in present, everyday life. In the closing lines of Nadja, for instance, he asks, "Is it true that the beyond, that everything is here in this life?"^^ And as Ferdinand Alquie writes: [T]he surrealist beyond cannot be placed outside chis world or past our lifetime. It is paradoxically an immanent beyond, inside the very beings whose appearance we experience, whose presence we perceive.40 Furthermore, Breton did not restrict this "immanent beyond" to spiritual reality. On the contrary, he believed that the world of matter was the most fertile medium for the prospecting of the surreal, that even the most banal everyday objects were permeated with it. In this regard, his aim was directly opposed to that of the Romantics and symbolists who had preceded him: Whereas 54 they had sought to transcend material reality, Breton wanted to penetrate it; and whereas they had attempted to spiritualize material forms, Breton tried to give the spiritual concrete form. For this reason, the esoteric traditions which had captured the imagination of the Romantics— spiritualism, illuminism, metempsychosis, etc.— were inadequate for the surrealist adventure. Instead, Breton turned to the materialistic mysticism of Eliphas Levi (Alphonse Louis Constant) (1810-1875), who taught that the difference between spirit and matter was not qualitative but quantitative, that matter was merely a higher concentration of molecules: "Spiritual and corporal are simply terms which express the degrees of unity or density in substance," he argued.^ Thus, the absolute reality which Breton sought could be harvested in the most concrete and mundane objects— in a woman's glove, for instance, or in shop signs, buildings and monuments of various kinds, as he suggests in Nadia. As Balakian points out, Levi's esotericism appealed to Breton because it acknowledged the magical possibilities of science: Eliphas Levi's ideas were to be most compatible with twentieth-century scientific thought; the basic fact was that, unlike most hermeticists, Levi was a materialist. He saw in science the basic magic and in the natural world all the possibilities of the marvelous that other mystics attributed to the supernatural. In fact, he banished mysticism from magic. He underlined the difference. Mysticism is based on faith, which Eliphas Levi rejected in favor of knowledge.^2 In view of his condemnation of scientific investigation Breton*s approval of it in Levi's writings may appear t be contradictory. However, it is not. For like Levi, Breton did not approach science in the conventional way that is, as an analytical method of regulating and classifying the universe, but rather, as a probe with which to illuminate and restore man's full mental powers. He believed that science could aid in the ques for the "total recovery of man's psychic force," and furthermore, that scientific investigation was not wholly incompatible with the esoteric tradition. Indeed, in Balakian's view, Breton regarded the relationship between these two apparently opposing traditions as a potentially synergistic one: [A]t an early age, through his studies and readings, Breton discovered two channels of the mind; they were revealed to him by the scientist of today and the magicians of the past,' whose concepts strangely coincided: that the mind is deeper than we think; that it is not a closed vessel but is linked in innumerable ways to other minds and to the universal network of nature; that awareness of this linkage need not be based on religious dogma; that there were many ways of 56 strengthening the links, but only through self-knowledge could one gain knowledge of the exterior world. Through their many evidences of the basic unity of human existence and of the universe, science and ancient hermetic philosophy belied the present world of chaos and disruption, of gross disjunction and mutual incomprehensions. These ideas were the ammunitions with which Breton was to seek meaning in the modern world.43 In other words, by subordinating the principles of scientific inquiry to the esoteric orientation of surrealism, one could use them to further the surrealist objective of spiritual health, an innovative effort which, if successful, would constitute scientific progress of a completely new and unconventional kind. Breton's ideas about the role of science in the surrealist cause derived primarily from his experiences as a young medical student specializing in the then emerging field of psychiatry. During World War I, he trained at a hospital in Nantes and at the psychiatric center of Saint-Dizier, and was fascinated with the irrational flow of thought generated by the various pathological states of mind which he observed in his patients. He subsequently came to regard this irrational mode of thought as a vital clue in his quest to recuperate the original powers of the mind; "I could 57 spend my whole life prying loose the secrets of the insane," he wrote in the first Manifesto.44 jn the same work, he acknowledged the surrealists' debt to the "discoveries" of Sigmund Freud (1856-1939), who in his view, was to be credited with the reemergence of "our mental world.Breton refers specifically to Freud's work on the dream state and to his uninterrupted monologue method of psychiatric examination, and there is no doubt that the elevation of the dream world and the automatic writing technique which became fundamental surrealist concepts were modelled on Freud's ideas, or at least on the way in which Breton interpreted Freud's ideas. However, Breton subsequently modified his view of Freud as he came to realize that Freudian theory and surrealism were not as compatible as he had originally believed them to be, and that in fact, Freud's objective was diametrically opposed to those of the surrealists: Whereas Freud considered the delineation of conscious and sub-conscious states to be the essential requirement of mental health and the fundamental aim of psychoanalytic therapy, Breton's goal was the fusion of these two realms. Furthermore, the surrealists' approach to the dream state and the inner life it revealed was much more akin to Carl Jung's (1875-1961) concept of the collective subconscious than to Freud's 58 clinical dream interpretation. Balakian attributes this similarity to the fact that both Jung and Breton had studied the works of Pierre Janet (1859-1947), from whom they had derived separate but similar theories: Professor Janet had been the teacher of Jung, and his works were on the required reading list of medical students of Breton's vintage. The resemblance between Jung's notion of the collective self and the surrealists' concept of what Paul Eluard was to call 'Les Dessous d'une vie' is due to the fact that they both derive from Pierre Janet, whose character as psychologist was quite different from Freud's.^ In addition, she concludes that the surrealist practice of automatic writing, though similar to Freud's technique, is also more closely aligned with Janet's view of automatism: As Dr. Pierre Janet had realized in his definition of psychic automatism, he must make it clear that 'automatic' was not synonymous with 'mechanical.' He thought that, on the contrary, his notion of automatism could end a battle long waged between determinists and idealists and could conciliate the two points of view by considering them not in antithesis but in correlation. If man on the whole can control his reactions to his environment, there is an area, a most primordial one, the most elementary and most difficult to unveil, in which volition plays no part, and of which he is not aware unless it interferes with his 59 conscious thought. This intrusion occurs in the mentally ill, but it is of no use to the subject because he has lost at the same time his sense of awareness of the intervention. However, it could reveal to the observer clues to the patient's fears and desires. If the normal person cannot lift the self- censuring mechanism of reason that bars access to automatic thought, he can in a moment of inattentive writing squeeze out the data stored in the deep recesses of the mind. 'Let the pen wander,' [Janet] says, 'automatically, on the page even as the medium interrogates his mind.' This is the premise on which the surrealist notion of automatic writing is founded.47 Thus armed, with the wisdom of "High Magic" and the principles of psychiatric science, Breton set out to explore the surreal. This exploration required an openness to the possible homogeneity of "essentially heterogeneous realities"; it required a willingness to suspend causal conditions of the physical world; and it required a determined effort to override temporal and spatial boundaries— all of which ran counter to the Western rationalist tradition. Therefore, in order to maximize accessibility to the surreal and to provide a constant, verifiable means of establishing contact with it, Breton augmented the surrealist arsenal with yet one other weapon: availability to objective chance. Although Breton attributed the term itself to Friedrich 60 Hegel (1770-1831), in Balakian1s view, the pursuit of objective chance was closely aligned with the mathematical theory of the calculation of possibilities which had been advanced in the early part of the nineteenth century by Pierre de LaPlace (1749-1827), and which was subsequently developed further by Antoine- Augustin Cournot (1801-1877). This theory opposed materialist determinism by showing that not all actions are controlled by predetermined factors, and are in fact subject to some degree to the incalculable forces of unpredictability or "chance." Related to Cournot’s theory was the concept of "Brownian movement" attributed to his contemporary, the Scottish botanist, Robert Brown (1773-1858); Brown's experiments proved that the course of molecular movement does not follow a fixed pattern, and is open to a multiplicity of random possibilities. From these discoveries, asserts Balakian, it follows that the freedom to which man aspires is "but a physical and a necessary reality": In other words, contrary to the philosophical assumption that man's search for liberty involves a battle against the natural forces of the universe, man's autonomy within the limits of the universe is a natural attribute of his human and physical condition. . . . But how can the knowledge of the laws of probability affect man's exercise of his liberty? It opens up the 61 possibility of automatic action, just as the knowledge of the passive resources of automatic thought leads to the exercise of automatic writing. Both are, as the scientist proves, available although they remain in general unexploited. Man's established habits of thought and action have closed the doors on both. . . . If surrealism was to be basically an effort to recuperate the natural rights that man has lost in an ever-tightening structure of society, Breton saw in the laws of probability an avenue for exploration both similar to and parallel with automatic writing. . . . Destiny, under the influence of mathematics, was to assume a new definition: the coincidences of natural necessities of the physical world with the spontaneous necessities of man who leaves himself open to his inner motivations, guided only by intuition and desire. . . . The way to survive in a social structure that allows man to become continually, the object of chance is to seek chance, to be not its victim but its beneficiary, to be accorded a larger number of possibilities for self-determination.48 In order to make themselves available to such possibilities, the surrealists exploited all possible means, some of which they had to invent. Their infamous walks through the streets of Paris, for instance, with no definite route in mind, were attempts to put themselves at the disposal of objective chance, which they were confident would lead them to a host of new, illuminating destinations— such walks direct the unique 62 narrative of Nad ja. They also experimented with various forms of parapsychology— telepathy and clairvoyance, for instance, examples of which are described in Nadia as well as in Communicating Vessels (Les Vas e s communicants^ and Mad Love (L'Amour fou). And in addition to automatic writing, the surrealists devised various word games— the most famous of these is "The Exquisite Cadaver"— the purpose of which was to put the participants in contact with the surreal through the marvelous coincidences of random word couplings and surprisingly lucid definitions of people, places and things produced spontaneously, by chance. All of these experiments substantiated, in varying degrees, the validity of objective chance, and brought the surrealists closer to what Carrouges terms "the future fusion of man and of universe": Objective chance is the whole of those phenomena which manifest the invasion of daily life by the marvelous. Through them, in fact, it becomes clear that man walks in broad daylight in the midst of a network of occult forces that he need only search out and tap to be able to advance finally and victoriously, before the whole world, in the direction of the supreme point. These are the visible and verifiable presages of a new age of gold, the active prodromes of the great cosmic reintegration, the beginnings and signs of the future fusion of man and of universe in the conquest of the supreme point.^9 63 The surrealist image represents a synthesis of all of these forces— the esoteric, the scientific, and the play of objective chance— and it is the ultimate weapon in the "conquest of the supreme point.” The "spark" of revelation which it generates is the sign that penetration of the supreme point has been achieved, and the intensity of the spark indicates the degree to which the image has succeeded. In the first Manifesto. Breton enumerates the types of surrealist images: The countless kinds of Surrealist images would require a classification which I do not intend to make today. . . . For me, their greatest virtue, I must confess, is the one that is arbitrary to the highest degree, the one that takes the longest time to translate - into practical language, either because it contains an immense amount of seeming contradiction or because one of its terms is strangely concealed; or because, presenting itself as something sensational, it seems to end weakly (because it suddenly closes the angle of its compass), or because it derives from itself a ridiculous formal justification, or because it is of a hallucinatory kind, or because it very naturally gives to the abstract the mask of the concrete, or the opposite, or because it implies the negation of some elementary physical property, or because it. provokes laughter. 50 64 Balakian discusses these seven types at length.51 in addition, she identifies several other features which characterize surrealist verse. For instance, since ideally, the surrealist poem was "received" rather than created, the theme could not be predetermined. Therefore, there is generally no conscious attempt at subject unity since the flow of images itself orders the poem. The only theme which does occur with any regularity is that of erotic love, this owing to the surrealists' "cult of woman" which elevated the female to the status of hierophant who, through the transformative act of physical love, leads man toward the supreme point.^2 The surrealist poem required linguistic freedom, as well. Rules of grammar and syntax had to be suspended and language compressed in order to allow the elements of the image to assert the intersection of their own unique surreality. Conjunctions and words signifying transition are thus kept to a minimum. Nouns and adjectives predominate. As for verbs, the surrealists preferred relatively simple ones, and usually in the present tense, although they often used the infinitive form because, as Balakian observes, it tends to be "noncommittal, democratic, since it favors no particular subject." The vocabulary is concrete; precision and exclusivity of words is 65 valued in surrealist poetry because the greater the degree of precision and exclusivity of a word in its conventional semantic context, the more electrical tension it will generate when linked with unfamiliar elements in the environment of the surrealist image. Sentence structure, too, is rearranged in order to accomodate the image. While some surrealist poems do reflect traditional syntactical order, often- the sentences are not sentences at all, but lists of nouns and their accompanying adjectives which function cumulatively, in semantic piles, each one modifying in some way the psychic texture which precedes it. Jean- Pierre Cauvin delineates other distinctive features, as w e l l . 53 He points out, for example, that sentences are frequently interrupted by syntactically unrelated phrases and then subsequently resumed. There are frequent shifts in levels of diction— from formal or lyrical to familiar or conversational, or vice versa— abrupt shifts created by the use of ellipsis or grammatical foreshortening, and ambiguity and ‘ disjunction resulting from unconventional syntax or inversion. He notes that a similar indefiniteness is achieved by the prepositions "a" and "de," and by "hinge words" which seem to waver between two unrelated words or phrases, creating word plays, while demonstrative 66 pronouns and the definite article are used to simultaneously create ambiguity and psychological immediacy. Examples of these characteristic surrealist images and structural features can be observed in the following excerpt from Breton's "On the Road to San Romano" ("Sur la Route de San Romano"): Poetry is made in bed like love Its unmade sheets are the dawn of things Poetry is made in a forest She has the space which she needs Not this one but the other Governed by the hawk's eye The dew on the spindle The memory of a moist bottle of Traminer on a silver platter A tall rod of tourmaline over the sea A road of mental adventure Which climbs abruptly One pause and it's instantly overgrown The room of marvels No gentlemen not the forbidden chamber Nor the fumes of the barracks room on Sunday evenings The figure of the dance executed transparently above the marshes The body of a woman outlined by throwing knives The lucent rings of smoke The curls of your hair The twisting of a sponge from the Philippines The snakelike coils of coral The ivy's slitherings into the ruins She has all of time ahead of her The embrace of poetry like the embrace of the naked body 67 Protects while it lasts Against all access by the misery of the world La poesie se fait dans un lit comme 1 'amour Ses draps defaits sont 1'aurore des choses La poesie se fait dans les bois Elle a 1 'espace qu ’ il lui faut Pas celui-ci mais 1 'autre que conditionnent L 'oeil du milan La rosee sur une prele Le souvenir d'une bouteille de Traminer embuee sur un plateau d'argent Une haute verge de tourmaline sur la mer Et la route de 1'aventure mentale Qui monte a pic Une halte elle s 'embroussaille aussitot La chambre aux prestiges Non messieurs ce n 'est pas la huitieme Chambre Ni les vapeurs de la chambree un dimanche soir Les figures de danse executees en transparence au-dessus des mares La delimitation contre un mur d'un corps de femme au lancer de poignards Les volutes claires de la fumee Les boucles de tes cheveux La courbe de 1 'eponge des Philippines Les laces du serpent corail L 'entree du lierre dans les ruines Elle a tout le temps devant elle L'etreinte poetique comme l'etreinte de chair Tant qu'elle dure Defend toute echappee sur la misere du monde54 In that it equates poetry and eros, this poem, like so much of surrealist verse, reflects the "cult of woman"; "poetry is made in bed" because, at least in the surrealist context, it is directed by the sub-conscious dream world. The fact that it is also "made in a forest" may allude to Baudelaire's "forests of symbols," but more likely refers to the natural world of animal, vegetable and mineral elements which the surrealists regarded as a repository of the marvelous, and which the numerous associated references— a hawk, a fish, a sponge, coral, tourmaline, dew, rivers and brooks, marshes, an overgrown path, etc.— indicate as the locus of the poem. At least three of the image types noted above are represented: The abstract "dawn of things" is concretized in the "unmade sheets"; "A tall rod of tourmaline" suspended "over the sea" requires the negation of physical conditions; and the "dance executed transparently" contradicts all logic. There is a minimum of verbs, and they are all relatively simple ones, the verb "to be" appearing most frequently. The lexicon is concrete and includes various objects of the natural world which are linked together in unexpected, illogical combinations— "The ivy's slitherings into the ruins," for example; moreover, the use of the definite article here lends immediacy, but ambiguity as well. The images of natural phenomena also advance the commonality of poetry, erotic love, and the natural world which is implied in the first three lines of the poem; each one is presented as an aspect of the other 69 two. Although the conventional subject-verb sentence structure does occur, the characteristic noun-adjective clusters prevail, each unit amplifying the one which preceded it; for instance, the implicit undulating movement of "The figure of the dance" progresses through the outline of "throwing knives," "rings of smoke," "curls of your hair," and "twisting of a sponge," to "snakelike coils of coral," and finally to "The ivy's slitherings into the ruins," i.e., the forgotten sub conscious realm where "all of time" is accessible. While "The Road to San Romano" is typical of the poetic technique which Breton advocated, he did not limit surrealist verse to a stereotypic model. On the contrary, even in the first Manifesto, he encouraged the development of other surrealist forms: I do not believe in the establishment of a conventional Surrealist pattern any time in the near future. The characteristics common to all the texts of this kind, including those I have just cited and many others which alone could offer us a logical analysis and a careful grammatical analysis, do not preclude a certain evolution of Surrealist prose in time. . . . Surrealist methods would, moreover, demand to be heard. Everything is valid when it comes to obtaining the desired suddenness from certain associations.55 70 The numerous innovative surrealist adaptations which have emerged in modern literature testify to the versatility and universality of the surrealist mode. Sympathetic writers throughout the world have assimilated surrealist techniques in a variety of structural and thematic contexts, and these experiments have resulted in a number of creative poetic syntheses. The surrealist influence on the national literatures of Spain, the United States, and Latin America, for instance, is well known. The vivid Andalusian dreamscapes of Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936), the fragile "Lacustrine Cities" of John Ashberry (1927— ), and the sweeping, sensual narrative of Pablo Neruda’s (1904-1973) "Canto General" represent attempts to infuse the poets' own particular literary traditions with the new light of the marvelous. Similarly, modern Serbian poetry, which constitutes the subject of this dissertation, weaves together surrealist and indigenous elements in a distinctive new way, and I believe this synthesis contributes to the enrichment of both traditions. 71 Endnotes for Chapter I ^Andre Breton, Manifestoes of Surrealism, trans. Richard Seaver and Helen R. Lane (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1982), pp.8-10. 2 Geoffrey Brereton, A Short History of French Literature (Middlesex: Penguin Books, Ltd., 1965), p.199 . 3 William Blake, The Poetry and Prose of William Blake, ed. David V. Erdman (Garden City: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 19 70), p.24. 4 ^ Anna Balakian, Andre Breton: Magus of Surrealism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1971), p.132. 5 Gordon E. Bigelow, The.Poet's Third Eye: A Guide to the.Symbolisms of Modern Literature (New York: Philosophical Library, 1976), p.80. ^William Wordsworth, Poems of William Wordsworth (London: Thomas Nelson and Sons, Ltd., n.d.), pp.67-68. ^Ibid., p . 338. g Plato, "Phaedrus," The Dialogues of Plato, ed. Benjamin Jowett (Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1952) , p.124. ^Ibid., p.338. ■^Percy Bysshe Shelley, "A Defence of Poetry," The Portable Romantic Reader, ed. Howard E. Hugo (New York: The Viking Press, 1968), p.538. ^Alfred de Vigny, "Stello," ibid., p.592. 12 Alfred de Musset, "Letters of Dupuis and Cotonet," ibid., p.73. 13 . Charles Baudelaire, The Mirror of Art: Critical Studies by Baudelaire, trans. and ed. Jonathan Mayne (Garden City: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1956) p. 43. 72 14 Anna Balakian, Literary Origins of Surrealism: A New Mysticism in French Poetry (New York: New York University Press, 1974), p.60. 15 Hugo Friedrich, The Structure of Modern Poetry (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1974), pp.20-21. 16 Octavio Paz, The Bow and the Lyre, trans. Ruth L.C. Simms (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1973), p.97. 17 C.F. MacIntyre, ed. and trans., French Symbolist Poetry (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1958) , pp.14-15. ■^Ibid. , p. 119 . 19 Everett W. Knight, Literature Considered as Philosophy: The French Example (New York: Collier Books, 1957), p.81. ^Friedrich, p. 109. 21 Philip Wheelwright, Metaphor and Reality (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1962). See Chapter IV for discussion of epiphoric and diaphoric poetry. ^Friedrich, p.109. 23 Balakian, Literary Origins of Surrealism,p.10. 24 Friedrich, p.105. 25 Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mai, trans. Richard Howard (Boston: David R. Godine, 198 2), p.157 and p.33 5. 2 6 Balakian, Literary Origins of Surrealism, p.47. ^Breton cited by Friedrich, p. 109. 73 2 8 Arthur Rimbaud, "Lives (II) 1 1 in Illuminations and Other Prose Poems, trans. Louise Varese (New York: New Directions, 1957), p.31. 29 Balakian, Literary Origins of Surrealism, p.81. J^Marjorie Perloff, The Poetics of Indeterminacy: Rimbaud to Cage (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), p.61. 31 . Silvano Aneti, Creativity: The Magic Synthesis (New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1976), p.22. 32 Anna Balakian, Surrealism: The Road to the Absolute (New York: The Noonday Press, 1959), p.22. 34 Saint-Pol-Roux's "Poesia" as cited by Balakian, Surrealism: The Road to the Absolute, p.43. 35 Breton, Manifestoes, p.20. ^6Ibid., pp.123-124. 37 Michel Carrouges, Andre Breton and the Basic Concepts of Surrealism, trans. Maura Prendergast (University, Alabama: University of Alabama Press, 1974), pp.11-12. 3 8 Breton, Manifestoes, pp.136-137. 3 9 ^ Andre Breton, Nadja, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Grove Press, Inc., 1960), p.144. 40 Ferdinand Alquie, The Philosophy of Surrealism, trans. Bernard Waldrop (Ann Arbor! University of Michigan, 1965), p.84. ^Eliphas Levi (Abbe Constant) , Transcendental Magic: Its Doctrine and Ritual, trans. Arthur Edward Waite (Chicago: The deLaurence Company, 1910), p.62. 74 4 2 < " Balakian, Andre Breton: Magus of Surrealism, pp.35-36. 43 Ibid., p.39. 44 Breton, Manifestoes, p.5. ^Ibid., p.10. 4 6 Balakian, Andre Breton: Magus of Surrealism, p. 28. ^Ibid., pp.29-30. 48 Ibid., pp.40-43. 49 Carrouges, p.18 0. 5 0 Breton, Manifestoes, p.38. 51 See Chapter VII of Balakian's Surrealism: The Road to the Absolute for detailed discussion of imagery and structural features of surrealist poetry. 52 This aspect of surrealist poetry is examined at length by Xaviere Gauthier in Surrealisme et sexualite (Paris: Gallimard, 1971). 53 ** Jean-Pierre Cauvin, "The Poethics of Andre Breton" in Poems of Andre Breton: A Bilingual Anthology, trans. and ed. Jean-Pierre Cauvin and Mary Ann Caws (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982), pp.xxxii-xxxviii. 54 « • Andre Breton's "On the Road to San Romano" trans. Charles Simic and Michael Benedikt in Twentieth- Century French Poetry, ed. Paul Auster (New York: Random House, 1982), pp.194-197. 55 Breton, Manifestoes, pp.40-41. 75 Chapter II The Other Side of the Crescent A Psychohistorical Perspective 76 Where is Prizren, the glorious city? Where are the tsar's palaces? Where is Dusan's celebrated age with its marvelous creations? Kosovo swallowed it all up, and with it, Serbian glory. --Isidor Bajic "Kosovo Elegy" 77 The surrealist trend in contemporary Serbian poetry is so intrinsically linked to the history of the Serbian people that the literary significance of the poetry discussed in the following chapters cannot be fully appreciated without some understanding of the cultural context in which it arose. Furthermore, in view of the fact that this is a comparative study, an examination of the cultural forces which may have influenced the development of this literary form appears warranted. Accordingly, this chapter will focus on the historical events and sociological structures which shaped modern Serbian culture, and which, it appears, made it a particularly fertile medium for the surrealist mode. In my use of the term "psychohistorical" in the title of this chapter, I have in mind essentially the same meaning and intent which Traian Stoianovich suggests: A society may have a choice of several courses of development, but once a decision is made and the society starts off on one particular course, it is extremely difficult to turn back and start off on another one. The choices objectively open to a society are theoretically very large. In practice, however, they are limited by the experiences that each particular society has already had, and especially by those 78 decisions that constitute a 'psychohistorical focus'— the choices that foster a distinctive emotional pattern, a specific complex of cultural values, a precise way or organizing a particular environment; in short, the choices that allow the society to assert its basic identity even as it changes in detail. . . . A psychohistorical focus is a special vision of the world, a special way of occupying and manipulating space, a special complex of attitudes toward the earth and the cosmos.^ I believe the use of the term is appropriate in this case because the surrealist trend in modern Serbian poetry appears to be an expression, at least in part, of the Serbian psychohistorical focus. As Stoianovich indicates, historical events and social upheavals create psychological trauma in varying degrees in the social body, and elicit responses, i.e., choices, which in time, produce a pattern of thought and behavior that constitutes the psychohistorical focus or world view of that people. In the case of the Serbs, the degree of psychological trauma has been considerable. Yet, despite and because of the very real threat of cultural annihilation, the Serbs made choices which enabled them to preserve their essential cultural identity. This chapter will examine those choices. It will examine, as well, the nature of the world view which developed as a result of those choices, and the reasons why this world 79 view may have promoted in the contemporary Serbian poets a high degree of receptivity to the concept of the surreal. The title of this chapter alludes, as well, to the centuries long Ottoman occupation of Serbia. Experts agree that the Turkish subjugation severely impeded the development of Serbian culture, and indeed, of all Balkan cultures. This era in Serbian history, which spans roughly five hundred years,2 has been variously termed as a period of "cultural retrogression,"3 "cultural stagnation,and even "cultural decay.As Michael Boro Petrovich writes: One of the most far-reaching effects of the Ottoman conquest was that it isolated Serbia from the rest of Europe and impeded its normal development as a European nation. . . . For centuries they were hardly touched by those great currents of Western history that brought Europe into modern times — the rise of capitalism, the new science, the Renaissance and Reformation, the development of a middle class, and the advancement of industry.6 While it is true that the Turkish hegemony did indeed prevent Serbia from participating in the social and political developments to which Petrovich refers, this experience was not an entirely negative one. As Philip 80 Sherrard points out, the effects of these "great currents in Western history" have not always been wholly desirable: Modern western society, developing under an Aristotelian aegis, has, in its effort to impose form and order upon recalcitrant matter, tended to sacrifice the irrational, chthonic side of man's nature and to establish the reason at the centre of life. No doubt mediaeval Christianity, with its insistence on the diabolic character of so many of man's instincts and of the world's natural manifestations, encouraged this process. But the Renaissance also, which is often supposed to - have reinstated nature and the irrational side of life, in fact only strengthened the position of the reason; for what it discovered in nature was a new and fascinating objectF which gave the illusion that the mind, identified more and more merely with the reason, was the all- powerful and supreme factor of man's life, of all life. Thus the mind- nature dichotomy was accentuated still more until, in the Ages of Enlightenment which followed the Renaissance, man came to give value to his rational capacities to the exclusion of almost every other part of himself. As a result, the irrational, instinctive forces of man's nature have been so suppressed and crippled that it is now a question of whether his whole creative life is not in danger of extinction.7 Owing to their isolation, the Serbs largely avoided the Renaissance and the Reformation. Consequently, they 81 were able to avert to a considerable degree the rupture of internal and external worlds which occurred in the post-Renaissance West, and were less inclined toward the dualism and suppression of the intuitive and imaginative faculties; and because they did not experience the sharp division between subject and object, the Serbs were able to maintain a sense of participation in the events of the natural world. As a result, Serbian culture retained the holistic type of world view which, in Robert Redfield's estimation, is common to folk societies, and which is characterized by a tendency to integrate the sacred and the ordinary.® The Serbian world view reflects, as well, a deep seated sense of cosmic participation and a compulsion to transcend profane, historical time, and in these respects, as I will subsequently demonstrate, closely approximates that which Mircea Eliade attributes to the "archaic1 1 or "traditional" society: The chief difference between the man of the archaic and traditional societies and the man of the modern societies with their strong imprint of Judaeo-Christianity lies in the fact that the former feels himself indissolubly connected with the Cosmos and the cosmic rhythms, whereas the latter insists that he is connected only with History. Of course, for the man of the archaic societies, the Cosmos too has a 'history,' if only because it is the creation of the gods and is held to 82 have been organized by supernatural beings of mythical heroes. But this 'history' of the Cosmos and of human society is a 'sacred history,' preserved and transmitted through myths. More than that, it is a 'history' that can be repeated indefinitely, in the sense that the myths serve as models for ceremonies that periodically reactualize the tremendous events that occurred at the beginning of time. The myths preserve and transmit the paradigms, the exemplary models for all responsibile activities in which men engage. By virtue of these paradigmatic models revealed to men in mythic times, the Cosmos and society are periodically regenerated.9 It is this world view which provides the creative psychic underpinning for the contemporary Serbian surrealist poetry. For like surrealism, this view evinces a keen sense of involvement in a reality beyond that of the visible world and a tendency to creatively integrate the rational and irrational forces of human existence. Furthermore, this view embodies the ultimate goal of surrealism: overcoming the spiritual disorientation brought about by the rationalistic, mechanistic theories of modern science and philosophy, and reintegrating the internal and external realms. The Serbs, who by virtue of their isolation remained relatively uncorrupted by these modern scientific and philosophical trends, managed to maintain a view of 83 existence which recognizes the authenticity and indivisibility of internal and external realities. In other words, the spiritual wholeness to which surrealism aspires has been, for centuries, a constant, fundamental feature of the Serbian world view. This is not to say that the Serbian world view is unique, but rather, to suggest that it appears to meet the criteria which Eliade ascribes to that of archaic/traditional societies, and further, to indicate the compatibility of such a world view with surrealist principles. The evolution of this world view can be attributed in large part to the influence of the three traditional institutions which dominated Serbian life throughout the period of the Turkish rule: (1)agrarianism; (2)the "zadruga"— the extended family unit common to South Slavic peoples; and (3)the Eastern Orthodox Church. These institutions, which constitute the focus of this chapter, became the most efficacious means of physical and cultural survival after the Ottoman conquest, and continued to flourish until well into the twentieth century. For centuries, then, Serbian existence revolved around them, and as the poetry discussed in the subsequent chapters will illustrate, they have left a remarkably vital psychological imprint on the modern Serb. Each of these 84 institutions is characterized by two salient features: (l)a tendency to view the created world as a unified, organic whole; and (2)a tendency to devaluate historical, concrete time. Hence, they interact synergistically: each one enhances and is enhanced by the others. As these traditional institutions developed, they increasingly influenced the Serbian world view, which in turn, came to reflect these same tendencies. During the period of the Turkish occupation, this world view found literary expression in epic cycles as well as in folk tales and poems, proverbs, riddles and songs. In the twentieth century, this same view has been articulated in modern Serbian poetry, and has achieved what is perhaps its fullest expression in Serbian surrealist verse. The result is a poetic form which is at once individualistic and universal, ancient and completely modern. Viewed from this perspective, it does not seem wholly accurate to describe the course of Serbian cultural development during the Ottoman era as retrogressive or stagnant. If the political power of the Serbian state was ’ ’swallowed up" in the Turkish onslaught, its cultural integrity was not. For while it is true that Serbia's isolation prevented her from assimilating new Western currents of thought with which 85 to advance in new directions from her native cultural base, she nevertheless continued to develop laterally, expanding and fortifying national traditions and views which were already in place at the time of the occupation. Accordingly, in this text, I refer to the Ottoman era as a period of "cultural suspension," for although Serbian culture was suspended at a level of exclusively indigenous forms which had evolved up to and through the fourteenth century, significant cultural development nevertheless continued at that level. An appropriate comparison here may be the "Great Tradition" and "Little Tradition" which Redfield distinguishes, the former referring to an elite culture, and the latter to a folk culture.^ Drawing on this parallel, one could say that while its "Great Tradition" was in a state of suspension, Serbia's "Little Tradition" continued to flourish during the years of Turkish subjugation. Moreover, in retrospect, given the adverse conditions in which the Serbs survived and the limited number of remedies available to them, the cultural choices they made reflect remarkable foresight: By tenaciously preserving their traditional institutions, they were able to develop and pass on to future generations a philosophical and moral construct which is perhaps even 86 more vital and relevant today than it was six centuries ago. Each of the institutions to which I have referred above— agrarianism, the zadruga, and Eastern Orthodoxy— has, of course, conditioned specific aspects of the Serbian world view— the Serb’s attitudes toward the physical world, society, and religion, respectively. More important to this discussion, however, is the less obvious influence which these institutions have exerted on even more fundamental components of that world view: The concepts of time and space. In his discussion about the way in which spatiotemporal perception influences personality and ! | culture, Stoianovich offers some general observations i ! about the time systems of the Balkan peoples: i i The notions of time and space of the non-Greeks of the peninsula were medieval Christian or resembled those of the pre-classical Greeks. Indeed, even most Greeks of the medieval and postmedieval era held views analogous to those of their neighbors, and there were fighters in the War of Greek Independence who had never heard of the hero Achilles. Moreover, a familiarity with culture heroes and an ability to trace kinship for six, nine, or ten generations, as was general among Albanians and Montenegrins, are far from being equivalent to the possession of a sense of historical 87 time. They are rather manifestations of a kinship time.H And referring to the theories of Vladimir Dvornikovi6 and Pierre George, both of whom differentiate between the rural and urban time systems of "space-dominated" and "time-oriented" cultures, Stoianovich comments that while Dvornikovic views the Yugoslavs as a space- dominated people struggling to "transform itself into a historic nation, a time-oriented people," George asserts that the time system of the natural world to which rural peoples are attuned is in fact much less flexible than that of urban societies, the inference being that rural peoples are time-oriented, but that they attend to the rhythms of nature rather than to "clock time."12 While these views do offer some insight into the nature of Serbian temporal and spatial perception, they tend to be rather general and abstract. Recently, however, Andrei Simic has suggested a more specific model of temporal and spatial perception for South Slavic peoples. It is Simic*'s contention that Yugoslav culture corresponds to the polychronic cultural model.13 This model, as set forth by Edward T. Hall, delineates cultural differences in temporal, and to a lesser degree, in spatial perception. Distinguishing between monochronic time— which he associates with 88 industrialized Western nations such as the United States, England, Germany, and Switzerland— and polychronic time— which he attributes to Mediterranean, Middle Eastern and Latin American cultures, Hall identifies a number of differences between these two opposing time systems. Monochronic time, he contends, is "a learned product of Northern European culture and is therefore arbitrary and imposed. . . . [It] is not natural time; in fact, M-time seems to even violate many of man’s innate r h y t h m s . " ^ Monochronic cultures perceive time as linear and tangible; hence, the people of Such cultures tend to concentrate on one thing at a time, engage in a great deal of planning, and are firmly committed to schedules. Not surprisingly, they are generally future-oriented. Monochronic spatial organization is characterized by a strong sense of territoriality; thus, monochronic cultures evidence a high* regard for private property, a great concern for privacy, and a minimum of physical contact. The polychronic culture, on the other hand, is in nearly every way, the antithesis of its monochronic counterpart. Polychronic time is non-linear; it is described as "a single point rather than a road along which people travel. It is also much less tangible than monochronic time. Consequently, polychronic 89 peoples frequently engage in a number of activities simultaneously and are much more flexible and spontaneous about plans and schedules. They also tend to be past-oriented. With regard to spatial perception, polychronic cultures are less territorial. Thus, they readily borrow and lend goods and services, are intensely involved with others, and exhibit a great deal of physical contact. Furthermore, Hall also indicates that owing to their wide ranging, intense social networks and to the fact that they are generally more inquisitive, polychronic peoples are as a rule more widely informed than those of monochronic societies. A polychronic culture, then, if I interpret Hall's conclusions correctly, is characterized by two salient features: (l)a tendency to devaluate concrete, historical time by attending to and placing a higher value on natural or instinctual time, that is, on that sense of time which is the authentic manifestation of "man's innate rhythms"; and (2)a tendency to view the individual as an integral part of an organic whole— in other words, to perceive space organismically rather than atomistically. In these respects, polychronicity finds a close parallel in Eliade's archaic/traditional cultural model to which I referred earlier. 90 According to Eliade, when confronted with dramatic historical events— what Eliade terms the "terror of history"— modern societies tend to respond to such events "historistically, " that is, they submit to the incontrovertibility of history by "conferring value on the historical event as such, the event in itself and for itself."-*-^ Thus, by valorizing the historicity of human existence, the modern society is able to come to terms with and endure its historical situation. However, argues Eliade, the terror of history is difficult to tolerate from a purely historical perspective: How can the 'terror of history1 be tolerated from the viewpoint of historicism? Justification of a historical event by the simple fact that it is a historical event, in other words, by the simple .fact that it 'happened that way,1 will not go far toward freeing humanity from the terror that the event inspires. . . . And in our day, when historical pressure no longer allows any escape, how can man tolerate the catastrophes and horror of history— from collective deportations and massacres to atomic bombings— if beyond them he can glimpse no sign, no transhistorical meaning; if they are only the blind play of economic, social or political forces, or, even worse, only the result of the 'liberties1 that a minority takes and exercises directly on the stage of universal history?-*-® 91 In contrast to the modern society, the archaic/traditional society rejects history and refuses to place itself within a concrete, historical period of time, that is, it tolerates and defends itself against the terror of history by denying or abolishing historical time and instead, projects itself into sacred, mythical time; furthermore, Eliade observes that this anhistorical view of existence continues to inform the traditionally agricultural societies of contemporary Europe: Whether he abolishes it periodically, whether he devaluates it by perpetually finding transhistorical models and archetypes for it, whether, finally, he gives it a metahistorical meaning (cyclical theory, eschatological significations, and so on), the man of the traditional civilizations accorded the historical event no value in itself; in other words, he did not regard it as a specific category of his own mode of existence. . . . We must add that this traditional conception of a defense against history, this way of tolerating historical events, continued to prevail in the world down to a time very close to our own; and it still continues to console the agricultural (=traditional) societies of Europe, which obstinately adhere to an anhistorical position and are, by that fact, exposed to the violent attacks of all revolutionary ideologies . ^ 92 Because of this propensity to abolish time, contends Eliade, the archaic/traditional man enjoys a greater measure of freedom and creativity than modern man, for whereas the modern man regards his history— which for him, "constitutes human existence"— as irreversible, the archaic/traditional man freely recreates his history— and therefore his existence— by annulling it through the abolition of time.20 Eliade adds that in this respect, the archaic/traditional philosophical position corresponds to that of Oriental cultures: The East unanimously rejects the idea of the ontological irreducibility of the existent, even though it too sets out from a sort of 'existentialism' (i.e., from acknowledging suffering as the situation of any possible cosmic condition). Only, the East does not accept the destiny of the human being as final and irreducible. Oriental techniques attempt above all to annul or transcend the human condition.21 Serbian culture conforms to Eliade's archaic/traditional model in that it, too, manifests a tendency to abolish time through the same modes delineated above: periodic regeneration, transhistorical and archetypal models, and metahistorical signification. Eliade himself uses Serbian myth and folklore to illustrate these modes. Observing that transhistorical 93 and archetypal models abound in epic cycles, he cites several examples from Serbian epic poems, including some based on Marko Kraljevic, the fourteenth-century Serbian prince of Prilep (a city located in what is now Macedonia in southern Yugoslavia): His [Marko's] historical existence is unquestionable, and we even know the date of his death (1394) . But no sooner is Marko's historical personality received into the popular memory than it is abolished and his biography is reconstructed in accordance with the norms of myth. His mother is a Vila. a fairy, just as the Greek heroes were the sons of mymphs and naiads. His wife is also a Vila: he wins her through a ruse and takes great care to hide her wings lest she find them, take flight, and abandon him— as, by the way, in certain variants of the ballad, proves to be the case after the birth of their first child. Marko fights a three-headed dragon and kills it, after the archetypal model of Indra, Thraetona, Herakles, and others. In accordance with the myth of the enemy brothers, he too fights with his brother Andrija and kills him. Anachronisms abound in the cycle of Marko, as in all other archaic epic cycles. Marko, who dies in 1394, is now the friend, now the enemy of John Hunyadi, who distinguished himself in the wars against the Turks ca. 1450. It is interesting to note that these two heroes are brought together in the manuscripts of epic ballads of the seventeenth century; that is, two centuries after Hunyadi's death.22 94 This kind of mythical transformation, which Eliade identifies as one of the hallmarks of an archaic/traditional civilization, occurs frequently in Serbian culture. Throughout the centuries various figures and events in Serbian history have been assumed into the realm of myth, and as we shall see in the following chapters, these archetypal and transhistorical images are so indelibly imprinted on the national psyche that they continue to provide much of the thematic material for Serbian poetry even today. Moreover, as Eliade points out, the evocative power of popular heroes such as Marko is not limited to a merely literary context: In 1912, an entire Serbian brigade saw Marko Kraljevic lead the charge against the castle of Prilep, which, centuries earlier, had been that popular hero’s fief: a particularly heroic exploit provided sufficient occasion for the popular imagination to seize upon it and assimilate it to the traditional archetype of Marko’s exploits, the more so because his own castle was at stake.23 Such a phenomenon implies a vital intercourse between conscious and subconscious realms which may result, as in this case, in the commingling of them. It also implies an ability to override spatial as well as temporal conditions. 95 The archaic/traditional concept of space appears to be compatible with that of the polychronic model. In the archaic/traditional view, writes Eliade, "The cosmos as a whole is an organism at once real, living, and sacred; it simultaneously reveals the modalities of being and of sacrality."24 in such societies, the individual perceives himself to be a collaborator in the life of the cosmos, and thus is intensely involved in and responsive to it; the world "wants to say something," and all phenomena, including man himself, are responsible for articulating its message.^ Consequently, from the archaic/traditional perspective, all objects in the external world are interrelated, and they acquire value only through their contact with each other when, in Eliade's words, "they participate, after one fashion or another, in a reality which transcends them": The object appears as the receptacle of an exterior force that differentiates it from its milieu and gives it meaning and value. This force may reside in the substance of the object or in its form; a rock reveals itself to be sacred because its very existence is a hierophany: incompressible, invulnerable, it is that which man is not. It resists time; its reality is coupled with perenniality.2 ^ 96 This view of existence not only indicates a concept of space that acknowledges the organic unity of the cosmos, but it also suggests the overriding of spatial conditions through the act of participation. A similar concept of participation is a prominent feature of yet one other cultural model which merits attention here. This is the "primitive" cultural model proposed by Lucien Levy-Bruhl.27 The "participation mystique," which Lucien Levy-Bruhl identifies as the hallmark of such cultures, is of particular interest because it is characterized by the negation of spatial and temporal boundaries. According to Levy-Bruhl, the primitive interprets all experience intuitively and emotionally because his thought is "prelogical." Therefore, his world is essentially mystical; it is charged with the invisible, sacred interplay of forces which he views as a synthetic whole and in which he feels compelled to participate. This participation is symbiotic. Indeed, the primitive man equates existence with particpation: "For the primitive mentality, to be is to participate"; and all objects and beings participate with each other, "sometimes to the point that they form only one (bi-presence, duality- unity, consubstantiation)."28 Levy-Bruhl holds that such participation is possible because primitive man 97 perceives all objects, whether animate or inanimate, as being imbued with an invisible as well as a visible presence. This invisible presence constitutes a "mystical life principle" which emanates from and binds together all objects and beings. Consequently, spatial and temporal boundaries are diffused and frequently negated entirely because "the primitive mentality does not place between animals and men (nor even between himself and plants and minerals) the insuperable distance that seems so obvious to us: the same mana circulates through all things." Therefore, primitive man participates in a reality which is independent of the confines of space and time, and things which exist outside him, which may be located a great distance from him, and which he may never even see, exist, nevertheless, within h i m . 29 This does not mean that primitive man is unaware of or that he ignores spatial, temporal and causal conditions of the physical world, but that, owing to his prelogical thinking, he is indifferent to them insofar as they may logically contradict his participation experiences. As Robin Horton explains, "[W]here participations are involved, they take precedence over the elimination of contradictions."20 The participation mystique, then, expresses an essentially holistic world view, a world 98 view which, as Carl Jung points out, has not been subjected to the breach of internal and external worlds experienced in the post-Renaissance West: By a stroke of genius, Levy-Bruhl singled out what he called p a r t i c i p a t i o n .m ystique as being the hallmark of the primitive mentality. What he meant by it is simply the indefinitely large remnant of non differentiation between subject and object, which is still so great among primitives that it cannot fail to strike our European consciousness very forcibly. When there is no consciousness of the difference between subject and object, an unconscious identity prevails. The unconscious is then projected into the object, and the object is introjected into the subject, becoming part of his psychology.31 Furthermore, the compulsion to participate is not limited to the primitive's perception of the physical world, but governs his sociological organization as well; indeed, his participation within the social body and the attendant network of symbiotic relationships which springs from it is the precedent on which all other participation is modeled: The members of the social body are separate and independent from each other in space. They move and change place freely; very often members of a single clan live in different villages, and it happens that they may never see each other. And yet each of them feels that he is what he is through his 99 participation in the common stock— not simply in the clan as it exists in the present, but in the more or less recently deceased ancestors and in the mythical ancestors, and in the totem of the group. Accordingly, in the course of his own existence, each individual continually has the experience of participation with individuals from whom he is separated in space. . . . The consciousness which 'primitive man' has of his individuality . . . is enveloped in a complex where the predominant element is the feeling that the individual has of 'belonging' to a group which is the true individuality and of which he is simply an element, like the other members, in the true sense of the word, of the social body. This feeling is thus that of a participation. . . . [W]hat we find in him, in all societies called primitive, is the feeling of this almost organic solidarity, which is expressed not through formulae, but in a living manner through the institutions (family, clan, totemism, customs, religious beliefs, etc.) which all rest on participations, of which that of the individual with the social body to which he feels himself to belong is the prototype and, as it were, the root.32 The cultural model which Levy-Bruhl delineates, then, finds several parallels in surrealism. For the surrealist also elevates emotion and intuition, acknowledges the interdependence of all phenomena, asserts the union of subject and object and of internal and external realities, and rejects the notion of 100 absolute spatial and temporal limitations. These commonalities have been duly noted by Horton, who finds an "uncanny" degree of similarity between the theoretical position of Levy-Bruhl and that of the surrealists: [A]lthough their writings show no explicit cross-references, the resemblance between their respective doctrines is uncanny. Thus, while the Surrealists divide the world of experience into the real and sur real, Levy-Bruhl divides it into the natural and the supernatural. While the Surrealists associate real experience with reason and sur-real experience with feeling and desire, Levy-Bruhl associates natural experience with reason and supernatural experience with feeling and desire. Both stress the role of feeling and desire in creating ideas and objects that are bizarre by the standards of common sense. Both stress the role of feeling and desire in breaking down the separation of man and nature. Both treat the domain of the sur real/supernatural as something that is subordinate in Western culture, dominant in non-Western culture.^ From this point of view, then, a primitive culture which manifests a participation mystique is by definition one which is predisposed to the surrealist mode. Owing to the cultural conditioning of its traditional institutions, Serbian culture, as we shall presently see, has internalized a sense of participation 101 similar to that described by Levy-Bruhl, and evidences many of the same cultural characteristics which he delineates. The Serb is intensely involved with beings and objects in his social and physical spheres, despite the fact that he may be separated from those beings and objects by space and time. This sense of involvement is emotionally charged and dominates his thinking to the degree that indeed, his individual identity is defined by and subordinated to the social structure and/or physical environment to which he "belongs"; hence, his attachment to such structure/environment is essentially symbiotic. This symbiotic attachment results in a lack of differentiation between self and other or between subject and object, and consequently brings about a fusion of internal and external realities, and the diffusion and frequent negation of spatial and temporal boundaries. These conceptual characteristics correspond not only to Levy-Bruhl1s model, but to the basic aims of surrealism, as well. As I have tried to illustrate, the cultural models set forth by Hall, Eliade and Levy-Bruhl evince similar patterns of temporal and spatial perception. If we allow, then, that Serbian culture does indeed conform to these models, it is possible to formulate from a 102 complex of those patterns working definitions of the Serbian notions of time and space. With regard to time, in contrast to the modern, industrialized West, which tends to view time as linear and concrete, and generally places a high value on it— that is, as an almost tangible commodity which can be "spent" or "saved,” etc.— in Serbian culture, time is not perceived as linear, but rather as the simultaneous occurrence of a multiplicity of events emanating from a common point of origin. Because he tends to resist the demands of imposed, finite time systems and to respond more readily to his innate, instinctual sense of time, the Serb is able to transcend the mere historicity of these events. In effect, by ignoring or devaluating historical "clock time," the Serb ultimately abolishes it. Consequently, historical events often assume a metahistorical significance and are thus divested of temporality, that is, they are not perceived as being exclusive to any one specific temporal dimension. In this sense, whereas in the West there seems to be a belief that times past are in fact times lost, in Serbian culture, all time is coexistent and congruous. Thus, no time is ever lost; it is either omnipresent or it will return as part of a cyclic schema. 103 Serbian spatial perception also differs significantly from most western cultures. Because Westerners tend to regard the individual as an isolated, self-contained entity, they generally place a high priority on individualism, and their organization of space reflects this atomistic view. They are prone to be highly territorial, and evince a great need for privacy or "personal space." Hence private property is "sacred," and physical contact is minimal. The Serb, on the other hand, tends to perceive space not as a geometric configuration of self-contained, individual territories, but as the collective environment of a corporate body; this body— be it a specific physical environment, a social structure, or the cosmos itself— has an infinite number of interdependent components, each of which has meaning only in relationship to its function within the whole, and because of the intricate relationships of these components, their territorial signifiers, i.e., spatial boundaries, frequently merge and/or are overriden. Because spatial organization is perceived in terms of community rather than individual needs, Serbs tend to regard themselves primarily as constitutent members of that community, that is, as integral, interrelated parts of an organic whole. This perspective of space has conditioned social relations to 104 such a degree and is so highly internalized that even today, Serbian populations throughout the world refer to themselves not as "Serbian communities," but as "Serbian colonies," despite the fact that the majority of members of these colonies are often third-, fourth-, or even fifth-generation Americans, Canadians, Australians, etc. Because their spatial borders are fewer and less fixed than those of Westerners, Serbs also tend to be less territorial, and generally exhibit less concern for privacy. Consequently, they are more apt to share private property— as illustrated by the Serbian custom of "pozajmica," the reciprocal borrowing and lending of goods and services; and there is much more physical contact among Serbs, whether it is used to express pleasure— such as a warm embrace between friends— or displeasure— the impatient pushing and shoving in a shop queue, for example. Such temporal and spatial patterns are wholly compatible with the surrealist objectives discussed in the previous chapter: The surrealist aims to reveal the hidden interrelatedness— or surreality— of apparently unrelated objects and events by negating and reordering spatial and temporal boundaries. For only in this way is he able to attain to some degree the all encompassing perspective of space and time which, as Michel Carrouges 105 indicates, is essential in order to penetrate the supreme point: In a word, [the supreme point] is the living focal-point of the totality of the world in which it is no longer possible to perceive the diverse forms of being as essentially heterogeneous realities. . . . It can be said that it is central, inasmuch as it is the focus of all reality, but it is not simply the geometric midpoint situated in the center of space: it takes in the totality of the cosmos, which is why it cannot be grasped from the interior of space. . . . In the same way, it cannot be reduced to the point located in the center of time (supposing, in any case, that such a notion had meaning) and which would then designate a mid moment, because such a moment, the passive result of calculation, would have in itself no reason for being more privileged than any other moment in time; it would contain no extra measure of reality. Just as it encompasses all space, so does the supreme point encompass all of time. From the basis of an instant situated in time, we cannot grasp it either, since to grasp it means precisely to surmount the antinomies of the present, the past, the future, and eternity. Just as there is a super-point encompassing all of space, so there is a super-instant encompassing all of time. It could be grasped only by a deified man whose awareness would encompass the totality of space and of t i m e .34 While one may agree that to comprehend existence in its totality would require a superhuman effort, Andre Breton 106 argues that it only seems to be beyond human comprehension because, by submitting to the authority of logic and accepting the division between interior and exterior realms, modern man has forfeited the faculty which enabled him to perceive the world holistically; and further, Breton repeatedly contends that those who retain this faculty to the greatest degree are the primitive and the child: For surrealism— and I think that one day this will be its glory-- everything has been put to good use to overcome those oppositions wrongly presented as insurmountable and gouged deeply into the course of time; these are the true refiners of suffering: the opposition between insanity and so-called 'reason' which refuses to take irrationality into consideration, the opposition between mental representation and physical perception, both of them products of the dissociation of a unique original faculty whose trace remains in the primitive and the child, and which removes the curse from an insurmountable barrier between the interior and the exterior worlds; rediscovered, it would be man's salvation.35 It is not my intention to suggest that Serbian culture is "primitive" in the literal sense of the word, that is, to imply cultural inferiority or backwardness. On the contrary, I believe that the poetry discussed in subsequent chapters will illustrate that it possesses a 107 very rich, well elaborated, coherent national tradition. Rather, my point is. that because the Serb did not experience the mind-nature dichotomy to the same degree as that of Western Europe and was thus not "rationalized" to the point that logical contradictions were unacceptable, his world view remained relatively holistic by comparison. Furthermore, as a result of the influence of those traditional institutions which dominated Serbian life during the period of the occupation, the Serb developed perspectives of time and space which generally parallel those attributed to the archaic/traditional and primitive models set forth by Eliade and Levy-Bruhl, respectively; and insofar as these perspectives reflect an independence of time and space which enables him to override temporal and spatial conditions, their presence seems to indicate that the Serb has been able to salvage some measure of primitive, or to use Levy-Bruhl1s term, "pre-logical" thought. In other words, he has been conditioned by and has internalized temporal and spatial concepts which, inasmuch as they imply -a certain predisposition to "overcome those oppositions wrongly presented as insurmountable," constitute key elements of the holistic world view which Breton believes the primitive has 108 retained in part, and which he deems to be advantageous for the successful penetration of the supreme point. Since the focus of this discussion is the role of the three institutions which, in my judgment, contributed most significantly to the development of these perspectives of time and space in Serbian culture, a brief review of the historical events in medieval Serbia which projected these institutions into positions of critical influence seems an appropriate place to begin. It is generally agreed that prior to the Ottoman occupation, the medieval Serbian state was a relatively advanced culture. Harold W.V. Temperley's assessment of the period is representative: [Tjhere can be no doubt that the Serbian civilization was real. The evidence surviving is overwhelming in its mass. The numerous manuscripts which still remain are inferior in number to those which are known to have been destroyed by Greek or other hands. That the monasteries of Serbia contained many learned men who had acquired a high standard of culture is undoubted. Of universities we hear nothing, but many of the Serbian writers and monks had studied in Byzantium itself. There is every reason to suppose that the Turkish conquest destroyed a rising and rapid civilization and important artistic and cultural developments which the wealth and policy of the Serbian 109 kings had fostered into vigorous life.36 Founded in 850 by Vlastimir, who established himself as ruler of Zeta and Ra^ka (the medieval place names for modern Crna Gora— also known as Montenegro— and Serbia proper), by the fourteenth century, Serbia was a settled, well organized state with its own social, religious, artistic and political traditions. Serbian society was stabilized and stratified by an estate system.37 it possessed an elaborate legal system formulated by Tsar Stephan Dusan (1331-1355) and known as "Dusanov Zakonik" ("Dugan's Code").38 Moreover, it enjoyed a stable economy, which, as Petrovich confirms, was based on mining and crafts industries as well as on a g r i c u l t u r e .39 From the time of their conversion to Christianity in the ninth century, the Serbs had recognized the unifying moral authority of the Eastern Orthodox Church; moreover, the Church also served to reinforce national unity and identity. In the arts, as the surviving monasteries and the frescoes which are preserved on their walls attest, the medieval Serbs were highly skilled craftsmen and artists. Indeed, as Alex N. Dragnich points out, modern art scholars consider some of these monasteries to be "world treasures. Serbia was also a center of literary activity. Literature had been encouraged even from the time of Stephan Nemanja (1190-1196), the founder of the Nemanjic dynasty. Stephan's son, Rastislav, who, upon becoming a monk, took the name Sava (1175-1235), was the pioneer of Serbian education and literature. During the middle ages, literary activity was concentrated in the monasteries, and thus was often of an ecclesiastical nature. However, as Antun Barac observes, many biographical and historical works were also written— the biographies of the Serbian rulers and religious figures are quite well known— and translations of virtually all the important Byzantine literature, including popular poetry and romance, were translated into Serbian.^1 Politically, as well, the Serbian state was well advanced and enjoyed a considerable measure of power and prestige. Under the leadership of rulers such as Stephan Nemanja, and later, King Stephan Uros II (Milutin) (1282-1321) and King Stephan Uros III (Stephan Decanski) (1322-1331), Serbia greatly expanded its territory southward. This expansion accelerated during the reign of Tsar Stephan Dusan, whose empire extended from central Serbia to central Greece and from the Adriatic and Ionian on the west to the Aegean on the east, constituting nearly two-thirds of the Balkan peninsula. Under his rule, the Serbian state became the Ill preeminent force in the Balkans. But Dusan's successes inspired in him even greater political ambitions, and apparently, a certain degree of arrogance, as well. In 134 6, he assumed the title of "Tsar," proclaiming himself "Emperor of the Serbs and the Greeks," and declared the Serbian archbishop of Pec patriarch. As a result, in 1350, both he and the patriarch whom he had designated were excommunicated by the Patriarch of Constantinople. Dusan's relations with the Byzantine court were strained, as well, because of his friendly diplomatic relations with Rome. So powerful was the Tsar's position, however, that he sought to overthrow Byzantium and seize the throne for himself. However, in 1355, while on a campaign to gather forces for a march on Constantinople, Du^an was suddenly and mysteriously taken ill with a fever, and died near the city of Prizren, his citadel in southern Serbia.^2 After Dusan's death, the Serbian empire soon began to disintegrate. His son, Stephan Uros (1355- 1371), assumed the throne upon his father's death and the title of "Tsar" as well. But he was a young, inexperienced ruler (he is sometimes called "Uros the Weak"), and his authority was challenged by various feudal lords, some of whom wished to usurp his position.43 This resulted in a long period of internal 112 unrest and fragmentation during which the empire lapsed into near anarchy. The invading Ottoman forces, whom Du?an had previously succeeded in subduing, now used this political situation to their advantage. Although some of the Serbian factions did band together in order to defend themselves against the Turkish onslaught, they were ultimately defeated in two devastating battles, the first on September 26, 1371 (o.s.) near the town of Cernomen (now Ormenion in northern Greece) on the banks of the Marica river, and the second on June 15, 1389 (o.s.) on Kosovo Polje (The Field of the Blackbird) in what is now the autonomous province of Kosovo-Metohija in southern Yugoslavia.44 The Ottoman victory at Kosovo sealed the fate of the Serbs. Their leaders were gradually forced to surrender the remaining Serbian territories, and in 1459, Smederevo, the last Serbian stronghold, was overtaken by the Turkish forces. As might be expected, the abrupt shift from supreme Balkan power to minor Ottoman outpost was a traumatic one for Serbia. As Petrovich reports, the installation of the Turkish invaders brought about a violent, disorienting social upheaval: To begin with, the Ottoman conquest meant the sheer physical destruction of the Serbian land. The surviving contemporary accounts all tell the same tale of slaughter, pillage, 113 torture, enslavement, famine, disease and desolation. An entire people was left defenseless and leaderless as host after host of their princes and lords either perished, abjured the Christian faith to join the conquerors, or fled to Hungary or Italy. In the wake of the physical devastation came the near obliteration of Serbian medieval civilization. Many manuscripts and works of art vanished. More serious was the demise of the society that had produced that art. The fall and eventual disappearance of a native aristocracy and merchant class doomed the higher culture that their wealth and taste had supported.^5 As subjects of what Leften G. Stavrianos aptly terms the "Turkish incubus,"^6 the Serbs, once the most powerful of Balkan peoples, now found every aspect of their lives controlled by foreign masters who, as Wayne S. Vucinich notes, were socially and culturally inferior to them.^ Under the Ottoman feudal system, education was discouraged, and the Serbs lost all economic and political power. There were levies and taxes of various kinds— the land tax ("harach") which was imposed on Christian families, and a poll tax ("cizye") required by Christians in lieu of their service in the Turkish military. Perhaps worst of all was the notorious "devshirme," the levy of Christian boys for the Turkish janissary forces, which was enforced from the late fourteenth to the early seventeenth century; under this 114 practice, Christian parents were forced to surrender their sons in order to avoid Islamicaization of the entire family. Young girls, too, were often "appropriated" for the harems of Turkish rulers and officials. Even apparel was regulated. The clothing of the Christians was limited to certain fabrics; they were forbidden to wear bright colors and especially the color green— sacred to Moslems— and any ornaments or forms of dress which might be construed as Moslem in character.^ Clearly, the merciless and often arbitrary enforcement of such measures by the Ottoman regime threatened both the cultural and physical survival of the Serbs. In such intolerable circumstances, certain moral and philosophical choices inevitably must be made. But the choices which a society makes are necessarily limited by its previous experiences. This is borne out in the case of the Serbs. In defending themselves against the Turkish threat, they could only draw on past experiences; accordingly, they became critically dependent upon the traditional institutions which had sustained them in the past: agrarianism, the zadruga and Eastern Orthodoxy. These institutions not only provided a modicum of physical safety, but reinforced cultural identity, as well. Gradually, they became the central foci of all Serbian cultural life, and determined, to a 115 great extent, the way in which the Serb perceives the world. The holistic world view which subsequently evolved appears to be largely the result of concepts of time and space which they fostered. Therefore, in order to understand this world view and its articulation in the surrealist poetry which will be addressed in subsequent chapters of this study, it is necessary to examine at length the nature of these institutions and the ways in which each one has contributed to its development. Since antiquity, the primary occupation of the Slavs has been agriculture. Marija Gimbutas reports that evidence discovered at archaeological sites in the western Ukraine— the area generally held to be the cradle of Slavdom— indicates that the Slavs have been engaged in agriculture and animal husbandry at least since the Middle Bronze Age.^9 The earliest historic reference to the Slavs is found in Herodotus' The Histories. in which they are identified as an agrarian culture; a subject people of the Scythians, they are referred to as the "Scythian plowmen.One of the primary objectives of the South Slavic tribes which swept into the Balkan peninsula between the fifth and seventh centuries— the ancestors of, among others, the modern Serbs— then, was arable, uninhabited land, and 116 they established settlements in rural, often remote areas in pursuit of this objective. The "cities" which developed in medieval Servia were not really cities in the modern sense, but rather, as Lazar Lazarovich- Hrebelianovich comments, "fortified strongholds built for the protection of the markets at cross-roads or some mining center."51 And Temperley points out that the content of Dugan's Code suggests that even as late as the fourteenth century, those Serbs who were obligated to reside in those urban centers "seem to have regarded their obligation as a burden."52 it is not surprising, then, that in the face of the Ottoman threat, the Serbs who did reside in the cities abandoned them and retreated to inaccessible rural areas where physical distance and what today might be called a "low-profile lifestyle" offered at least some measure of defense against the Turkish oppressors. Migrating northward into Austro-Hungarian territories, westward into the Dinaric Mountains, and eastward into the uplands inhabited by the Vlachs, the Serbs settled in small groups in isolated areas. These migrations resulted in a clear delineation between city and rural life as the Serbs left in their wake "urban vacuums," to use Simic’s term, which were eventually repopulated by Turks and other ethnic groups: 117 The result was that for centuries the rich rural heartland of the Balkans remained only sparsely populated, and the urban vacuum created by the retreating Slavs was filled by a heterogeneous, mostly alien population of Turks, Greeks, Albanians, Sephardim, Gypsies, Islamicized Slavs, and others from the far-flung reaches of the Ottoman empire. In this way city life quickly assumed a Middle Eastern aura with urbanites cultivating a sophisticated Moslem and Levantine tradition, a tradition contrasting sharply with the rustic and archaic life style of the Christian Slavic countryside.^3 Consequently, city life gradually came to be identified almost exclusively with the Moslem oppressor while the countryside was the stronghold of the subjugated Christian population. Indeed, as Joel and Barbara Halpern point out, those Serbs who did remain in the cities were shunned and distrusted by the rural p e a s a n t r y . 54 Observing that this self-contained rural society persisted even into the twentieth century, DuSko Doder writes, "It was almost a Homeric world of small communities living isolated l i v e s . " 5 5 Thus, for centuries, the village was the center of Serbian life and the patterns of rural existence became deeply ingrained in the Serbian character. Naturally, this protracted rural, agricultural existence influenced the Serbian world view, 118 particularly with regard to space and time. First, it is likely that it fostered in the Serb a sense of participation in an all encompassing cosmic structure, a phenomenon which, in Eliade's view, is characteristic of agricultural peoples: In the rites and skills of farming, man is intervening actively; plant life and the sacred forces of the plant world are no longer something outside him; he takes part by using and fostering them. To the 'primitive,' agriculture, like all other basic activities, is no merely profane skill. Because it deals with life, and its object is the marvellous growth of that life dwelling in seed, furrow, rain, and the spirits of vegetation, it is therefore first and foremost a ritual. It was so from the beginning and has always remained so in farming communities, even in the most highly civilized areas of Europe. The husbandmen enters and becomes part of a sphere of abundant holiness. His actions and labours have solemn consequences because they are performed within a cosmic cycle and because the year, the seasons, summer and winter, seed time and harvest-time build up their own essential forms, each taking on its own autonomous significance.^ Further, it seems reasonable to assume that this sense of cosmic participation conditioned the Serb's spatial perception in much the same way that Levy-Bruhl's example of the participation mystique suggests, that is, that it promoted a certain degree of psychological 119 independence of space. Joseph Campbell remarks that people who live in the natural world constantly encounter the divine; such people, he writes, "live in the recognition of something there that is much greater than the human dimension. In other words, the man who interacts with nature and who is attuned to its discourse is cognizant of a fundamental life force— the unifying power of "the mana [which] circulates through all things"— and he understands intuitively that he is a part of yet subordinate to that power. Therefore, he tends to regard the other beings and objects of the world— animals, plants, inert objects— as "fellow participants" with whom he is united in some mystical, fundamental way by virtue of this shared interdependent status, and the more attuned he becomes to the cosmic discourse, the more compelling is his desire to participate in it. He becomes a communicant rather than an observer of the cosmos, and his life acquires meaning in direct proportion to the degree to which he participates in the cosmic community. Through his contact with and dependence on the natural world, then, the man engaged in agriculture comes to perceive the cosmos not as something remote and detached— "something outside him"— but rather as a vast network of subordinate beings and objects which are all expressions 120 of the same power, variations, so to speak, of himself. Writing about the influence of nature on the psychological makeup of the Serbs, Jovan Cvijic describes a similar perception cosmos: The whole of nature is alive to them and acts like a living person, while even dead things are endowed with thoughts. There are good and evil spirits everywhere, and man is always connected with Nature and dependent upon those forces of Nature and dependent upon those forces of Nature that find their apogee in a God and Fate who rule everything between them with complete omniscience.58 The greater the degree of man's interaction with natural phenomena, then, the more pronounced is his identification with them. Hence, the "psychological distance" between him and his fellow participants diminishes, resulting in a lack of conscious differentiation between subject and object. And, as with Levy-Bruhl's cultural model, his participation experiences continue unimpeded by spatial boundaries because his compulsion to participate overrides and ultimately negates the logical spatial conditions of the physical world. Accordingly, if we allow that the Serbs, like other agrarian cultures, experienced the participation phenomenon to any extent, then it follows, as well, that the relative independence of space which 121 is part and parcel of that phenomenon is also an essential feature of their psychological makeup. The second critical effect of the Serbs' rural agrarian tradition is that it promoted a sense of detachment from worldly life. The following nineteenth- century account of village life is indicative of this insular, self-contained existence: The villages of Servia extend far up into the gorges of the mountains, into the depths of forests, and sometimes when consisting of forty or fifty houses, they spread over a space as extensive as that occupied by Vienna and its suburbs, the dwellings being isolated, and at a distance one from another. Each habitation contains within itself an entire community. . . . All the members of the family constitute but one household; they work and eat together, and in the winter evenings assemble around the fire. Even when the father dies, his sons, appointing one of their number, the best qualified amongst them, as master of the house, remain together until too great an increase of the family renders a separation desirable. . . . The household requires but little assistance from strangers. The men raise their own buildings; construct in their rude manner their ploughs and wagons; prepare the yokes of their draught oxen; hoop their casks; and manufacture their shoes from rough leather. Their other clothing is prepared by the women, who spin wool and flax, weave linen and woolen cloth. Their land yields the food they require, so that salt is perhaps the only article they find 122 it necessary to purchase. The mechanics most in request by the villages are smiths, to make their tools. A mill belongs to several houses cojointly, and each house has its day for using it. The family households, supplying all their own wants, and shut up each within itself— a state of things which was continued under the Turks, because the taxes were chiefly levied upon the households— formed the basis of Servian nationality. Individual interest was thus merged, as it were in that of the family.5 9 Isolated in their rural communities in which the primary timetable was the round of the seasons, the Serbs were relatively unaffected by the finite time systems associated with urban life. As a result, they did not develop a strong linear concept of time, but were conditioned instead by the cyclic model of periodic abolition and regeneration of time which governed the natural world. This cyclic model, or to use Eliade's phrase, this "eternal returning" is, in Eliade's view, characteristic of agricultural peoples, and is concretized in the seasonal festivals which occur in such cultures: Festivals take place in sacred time . . . But there are some seasonal festivals— certainly the most important ones— which give us a glimpse of something more: the wish to destroy the profane time that is 123 past and establish a 'new time.' In other words, seasonal feasts which close one cycle of time and open another set out to achieve a complete regeneration of time.60 The degree to which the cyclic model has been internalized in Serbian culture is apparent in the organization of time which traditionally prevailed— and does even today to some degree— in the villages.61 Paralleling the periodic destruction and renewal of the natural world, for centuries, the calendar year of the Serbian peasantry revolved around Saint George's Day ("©urcTevdan") (23 April, o.s.) and Saint Demetrius' Day ("Mitrovdan") (26 October, o.s.), the two great seasonal festivals which marked the commencement and termination of the growing season throughout the Byzantine world.62 Stoianovich summarizes the role of these holidays, observing that because they were such an integral part of Balkan life, even the Ottoman authorities deferred to them: As St. Demetrius' Day drew near, the Turks brought their campaigns to a close. From then until St. George's Day, navigation almost ceased, epidemics were appeased, war yielded to diplomatic negotiation and correspondence, rumors abounded. Between St. George's Day and St. Demetrius' Day, commerce and agriculture were reactivated, war was resumed, and epidemics threatened again, while rents and debts became payable on one or both 124 of the two holidays. Apprentices quit their homes on one of the two occasions to enter the service of a master craftsman, and village craftsmen departed from their homes at the time of the spring festival to offer their services in distant towns and provinces, generally returning for the autumn festival. Farmhands hired out their labor on St. George's Day and turned homeward for St. Demetrius' Day. Shepherds and shepherd folk abandoned their mountain pastures at the autumn festival to winter with their flocks in the plains, often many hundreds of miles distant, and returned to their mountains on St. George's Day. The two feasts, along with the feast of the Assumption (August 15), were also the chief occasions for group marriages.63 The rituals and customs associated with these feast days punctuate their significance. On Saint Demetrius' Day, for instance, the culmination of the growing season was marked by fairs which were held throughout the Balkans, and peasants often travelled great distances to attend these events.64 Although their outward purpose was the exchange of goods, as Stoianovich observes, the other— and often more important— functions of the fairs included "the holding of games, entertainment, feasts, religious worship, and the formation of political alliances."66 Machal points out that Saint Demetrius' Day is also associated with the dead; a "zadusnica" ("All Souls' Day") 125 commemorating the ancestors was generally observed on the Saturday before the holiday.66 S. Kulisic et al. report that Saint Demetrius' Day serves, as well, as a meteorological indicator: according to popular belief, foul weather on that day portends a severe winter, while clement weather is a sign of a milder winter season; a snowfall signifies the appearance of Saint Demetrius himself on his white charger. But they also describe customs which illustrate a darker, almost apocalyptic aspect of Saint Demetrius' Day: On the eves of Saint George's Day and of Saint Demetrius' Day, everyone should stay at home because those days are the 'heads of the year' ['glave od godine']. On Saint Demetrius' Day, one should not sleep out of one's house. In every corner a quartz stone is placed to ward off mice. On the week before Saint Demetrius' Day: The spindle is not moved, scissors and razors are not opened— in order that the jaws of beasts do not open; livestock is kept in pens; the locks of the pens are not unlatched; and the field is plowed up in a day and sown with winter wheat.67 While such customs suggest an atmosphere charged with the paralyzing fear of impending chaos and destruction such as might be associated with the "end of time," in contrast, the Saint George's Day festivities imply the 126 rebirth of all creation and the inauguration of a "new time." On Saint George's Day eve, the doors and windows of village houses are adorned with flowers and with the branches of various trees which signifies the wish for an abundant harvest, and on that evening, according to Milan G. Popovich, "sorcery is practiced on the flock and cattle to secure prosperity."®® The next morning, a ritual bath initiates the day's festivities. All family members arise very early (according to folk belief, to sleep through the sunrise on Saint George's Day angers the saint and puts one's health and fortune in jeopardy for the entire year), and one by one, bathe in water which has been laced with various herbs and flowers— each of which has its own peculiar significance— the night before. Following the bath, the children go outdoors to gather flowers with which they make wreaths; these wreaths are then used in elaborate sheep rituals to insure the health of the flock. A cheese is prepared from the first milking of the sheep, and a "Saint's cake" is baked. These activities are followed by the main events of the day— the slaughter of the lamb and the ritual meal, and in some areas, the lighting of a bonfire. As Popovich's description 127 indicates, these customs are primarily rites of purification and purgation: Then, [the villagers] attend to the ceremony of killing, the lamb. A male lamb is selected, a little candle is attached to its horn and lighted, and incense is burned over it. The man who will kill the lamb blesses himself three times, mentioning in a short prayer God and Saint George. The blood is collected in a pan. Children and the youth dip their fingers in that blood and smear their cheeks and foreheads with it 'so that they may be healthy during the whole year.' The lamb is roasted over an open fire. In the evening, people take the roasted lamb and the cheese to the 'cross.' The 'cross' is a place on the outskirts of the village, fenced around, in the middle of which there is a large cross made out of stone. Large blocks of stone are placed on both sides of the cross, which are called tables. Every family has its table. They place roasted lambs, cheese, cakes, onion and garlic on these tables, and light candles. The priest comes, reads appropriate prayers, and blesses the meat, after which starts the feast. The bones of lambs are not thrown away; they have to be buried. This whole celebration during St. George's Day is popularly called molitva (prayer).69 Popovich stresses the psychological significance of carrying out the Saint George's Day rituals in an exacting manner, and points out that although the village priest takes part in the celebration, it is, for 128 the main part, a vestigial manifestation of pagan Slavic worship: Activities performed on St. George's Day have decisive bearing upon the fortunes during the whole year. If something is incorrectly done on St. George's Day, the consequences should be born [sic] during the year and there is no appeal to any higher power. St. George looms here not as a saint but as a supernatural being who autonomously rules in his sphere and to whom sacrifice of the lamb is rendered in the ancient style.^0 While the cyclic model of time designated by the agrarian festivals of Saint Demetrius' Day and Saint George's Day is inspired by the recurring pattern of disintegration and regeneration of the natural world, as Eliade indicates, the man who is conditioned by such a model is not enclosed in this cyclic movement in the way that nature is, and in fact, possesses the potential to transcend time even more absolutely than nature itself: The intact 'possibilities' of nature each spring and archaic man's possibilities on the threshold of each year are, then, not homologous. Nature recovers only itself, whereas archaic man recovers the possibility of definitively transcending time and living in eternity. Insofar as he fails to do so, insofar as he 'sins,' that is, falls into historical existence, into time, he each year thwarts the possibility. At least he retains the freedom to annul his faults, to wipe out the memory of his 'fall into history,' and to make another attempt to escape definitively from time.^1 129 This notion of "living in eternity" is echoed in Stoianovich's comment on the timeless quality of Balkan village life: For all the Balkan peasantries, time was a perpetual return of the seasons, of night and day, and of life and death; it was fate, an inexorable necessity. Conscious of the demands of time, peasants were also close to a timeless world, the way of life before the rise of farming and cities, a world in which time went unregulated, in which 'the roosters did not crow. This sense of timelessness, which is a salient feature of the poetry examined in this study, results from the Serb's relative independence of time. Uninhibited by the psychological constraints of a wholly linear time system, the Serb developed a certain degree of independence of time which, in effect, not only freed him from the burden of concrete, historical time, but insofar as it offered the possibility of "living in eternity," also situated him psychologically outside of time, thus fostering an atemporal perspective of existence. The effect of this perspective is two-fold: While, on the one hand, it implies that psychologically, he was not bound to an existence in any one historical interval of time, conversely, it also gave him access to 130 all time, that is, his existence encompassed time in its totality. Hence, he is not only able to abolish and regenerate time, but to experience and reorder at will any and all intervals of it. Owing to the agrarian tradition, then, the Serb developed perspectives of space and time which closely approximate those which surrealism endeavors to attain, and for this reason, he was well prepared for the surrealist adventure. But as we shall see, these spatial and temporal concepts are not the product of the agrarian tradition exclusively, but are also the legacy of the zadruga and of Eastern Orthodoxy. The zadruga is the communal joint family common to South Slavic peoples.^3 Ideologically, it may be compared with the Russian "mir" and the Chinese "chia." Scholars believe that the zadruga dates back to prehistoric times, and that it was once the basic social structure of all Slavic tribes.* 7 4 has survived, however, only among South— and to some degree East— Slavs, that is, among the Slavic groups which were most vulnerable to the Turkish threat.As the Halperns indicate, the hierarchical structure of the zadruga is based on patrilineal descent: An expanded definition of the zadruga is a residential kin unit 131 composed of at least two nuclear family units, often including other relatives as well, who work and live together and jointly control and utilize the resources of the household. Usually heads of the nuclear units and others who may be members of the zadruga are related by common descent, mainly in the male line. Thus the zadruga can be considered primarily a patrilocal unit existing within a society which places stress on patrilineal descent and where the formal authority patterns are patriarchal. The term zadruga, in addition to referring to such a household unit, is often translated from Serbo-Croat as cooperative or partnership, and this reflects its ideal ethos.^ The zadruga is not, however, simply an informally organized patriarchal family unit. According to Milenko S. Filipovic, "The most essential characteristic of the zadruga is communal production based upon the principle of division of l a b o r . "^7 And Philip E. Mosely points out a fundamental difference between the communal zadruga estate and the patriarchal family: One special feature of the zadruga tradition, one which distinguishes it clearly from the patriarchal family, is that each male member of it possesses a recognized, if latent, right to a share of the communal property and is free, if he chooses, to leave the zadruga, to take his share of its property, as defined by customary or written law, and to found either a small family or, in cooperation with one or more members of the former large household, a new and smaller zadruga.78 132 After the Ottoman conquest, although its primary function continued to. be that of a labor collective, the Serbian zadruga also served other purposes: Its compact, collective structure provided a ready defense unit against the ever present threat of Turkish attacks; and because the Turks taxed by hearth, banding together in the zadruga as one household eased the peasants' economic burden. But in terms of long- range contributions, perhaps the most important function of the zadruga during the years of Ottoman rule was the role it played in defining and preserving cultural identity. Writing about this aspect of the zadruga system, Vucinich comments: The zadruga's democratic organization of the household, rigid discipline, and high code of morality substantially contributed to the preservation of Serbian ethnic and cultural individuality. In most Serbian areas, the joint family was the principal form of social organization. The leader of the zadruga represented it and managed its affairs in consultation with the members of the family. The joint family became the backbone of Serbian society under Ottoman rule.79 Physically, the zadruga is a complex of small buildings. At the center is the main house in which the 133 y "headman" ("staresma") lives with his immediate family. This structure contains the hearth (Mognjiste")— usually the only one in the entire compound— and meals are prepared and eaten communally in the hearth room. Around the main house are clustered small sleeping huts ("vajati") which are the sleeping quarters of each conjugal family (usually married sons and their wives and children). In addition, there may be other small storage buildings in which grain and agricultural tools are kept. The organization of the zadruga is based on sex and age. At the head of the hierarchy is the headman, usually the grandfather or father of the family, although he may be an uncle or granduncle, as well. He is charged with the moral and economic welfare of the group, which consists of 10 to 100 members. Hence, he presides over religious and social occasions, settles disputes within the zadruga, and during the Ottoman period, was responsible for maintaining relations with the Turkish authorities and negotiating with them when their military and political machinations threatened the family's safety. In addition, although the affairs of the zadruga are decided jointly, it is the headman's responsibility to investigate and make initial judgments on all matters, and then, after 134 consulting with the family members, to execute their wishes. Therefore, his duties also include assigning the various agricultural tasks to the adult male family members, deciding which crops should be planted, selling and buying equipment and supplies, and because he is entrusted with the family's assets, paying the taxes and keeping the accounts in order. The headman's wife (the "domacica") supervises the household work such as food preparation, spinning and weaving, and in addition, acts as a mediator between the headman and other family members. The sons, and after them, the women and children, constitute the remaining members of the hierarchical structure. Before the headman dies, he designates one of his sons— usually the eldest— to succeed him. If he fails to appoint an heir, one is chose by a council of the oldest male members of the zadruga .-80 Ideologically, the zadruga preserves the unity and continuity of the family— and by extension of the clan and tribe— through a self-perpetuating network of symbiotic relationships and a moral code predicated on mutual support and responsibility to the collective social body; as Simic reports: Relationships between kin and family members were symbiotic and cooperative in nature, and governed 135 by an explicit moral code which, among other features, stressed a corporate representation to the outside world. 81- While the psychological bonds generated by this ideology have, of course, had several long-term effects on Serbian culture— as the number of scholarly works on the subject attests®^— two are of particular relevance for the present discussion: the impact of the zadruga's symbiotic aspect on spatial perception and the impact of its moral code on temporal perception. Given the zadruga's all encompassing communality, the symbiotic nature of family members' relationships is not surprising. Gimbutas identifies three levels of communality within the zadruga structure: (l)personal— in that all live.jointly under the rule of the house father; (2)territorial— land is held in common; and (3)economic— all labor is performed for the benefit of the whole collective.®® Individual identity, then, is inextricably bound to that of the family, and constituent members tend to regard themselves as integral components of a definitive, corporate social structure rather than as truly individual personalities. Individual actions are therefore perceived in terms of the group, since 136 ultimately, the successes or failures of individual family members either advance or impede the interests of the entire "rod" ("lineage") • Writing about the relationship between lineage and identity, Lorelei Hailey comments: One could not act irresponsibly or without consideration of lineage welfare and opinion, because one's acts affected their well-being (they could be substituted for oneself in retaliatory acts), and one had to keep the goodwill in order to have their collective force known in the neighborhood as an effective deterrent to one's potential enemies. An individual who had been ostracized by his lineage had no protection against random violence. Hammel (1968) has gone so far as to insist on the corporateness of the kin group. Members of the lineage could substitute for one another on ritual occasions and in exchange relations. This profoundly communal perspective was sustained by the symbiotic nature of family relationships: Each member projects the ideological aims of the group on the others, and because this projection is the general practice of all family members, it is mutually reinforcing. Moreover, since each succeeding generation assumes the same hierarchical roles and attendant behavior patterns, these relationships are self- perpetuating, as well, Needless to say, this 137 psychological conditioning does little to encourage the individuation process. Indeed, Stoianovich points out that the notion of individuality was given little credence in Serbian culture until the nineteenth century when the Serbian Civil Code of 1844 instituted the concept of land as private property and "authorized the fission of the extended family into smaller family units and the subdivision of its land into smaller plots."^5 The implementation of this new policy, he continues, clashed, with the law of the zadruga and was a source of extreme psychological emotional distress because it imposed not only a new value system, but "a transformation of attitudes toward space.”®^ In effect, it meant that after centuries of being psychologically and ethically conditioned to suppress their sense of territoriality, the Serbs were now legally obliged to adopt a territorial orientation on both political and personal levels: Whereas in the traditional joint family system, the designation of personal space was discouraged, since all property was perceived as "ours" and social identity was defined by the symbiotically- grounded "we, " the new legislation mandated the sudden, definitive differentiation of both property and personality, that is, "ours" was to be transformed into "yours" and "mine," and "we" was to become "you" and 138 "I." This radical shift in the conceptualization of space threatened the very foundation of the Serbian social structure: Long accustomed to think of themselves as interdependent parts of an organic whole, family members were now being asked to operate as autonomous, self-contained entities. The tenacity with which Serbian culture has resisted this differentiation is evidence of the degree to which the communal outlook has been internalized. As various scholars have noted, even today, the old behavioral patterns conditioned by the zadruga system persist. SimicT, for instance, reports that both urban and rural Yugoslav households still reflect "the same principles that once regulated behavior within the zadruga and clan," and further, that the Western concept of family life such as the American ideal which stresses "individualism, personal independence, self- determination, and privacy even within the household remains rather alien to the South Slavic model."®7 In a separate text, using the example of contemporary Yugoslav child-rearing practices to illustrate this model, he points out that the desire for privacy, for instance, as it is understood in the American household, would be regarded as a sign of antisociability or emotional imbalance in the Yugoslav family.®® 139 Furthermore, as Lorraine Baric points out, the modern Yugoslav legal system reinforces this model by codifying the "rights, obligations, and institutionalized forms of behaviour within a kindred.”®^ Mosely also observes that the many cooperative organizations which have developed in industrial and professional sectors of contemporary Yugoslav society are likewise, manifestations of the "spirit of mutual help" established by the zadruga tradition.90 Moreover, the effects of this cultural conditioning extend far beyond the borders of Yugoslavia. For instance, Hailey finds that the corporatism of the zadruga model continues to inform the family development of Yugoslav-Americans, particularly those whose forebears arrived in the United States during "the great age of South Slav immigration," the period 1900-1914, when the zadruga was still a vital social force. The internalized cultural structures of the "old country," she writes, were transplanted and took root in modified form in the new world, where they were passed on from generation to generation at a subliminal level: The habits of perception, attitude, and behavioral response learned in childhood as aspects of culture are learned in a way that keeps them outside full awareness. They are structures built into the individual's mind and feelings by training so that he or she acts and 140 thinks automatically a large part of the time. This training is not so much a conscious teaching and learning process that goes on between parent and child, but occurs as the parent reacts with shock or instant disapproval upon witnessing culturally inadmissable behavior, or beams with pleasure and admiration as the child acts out the parents' notions of what is right. It appears that the same sense of organic unity which was fostered by the agrarian tradition was reinforced and perpetuated, as well, by the corporate family structure of the zadruga. Contemporary behavior patterns reveal yet another way in which the Serbs' symbiotic conditioning has affected their spatial perception. Because self- identity was so bound up in the symbiotic relationships established by the zadruga model, the- need to participate in them— like the need to participate in the natural world— was extremely compelling. This need persisted even when family members were separated by great geographical distances, as when, for example, in the latter part of the nineteenth century, rural Serbs began to migrate into the cities and even to immigrate to foreign lands, leaving the joint family behind. The Serbs' response to this problem of distance reflects, once again, a certain degree of psychological 141 independence of space. For even though they were physically absent from the family unit, in order to continue to fulfil the familial roles which, for them, constituted self-identity, psychologically, they operated as though present. This mentality continues to the present day, and is in evidence among Serbs who have left their villages to take up residence in urban Yugoslav centers as well as among Serbs who have immigrated to other countries. The reciprocal ties between migrant/immigrant and family are maintained in a number of ways, all of which reflect a continuing corporate perspective of the family. For instance, there is a constant exchange of various material goods (sent by post, or often through a third party) and money— Serbian immigrants have traditionally continued to contribute to the economic resources of the parental household even many years after they have established permanent residence in the United States, Canada, Australia, etc.^2 Frequent letters, and to a lesser extent, telephone calls also enable family members to continue to make their presence felt in each others' daily lives. Because the migrant/immigrant is still considered to be a part of the family structure, relatives may write to solicit his advice in times of crisis or when a particularly critical decision must be 142 made; by offering his counsel in these cases, the migrant/immigrant is able to take an active part in family affairs, and feels psychologically, that he is still exerting his influence and maintaining his role within the family. In addition, while visits are often exchanged only on a limited basis— particularly if the absent member resides in a foreign country— even if the migrant/immigrant himself cannot visit regularly, he often sends his children "home" instead. Hence, early on, children develop a sense of belonging to and are encouraged to identify with the rural, corporate family group. / In assessing these behavioral patterns, Simic acknowledges that the psychological commitment to the joint family continues to dictate to.a great extent the behavior of the contemporary Serbian migrant/immigrant: Even the eventual physical separation of household members does not necessarily signify the psychological and economic diminishment of family ties . For instance, dual or even multiple residence on the part of the elderly and young is. not uncommon. Older people frequently spend the pleasant spring and summer months in their village homes, and winters in the relative comfort of their children's urban apartments, though perhaps the most common pattern is the exchange of rural and urban children during school holidays. Another indicator of the psychological ties binding 143 recently separated households is to be found in behavior surrounding the Serbian custom of the celebration of the lineage patron saint, the slava. Many adult males do not hold an official commemoration as long as their fathers are still alive even though they may reside separately. The explanation offered for this is simply, ’one household, one celebration.193 The "slava," which Simic" mentions, is an institution worth noting here because the Serbs' attitude toward it is perhaps most indicative of their tendency to override the contingencies of spatial conditions. The slava or "krsna slava" ("krsna" is etymologically related to "krstiti"— "to baptize" or literally, "to cross"— and "slava" stems from "slaviti"— "to glorify" or "to celebrate") refers to the feast day of a family's patron saint. Unique to Serbs, this custom, as the Halperns comment, is "at the very core of Serbian cultural and social identity."94 indeed, it might be described as the quintessential feature of Serbian life. Even other Eastern Orthodox peoples do not have the slava, but celebrate instead individual namedays, that is, the day designated by the Church to commemorate the saint whose name they bear. The slava derives from pagan times when each family— or to draw on the anthropological vernacular, "patrilineal descent group"— venerated its own particular household deity. The popular belief is 144 that upon his conversion to Christianity, each Serb took a patron saint--usually the one designated by the Church calendar for the day on which the Serb and his family were baptized— to replace the protective spirit of the old pagan god.95 The household god was originally the ancestor of the family; hence, the slava is a vestigial ritual of ancient Slavic ancestor worship. In that it provides individuals the opportunity to affirm kinship ties, it retains that significance to some extent even today. Indeed, it is the definitive form of group identity in Serbian culture: One cannot be a Serb without celebrating the slava, or "Where there's a slava, there's a Serb" ("Gde je slava, tu je Srbin"), as the folk saying goes. In other words, without kinship, without lineage, there is no identity as a Serb. It is not surprising, then, that the Serb feels compelled to observe his ancestral slava, and that even when geographical distance prevents him from physically taking part, he continues to participate on a psychological level. As Simic^ indicates, migrant/immigrant Serbs generally do not hold a separate slava celebration in their new domiciles so long as their fathers are living— though many do acknowledge the day with some symbolic gesture such as a special meal, etc. Simic attributes this to the fact that most 145 migrant/immigrant Serbs, especially recent ones, "do not regard the city as their actual (spiritual) locus of residence, and still identify strongly with the rural household"; he cites the following migrant's response as an example of this attitude: I won't celebrate our slava here in Belgrade as long as my father is alive. We sons will take over when he dies. There must be one slava while there is one estate (mora biti jedna slava dok je jedno imanje). I don't have my own icon, but we keep our image of St. Steven (Sveti Stefan) at home in the village.^6 This attitude reflects, of course, the Serb's high regard for the sanctity of established familial roles; each one implies a complex of specific duties and privileges— such as the commemoration of the slava— which must not be usurped by other family members. In addition, it also provides some insight as to the Serb's spatial perception: While he may be physically located in Belgrade, Los Angeles, Munich, etc., he is psychologically located in a village hundreds or even thousands of miles distant, taking part in the official household slava celebration; hence, to hold a separate, additional observance would not only be irreverent, but superfluous, as well. In effect, his inaction in one location constitutes his action in another. 146 The zadruga has also been instrumental in shaping the Serb's concept of time. For in addition to providing him with a sense of identity within a definitive social body situated in contemporary, concrete reality, the joint family system also nurtured a sense of identity in a generational continuum which transcends the boundaries of historical, concrete time. Writing in his autobiography, Milovan Djilas eloquently expresses the concept of this continuum: My forebears were drummed into my head from earliest childhood, as was the case with all my countrymen. I can recite ten generations without knowing anything in particular about them. In that long line, I am but a link, inserted only that I might form another to preserve the continuity of the family, the people, and the human race. Otherwise, the earth would be an unpeopled desert with none to tell of it. Man achieves permanence only through those whom he has made to live after him. Thus I, like so many others, emerged from an ancient tribe of peasants and shepherds. The tribe and clan live through tales of primeval self- awareness. I, too, grew in an indissoluble spiritual bond with them.97 Simic identifies this continuum as the psychological grounding of the family developmental cycle, and 147 indicates that its conceptual basis extends beyond a merely linear, historical context: [T]he Yugoslav tends to view the family not as an entity isolated at one moment in time, but rather diachronically as one stretching endlessly backward and forward, the generations flowing almost imperceptibly one into the next without sharp ruptures or discontinuities. Therefore, regardless of the actual composition of a given household at any moment- in time, ideologically and conceptually its developmental cycle is a very long one, one that is in fact theoretically infinite. In this way, for example, households may symbolically contain members who are physically absent, even d e a d . 98 Both Djilas and Simic describe a concept of time in which past, present and future seem to intersect, and which, in effect, implies the negation of temporal boundaries. This concept has its roots in the moral code of the zadruga, the most significant feature of which is the sanctity of kinship. This feature stems from the long tradition of ancestor veneration in Serbian culture. There is general agreement among scholars in the field that ancestor worship played an important part in the religious life of all of the ancient Slavs. Machal writes: 148 That the worship of ancestors was widely spread among the Slavs may be considered an established fact: the Slavs looked upon their forefathers as guardian penates who were deeply concerned about the happiness both of the family and of their dwelling; and the origin of many mythological beings, especially the penates. may be traced back to this kind of ancestor-cult.^9 Vestiges of the ancient ancestor cult can still be observed today in the folk customs and religious practices of many Slavic groups. This is particularly true of Orthodox Slavs like the Serbs who, owing to the liberal attitude of the Eastern Church, were able to retain many elements of their pre-Christian religion upon their conversion to Christianity. In his study on the pagan features of Serbian Orthodoxy, Popovich cites numerous religious traditions derived from ancestor worship.100 Filipovic also acknowledges the key role of the ancestor cult in Serbian folk religion, particularly in the observance of the slava, mentioned previously.101 . ^ / - And Veselm Cajkanovic believes that ancestor worship instructs virtually all of Serbian religious life.102 In the Christian era, the veneration of ancestors has been expressed in a myriad of Serbian folk customs and V y beliefs; Cajkanovic, for instance, reports that the souls of ancestors are believed to dwell in quartz stones, and may be incarnated, as well, as serpents or 149 as blind beggars. The most explicit representation of the ancestor cult is expressed in the Days of the Dead mentioned earlier and in the slava. However, it has been preserved implicitly, and perhaps most effectively, through the moral code of the zadruga. The basis of the zadruga's moral code is kin relationships, or to coin a term, "kin-consciousness.1 1 As Baric writes: [T]he core of membership was the kin-core; the rights and duties of the members of the zadruga were to a large extent those of kin relationships; this was the moral basis of behaviour.103 While this moral ideal governs individual behavior on a daily basis in a number of explicit ways, its underlying aim is family continuity. The continuity of the family hinges on the perpetuation of established familial roles; although these roles are inherited by new family members with each succeeding generation, they remain unchanging in nature. Thus, so long as these roles are preserved, the composition of the family may survive essentially intact for several generations, a mode of development which, as Simic" indicates, persists to the present time: The Yugoslav family often spans a number of generations without total 150 cleavages in composition, and even in death constituent members continue to exert their aura in the context of the living. It is difficult to place temporal boundaries on the family developmental cycle since, in many cases, one generation flows almost imperceptibly into the familial roles occupied by the previous one; thus, replication takes place, not in the context of newly formed units, but rather through the medium of gradual replacement of personnel within the same social entities.^04 By stressing a role which is essentially archetypal, that is, constant from generation to generation, rather than one's unique, temporal existence, the individual perceives himself as part of an infinite, unchanging, and therefore timeless continuum. In this way, the zadruga's moral code implicitly prescribes the abolition of historical time: What is of value is not the historical interval during which one fulfils his own distinctive, personal role, but the timeless continuum to which the eternal role with which one has been entrusted is connected. An important aspect of this sense of timelessness is the abolition of the boundary between the living and the dead. In the zadruga, the dead continue to participate in the family. Ancestral figures— popular national personages as well as family 151 members— serve as archetypal models, and their lives frequently assume a metahistorical significance. In fact, in Cvijicf's estimation, Serbs "feel themselves just as closely connected with their national heroes as with their blood relatives”: It is true that we have a long succession of famous emperors, heroes and martyrs; but the Serbs regard them in a way of their own. They are not thought of as a personal and hereditary line of which only blood relatives have the right to be proud; but as the ancestors of the whole race, they are truly a national possession. From the earliest period of Serbian history, tradition has preserved chiefly what brought glory to the people as a whole and not to one class. These figures are perceived as living forces and are regarded with both reverence and a sense of familiarity. They can be summoned in time of need as intimates and advisors. When invoked, they participate by example in the events of the present, offering moral direction and spiritual inspiration to their modern descendants, who in turn strive to actualize the essential meaning of these models by adhering to and affirming them in a personal, contemporary context. Cvijic" comments, for instance, that all Montenegrins regard Milos Obilic (a 152 hero of the Battle of Kosovo) as a "spiritual ancestor" and a moral ideal: They not only idealise him, but dream of him; and whenever they do anything heroic, they discuss whether Obilic would have done the same. Whenever a crisis occurs in one of the Dinaric ballads, we find the refrain: 'Think of the old Heroes.'106 In order to participate and fulfil his role in the social group, then, the Serb is obliged to defer to this pantheon of ancestors— what I refer to here as the "ancestral continuum"— that is, to acknowledge an atemporal dimension of existence in which all family members, both living and dead, simultaneously exist, making their collective experience and wisdom accessible. This constant interpenetration of past, present and future implies the access of "all time," and therefore, a concept of time which transcends historical, concrete existence. Evidence of the lack of temporal barriers is the fact that Serbs frequently use the present tense when recounting the feats of the ancestors or other significant events; as Halpern and Simic* report: People in their 50s speak of the events of World War II in a direct manner of personal experience even though they were at that time far too young to remember such a wealth 153 of detail. The verb tense they select in Serbo-Croatian for such narrative is the historical present. The psychological bond between the living and the dead is effected through a host of traditional customs and rituals which explicitly and implicitly reinforce the individual's awareness of his participation in the ancestral continuum. First, there are numerous traditional commemorative gestures which explicitly reinforce the relationship between the living and the dead. Deceased relatives are venerated through elaborate grave feasts ("dace"), requeim services ("parastosi"), memorial notices, and the frequent offering of memorial candles. These rituals occur forty days after death, again at six months, and then regularly on the yearly anniversary of death. Similar rituals also take place on the above mentioned Days of the Dead, which occur three times a year— on the Saturday before Lent, before Whitsunday, and again on the Saturday before Saint Demetrius' Day. Moreover, these ceremonies are considered to be so important that, as Filipovic* reports, if a division should occur in the zadruga, deceased members who have died less than one year prior to the time of division are allotted their portion of the total holdings in order to insure that 154 these commemorative services will be conducted for them.108 Thus, the dead continue to make their presence felt in the daily life of the household, and as Simi<£ observes, this is still true today: Though death is the ultimate physical separation, in Yugoslavia the deceased exert a strong psychological presence among the living. Generational continuity is assured through elaborate funerary practices, the erection of imposing monuments, regular visits to the grave, feasting on the Days of the Dead, yearly religious or secular observations on the anniversary of death, and an eventual place of honor for the deceased in the kinship pantheon celebrated in family history and myth.109 The dead also exert their influence on the living in less explicit ways. Gimbutas points out, for instance, that the role of the headman in the zadruga and the family members' deference to his authority implicitly provides a living link to the ancestors: The house father is master of the zadruga. . . . What he says is right. Even in his old age, the grandfather's counsel is very much respected. The house father also acts as family priest, going back to the pre-Christian era. Bound up with this is the ancestor cult, for he continues to be a protector of the family even after his death. HO 155 The fact that the headman controls the hearth is a constant reminder of this aspect of his role. As noted. above, there is generally only one hearth in the zadruga and it is located in the main room— the headman's domain; this fire, which is never allowed to die out, symbolizes the fact that the headman has been entrusted with the perpetuity of the family. The hearth fire is not only linked to the sacred fire associated with the pagan ancestral god, Svarog,m but as Vucinich indicates, it serves as a link to the future, as well: The hearth was invested with the attributes and powers of the fire which burned there. The notion of the hearth as a magic place in the house could be traced back to the time when it had served as a place of sacrifice and as a religious shrine. Traditionally, the hearth linked the living family with descendants yet unborn. It is at the hearth that the family gathers together not only to take their meals, but through the winter months, in most of their free time, as well, since it is the only warm place in the compound. At the hearth, the headman, and often other family elders, as well, holds forth, recounting the stories of the ancestors and of national figures and events. During the Ottoman period, this was particularly important because it was usually the only means of education available to the Serbs. In 156 Paul R. Radosavljevich's view, it was at the hearth that "the nation learned its history by heart": During the long winter evenings, or on festival days, or on religious holidays, Serbian youths sat around the fire for long hours, and, with bated breath, heard from the mouths of grandmothers the fairy tales and charades, whenever there were not the old men to recite the national rhapsodies by means of the gusle, praising the righteousness, honesty, filial devotion and love for the Fatherland, to such a degree that these seemed sacred and divine. Certain traditional holiday rituals also implicitly reinforce the psychological bond between the living and the dead. The customs associated with the Christmas yule log ("badnjak"), for instance, are in Popovich's view, vestiges of the ancient ancestor cult, and Christmas eve dinner is in fact a ritual communal meal of which both the living and the dead partake: The whole ritual during the badnjak eve has the appearance of the commemoration of the dead. The souls of the deceased are supposed to come to the meal on badnjak eve. People eat on the floor because the souls of the dead are imagined most often as a bird and especially as chickens. Imitations of the cackling of the hens and the peep of the chicken is actually an invitation of the souls to the meal. The killed pig and the cakes are virtually sacrifices and are ritually eaten.114 157 The slava or patron saint holiday also serves to affirm the ties with the ancestors. As noted above, this observance commemorates the patron saint— and by extension the common eponymic ancestor— of the family. The slava, as Popovich indicates, has survived almost intact since pre-Christian times: The Patron Saint celebration is a survival of the ancient ancestor- worship. The central part of it is the worship of the ancient household god who was originally the ancestor. The whole celebration has a commemorative character. The lighted candle, koljivo (boiled wheat), the sacrificial cake, and the commemoration of the deceased relatives— all these are composite parts of the worship of the dead. One point is very significant, namely, that the host as head of the family officiates as the "sacrificer" ("zrec"), the priest of the ancient Slavic religion. This whole celebration has nothing to do with the official teaching of the Church. It is wholly ancient Slavic. The Serbian Orthodox Church adopted this ancient observance in its entirety, giving it only a Christian interpretation. For centuries, then, through the replication of familial roles, recounting of family and national histories, and the numerous religious and folk customs, the ancestors have continued to exert their influence on the daily activities of the family unit, providing paradigmatic models of moral and social behavior which 158 aid living members in fulfilling their archetypal roles and maintaining the continuity of the family. In this way, the kin-consciousness generated by the moral code of the zadruga continues, even today, to instruct Serbian temporal perception. In fact, as Simic observes, "kinship constitutes a kind of national vice" in modern Yugoslavia. Kinship is generated not only by blood relationships, but through the fictive kin ties of "kumstvo" (ritual sponsorship), and to a lesser degree, "pobratimstvo" (sworn brotherhood). Kumstvo is an intermediate relationship between kinship and friendship, and is established by service as a witness at a marriage or a baptism ceremony. Simic points out that "kumstvo reflects the corporate nature of familial organization in that ties of ritual sponsorship are generally contracted between households or lineages, rather than individuals."117 Furthermore, once established, it is customary for Serbian families to maintain ties of kumstvo, so that two families may reciprocate in sponsorship for generations. The institution so closely approaches blood kinship that families joined by kumstvo are forbidden to intermarry.11^ The custom of pobratimstvo also involves a religious rite. According to Mary Edith Durham, the two parties take part in a special ceremony of Holy 159 Communion in which they swear their loyalty to each other and to each other's kin. Durham believes that this institution may derive from the blood brotherhood ceremonies of the Scythians as described by H e r o d o t u s .11^ Although it was common during the Ottoman period, pobratimstvo occurs only infrequently now. Kumstvo, however, remains a fundamental component of Serbian social organization. Finally, the Serbian world view has also been conditioned by the Eastern Orthodox Church, which during the centuries of Ottoman subjugation, influenced virtually every aspect of Serbian life. In addition to providing spiritual direction, it was often required to act as the arbitrator between the Christian population and the Turkish authorities— under the Turkish "millet" system, religious leaders were also secular leaders— and to serve as the conservator of Serbian national identity. One of the ways in which the Church promoted national identity was by exploiting what, in Stavrianos' view, was the traditional anti-Westernism of the Balkan peoples, particularly the customary hostility between Catholics and Orthodox: The hostility of Balkan Orthodoxy to the West might be compared with the campaign of Russian Orthodoxy against Peter the Great.... But in the Balkan Peninsula the 160 government consisted of Ottoman officials who were uninterested, and of Orthodox bishops who were as much prefects as prelates and who comprised an integral element in Ottoman administration. . . . One illustration was the execution of Patriarch Cyril Loukaris in 1638 when he collaborated with the Protestants and attempted, like Peter the Great, to open a window to the West. Another illustration, at a less exalted, grass roots level, is the experience of a Croatian Franciscan monk who was sent in the mid-seventeenth century to convert the Serbians. The Franciscan reported a long discussion concerning the union of the churches with a Serbian monk, Gavrilo. The latter, when pushed to the wall, finally ended the conversation with the remark, 'What you say is true, but I would rather become a Turk than join you Latins who hate and persecute u s . ' 1 2 0 The Orthodox position toward the West was welcomed by the Ottomans who, as George G. Arnakis points out, had much to gain by taking a tolerant stand regarding the Eastern Church: Ottoman policy, for the most part, was not hostile to the Orthodox Church. The reason is obvious. It was essential for the Turks to keep the Orthodox subjects of the sultan from uniting with the Catholic Church which was associated with the struggle to drive Islam out of Europe.121 Hence, the Church became a political as well as a cultural force, which in Petrovich's view, "embodied and 161 expressed the ethos of the Serbian people to such a degree that nationality and religion fused into a distinctive "Serbian faith."122 Vucinich sums up the Church's role: The most important Christian institution that survived the medieval states was the Orthodox Church. With the political power once vested in temporal rulers gone, the church assumed some of 'Caesar's1 prerogatives and incidentally maintained a link between each nation's past and future. The church conserved the cultural heritage of particular [Balkan] peoples, kept fresh in their minds their medieval glory and independence, and preserved the ethnic individuality of the faithful. . . . The parishes and dioceses of the Orthodox ecclesiastical administration united peoples who were otherwise divided by geography and social organization. In this way, the church fulfilled certain political functions in the community. The church represented its followers before the Ottoman authorities and even led them into rebellion on occasion. Besides serving as a repository of national culture and tradition, the church kept touch with the outside world (the papacy, Venice, Austria, Russia) and facilitated the passage of a small amount of European influence through the Ottoman curtain. But above all else, the church was the center of social life.123 Because of its unique, multi-faceted role, the Church's religious function has often been minimized by 162 scholars, who tend to stress the political and sociological aspects of the Church rather than its theological premises. In Petrovich's view, for instance, "The role of the Serbian Church had little to do with religion either as a theology or as a set of personal beliefs and convictions . However, because it was "the center of social life," its spiritual teachings were easily and constantly promulgated. And, because these teachings were harmonious with the Serb's fundamental view of existence, they were readily accepted, and carried over into the daily lives of the people. Orthodox theology, then, has contributed substantially to the way in which the Serb regards the world, and this includes his concepts of space and time. Indeed, it appears that the doctrinal and liturgical traditions of the Church reinforced the same modes of spatial and temporal perception which were fostered by agrarianism and the zadruga system. The Eastern Church stands in contrast to the Western Christian tradition in that it stresses religious experience rather than religion itself. That is, it focuses on perceiving God through the senses and the intuition rather than on conceiving God intellectually. As John Baggley writes: 163 [Orthodoxy] is a Christian tradition with a strong intuitive element; this is in marked contrast to the rational, intellectual, and cerebral elements in much of Western Christianity, where the written or spoken word has become the primary means of religious perception and communication. The growing interest in Orthodoxy is part of a search for a fuller perception of God and the Faith of the Church, a perception that does justice to other parts of the human psyche or personality. The head and intellect need to be balanced by the heart and its intuition.125 As a result of this orientation, the Church has traditionally cultivated a strong element of mysticism, a tendency which, in the view of Adolph von Harnack, differentiates it from the Augustinian rationalist grounding of Catholicism and Protestantism.126 Huston Smith concurs with this view, and notes that Orthodox mysticism is not merely the domain of the clergy: The Eastern Church has encouraged the mystical life more actively [than the Roman Church]. From very early times when the deserts near Antioch and Alexandria were filled with hermits seeking illumination, the entire mystical enterprise has occupied a more prominent place in her life. As the supernatural world intersects and impregnates the world of sense throughout, it should be a part of Christian life in general to develop the capacity to experience directly the glories of God's presence. Mysticism is a practical program even for laymen. The aim of every life should be union with God, 164 actual deification to the point of sharing the Divine Life. . . . The mystical graces are open to everyone and it is incumbent upon each to make of his life a pilgrimage toward glory.127 This religious mysticism reinforces the tendency toward mysticism which, in Cvijic's estimation, is inherent in the Serb’s psychological makeup; citing the Serbs' belief in supernatural phenomena as well as in augury, prophecy, astrology, and "mystical reasoning" (the ability to explain otherwise unexplainable events by attributing them to divine intervention), he writes, "Their imagination gives them a tendency towards mysticism which, in its turn is probably connected with them intense sensitiveness."128 Furthermore, Orthodoxy encourages the individual to seek and interpret God through personal experience rather than by merely conforming to the juridical ideas of the Church itself. This theoretical position reflects its oriental grounding— a fundamental precept of Buddhism, for instance, and particularly of Zen Buddhism, is "jiriki" ("self-power"), which is the ideal result of one’s own efforts to realize enlightenment— and constitutes the basic principle of what Vladimir Lossky terms the "mystical theology [of 165 the Eastern Church]— doctrine and experience mutually- conditioning each other": Doctrinal tradition— beacons set up by the Church along the channel of the knowledge of God--cannot be separated from or opposed to mystical tradition: acquired experience of the mysteries of the faith.129 In the Church's view, the nature of this "acquired experience" is almost entirely dependent on the individual himself, that is, on the degree of his receptivity to the divine energy of God as it is manifested in the created world. Orthodoxy presupposes cosmic unity. Accordingly, as Timothy Ware indicates, Orthodox theology maintains that the essence of God is unknowable; only the energies of God— which permeate the cosmos and link together all things— may be revealed.130 Divine energy, then, is the spiritual energy emanating from all cosmic phenomena, and it is the only possible knowable truth. It is the sign of a reality beyond the visible world; this reality, i.e., God's essence, cannot be known, but its energy runs through all things and is discerned at the level of the senses. One might use the analogy of the Hindu mandala here: The center of the mandala is never depicted explicitly, but is sensed through the organization and symmetry which always 166 directs the eye toward an implicit, phantom center; so, too, God's essence is sensed, intuited through his energy as it is articulated in various forms throughout the cosmos, all of which point to the presence of another, invisible reality, i.e., his essence. This approach to God, in Alexander Schmemann's estimation, is "the most authentic and basic tendency in the Orthodox view of Christianity": This is the conception that God really is present in the world, that we perceive Him and unite with Him, not by abstract deductions or philosophically, but ontologically.^1 It is only through his cosmic awareness, then, that the Orthodox can commune and ultimately achieve union with God. Indeed, in Lossky's view, Orthodox spiritual life is "a life of awareness," the goal of which is the "knowledge of secret realities": Man is not a being isolated from the rest of creation; by his very nature he is bound up with the whole of the universe. . . . This cosmic awareness has never been absent from Eastern [Orthodox] spirituality, and is given expression in theology as well as in liturgical poetry, in iconography, and perhaps above all, in the ascetical writings of the masters of the spiritual life of the Eastern Church. 'What is a charitable heart?'— asks St. Issac the Syrian— 'It is a heart which is burning with charity for the whole 167 of creation, for men, for the birds, for the beasts, for the demons— for all creatures.1 In his way to union with God,, man in no way leaves creatures aside, but gathers together in his love the whole cosmos disordered by sin, that it may at last be transfigured by grace . 132 Hand in hand with the freedom to interpret God individualistically, Orthodoxy asserts an obligation of individual responsibility. Contrasting this theoretical position with that of Roman Catholicism, John Meyendorff writes: The Orthodox Church does not claim to possess any infallible and permanent criterion of Truth or any monolithic structure. . . . The [Orthodox] Christian is by definition free, free with a true liberty which permits him to accept the Truth which God reveals to him. He is therefore also responsible for the Truth. . . . [This liberty] is indeed a heavy burden to bear at the present time, because it involves such a heavy responsibility. And yet this liberty is one of the keys to Christian ecclesiology. The Orthodox Church clings to this above all else, and in doing so feels that it is defending the very mystery of . God's presence in the Christian communion.133 Therefore, because he himself is responsible for the truth, the Orthodox is obliged to take an active part not only in the affairs of the Church and in the social process, but in the intercourse of the cosmos in its 168 entirety. Only in this way can he achieve the union with God which, in Orthodox theology, is central to spiritual salvation. This position is reflected in the Orthodox doctrinal tradition, the basis of which is "theosis" or "deification.” The concept of theosis, which is based on a principle of participation similar to that which we have noted in agrarianism and in the zadruga system, is as old as the Church itself. It was articulated in the works of the Church Fathers such as Origen of Alexandria (ca. 3rd century), Gregory of Nyssa (ca. 4th century), and later, by Maximus the Confessor (ca. 7th century). These theologians sought to reconcile the two basic trends in Orthodox theology: the "way of union, 1 1 that is, knowledge of God through direct personal experience; and the "way of negation" or apophatic theology, which holds that since God is ultimately incomprehensible and ineffable, it is more accurate to speak of him in terms of what he is not rather than in terms of what he is. The doctrine of theosis was given greater definition in the fourteenth century by the Hesychast movement and by Gregory of Palamas (1296-1359), who successfully defended the Hesychast position by combining these two "ways." The Hesychasts (from the Greek "hesychia"— "quiet"), a monastic group which originated at Mount 169 Athos, aspired to achieve union with God through silent contemplation and prayer. The psycho-physical method of. prayer which they advocated to realize this union is often compared to those of the Buddhist and Hindu religious traditions. Their practices included special prayers, breathing exercises and a particular physical posture, all of which were designed to make the immediate experience of God— and thus deification— more readily accessible. The Hesychasts were subsequently attacked by various Orthodox scholars who argued that: (l)God cannot be perceived through the flesh; and (2)the essence of God, which is unknowable, cannot be known through personal, immediate experience. Palamas argued, however, that the inclusion of the body authenticated the "Biblical concept of man as an indivisible psycho physical unity," to use Meyendorff's words, thus establishing a precedent for the sensory rather than the cognitive perception of God. Secondly, drawing on the ideas of the Church Fathers, Palamas definitively established the distinction between the essence and the energies of God. He maintained that although the essence of God is unapproachable, the energies of God are manifested throughout the cosmos, and thus it is altogether possible to experience and participate in them, and indeed, that this participation is the only 170 means of achieving the union with God necessary for deification. In this way, writes Meyendorff, Palamas asserted the "full reality of deification," for "by participation in God Himself, in His uncreated grace, man himself becomes G o d . "135 As a result of Palamas* efforts, Hesychasm was legitimized by the Church, 136 ancj -(-he doctrine of theosis was fully integrated into Orthodox theology. Indeed, in Ware's view, it stands today as the definitive doctrine of the Eastern tradition: [A]ccording to the teaching of the Orthodox Church, [theosis] is the final goal at which every Christian must aim: to become god, to attain theosisr 'deification' or 'divinization.' For Orthodoxy, man's salvation and redemption mean his deification.137 Modern Orthodox theology holds that the individual is invested with the potential for deification upon baptism. But this divine aspect can be actualized only through communion with the divine energies of God. These energies are revealed in a multiplicity of forms throughout the cosmos, and it is only by attending to and participating in this interplay of divine energies that the individual can realize this communion. Therefore, it is incumbent upon him to be aware of and 171 responsible for the integrity of the cosmic order, for it is only by recognizing and maintaining his contact with the invisible, divine energies of God as they are manifested in the phenomena and actions of the created world that he is able to exceed his ephemeral role and realize his full, divine nature, that is, the grace of deification. The prophetic, Hesychast view of deification, as Meyendorff points out, was given powerful, authentic expression in the nineteenth century in the works of Russian writers such as Nikolai Gogol, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Leo Tolstoy, Alexei Khomiakov and Vladimir Solovyov. 138 j- j - j_s reflected, for example, in Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov through the character of Father Zosima: God took the seeds from the different worlds and sowed them on this earth and His garden grew up, and everything came up, that could come up, but what has grown, lives and is alive only by the feeling of its contact with other mysterious worlds; if this feeling grows weak or is destroyed in you, then that which has grown in you also dies.-*-39 In this passage, Dostoevsky articules the Orthodox doctrine of deification "in a nutshell," that is, that the fullness of human existence is realized at a level of reality which is beyond the visible world, i.e., the level of existence at which God's energies can be 172 discerned; and further, that this reality can be penetrated only through constant responsiveness to and involvement in the interdependent whole of the cosmic structure. Moreover, Smith points out that this emphasis on the interrelatedness of things permeates all Orthodox thought: All Christians accept this doctrine that all are 'members one of another,1 but while matters of degree are notoriously difficult to determine, it seems safe to say that the Eastern Church has taken it more seriously than either Roman Catholicism or Protestantism. Each Christian is working out his salvation with the rest of the Church, not individually to save his own soul. A saying has been preserved in the Russian branch of Eastern Orthodoxy: 'A man can be damned alone, but he can only be saved with others.' The Eastern Church goes even further; it takes seriously St. Paul's theme■of the entire universe as 'groaning and in travail' as it awaits redemption. Not only is the destiny of the individual bound up with the entire Church; he is responsible for helping to sanctify the entire world of nature and history. The welfare of everything in creation is affected to some degree by what each individual contributes to or detracts from it. 140 This view implies a critical relationship between individual identity and cosmic identity, and thus suggests the possibility of the same fusion of subject 173 and object as well as the same flexibility of spatial boundaries which we have noted in agrarianism and in the zadruga. Thus, Orthodox spirituality can be said to be compatible with, and indeed, would appear to reinforce the mode of spatial organization promoted by those institutions. The doctrinal tradition of the Orthodox Church also differs from that of Western Christianity in that it has been promulgated not through formal religious instruction, but rather at the liturgical level. In Ernst Benz’ words, "In the view of the Orthodox Church, the liturgy is the proper place for dogma, not theological summas and textbooks."141 indeed, for the Orthodox, religion is primarily a liturgical experience. As Ware writes: The Orthodox approach to religion is fundamentally a liturgical approach, which understands doctrine in the context of divine worship: it is no coincidence that the word ’Orthodoxy' should signify alike right belief and right worship, for the two things are inseparable. . . . Orthodoxy sees man above all else as a liturgical creature who is most truly himself when he glorifies God, and who finds his perfection and self-fulfillment in worship. Into the Holy Liturgy which expresses their faith, the Orthodox peoples have poured their whole religious experience. It is the Liturgy which has inspired their best poetry, art and music. Among the Orthodox, the 174 Liturgy has never become the preserve of the learned and the clergy, as it tended to be in the medieval west, but it remained popular— the common possession of the whole Christian people.1^2 Consequently, although he is generally not formally schooled in religious doctrine, the Orthodox Christian, whether intellectual or illiterate, learns and internalizes the basic tenets of his religion through the vehicle of the liturgical tradition. Since it is primarily through the medium of the liturgy that the Orthodox learns what Helene Iswolsky calls his "mystical and moral theology,"143 this medium must authentically and effectively interpret the Church's doctrinal "agenda." As we have seen, the primary concern of this agenda is union with God through awareness of and participation in his invisible, divine energies. Hence, it is the task of the liturgical tradition to create a spiritual environment conducive to union with God, an environment which gives access to that invisible other world of the spirit in which God's energies repose. However, as Hugh Wybrew remarks, since man is a creature of the material world, he must attain to the spiritual world through material means: But we are incapable of apprehending this world [the spiritual] directly: it is communicated to us by means of 17 symbols. The divine mystery, which is one and spiritual, is revealed to us through what is multiple and material. So in the celebration of the sacraments the visible and tangible rites are the image of spiritual realities. From the multiplicity of the sign, the human spirit can rise to the unifying vision of the O n e . 144 Thus, the individual is drawn into the realm of the spiritual through the symbolism of the liturgical arts. For this reason, as Fotis Kontoglou writes, "In an Orthodox church, everything— architecture, iconography, psalmody, and so on— must remind one of a world different from the material o n e . "145 Furthermore, this world is not regarded as a consequence of earthly existence, nor as an escape from it, but as the completion of it— "what it can be," that is, through the fusion of the terrestrial and celestial realms. In Gervase Mathew’s view, "The other world is conceived not merely as consecutive on this [world] but primarily as coincident with it."146 All of the liturgical forms— the litanies, the hymns, the rituals, the ornaments, the priests' vestments, the icons, candles, incense, and even the architecture of the church building— collaborate to facilitate the individual's entrance into that world, acting, in Leonid Ouspensky's words, as "instruments of the knowledge of God": Architecture, painting, music poetry cease to be forms of art, each following in its own way, independently of the others, in search of appropriate effects, and become parts of a single liturgic whole which by no means diminishes their significance, but implies in each case renunciation of an individual role, of self-assertion. From forms of art with separate aims, they all become transformed into varied means for expressing, each in its own domain, one and the same thing— the essence of the Church. In other words, they become various instruments of the knowledge of God. Nor are these art forms merely objects of contemplation but living material centers, bristling with the divine energies of God. As Lossky writes: An icon or a cross does not exist simply to direct our imagination during our prayers. It is a material centre in which there- reposes an energy, a divine' force, which unites itself to human art. Likewise, the sign of the cross, holy water, the words of Scripture read in the course of the divine office, the ecclesiastical chant, the ornaments of the church, incense and lighted candles are all symbols in the realistic sense of the word: material signs of the presence of the spiritual world. Ritual symbolism is more than a representation addressed to the senses in order to remind us of spiritual realities. The word anamnhsi does not mean commemoration simply; rather does it denote an initiation into a mystery, the revelation of a reality which is always present in the Church.148 177 The liturgical arts enhance the possiblity of this revelation by establishing a timeless, otherworldly atmosphere in such a way as to compel the worshipper's immediate involvement in that other reality, evoking in him a sense of experiencing rather than merely commemorating it. In Mathew's words: All Byzantine religion centered round the performance of the Leitourgia conceived as a sacred drama,* not a commemoration but a re enactment. The infinity of Godhead taking flesh had given the Incarnation a reality that pierced through time and s p a c e . 1^9 The phenomenon of timelessness is effected in part by the sense of antiquity which characterizes the Orthodox liturgical celebration. This is a result of the Church's determination to perpetuate its religious tradition, whole and uncorrupted. The Eastern Church has scrupulously preserved the liturgical rites and practices as prescribed by the Seven Ecumenical Synods,150 and indeed, Meyendorff points out that attempts to implement even minor changes in the liturgical format have often resulted in great discord, and in some cases, in actual schisms.151 Panagiotis Bratsiotis and Georges Florovsky contend that this "changelessness" is the most distinctive characteristic of Orthodox worship, and that it constitutes "a sense of 178 living continuity with the Church of ancient times."152 The perpetuity and universality of the Eastern rite is all the more remarkable given the diversity of cultures and the often tumultous individual histories of the various Orthodox peoples. Yet, as Ware acknowledges, the liturgical tradition has survived relatively intact: Orthodox history is marked outwardly by a series of sudden breaks. . . . Yet these events, while they have transformed the external appearance of the Orthodox world, have never broken the inward continuity of the Orthodox Church. The thing that first strikes a stranger on encountering Orthodoxy is usually its air of antiquity, its apparent changelessness. He finds that the Orthodox still baptize by threefold immersion, as in the primitive Church; they still bring babies and small children to receive Holy Communion; in the Liturgy the deacon still cries out: 'The doors! The doors!'— recalling the early days when the church's entrance was jealously guarded and none but members of the Christian family could attend the family worship; the Creed is still recited without any additions.153 To participate in the Liturgy, then, is to take part in a complex of rituals which has remained essentially the same for well over a millennium. Entering therein, one leaves the modern, material world outside, and in a very real sense, transcends temporal, profane existence. 179 While the timeless, otherworldly quality of the liturgical environment is suggested by all of the liturgical arts, it is particularly striking in the poetic forms, that is, in the hymnody and in the text of the Divine Liturgy itself. Orthodox ecclesiastical poetry constantly projects us into another world. In the Liturgy of the Presanctified, for instance, we find: Now the celestial powers are present with us and worship invisibly: For the King of glory enters in. Behold the mystical sacrifice is brought forth, perfect and complete. With faith and love we draw near that we may become partakers of eternal life.154 And the sixth century "Hymn of the Cherubim" similarly instructs us to attend to the world beyond the visible: Let us, who mystically represent the Cherubim and sing to the Life-giving Trinity the thrice-holy hymn, all earthly cares now lay aside that we may receive the King of All, invisibly upborne by the angelic hosts.155 Orthodox ecclesiastical poetry articulates in organic language doctrinal concepts which cannot otherwise be expressed to the faithful. As Savas J. Savas comments: It is a fact (unobjectionable) that the hymns of the Orthodox Church, in spite of their ancient language, inspire, uplift and teach the 180 Orthodox Christians and other listening faithful of various confessions. More importantly, the dogmatic content of some of the hymns conveys the most precise and most accurate formulation of Orthodox teaching. . . . The deeper dogmatic truths are taught to the faithful through these unique verses; indeed, to otherwise expose these truths a great theological mind would be required. 1565 In this aim, the Church uses a wealth of images to express its doctrinal concepts so that even the most uneducated worshipper can grasp and assimilate its teachings. Frequently, this imagery presents the juxtaposition of opposites. These polar pairs manifest the reflection of one in the other, implying that apparent opposites are in fact projections of a single entity located on a higher plane of reality. This technique demonstrates what Alan Watts has called the "myth of polarity," that is, that polar opposites are in fact inseparable opposites--as in the symbol of yin/yang, the primordial pair— because explicit opposition always conceals implicit unity. ^57 Examples of this technique abound in the Troparions and Kontakions, a series of concise, liturgical chants which celebrate various feast days of the Church calendar.^® In the Christmas troparion, for example, the image of the star is both end and means, acting as a vehicle of 181 transformation which shifts popular belief from astrology to Christianity; similarly, Christ, the "Sun of Justice," both "rises to" and "comes from on high": Thy nativity, 0 Christ our God, has shed upon the world the light of knowledge; through it, those who had been worshippers of stars have learned from a star to worship Thee, 0 Sun of Justice, and to recognize in Thee the One who rises to and who comes from on h i g h . 9 The Christmas kontakion presents a similar example: Today the Virgin gives birth to him who is beyond substance, and the earth offers a cave to the Inaccessible.1^0 This interplay of opposites expresses one of the basic tenets of Eastern Orthodoxy, i.e., the belief in the fundamental unity of the cosmic structure, a unity which is reflected in the symmetrical interdependency of all things. Moreover, as the poetry in subsequent chapters will demonstrate, this vision of cosmic order has proven to be an important theme in modern Serbian surrealist texts. The liturgical language itself, which has changed relatively little through the centuries, 161 gives the Liturgy an ancient flavor, while the use of the present tense simultaneously evokes a sense of 182 immediacy. At Christmas, for instance, we hear, "Christ is [now] being born. Glorify H i m ! "162 And on Great Friday before Easter: "Today is being hung upon wood he who suspended earth upon the waters."163 The sense of immediacy in the Great Friday service is intensified by the recreation of the crucifixion and vigil of the body of Christ, and on the next day, Great Saturday, when, during the morning service, the priest comes from behind the altar area and announces, "Christ is risen!" as though he has just heard the news a moment ago. Through this constant merging of present and past, one has the sense of participating in eternal, mystical events; existence no longer seems to be subject to the measure of time. While the poetry of the Church seeks to disclose another world through verbal language, its iconographical art promotes this disclosure through visual language. The Byzantine view of art, writes D. Talbot Rice, diverges radically from that of the West: [W]here the western artists sought variety, the Byzantines adhered to set themes and changed minutiae only; where western artists aimed at realism, the Byzantines employed symbolism; where western art was finite in its ends, Byzantines sought the infinite. Again in technique, where western artists modelled by means of shading and chiaroscuro, the Byzantines put on 183 highlights in the form of subtle colour reflexes, and where western artists used colours that imitated the shades of nature, the Byzantines used rather those that tended to intensify the unworldly nature of their subject matter. The essence of the Orthodox iconographical tradition is, in Baggley's view, "to make visible that which could not be perceived by the ordinary senses, and create a way into the realm of transfigured humanity."165 The purpose of both panel icons and frescoes, then, is to act as a contact point between two realities, or as Benz remarks, as ”a kind of window between the earthly and the celestial worlds. 66 This is what Constantine Cavarnos describes as the anagogic function of icons: In this function of the icon, its essentially symbolic nature is manifest. An icon is not an end in itself; it is not merely an aesthetic object to be enjoyed for whatever artistic merits it possesses, but is essentially a symbol, carrying us beyond .itself. It is designed to lead us from the physical and psychophysical to the spiritual realm. . . . The Greek Fathers, who formulated the dogmas of the Orthodox Church, did not specify just how icons should be painted. They did convey, however, the basic idea of true iconography, which is that everything in the icon should be reminiscent of a realm different from the material world, and of men who have been regenerated into eternity. . . . [The icon's] mode of expression must be spiritual, that is, such as to make 184 it anaaoaic, pointing to a reality beyond the physical, lifting those who see it to a higher level of thought, feeling and consciousness, denoted by the term spiritual.167 This anagogic mode of expression is based on the Church’s position that the figures depicted in the icons— whether Christ, the mother of Christ, the prophets, apostles, martyrs, or saints— are prototypes, or to use Cavarnos’ term, "consecrated archetypes," who have transcended historical reality and have come to symbolize eternal moral and/or spiritual truths. By attending to the images of these personages who have been "regenerated into eternity," the individual establishes a communion with them and is drawn into the eternal reality which they represent, the point being that in focusing on the divine energy of the prototype, the viewer begins to identify with it (Eugene N. Trubetskoi believes that this identification is enhanced in Slavic icons by the depth of humanism or "warmth of feeling" which he contends is more pronounced than in the Greek m o d e l s ! 6 8 ) • Thus, he experiences a transformation of both consciousness and of character: In the transfiguration of the prototype, he recognizes the possibility of his own transfiguration, that is, the actualization of his own potential god-nature, or in Trubetskoi's words, "the future man-within-the- 185 church.”169 <^^3 message of all icons, then, is one and the same: "God became man so that man could become God." As one Greek Orthodox Bishop, Ephraim, writes: Secular or profane art says, 'Look. This is all that man is: an animal, an intelligent animal.' But the icon says, 'Yes, he is this. But look at this. This is what man . . . can become.'170 In order to draw the viewer into the spiritual reality of the prototype, Orthodox iconography traditionally employs various artistic techniques. The common aim of these techniques is to depict a world of essential spirituality, a world in which, as Cavarnos indicates, form and color are no longer subjected to the laws of the physical world: True iconography is intended to take us beyond anatomy and the three- dimensional world of matter to a realm that is immaterial, spaceless, timeless— the realm of the spirit, of eternity. And hence the forms and colors are not those that one customarily observes around him, but have something unworldly about them. The iconographer does not endeavor to give the illusion of material reality, a photographic likeness of men, mountains, trees, animals, buildings, and so on. He gives a schematic representation of these, leaving out everything that is not essential. He retains details only if they are necessary.171 186 One such method for achieving this aim is the inversion of perspective, which, as Baggley remarks, has the effect of drawing the beholder into the reality of the iconographical event: In much post-Renaissance Western painting, the lines of perspective lead into the distance to converge at some point in infinity, the size of people represented decreasing the further back they are in the picture. In many icons things are quite different, through the use of inverse perspective; when this technique is used, the lines of perspective are reversed, to converge not at some distant point in the scene, but in front of the icon in the eyes of the beholder; one is left feeling that the beholder is essential to the completion of the icon. The essence of the exercise has been to establish a communion between the event or persons represented in the icon and those who stand before it, to 'make present' to another person what is presented in the icon. . . . Our own perspectives have to be changed as we enter into the realms that the icons open up for us; communication takes place in the stillness, and the leaving behind of the normal external world leads to the cosmos transfigured in the light of Christ.172 The sense of otherworldliness is also conveyed by a type of distortion which is a recurring feature of icons. This technique frequently causes the human form to appear strangely disproportionate. However, Cavarnos 187 points out that the purpose of such distortions is to dematerialize the figure or event represented in order to illuminate its essential spiritual beauty: The head, for instance, may be depicted disproportionately large, in order that the face, which is the most expressive part of the body, may be seen more distinctly. Usually, the eyes are depicted larger than they normally are, in order to express more effectively certain qualities which are thought of as spiritual. Also, the nose is made rather thin, the mouth small, the fingers thin and elongated, in order to present an external expression of the transfigured state of the saint, whose senses have been refined, spiritualized. The body is often elongated, as a further means of 'dematerialization1^3 The setting of the icon, too, is often subject to such distortions. Traditionally, iconographical settings are represented only symbolically or schematically— a stair like rock may suffice for a mountain, a single branch for a tree, e t c . 1^4— for as Ouspensky remarks, although the background of the icon links the event with a particular historical location, ’ ’the action is not enclosed in or limited to a particular place, just as, while being manifested in time, it is not limited to a certain time."175 However, through the use of distortion, the elements of setting, however sparse, succeed in conveying the impression of a wholly other 188 reality. Writing about the iconographical representation of buildings, for example, Ouspensky asserts that the use of distortion in architectural settings presents one of the most indispensable means of evoking the world beyond the visible realm: [A]rchitecture, both in form and grouping is often contrary to human logic and in separate details is emphatically illogical. Doors and windows are often pierced in wrong places, their size does not correspond to their functions, etc. . . . The meaning of this phenomenon is that architecture is the only element in the icon with the help of which it is possible to show clearly that the action taking place before our eyes is outside the laws of human logic, outside the laws of earthly existence. Indeed, the apparent "irrationality" of the iconographical setting is so striking that, in Baggley's estimation, it "often has more in common with something from the dream state of the unconscious mind than with anything likely to be seen in even the most exotic parts of the Byzantine or Russian worlds. Certainly many of the Serbian medieval frescoes bear out Baggley's observation: Buildings are suspended in mid-air ("The Destruction of Sodom," Decani, 14th c.); human figures are depicted as though sprouting out of bushes ("The Dormition of the Virgin," Studenica, 14th c.); and 189 Babylon is personified in a female figure riding through the sea in a chariot drawn by a sea beast ("The Last Judgment," Gracanica, 14th c.).-^® Finally, the use of color in Orthodox iconography also contributes to its otherworldly quality. Until the fifteenth century— at least until the fall of Constantinople— the Byzantine use of color was an almost esoteric craft. Color was regarded as a vehicle of transformation, that is, a means to make the invisible visible, and the success of this transformation was determined by the intensity and range of the medium. Formulated during the early Christian period, this view was based on the neo-platonist principle which held that the light of the physical world is the reflection of the divine energy of the spiritual realm. Hence, writes Baggley, "The breaking up of light into colour, its constituent elements, symbolised the principle of unity within multiplicity. ® The palette of Byzantine icon painters was derived almost exclusively from minerals— azurite and lapis lazuli, for example— which produced hard, luminous colors, colors which Cavarnos describes as "non-natural and mystical."^®® The minerals were hand ground and prepared in an egg tempera, a technique which was developed in the eighth century (before that time, a wax encaustic was used) and has survived up to the present time, although pigments are now derived primarily from ochre. The same luminosity was achieved in the frescoes through the lime binder, although Cavarnos reports that egg tempera was sometimes used to finish the frescoes, as well, because the plaster often dried before they could be completed.^®1 jn Baggley's view, the role of color in Orthodox iconography— insofa as it is used as a vehicle of transformation— approache an alchemical undertaking: [I]n the great centres of learning in the period up to the fifteenth century Byzantine and Slav painters achieved a mastery over color that not even the Impressionists surpassed. Such theories as the 'law of complementary tones' were fully understood and the most dazzling and brilliant effects of colour were achieved from such materials as lapis lazuil, terre vertef and the 'flaming vermillion' made from mercuric sulphide. The suspension of such colours in the egg medium and laid over a gesso or gilt-gesso ground, allowed the light to pass through the materials and be reflected into the eye in a series of events that are almost alchemical in that they demonstrate a transformation of matter, or rather, of vibrations of light. The transformation of matter by the finer vibrations of light can be regarded as more than the ultimate symbol: it is a demonstration of the actions of divine energy manifested on the physical plane. 191 From this point of view, it is not surprising that so many Serbian poets whose craft is based on the alchemy of the word, have been inspired by the chromatic alchemy incorporated in the Orthodox iconographical tradition. In conclusion, while one can only speculate, it seems at least plausible that a culture of which Eastern Orthodoxy has, for centuries, been an integral part, would be open to, and in any case, would certainly be familiar with the concept of another, fuller reality, a reality which transcends the temporal and spatial limits of the physical world, and yet is accessible within it. One can further conjecture that it would be an almost unconscious effort for such a culture to expand this concept to include secular life. Thus, Orthodoxy, together with the other institutions discussed in this chapter, may be considered as one of the primary cultural forces which fostered in the Serbian world view the awareness of that other, fuller reality. Moreover, the attitudes toward nature and ancestors which were promoted by agarianism and the zadruga, respectively, are also reinforced by the so- called ’ ’double-faith" of the Church. This aspect of Orthodoxy, which will be referred to in other chapters, refers to the characteristic integration of elements of pagan Slavic religion, primarily nature worship and 192 ancestor veneration, into the Christian tradition.183 As we follow the development of Serbian surrealism in subsequent chapters, we can observe the effects of these cultural forces as they are manifested in contemporary Serbian poetics. In doing so, I believe it will become evident to the reader that the "marvelous creations" of Serbia's past were not "swallowed up" in their entirety, and that the essence of their meaning has been preserved intact and reconstituted in the rich synthesis of modern Serbian surrealism. 193 Endnotes for Chapter II ■^Traian Stoianovich, A Study in Balkan Civilization (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1967), pp.2 3-2 4 . 2 Although it is popularly believed to have lasted 500 years, the duration of the Ottoman occupation is, in fact, difficult to establish precisely. The Serbian defeat at Kosovo Polje, which historians agree was a decisive one, occurred in 138 9, but it was not until 1459 that the last bastion of the Serbian state, Smederevo, fell into Turkish hands. The First Insurrection, which was led by Karadorde, dates from 1804 to 1813, and the Second Insurrection from 1815 to 1816. MiloS Obrenovic, the leader of the second up rising, secured certain concessions from the Turkish vizer, Marasli Ali Pasa, in 1815, and as a result, some degree of autonomy was achieved in 1816. But Serbia was still a "pasalik" ("territory") of the Ottoman Empire. Obrenovic declared himself Prince of Serbia in 1817. His rule was not a popular one, however, and was accompanied by several rebellions, one of the most notable of which was -Bak's Rebellion in 1825. With the help of the Russians, Serbian autonomy was finally realized in late 1830 by an official agreement signed by both Turks and Serbs. Under this compact, Serbia regained much of its original territory. However, it was not until 1912, when the Serbs defeated the Turks in the Second Balkan War, that Serbia's southern lands--from Kosovo southward to the Greek border— were restored to her. This was affirmed by the Treaty of Bucharest on August 10, 1913. Hence, the ambiguity about the length of the Ottoman subjugation is under standable. For a detailed account of the events lead ing to the complete autonomy of the Serbian state, see, for instance, Michael Boro Petrovich's A History of Modern Serbia: 1804-1918, 2 Vols. (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1976). 3 f Vladimir Dvornikovic, Karakterologia Jugoslovena (Belgrade: Drzavna Stamparija, 1939), p.307. 4 Wayne S. Vucimch, "The Nature of Balkan Society under Ottoman Rule," Slavic Review, Vol. XXI, No. 4 (1962), p.611. 194 5 . . . Alex N. Dragnich, "Serbian Culture m Kosovo m Past and Present Times," Serbian Studies, Vol. 4, No. 4 (1988), p.74. Michael Boro Petrovich, op. cit., Vol. I, p.7. 7 Philip Sherrard, The Wound of Greece (London: Rex Collings, 1978), pp.60-61. g Robert Redfield identifies the holistic world view— the integration of the sacred and the ordinary-- as a hallmark of folk cultures. See his The Folk Culture of Yucatan (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1941) and The Primitive World and Its Transformation (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1969). 9 Mircea Eliade, The Myth of the Eternal Return, or Cosmos and History, trans. Willard R. Trask (Princeton: Princeton University, 1974), pp.xiii-xiv. "^Robert Redfield, "The Social Organization of Tradition," The Far Eastern Quarterly, Vol. 15, No. 1 (1955), pp.13-21. 11Stoianovich, pp.184-185. 12Ibid., pp.183-184. 13 . . . / Andrei Simic, "Interpersonal Relationships Among The South Slavs: Problems in Cross-Cultural Perception," Serbian Studies, Vol. 4 , No. 4 (1988) , pp. 5 2-5 3. 14 Edward T. Hall, The Dance of Life: The Other Dimension of Time (Garden City: Anchor Press, 1983); and with Mildred Reed.Hall, Hidden Differences: Studies in International Communication (Garden City: Anchor Press, 1987), first published in Hamburg by Stern, 1983. 15 Hall and Hall, Hidden Differences (Anchor Edition), p.17. ■^Hall and Hall, Hidden Differences (Stern Edition), p.23. 195 17 Eliade, Eternal Return, p.147. 18Ibid., pp.150-151. 19Ibid., pp.141-142. 2 0 Ibid., p.157. 21Ibid., p.158. 22Ibid., pp.39-40. 23 Ibid., p.43. This event is also reported by Paul R. Radosavljevich Who Are the Slavs?: A Contribution to Race Psychology, 2 Vols. (Boston: The Gorham Press, 1919), Vol. I, p.361. 24 . Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Harcourt Brace and World, 1959), p.117. 25Ibid., p.165. 2 6 Eliade, Eternal Return, pp.3-4. 27 * See Lucien Levy Bruhl's Primitive Mentality, trans. Lilian A. Clare (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966); Les fonctions mentales dans les societes inferieures (Paris: Alcan, 1910); and The Notebooks on Primitive Mentality, trans. Peter Riviere (New York: Harper and Row, 19 75). 2 8 Levy-Bruhl, Notebooks, op. cit., pp.17-18. 29Ibid., pp.164-165. 3 0 ^ Robin Horton, "Levy-Bruhl, Durkheim and the Scientific Revolution," Modes of Thought: Essays on Thinking in Western and Non-Western Societies, ed. Robin Horton and Ruth Finnegan (London: Faber and Faber, 1973), p.253. 196 31 Carl Gustav Jung,. The Collected Works, 17 Vols., trans. R.F.C. Hull (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), Vol. 13, p.45. 3 2 Levy-Bruhl, Notebooks, pp.7 6-77. ^Horton, pp.295-296. 34 . Michel Carrouges, Andre Breton and the Basic Concepts of Surrealism, trans. Maura Prendergast (University, Alabama: University of Alabama Press, 1974), pp.11-17. 35 Andre Breton cited by Carrouges, pp.25-2 6. 3 6 Harold W.V. Temperley, History of Serbia (London: G. Bell and Sons, Ltd., 1919), p.56. For a background of Serbian cultural life during the medie val period, see also H.A. Gibbons' The Foundation of the Ottoman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1916); A.A. Vasiliev's History of the Byzantine Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1952); George Ostrogorsky's History of the Byzantine State, trans. Joan Hussey (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1957); M. Divic's "The Balkans: 1018-1499," The Cambridge Mediaeval History, 2 Vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966), Vol. 1, pp.519-565; and Vasa D. Mihailovich's Landmarks in Serbian Culture and History (Pittsburgh: Serbian National Federation, 1983). 3 7 The four estates were: (1)"popova kapa" ("priests' cap"); (2)"vlastela" ("great protectors") and "voin" ("professional soldiers"); (3)"sebri" ("free farmers"); and (4)"meropsi" or "kmeti" (serfs or persons of low birth), according to Stoianovich, p.126. 3 8 v Dusan's Code was modelled partially on Justinian's Code, and some historians feel that it was, in fact, an improvement of the latter, particularly in its expansion of civil law. First established in 1349, it contained. 135 articles on civil and criminal law. In 1354, Articles 136-184 were adopted, and later, Articles 185-201 were added. See Zakonik Stefana 197 Dusana cara srpskog, ed. S. Novakovic (Belgrade, 1893), and the English translation by Malcolm Burr, "The Code of Stephan Du^an: Translation and Notes," Slavic and East European Review, Vol. 28 (1950), pp.198-217, 516-39, for the Code in its entirety. See also George C. Soulis1 exhaustive work, The Serbs and Byzantium During the Reign of Tsar Stephan Du^an (1331-1355) and His Successors (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1984), for a detailed discussion of the Code. 39 Petrovich, Vol. 1, p.6. 4 0 Dragnich, p.74. 41 v Antun Barac, Jugoslovenska knjizevnost (Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1959), pp.23-28. 42 v For a detailed account of Dusan's reign, see Soulis, op. cit. 43 The most powerful of these contenders were Simeon, the half-brother of Tsar Du^an, whom DuSan had designated Governor of Epirus, Acarnania and Aetolia, and the brothers Uglesa and Vukasin, who had also been favored by DuSan's court and ruled the area between the Danube and Serres in southeast Macedonia; Vukasin became king in 13 66, apparently with Tsar Uros' appro val. Other independent Serbian leaders were Knez (Prince) (sometimes called Tsar) Lazar, ruler of the Morava region in central Serbia, who was elected Knez by the court and clergy in 13 71 and Tsar by a "sabor" ("council") convened at Pec in 1375; Vuk Brankovic, Lazar's son-in-law, who, according to some accounts, betrayed Lazar at the Battle of Kosovo; Kraljevic (Prince) Marko, son of King Vukasin; Stefan Tvrtko, King of Bosnia; Nikola Altomanovic, £upan (Supreme Leader) of the western coastal territory from south of Ragusa^ to the area east of the Drina river; and the Balsici, dynastic rulers of Zeta, the area now known as Crna Gora or Montenegro. Soulis provides a lengthy account of the infighting between these leaders. ^The despots Uglesa and Vukasin led their armies against the Turks at the Battle of Marica, and were joined there by Bulgarian and Hungarian forces; both brothers perished in the battle. Knez Lazar led the 198 Battle of Kosovo, and perished there together with his son-in-law, Vuk Brankovic; also participating in the battle was the army of King Tvrtko led by Vlatko Vukovic, and the army of Ban John Horvat, a leader of the Croatian Neopolitan party. It is believed that Kraljevic Marko, who had previously succumbed to the Turks and had become their vassal, fought at Kosovo on the Turkish side. For accounts of these battles, see, for example, Soulis, Temperley and Ostrogorsky. 45 Petrovich, Vol. I, p.7. 46 Leften G. Stavrianos, "The Influence of the West on the Balkans," The Balkans in Transition, ed. Charles Jelavich and Barbara Jelavich (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1963), p.217. 47 Vucinich, "The Nature of Balkan Society," p.636. 48 These practices are discussed m Vucinich's "The Nature of Balkan Society," pp.636-637, and in his "Some Aspects of the Ottoman Legacy," Jelavich and Jelavich, The Balkans in Transition, pp.81-114; and in George C. Arnakis' "The Role of Religion in Balkan Nationalism" also in Jelavich and Jelavich, pp.115-144. 4 9 Marija Gimbutas, The Slavs (London: Thames and Hudson, 1971), pp.32-34. The question of the homeland of the Slavs remains open to question. However, as Gimbutas indicates, it is most widely held to be either the Oder-Vistula area of Germany and Poland, or the western Ukraine, or the whole Ukraine area north of the Black Sea (p.17). 50 Herodotus, The Histories (Middlesex: Penguin, 1972) Book IV, 17-18, pp.~277. In The Slavs: Their Early History and Civilization (Boston: American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1956), Francis Dvornik indicates that the "Scythian Farmers" as well as the Nevri and Budini tribes also mentioned by Herodotus, were all probably Slavic peoples (p.13); and Gimbutas writes that modern anthropological evidence supports this view (p.47). 199 51 Lazar Lazarovich-Hrebelianovich, The Servian People: Their Pash, Glory and Their Destiny (New York: Charles Scribner and Sons, 1910), p.206. 52 Teraperley, p.10 and pp.86-87. 53 . ' . . . Andrei Simic, "Urbanization and Modernization m Yugoslavia: Adaptive and Maladaptive Aspects of Traditional Culture," Urban Life in Mediterranean Europe: Anthropological Perspectives, ed. Michael Kenny and David I. Kertzer (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1983), p.205. 54 Joel M. Halpern and Barbara Kerewsky Halpern, A Serbian Village in Historical Perspective (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1972), p.15. 55 v Dusko Doder, The Yugoslavs (New York: Random House, 1978), p.64. 5 6 Mircea Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion, trans. Rosemary Sheed (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1958), p.331. 57 Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers, The Power of Myth (New York: Doubleday, 1988), p.207. 58 ' Jovan Cvijic, "Studies in Jugoslav Psychology (I)," Slavonic Review, Vol. 9 (1931), p.379. 59 Leopold von Ranke cited by the Halperns m A Serbian Village in Historical Perspective, pp.11-12. 6 0 Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion, p.398. 61 In "A Case Study from Rural Serbia (Yugoslavia)," Program in Soviet and East European Studies Occasional Papers Series No. 20 (Amherst: University of Massachusetts, 1989), Joel Halpern and Andrei Simic discuss the complex relationship between cyclical and linear times which has developed in Yugoslavia as a result of the modernization process. 200 6 2 See, for example, Stoianovich, op. cit., for a background of these traditional seasonal festivals. 6 3 Stoianovich, pp.66-67. 64 The "prototype" of the Saint Demetrius’ Day fair is still held yearly in Thessaloniki, where Saint Demetrius is the patron saint. ^Stoianovich, pp. 155-157. 6 6 / Jan Machal, Mythology of All Races, 13 Vols. (Boston: Marshall Jones Company, 1918), Vol. Ill, p.237. 67v' ^ . f S. Kulisic, P.Z. Petrovic, and N. Pantelic, Srpski mitolo^ki recnik (Belgrade: Nolit, 1970), p.205. 6 8 Milan G. Popovich, "The Religion of the Ancient Slavs and the Features of It Which Survived in the Christianity of the Serbs," diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1939, p.244. See also Kulisic et al. and Sir James Frazer's The Golden Bough (New York: MacMillan, 1958) for discussions of Saint George's Day customs. 69 Ibid., p.245. The "cross" which Popovich men tions is undoubtedly the "potka," the "sacred space" marker of the community which Stoianovich describes: "Embracing three distinct meanings— marker, taboo, and penalty--the potka spells out to preliterate folk: 'I am the ancestral demon of this community or family; do not go and do not allow your animals to go beyond the point where I stand because I have the magical power to inflict evil and harm upon those who do not heed the sacred taboo. The community in turn will impose a penalty or fine upon anyone who offends me or disre gards my inviolate instructions.' The potka is doubt less an ancient South Slavic institution, and an ex plicit reference to it occurs in the mid-fourteenth century code of Emperor Stephan Dusan, where it pos sesses the sense of fine or penalty. The material from which a potka is made and the form it assumes vary in time and space. A tree, branches (especially of the hazelnut) stuck in a heap of earth, a post, or a mere heap of earth are the most common materials in the zone 201 of central Balkan culture— Serbia, western Bulgaria, Macedonia, and adjacent territories in Albania, Montenegro, and Vojvodina. . . . In most areas, the potka assumes several forms, but one form generally prevails in each region. The dominant form in the Morava area of southern Serbia, for example, is a post or a pillar with a cross carved on it" (pp.41-42). 70 Ibid., p.24 6v This concurs with the views of Stoianovich, Kulisic et al., and Frazer, all of whom interpret Saint George's Day as a remnant of the Kouros cult of the resurrected male youth. 71 Eliade, Eternal Return, pp.157-158. 72 Stoianovich, p.185. 73 The term "zadruga" was first used by Vuk Karadzic, who included it in his Serbian Dictionary, published in 1818. Before that time, the communal household was popularly referred to simply as "kuca" ("house"), or in some areas as "zajednica" or "celjad" ("band" or "lot"). See, for instance, Milenko S. Filipovic's article, "Zadruga (Kucna zadruga)" in Communal Families in the Balkans: The Zadruga, ed. Robert F. Byrnes (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 1976), pp.268-279, for derivation of the term. 74 See, for example, Gimbutas, pp.133-14 0, and Dvornik, pp.57-59, for the history of the institution of the zadruga in Slavic culture. 75 / According to Andrei Simic m The Peasant Urbanites: A Study of Rural-Urban Mobility m Serbia (New York: Seminar Press, 1973), though still in existence, the zadrugas of today have decreased in size— usually limited to 20 members— and are most prevalent "in western Serbia among the Albanian minority, though they are not unknown in the region of Belgrade" (p.51). 7 6 Halpern and Halpern, p.17. 202 "^Filipovic, Byrnes, Communal Families, p.272. 7 8 Philip E. Mosely, "The Distribution of the Zadruga Within Southeastern Europe," Byrnes, Communal Families, p.58. 79 Vucinich, "The Nature of Balkan Society," p.608. 8 0 For a particularly vivid, detailed discussion of zadruga life, see Wayne S. Vucinich1s first-hand account, "A Zadruga in Bile^a Rudine," Byrnes, Communal Families, pp.162-186. 81 s Simic, "Interpersonal Relationships," p.41. Additionally, several other factors unwrote the unity of the zadruga system: (1)exogamy--all wives were taken from other unrelated zadrugas; (2)the slava-- celebration of a common saint as a spiritual patron; (3)an origin myth about the founding of the zadruga; (4)a common zadruga or clan name usually derived fromf the given name of the eponymic founder, e.g., Markovic from Marko, Budisavljevic5 from Bude, etc.; and (5)common holding of property. 8 2 There are numerous excellent studies on the effects of the zadruga on Serbian culture. In addi tion to those mentioned in the text, a few others should be noted. These include Vera Erlich's "The South Slav Patriarchal Family," Sociological Review, No. 32 (1940), pp.224-241 and Family in Transition: A Study of 300 Yugoslav Villages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966); Joel Halpern and Barbara Halpern's A Serbian Village (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958) and Selected Papers on A Serbian Village: Social Structure as Reflected by History, Demography, and Oral Tradition (Boston: University- of Massachusetts Press, 1977); Joel Halpern and David Anderson's "The Zadruga: A Century of Change," Anthropologica, No. 12 (1970), pp.8 3-97; Eugene A. Hammel's Alternate Social Structures and Ritual Relations in the Balkans (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1968), "The Zadruga as Process," Household and Family in Past Time, ed. P. Laslett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), pp.335-373, and "Reflections on the Zadruga," 203 Ethnologia Slavica, 7 (1975), pp.141-151; and, Philip E. Mosely's "Adaptation for Survival: The Varzic Zadruga," Slavonic and East European Review, No. 21 (1943), pp.147-173." 8 3 Gimbutas, p.13 6. 84 Lorelei Hailey, "Old Country Survivals in the New: An Essay on Some Aspects of Yugoslav-American Family Structure and Dynamics," Journal of Psychological Anthropology, Vol. 3, No. 2 (1980), pp.123-124. 8 5 Stoianovich, p.192. ^Ibid. , p. 193 . 87 f Simic, "Urbanization and Modernization," p.211. 88 f Andrei Simic, "Aging in the United States and Yugoslavia: Contrasting Models of Intergenerational Relationships," Anthropological Quarterly, Vol. 50, No. 2 (1977), pp.60-61. 8 9 ^ Lorraine Baric, "Levels of Change in Yugoslav Kinship," Social Organization: Essays Presented to Raymond Firth, ed. Maurice Freedman (Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company, 1967), p.10. 90 . . Philip E. Mosely, "The Peasant Family: The Zadruga, or Communal Joint-Family in the Balkans, and Its Recent Evolution," The Cultural Approach to History, ed. Caroline Ware (New York: Columbia University Press, 1940), p.108. 91 Hailey, p.126. 92 For instance, my maternal grandfather, who immi grated to the United States in 1908 and returned to his native country only once briefly in 1960, continued to give his family in Yugoslavia financial support until his death in 1978. Furthermore, research indicates 204 that this is not an isolated example, and that this type of sustained support is the case with more recent immigrants as well. See, for example, Baric or Hailey. 93 f Simic, "Aging in the United States and Yugoslavia," p.60. 94 Halpern and Halpern, p.113. 95 For a discussion of the pre-Christian derivation of the "krsna slava" custom, see, for example, Popovich, pp.236-239; Kuli^ic et al., pp.175-178; and Andrei Simic's "The Serbian Slava," The World and I, June 1989, pp.680-689. 96 . . f Simic, The Peasant Urbanites, p.117. 97 . Milovan Dallas, Land Without Justice, trans. Michael Boro Petrovich (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1958), p.6. 98 / Andrei Simic, "Machismo and Cryptomatriarchy: Power, Affect and Authority in the Contemporary Yugoslav Family," Ethos, Vol. 11, Nos.1/2 (1983), p.70. 99 / Machal, p.23 9. For other in-depth discussions of ancestor worship among the ancient Slavs, the primary sources are V.J. Mansikka's Die Religion der Ostslaven (Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 19 22) and Lubor Niederle's Manuel de l'Antiquite slave, 2 Vols. (Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honore Champion, 1923-1926). Works which deal specifically with ancestor worship in Serbian culture are Constantin J. Jirecek's Istorija Srba, 4 Vols., trans. Jovan Radonic (Belgrade: Geca Kon, 1922-1924) and Veselin Cajkanovic's Studije iz religije i folklora, Knjiga 13 (Belgrade: Srpska Kraljevska Akademija, 1924); and Kulisic et al. also includes many entries which address the topic. 100^ • , Popovich, passim. 205 101 ' . Milenko S. Filipovic, "Folk Religion Among the Orthodox Population in Eastern Yugoslavia," Harvard Slavic Studies, Vol. 2 (1954), p.374. 102^ ' Cajkanovic, Studije l religije i folklora, op. cit., passim; see also his O srpskom vrhovnom bogu (Belgrade: Srpska Kraljevska Akademija, 1941. 103o . ' c Banc, p. 5. 104 ' Simic, "Aging m the United States and Yugoslavia," p.59. 105 ' Jovan Cvijic, "Studies in Jugoslav Psychology (II)," Slavonic Review, Vol. 9 (1931), p.677. "''^Cvijic, "Studies (I)," p.381. ^■^Halpern and Simic, "A Case Study," p. 6. l^Filipovic , "Zadruga," p. 278. ■^^Simic, "Aging in the United States and Yugoslavia," p.60. ^Gimbutas, p.135. 111 See Appendix "A" for background of pagan Slavic deities. 112 Vucinich, Byrnes, Communal Families, p.177. 113 Radosavljevich, Vol. I, pp.344-345. 114 Popovich, p.242. 115Ibid., pp.238-239. *1 *1 /" ^ Simic, "Urbanization and Modernization," p.208. 206 Simic, The Peasant Urbanites, p.139. 118 Mary Edith Durham, Some Tribal Origins, Laws, and Customs-of the Balkans (New York: AMS Press, 1979), p.3 05. 119 Ibid., p.153. 120 Stavrianos, Jelavich and Jelavich, The Balkans in Transition, pp.186-187. 121 Arnakis, Jelavich and Jelavich, The Balkans m Transition, p.127. ^■^Petrovich, Vol. I, p.10. 123 Vucinich, "The Nature of Balkan Society," pp.608-609. 124 Petrovich, Vol. I, p.10. 125 John Baggley, Doors of Perception: Icons and Their Spiritual Significance (London: Mowbray, 19 87), p. 2. 12 6 Adolph von Harnack, What is Christianity? trans. W. Saunders (London: Williams and Norgate, 1901), p.238. See also Philip Sherrard's The Greek East and the Latin West: A Study in Christian Tradition (London: Oxford University Press, 1959)for a delineation of differences between Western and Eastern Christian traditions and discussion of their respective Aristotelian and neoplatonic groundings. 127 Huston Smith, The Religions of Man (New York: Harper and Row, 1965), pp.341-342. ■^^Cvijic, "Studies (I)," pp.386-387. 129 . . Vladimir Lossky, The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church, trans. Fellowship of St. Alban and St. Sergius (Crestwood, New York: St. Vladimir's Seminary Press, 1976), p.236. 207 13 0 Timothy Ware (Kallistos of Diocleia), The Orthodox Church (.Middlesex: Penguin, 1964) pp.77-7 8. 131 Alexander Schmemann, The Historical Road of Eastern Orthodoxy (Chicago: Henry Regnery Company, 1966), p.234. 132 Lossky, Mystical Theology, pp.110-111. 133 John Meyendorff, The Orthodox Church: Its Past and Its Role in the World Today, trans. John Chapin (New York: Pantheon, 1962), pp.225-226. Meyendorff notes that the concept of individual responsibility has been expressly addressed by the Encyclical of the Oriental Patriarchs to Pius IX in 1848. He also comments that this concept was addressed in depth by the nineteenth-century Russian writer, Alexei Khomiakov, and that it was articulated, as well, in Fyodor Dostoevsky's "The Legend of the Grand Inquisitor" in The Brothers Karamazov. 134 John Meyendorff, St. Gregory Palamas and Orthodox Spirituality, trans. Adele Fiske (Crestwood, New York: St. Vladimir's Seminary Press, 1974), p. 60. 135 Meyendorff, St. Gregory Palamas, p.122. 13 6 The Doctrine of Hesychasm was confirmed by the Council of Constantinople in 1351, according to Meyendorff in St. Gregory Palamas, p.132. 137 Ware, p.23 6. 13 8 Meyendorff, St. Gregory Palamas, pp.160-161. 13 9 Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. Constance Garnett (New York: New American Library, 1957), p.296. 140 Smith, pp.339-340. Smith also comments on the way in which the Orthodox concept of cosmic interde pendency informs the thinking of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, observing that this "sensitivity to the interrelatedness of lives" is embodied in their works 141 Ernst Benz, The Eastern Orthodox Church, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (Garden City: Doubleday and Company, 19 63), p.42. 142Ware, pp.271-272. 143 Helene Iswolsky, Christ m Russia (Milwaukee: Bruce Publishing Company, 1960), p.165. 144 Hugh Wybrew, The Orthodox Liturgy: The Development of the Eucharistic Liturgy in the Byzantine Rite (London: SPCK, 1989), p.91. 145 Fotis Kontoglou, Byzantine Sacred Art, trans. and ed. Constantine Cavarnos (New York: Vantage Press 1957), p.102. 146 Gervase Mathew, Byzantine Aesthetics (New York: The Viking Press, 1963), p.22. 147 Leonid Ouspensky, "The Meaning and Language of Icons," The Meaning of Icons, Leonid Ouspensky and Vladimir Lossky, trans. G.E.H. Palmer and E. Kadloubovsky (Boston: Boston Book and Art Shop, 1955), pp.32-33. 14 8 Lossky, Mystical Theology, p.189. ^Mathew, p.7. 15 0 The Ecumenical Synods (or Councils) are the ultimate administrative and theological authority of the Universal Church. The First Ecumenical Synod was convened by Constantine the Great at Nicaea in 325; subsequent Councils met in 381 (Constantinople); 431 (Ephesos); 451 (Chalcedon); 553 (Constantinople); 681 (Constantinople); and 787 (Nicaea). They were attended by the Bishops of the Church, who together defined the doctrine of the Church. Their decisions were collected as the Canons of the Church. 209 151 Meyendorff, The Orthodox Church, p.67 152 Bratsiotis and Florovsky as cited by Ware, pp.2 03-2 04. ^\are, p.203. 154 Liturgy of the Presanctified Gifts (New York: Orthodox Church in America, 1975), p.44. The Liturgy of the Presanctified is used on the weekdays of Lent when the celebration of the Divine Liturgy is for bidden; Holy Communion is received from elements conse crated at a Liturgy on the previous Saturday or Sunday--hence the term "presanctified." The cited text is sometimes called the "Hymn of the Great Entrance"; it corresponds in the Presanctified Liturgy to the "Hymn of the Cherubim" in the Divine Liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom and the Divine Liturgy of Saint Basil. 155 . . . . . Benjamin, Archbishop of Japan, ed. The Divine Liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom (New York: Alumni Association of the Russian Theological Seminary of North America, 1951), pp.76-79. This hymn immediately proceeds the "Great Entrance," a procession by which the elements to be consecrated are carried from the prothesis (a table on the left side of the altar on which the elements are prepared), into the main part of the church, and then to the altar to be consecrated. For a disussion of the significance of the rituals of the Liturgy, one of the most complete sources is still the fourteenth century work by Nicholas Cabasilas, A Commentary on the Divine Liturgy, trans. J.M. Hussey and P.A. McNulty (Crestwood, New York: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1977) . ^Savas J. Savas, Hymnology of the Orthodox Church (Washington, D.C.: University Press of America, 1977), pp.28-29. ^~^Alan Watts, The Two Hands of God: Myths of Polarity (New York: MacMillan Company, 1969), passim. 158 In A History of Byzantine Music and Hymnography (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1961), Egon Wellesz describes the structure of these chants: "The Kontakion (xovTcoiiov or x o v S & x l o v ) consists of from 210 eighteen to thirty, or even more, stanzas all struc turally alike. The single stanza is called Troparion; its length, varies from three to thirteen lines. All the Troparia are composed on the pattern of a model stanza, the Hirmus (elpu^C). A Kontakion is built either on the pattern of a Hirmus specially composed for it, or follows the metre of a Hirmus already used for another Kontakion, or group of Kontakia. At the beginning of the Kontakion stands a short Troparion, metrically and melodically independent of it: this is the Prooeraium (npootutov) or Kukulion ( k o u k o u A i o v ) , which, at a later stage, often consists of two or three stanzas. Prooemium and Kontakion are linked together by the refrain, the Ephymnium ( £ cp6 u v l o v ) , with which all the stanzas end, and by the musical mode (hxoQ)" (pp.179-180). 159 Festal Menaion (Jordanville, New York: Holy Trinity Orthodox Monastery, 1951), Part II, p.341. 16 0 Ibid., p.347. This kontakion is attributed to Romanos, 6th century. 161 The Slavic version of the Divine Liturgy is written in Church Slavonic, a language derived from the linguistic form created in the ninth century by the Greek missionairies to the Slavs, Cyril (also known as Constantine) (827-869) and Methodius (815-885). It is difficult to establish it as a linguistic standard, however, because the codification of Church Slavonic variants within the Orthodox Church community has long been the subject of dispute among scholars and theo logians. For instance, according to Grigori Dyacenko's PjepKOBHO-CJiaBHHCKHH CjiOBap’ b (Moscow, 1899) , A. Vostokov (17th c.) delineated three forms of Church Slavonic: (1)ancient— ninth to thirteenth centuries; (2)middle-- fourteenth to sixteenth centuries; and (3)new— seven teenth century; while T. Buslaev, writing two hundred years later, contended that only two periods— ancient and modern— could be identified, and that these were not distinct (pp.iii-iv). More recently, in "The Church Slavonic Question: An Overview(IX-XX Centuries)," Aspects of the Slavic Language Question, ed. Riccardo Picchio and Harvey Goldblatt (New Haven: Yale Concilium on International and Area Studies, 1984), Robert Mathiesen designates four categories of Church Slavonic: 211 1)earliest--ninth century; (.2) early--tenth to thir teenth centuries; (3)middle— fourteenth to fifteenth centuries; and (4)late--sixteenth century to the present (pp.46-47). The problem is further complicated by dialectical mixtures, as is the case in Serbia, where in the early part of the eighteenth century (approximately 1730), in an effort to preserve Eastern Orthodoxy against the propaganda efforts of the Roman Church, the Serbs requested the Russian Synod to send teachers to instruct them in Church Slavonic in the Slavo-Russian style. As a result, the "low" style of Serbian-Slavonic gradually was replaced by the "high" Russian-Slavonic form, though not entirely (See, for instance, Riccardo Picchio's "Guidelines for a Comparative Study of the Language Question among the Slavs," pp.1-42, and Radoslav Katicic's "The Making of Standard Serbo-Croatian," pp.261-295, both in Picchio and Goldblatt's text,for a discussion of these develop ments) . At the present time, Church Slavonic variants continue to be used in Slavic Orthodox churches throughout the world (Ironically, however, during the past two decades, modern Serbian has gradually been replacing Church Slavonic in Serbian churches in Yugoslavia, although Church Slavonic continues to be the standard in Serbian Orthodox services elsewhere). Thus, the language of the Church can be said to be "ancient" relative to the vernacular of any given period, thereby contributing to the sense of antiquity and otherworldliness of the liturgical environment. ^^M hh£H (Kiev: n.p., 1894) . Vol. XII, p.243. This is a hirmus of the first ode of the Christmas canon and is attributed to Saint Cosmas of Maium. 1 r o TpHQjtHfl (Moscow: Synodal Press, 1904) . The line is taken from the fifteenth antiphon of Great Friday, and is believed to have been written by Sofronios in the seventh century. 16 4 D. Talbot Rice, preface, Yugoslavia: Medieval Frescoes, D. Talbot Rice and Svetozar Radojcic^ ed. (New York: New York Graphic Society, 1956), p.8. 165Baggley, p.77. 212 166„ r Benz, p.6. 16 7 Constantine Cavarnos, Orthodox Iconography (Boston: Institute for Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 1977), pp.32-37. 16 8 Eugene N. Trubetskoi, Icons: Theology in Color, trans. Gertrude Vakar (Crestwood, New York: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1973), p.24. 169 Ibid., p.21. "^^Ephraim,. Bishop of Boston "The Worship of the Church in Its External Aspect," St. Nectarios Orthodox Conference; Seattle, July 22-25, 1980(Seattle: St. Nectarios American Orthodox Church, 1980) ,pp. 158-159 . 171 Cavarnos, pp.38-39. ^ ^Baggley, pp.80-81. 173 Cavarnos, p.37. 17 4 See, for instance Plates 2 and 3 m Appendix "C." 175 Ouspensky, p.41. ^■77Baggley, p.82. 17 8 See Plates 4, 5, and 6 in Appendix "C." 179 Baggley, p.103. ^■^Cavarnos, p.37. 18 1 T V-, • , 3 C -] Ibid., p.5 7. 213 18 2 Baggley, pp.104-105. 18 3 Popovich's dissertation, cited above, deals in depth with this aspect of Eastern, and particularly Serbian Orthodoxy. 214 Chapter III Toward A World without Measure 215 For original spirits, for spirits that have something to tell, there is never a danger that foreign models will turn them into foreigners. The 'race' will always manifest itself in the person who is original, precisely because he creates from his own special fund of resources; such an artist will always be national. — Bogdan Popovic 216 It is not surprising that surrealism has found enthusiastic partisans among Serbian writers. The French literary innovations of the Parnassians and the symbolists had already been introduced in Serbian literature in the latter part of the nineteenth century when the Serbian writers, who had theretofore closely followed Russian literary trends, became disenchanted with Russian realism and turned increasingly to French models. In the first decade of the twentieth century, the French orientation was further explored in the poetry of Jovan Du&ic (1874-1943), who firmly established symbolism in Serbian Literature, and Milan Rakic (1876-1938) whose pessimistic verse reflected the influence of Baudelaire's decadent orientation. The adaptation of these French trends was also supported and encouraged by Bogdan Popovic (1863-1944) and his protege, Jovan Skerlic (1877-1914), the foremost Serbian literary critics of the period, both of whom had studied in Paris. In the pages of Sprski knjizevni glasnik (Serbian Literary Herald), which was the first truly / . / modern Serbian literary journal, Popovic and Skerlic formulated the principles of modern Serbian literature. Theirs was a very balanced literary aim: While they sought to free Serbian letters of the tendency toward oriental pessimism, they also recognized the value of 217 the Serbian literary tradition. Therefore, while they encouraged the preservation of certain indigenous elements, they also championed the assimilation of Western literary trends— particularly those of France— which they felt would enhance those elements. The adaptation of French literary trends was also facilitated by the political relationship of Serbia and France. During the period before and after World War I, France exerted an extraordinary amount of political and cultural influence on Serbia, and particularly on the young Serbian literati. As Ante Kadic notes: When the Serbian army was defeated by the Austrians in 1915 and withdrew through Albania, the French authorities took care of the young Serbs and placed them in their schools (their number reached four thousand) Many of these 'Displaced' youngsters obtained degrees at various French universities. Most of the Serbian intellectuals after 1918 were French pupils.1 Hanifa Kapid^ic-Osmanagic agrees that the popularity of French literary trends was fostered by the war experience: [A] large number of young Serbs were received in France during the war, and those young people were educated there. After the war, that number could only have increased. 218 Paris certainly attracted young Serbs, Paris— seductive, distinctly modern, always full of new things, friendly. It wasn't strange, then, that after the war we find a considerably large number of Serbian artists in Paris. There were the future poets, artists, literary critics. In Paris, we meet those who will represent the main names of Serbian post-war literature.2 The literary climate of Paris was invigorating, and consequently, upon their return to Serbia, many young writers of the period began to experiment with the French literary trends, one of the most innovative of which was surrealism. Moreover, the political orientation of the surrealists, i.e., their revolutionary stance and initial support of the Communist Party, further enhanced the appeal of surrealism among those Serbian writers who rejected the Yugoslav monarchical government and advocated socialist revolution as a political remedy. At this point, it is necessary to explain that in Serbia, two forms of surrealism have emerged, and are associated with two distinct periods or segments of surrealist activity: (1) post-World War I; and (2) post- World War II. The first period was initiated in the mid-1920s by the Belgrade surrealist group and represents a relatively unified, formal movement. At its 219 apex in the late 1920s, it counted thirteen members: Stevan (Vane) Zivadinovic?-Bor, Oskar Davico, Milan Dedinac, Mladen Dimitri jevic (Dimitrije Dedinac), •Bord’ e Jovanovic?, DorcTe Kostic, DuSan Matic, Branko Milovanovic, Radoje 2ivanovic-Noje, Ko£a Popovic, Petar Popovich, Marko Ristic, and Aleksandar Vu£o who formally defined their literary alliance in "The Position of Surrealism," published in 1930, and in other subsequent articles.3 Several members of this group had studied in Paris where they were acquainted with and directly influenced by many of the French surrealists; Marko Risti<£, who was the undeclared leader of the Belgrade Group, was in fact a signator of the Second Manifesto which Andre Breton's group published in 1930.4 The Belgrade surrealists adopted, per se, the theoretical and political position of the French movement. They endeavored to duplicate the doctrinal poetic techniques— including automatic texts— of Breton's Paris group, and assumed the surrealist revolutionary stance against the prevailing principles of literary, political and philosophical thought. In this sense, it may be said that the Belgrade Group constitutes the only orthodox surrealist movement in Serbian literary life. However, it never gained the momentum of its French counterpart. 220 The members of the Belgrade Group were well intentioned. By imposing the French forms and techniques directly and categorically on Serbian poetry, they attempted to reinvigorate the Serbian literary tradition by infusing it with the spirit of modern poetic theory, and thus facilitate the advancement of Serbian intellectual life to the level of that of the European community. In their determination to effect this transformation, however, the Belgrade surrealists ignored their own cultural and literary resources. Sveta Lukic observes, for instance, that the group never explored the irrational and fantastic elements in Serbian folk literature, nor the "islands of primitive mentality which abound in regions such as Bosnia, Goc, Sansig and Kosmet and which provided so many examples for the Yugoslav edition of Frazer's Golden Boucrh"5 Lukic contends that as a result, although there are some exceptions, the applications of the Belgrade Group never bore the poetic fruit of the original French movement. In retrospect, it must be admitted that there is some justification for Lukic's evaluation of this first period of Serbian surrealism as "a modest, cramped and at best lucid deduction derived from the Parisian premises."6 Taken together with the fact that the modern Serbian literary perspective was just beginning 221 to develop and endeavoring to express its own national consciousness, their adherence to the French model and their failure to exploit indigenous poetic resources thwarted the efforts of the Belgrade surrealists from the very beginning. Their experiment should not be construed as wholly unsuccessful, however. The introduction of surrealist concepts into the Serbian literary perspective was in itself a significant contribution. Moreover, some members of the group— especially Oskar Davi^o, Dusan Matic, and Marko Ristic-- continued to take an active part in Serbian literary life and thus influenced in part the literary directions of the younger poets who came of age after World War II. Most of them, however, quietly abandoned the adventure that had consumed their energies for a decade, and by the mid-1930s, the surrealist experiment was considered a closed case in Serbian literary history. It was left to the post-World War II generation to mold surrealism to their own literary and cultural sensibilities. The second phase of Serbian surrealism, and the one which is of primary interest to this study, was initiated by the revival of certain surrealist concepts in the early 1950s. This segment, however, diverges significantly from the first surrealist phase and from surrealism proper as well. It emerged as a random 222 literary tendency rather than as a closely-knit organized movement, and is distinguished by its expansion rather than replication of the French surrealist model. Most representative of this surrealist orientation are Vasko Popa (1922-) and Miodrag Pavlovi<£ (1928-), whose early verse collections established it as one of the main trends in modern Serbian poetics. Various surrealist elements can also be observed in the poetry of other post-World War II poets, particularly Ivan V. Lalic (1931-) and Branko Miljkovi<£ (1934-1961) . It is a typically Balkan type of surrealism, however, in that none of these poets conform to the mainline surrealist doctrines and/or forms. Moreover, although certain basic, unifying elements may be identified in the collective body of their work, these poets have all interpreted and responded to the surrealist concepts in diverse, and in some instances, opposing ways. It is not a literary tendency, then, which implies one immutable poetic direction or one uniform structural application. On the contrary, it is a multifaceted, flexible literary approach, grounded in, but not limited exclusively to surrealist theory, the value of which lies in its ability to accomodate a variety of poetic and philosophical aims and sensibilities, and to manifest 223 them in a multiplicity of innovative poetic forms. This deviation from doctrinal surrealist precepts does not negate, however, the essential surrealist vision, i.e, the "marvelous," and indeed, enhances it. In fact, the Serbian model is in many ways a more natural and fertile environment for it, and the multifarious forms effectively demonstrate this. This proliferation of individual perspectives stems in part from the differences in cultural sensibilities. While the French used varous methods, e.g., automatic writing, word games, etc., to probe the subconscious and induce surrealist images, in the case of the Serbs, the images do not require induction because they are still close to the surface of the psyche and thus more easily accessible. Whereas the French were conditioned by the Western rationalist tradition, the Serbs— as a result of cultural suspension— have not been so deeply influenced by this tradition, and owing to their cultural institutions, have succeeded in preserving a more holistic world view, a view which is not wholly adverse to the irrational. Rather than inducing new images, the aim of the Serbian poets is to find a place and order for those which still exist in their fecund inner world. The post-World War II surrealists also differ from the Parisian and early Belgrade groups in that they were motivated not by a sense of rebellion against society, but by a desire for cultural affirmation. Surrealism was uniquely suited to accomodate this aim in that it not only accepted but demanded those qualities which were fundamental features of Serbian culture: a holistic view of existence, the play of irrational and rational forces, and the ability to override spatio- temporal conditions. Thus, surrealism offered them the opportunity to express and reassert Serbian cultural identity on their own terms. The expression of cultural identity as a function of literature had long been established in the Serbian literary tradition. This association is largely a consequence of the centuries long Ottoman domination. During that time, when national identity was necessarily suppressed to a great degree, literature became one of the most effective outlets for it. The precedent for this traditional concept of literature can be traced to the medieval Kosovo epics which transformed national defeat into spiritual victory (These epics are based on the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 which was discussed in the preceding chapter). It was formalized in the nineteenth century when Vuk Stefanovic Karadzic (1784-1864)— whose linguistic reforms provided a uniform alphabet and grammar for the modern Serbo-Croatian language— began to 225 collect and publish a wide variety of folk literature which included epic and lyric poems as well as tales, songs, proverbs, riddles, etc., thereby reinforcing the traditional association of literature and cultural identity. Moreover, as Svatava Jakobson points out, the folkloric tradition, though predominantly oral, is intrinsically linked to the cultural identity of all Slavic peoples: Folklore has had and still plays a very important, vital, and productive role in the cultural life of all Slavic peoples. There are various reasons which favored the preservation and development of Slavic folklore: the prevalence of rural population and its historical significance in most of the Slavic countries; a high percentage of illiteracy, which until recently characterized the whole eastern bulk of the Slavic world; the great role of folklore for the rise and development of national self- consciousness in those Slavic countries where literature written in the vernacular arose only in the last century, or where the development of written literature had been for centuries interrupted.7 The inclusion of this cultural aspect, then, necessarily required a modification of the original surrealist premises. While the Serbian poets, like the French, integrate many of the images emanating from the personal subconscious, they have extended the borders of 226 surrealism to the domain of the collective subconscious as well. As a result of this expansion, the rich reserve of mythical, folkloric, historical and religious elements accumulated throughout the centuries of cultural suspension has at last been given poetic expression. However, the national focus of this expansion necessarily included various components— anthropological, religious, social, political, historical, etc.— which were not present in the French surrealist forms, and the introduction of these new components required more conscious control and more versatility. Consequently, in the second Serbian period, there is a modification of many of the conventional surrealist precepts. Aleksandar Petrov employs the term, "neo-surrealism," to describe the new form and identifies some of its characteristics: Pavlovic and Popa really cleared the way for neo-surrealism because they effected a merging of the irrational with the intellectual, humorous and ironic and made the surrealist tradition more flexible and receptive, especially towards myth and folklore. Both poets replaced the free and absolutely open form— which enabled the penetration of verbalism,rhetorical elements and overstressed metaphors into surrealist poetry— by an 'organic form,1 somewhat less open, but harmonious and well balanced.8 227 Various surrealist characteristics are present: Emphasis on the subconscious, internal world; elevation of the irrational; negation of temporal and spatial limitations; interweaving of dream and waking states; dehumanization; incongruous imagery; concrete diction; compression and concision of language; and a generally prophetic tone. But in this second Serbian model, these elements are receptive to their antipodes as well. Thus: The subconscious and the irrational are guided and enhanced by the conscious and the rational toward the goal of subject unity; the disintegration of dimensional boundaries has a demythifying function as well as a mythopoeic one--since it must define a concrete cultural reality as well as a cosmic surreality; dehumanization is often moderated by a provocative anthropomorphism; the diction is concrete, but frequently collaborates with colloquial, archaic, religious and mystical lexicons; compression harmoniously assimilates a range of rhetorical elements; and prophetic optimism is balanced by an inquisitive, wakeful integrity. These elements form the framework— but only the framework— of a premeditated, consciously controlled yet flexible poetic structure. The fabric of this structure is a common cloth. Luminous and dense, it is made up of the infinite fragments of philosophical 228 reality which man has pieced together in his spiritual and intellectual quest to unravel the universal enigma of human existence. Freely woven into this fabric are the ancient strands of Serbian myth and folklore, historical themes and religious symbolism which have been gathered and held for so long in the mnemonic reliquary of cultural consciousness. In the environment of the underlying surrealist framework, these strands of legendary cultural reality reveal an authentic cosmic essence in which they resonate and endlessly intersect in sacred mounds of timelessness as they are borne out of the eternal, mythical past and reinterpreted in the concrete world of the present. It is this phenomenon of timelessness, then, which is the central feature of this unique poetic structure. And finally, in order to provide color and texture, these strands are held in place with little knots of irony and humor. What emerges is a multi-faceted, constantly evolving poetic mosaic which often assumes an organic— even formulaic— configuration. Furthermore, in its dynamic, multilayered poetic schema, Serbian surrealism has surpassed the bounds of ethnic exclusivity and has become a poetry of world-wide significance which enables all of mankind to participate in the re-creation of cosmic destiny, facilitating not only the reassertion of 229 national identity and integrity, but on a more universal level, the restoration of spiritual health which surrealism implies. Paradoxically, then, by "nationalizing" surrealism, the second generation of Serbian surrealists has succeeded in making its national literature more universal. Having established the dimensions of this second segment of Serbian surrealism, it is apparent that its poetic perspective diverges considerably from that of the 1930s Belgrade Group; in fact, the influence of the earlier surrealists on the post-World War II surrealist poets has been marginal and indirect, and as Sveta Lukic notes, was limited to a social rather than a literary context.9 In fact, the second phase of Serbian surrealism is, in a sense, the continuation of the indigenous literary tradition in which literature is a vehicle for the expression of cultural identity. By integrating specific cultural components— myth, folklore, historical themes, and religious symbolism— with universal philosophical human concerns, and employing the surrealist mode as a catalytic mechanism, the post-World War II surrealists were able to bring this tradition to its fruition. However, all of these elements— including the surrealist direction— were already in place in Serbian poetry much earlier— before 230 the emergence of the Belgrade Group, and even before the French formalization of the surrealist movement. Therefore, in order to explore the poetic terrain of modern Serbian surrealism in any truly effective way, it is necessary first to trace its genuine literary lineage. The poets of the Serbian avant-garde which surfaced in the pre-World-War I period present a wide variety of theoretical and stylistic directions. In fact, with the exception of those who later gravitated toward the Belgrade surrealist group, the one common feature they appear to share is their striking diversification. Even today, many of them defy classification in any particular literary orientation. These poets were the true innovators, the thoretical mavericks, the poetic magi, so to speak, of modern Serbian poetry. In their resolute determination to develop and express their own unique poetic sensibilities, they pioneered many of the poetic concepts and techniques which subsequently became regular features in the poetry of the post-World War II surrealists. These various features can be identified in the poetry of Vladislav Petkovic-Dis (1880-1917); Milutin Bojic (1892-1917); Rastko Petrovic (1898-1949); and Momcilo Nastasijevic (1894-1938), the poets who 231 appear to be the authentic precursors of modern Serbian surrealism. The first poet of this group, Vladislav Petkovic-Dis, has long been underrated and criticized for his technical flaws and his excessive pessimism; since Jovan Skerlic's well-known attack on Dis,10 literary critics have traditionally treated him as a sort of pseudo-decadent, inferior figure and labeled him, together with Sima Pandurovic (1883-1960), one of the "Poets of the Damned" ("prokletni pesnici"). This traditional assessment of Dis is shifting, however, in / contemporary criticism. Comparing Dis with Pandurovic, Radovan Vu£kovic acknowledges that Dis' poetic symbolism generally succeeds and implies deeper significance than critics have previously estimated, and he describes Dis1 language as "a poetic, subjective conjuring on the borders of emotion and thought, sleep and consciousness."11 Disf preoccupation with the subconscious has been observed by other critics as well; Ante Kadic, for instance, notes that Dis "successfully portrayed the infernal blackness of the abyss in which his soul was tormented,"12 and Antun Barac confirms that Dis "proved the capability to describe the state of the soul between the conscious and the subconscious."13 It is this aspect of Dis, then, which is of particular 232 relevance to the present study, and the necessity to examine his poetry takes on increased urgency in view of the fact that, as critics have noted, he was one of the few pre-World War I poets who was admired by both the earlier and later Serbian surrealists. Regarding Dis’ influence on the Belgrade Group, Kapid2ic-0smanagic£ writes: Of the pre-war poets who had made an impression on the young future surrealists, perhaps only Vladislav Petkovic-Dis can be mentioned, because he would have surpassed the pre-war literary boundaries and strived to express things unsaid and unsung in our language.14 Dis has also attracted the interest of the post-World War II surrealists, among them Miodrag Pavlovic, who has frequently written about him, and in an excellent critical essay, has objectively and thoroughly reassesed Dis' position in Serbian literature.15 Pavlovic suggests that Dis' lack of acceptance was due at least in part to the fact that he was simply too far ahead of his time, and indeed, many of the poems bear out this assessment. Dis' first collection, Drowned Souls (Utooliene du£e) (1911), for example, reflects an engrossment with the subconscious as set against the themes of love and death, and certainly must have confounded the Serbian literary 233 community which was still largely influenced by the literary aims of the Romantics and the Parnassians. Pavlovic also addresses the apparent influence of Baudelaire on Dis1 outlook, a force which was present even in his first collection of poems: "The positive, basic terms of Baudelaire's poetic mythology, certain dominant themes, and structural effects of decor have put a visible stamp on Dis1s poetic thoughts."16 However, he also notes that given Dis' upbringing in provincial Eastern Serbia, his minimal educational background, and his merely rudimentary knowledge of the French language, it is highly unlikely that he was directly exposed to Baudelaire's work, except perhaps through some possible intermediate contact in the literary community.17 "Prison" ("Tamnica") is indicative of Dis' poetic orientation. In this poem, which Pavlovic has rightly singled out as one of Dis' finest works, the poet skillfully interweaves the conscious and subconscious states and dissolves the barriers of time and space as he attempts to penetrate through the subconscious to the world of cosmic pre-existence. Predrag Palavestra succinctly delineates the dynamic elements of Dis' essential vision: 234 With the obsessive gloom, dark realizations, nothingness, depression, pain and despair, seeing life as a prison in which the only gentleness is the comforting docility of dreams and hallucinatory dreams on the border between waking and sleep, Dis in the manner of the great damned poets . . . wrote a poem of deep, melancholy spirituality, which in its premonition of subconscious deposits, suggested an idea about the happiness of nirvana and of the sensation of helpless tranquility from misfortunes and sufferings in the prison of consciousness from which one can be rescued only by a flight into dreams and into death.18 The dialectic of "Prison" is the relationship between the conscious and the subconscious and it is symbolized by images of darkness and light. This symbolism is hinted at in the title: "Tamnica" connotes darkness; "zatvor" and "hapsana" are alternative words for "prison," but the more figurative "tamnica," rooted in "tama" ("darkness" or "obscurity"), literally means a "dark place," and in Dis* cosmic order, symbolizes the world of flesh in which he is being held against his will. He feels that external reality is a prison— a dark place— which blocks out the light of another, more complete reality which he has lost and wishes to regain. Dis establishes this dialectic in the opening lines of the poem: 235 It is that life, where I, too, have fallen From innocent distances, with eyes of stars And with my tear, which unconsciously shines And mourns like a bird its overturned nest. It is that life, where I, too, have fallen.19 To je onaj £ivot, gde sam pao i ja S nevinih daljina, sa o£ima zvezda I sa suzom mojom, £to nesvesno sija I Sali ko tica oborena gnezda. To je onaj $ivot, gde sam pao i ja.20 Like a bird which has fallen from its nest and seeks to return, the poet, too, has lost his home— his refuge— and is laboring to reconstruct it in the "darkness" of earthly existence. By using the pronoun "that" in the first line, Dis further advances the dialectic of the poem. "That life" seems to have an ambiguous meaning here, which Pavlovic affirms in his discussion of "Prison."21 If the speaker is referring to the "prison" of conscious reality, why, then, doesn't he say "this life"? The use of "that" would appear to be more appropriate to describe the region from which he fell rather than ; L Q . which he fell. Dis1 clever application of this simple pronoun is an integral part of the dialectical design of the poem, and provides the point at which three separate realities merge: First, it is "that life" of the conscious, mundane world into which he has been hurled by the act of birth and it is "that life" because it is wholly unfamiliar to him, i.e., it is "that new life"; second, it is "that life" before birth, the "old life" which he has left behind; finally, it is also "that life" which exists in the sub conscious realm wherein he is able to discern the familiar comforting traces of the lost world of primitive memory to which he longs to return, and consequently, it also signifies "that life between." The symbol of the stars is ubiquitous in Dis' poetic cosmology, and is interesting because Dis always uses the symbol of stars in the plural, signifying a distant universe, an organic system, a world of pristine clarity. Here the stars represent the last vestiges of the cosmic world he has lost: He has fallen "with eyes of stars." In the fourth and fifth stanzas of the poem Dis develops this image further: And that stars run away from my eyes, And heaven and this vault now shapes itself And space, the permanence behind the order of all things And that my head births a whole world of sorrow, - And that stars run away from my eyes. But the stars are running away; they leave colors behind And places and distances and the vision of wakefulness And live now as my essence, Innocently bound with the dream of my head. But the stars are running away; they leave colors behind. 237 I da beze zvezde iz mojih ociju, Da se stvara nebo i svod ovaj sada I prostor, trajanje za red stvari sviju, I da moja glava radb sav svet jada, I da be£e zvezde iz mojih o<$iju. A1 begaju zvezde; ostavljaju boje Mesta i daljine i viziju jave; I sad tako 2ive kao bice moje, Nevino vezane za san moje glave. A1 begaju zvezde, ostavljaju boje. Before becoming incarnate, the poet saw with the brilliant star-like clarity of absolute cosmic vision which illuminates the essence of all things. Now, however, that vision escapes his grasp; in the conscious world of "things," he finds only retreating traces of that dazzling, lucid world, "colors" which exist in the subconscious, "bound with the dream of my head." Color is also symbolic in "Nirvana," which presents the dream world as a repository for the phantoms of pre-existent memory, but in this case, the symbol is less developed: In the night the dead have come to me, New graveyards and old ages; They approached me as a sacrifice, As a color of the transitoriness of things. Nocas su me pohodili mrtvi, Nova groblja i vekovi stari; Prilazili k meni kao Zrtvi, Kao boji prolaznosti stvari. The elevation of the feminine form occurs frequently in Dis’ poetry. In "Perhaps She Sleeps" 238 ("MoXda spava"), which integrates the theme of romantic, mystical love with the desire to penetrate the subconscious, Dis laments an ethereal, beloved woman who has appeared to him in a dream. In the morning, however, he is unable to recall the dream completely. In this poem, the stars also represent the lost world of pre-existence which is accessible only in the subconscious. The poet says that in sleep, he was unaware "That in the day stars lose their white vestments" ("U svome snu nisam znao . . . /Da u danu gube zvezde bele odore"), and that now, he can only remember some of the images of the dream— "An old poem, old stars, some old day" ("Staru pesmu, stare zvezde, neki stari dan"). Here however, the stars are subordinated to the central image of the eyes of the beloved: I don't remember anything more, nor those eyes : As if my whole dream was from froth, Or that those eyes are my soul outside of me, But I suspect now that those eyes are exactly those, Which strangely guide and pursue me along life: Ne secam se ni£eg vise, ni o £i ju tih: Kao da je san mi ceo bio od pene, II te o6i da su moja du£a van mene, 239 Ja sad slutim za te o^i, da su ba£ one, Sto me cudno po Zlvotu vode i gone: In "Drowned Souls" ("Utopljene du^e"), Dis uses both love and death to explore the terrain of the subconscious, comparing it to a shroud. In this poem, the poet expresses the illogical desire to "go"/"Beneath life" ("o, da mi je ic?i/Ispod zivota"), "Through the space of dreams beneath the horizon of sorrow" ("Prostorom snova pod vidikom jada")• The eternal world is revealed here in the now abstract essence of the beloved, as the poet senses "Hidden thoughts in the color of love" ("Skrivene misli u boji ljubavi"); and just as in "Perhaps She Sleeps" the eyes of the beloved were a symbol of primordial cosmic order which directed him through life, here the essence of the absolute cosmic world is concentrated in the beloved's glance which "sometimes knows all there is to tell" (" Njen pogled nekad sve £>to znade reci") . The poet longs for her "Just once more to send word" ("Jos jednom samo da je da se javi") , but she is hidden in the region "Where there is no consciousness, but pure ideas,/Where pain gathers, to bind sensation" ("Gde svesti nema vec ideje same,/Otkud bol slece, da osecfaj svije") . But this existence, concretized in the image of the beloved, is lost forever to the poet; it is "Lost in the order, 240 decaying beneath life” ("Gube se redom, trunu pod zivotom") together with "Tree-lined paths of pain and blue climate” ("Aleje bola i podneblja plava”). The "blue climate" is significant here because Dis' poetic lexicon reveals a frequent usage of the color "blue"— and its associated meanings of tranquility, melancholy, vastness, etc.— in connection with the subconscious; moreover, it is innovative since, as Vu£kovi<£ points out, in Serbian poetry before World War I, there was a noticeable absence of chromatic elements.22 Even more striking here is the incongruous image of pain in this setting of lush foliage. It is almost seductive and reinforces the poet's impression of pain as a positive force and a necessary one. The poet uses the subconscious almost anesthetically as a means of relieving his awareness of the impoverished conscious reality to which he is bound. This is apparent in his image of the sub-conscious world as a billowing, white expanse: "The shroud widens, large, spacious, white" ("Sin se pokrov velik, prostran, beo") under which the beloved and the phenomena of the eternal world repose: "Beneath it lay the drowned souls" ("Pod kojim leze utopljene duse"). Whereas Dis' portrayal of woman was moderately sensual, Milutin Bojic made sensuality a way of life. 241 This is particularly true of his early poems which reveal a youthful vitality and a passion that Mihailo ©orcTevic feels "elevated sensuality to the level of a personal religion."23 Published in 1914 and entitled simply Poems (Pesme). Bojic's first collection of verse included a number of love poems written between 1910 and 1914 which exalted the beauty, power and mystique of the feminine form in rich erotic imagery, and in a tone of exuberant, almost frenzied ecstasy. Bojic read widely in French and this collection reflects the visible influence of Baudelaire as well as romantic and symbolist elements, but as Vuckovic acknowledges, Bojic's poetry "indicated a further degree of transformation of the symbolist-decadent and neo romantic poetic procedure."24 In many of these early poems— as in his later sonnets— Bojic favored the Petrarchan form and its traditional rhyme scheme, but his colorful, provocative language, dense compressed syntax and vigorous, optimistic tone constituted important innovations and infused Serbian poetry with a fresh, bold-spirited energy. Unlike Baudelaire, Bojic's sensuality never evinces the tenor of lassitude and ennui commonly associated with the decadent mode; there is always a luminous, ingenuous anticipation which rises like a descant above even the most suggestive erotic 242 imagery. In Baudelaire's case, the enigma of life elicited unremitting inner despair which he attempted to assuage through sensual experience. Bojicf, in contrast, was just beginning to discover life and perceived the senses as a means of penetrating its enigma; as ©orctevic notes, "Baudelaire worshipped spleen, Bojic his own vitality."25 This intense vitality, together with the rich texture of his sensual imagery, imbues Bojic's poetry with a profound sense of immediacy which remained a fundamental feature of his verse. There are two periods of Bojicfs love poetry: (1) the early poems published in Poems. mentioned above, which depict woman as a one-dimensional creature who is a source of sexual energy, and in ©orcTevic's words, "the generator of all inner emotions"26; and (2) later poems from 1914-1917, published in 1922 as Sonnets (Soneti) . in which a considerably more mature Bojic exhalts the "Woman genuine" ("Zena prava") who represents spiritual power and eternal sacred reality. In both periods, Bojic exhibits an awareness of the dualistic nature of human existence and uses the world of the senses in an effort to reconcile that dualism and experience life in its entire, pure essence. Moreover, in both poetic collections, there is evidence that Bojic, like the later French surrealists, views physical love as a means 243 of penetrating beyond conscious reality and perceives woman as a hierophant who can initiate him into the mysteries of that other, unknown reality. Bojic is indefinite about the terms of that other reality, however, especially in the earlier poetry; there is no explicit reference to the subconscious. But there are signs, even in the earliest poems. In "Hymn" ("Himna"), written in 1911, Bojic seems to be involved in a mystical quest for some unspecific, perhaps fuller dimension of existence, which is represented by a plethora of symbols: I thirst for you, Delight, for in my soul I hear The cry of constant yearning, and, like a holy idol, You have become a symbol in pain, in melancholy. I want you, Life, and passionately revere you,27 %edan sam te, Slasti, jer u dusi Zujem Krik ve<*ite ludnje, i, ko idol sveti, Postala si simbol u bolu, u seti. Hocu te, Zivote, i strasno te stujem,28 But who/what exactly is the poet addressing here? Is he seeking pleasure, pain or life itself? Or does he sense something beyond reality which is accessible through these media? In the last line of the octave, he further confounds the symbolism when he declares, "Love and happiness, like a sparrow hawk, I peck at you!" (Ljubavi 244 ( r 1 Sreco, ko kobac vas kljuem!"). But it is illuminated as well by the powers of darkness: "In the maelstrom of terror, I dream of you" ("U vrtlogu straha ja o tebi snujem"). However, Bojic's enraptured, Dionysian tone does not seem to indicate the "gouffre" of Baudelaire. Rather, it appears that the object which the poet addresses is some inexplicable, but intuited awareness of a vital life force, a numinous presence, beyond conscious reality, which Bojic's youth and lack of experience prevent him from identifying; and thus the ecstatic but indefinite accumulation of symbols. If Bojic lacks cohesion in his expression of this unknown phenomenon, he certainly does not lack confidence: "I was born to be a prophet of that legion/Which with a clear brow will strongly desire you" ("RocTen sam da budem prorok onoj <*eti, /£to ce vedra £ela silno tebe hteti"). The word "ceta," which has a military connotation, indicates a squad, detachment, etc., and in the sense that Bojic uses it to describe a privileged group set apart by its ability to recognize another reality, the term intensifies the vatic quality of this line. It is still unclear, however, just what the object of this elite group's desire is. The sestet provides some illumination: Until the pulses sizzle and the veins dance, 245 I sink to the depths, where consciously, In quiet drowsiness, the sleepy daughters of Secret have concealed themselves. Then I sing a deep requiem of virtues, And with lips parted, I drink with all my strength Delights, delights, delights deep and endless. Dok damari prste i igraju &ile, Tonem u dubine, gde se svesno skrile U dremeiu tihom snene kderi Tajne. Tad vrline pevam dubokim opelom, Isturenih usta pijem snagom celom Slasti, slasti, slasti duboke, beskrajne. The words "damar, 1 1 "dremez, " and "snen" in the first tercet are old words and give some indication of the seriousness with which Bojic approached his craft; ©ordevic reports that the poet spent a great deal of time researching old Serbian texts for forgotten words and phrases which he subsequently revived in his poetry.29 Certainly, the sense of abandonment in the vivid sensual imagery of the first line bears the visible influence of Baudelaire, but Bojic uses it to gain entrance to the "depths," where "In drowsiness," he will find "the sleepy daughters of Secret." It is interesting to note that in Leo Bersani's view, Baudelaire perceives the sexual act as a shattering of his self-integrity: 246 Baudelaire's misogyny can be understood partly in terms of a panicky effort to reject the feminine side of his own sexual identity, and, more generally, to put an end to the psychic scattering or self-disseminations of desire. Baudelarian sadism is an attempt to stop the woman from moving, for her movements excite desires which may both endanger her and reduce the poet's identity to a kind of mobile fragmentariness. The loved one's stillness is a crucial sign of a major Baudelarian enterprise: that of immobilizing desire.33 and quoting Baudelaire's Intimate Journals (Journaux intimes): To screw is to aspire to enter into another person, and the artist never goes outside himself. In contrast to Bojic's "Hymn," consider the following lines from Baudelaire's "Metamorphoses of the Vampire" ("Les Metamorphoses du Vampire,"): The woman, meanwhile writhing like a snake across hot coals and hiking up her breasts 'My lips are smooth, and with them I know how to smother conscience somewhere in these sheets. Look at me naked and I will replace sun and moon and every star in the sky.' When she had sucked the marrow from my bones, and I leaned toward her listlessly to return her loving kisses, all I saw was a kind of slimy wineskin brimming with pus. La femme cependant, de sa bouche de fraise, En se tordant ainsi qu'un serpent sur la braise, — 'Moi,j'ai la levre humide, et je sais la science De perdre au fond d'un lit l rantique conscience. Je remplace, pour qui me voit nue et sans voiles, La lune, le soleil, le d e l et les gtoiles! Quand elle eut de mes os sucB toute la moelle, Et que languissamment je me tournai vers elle Pour lui rendre un baiser d'amour, je ne vis plus Qu'une outre aux flanes gluants, toute pleine de pus Whereas in Baudelaire's poem, sensuality is a means of getting away from something, for Bojic it is a means of getting tsi something; in Baudelaire, it implies escape and .violation, but in Bojic, it suggests arrival, completion. Bojic never uses sensuality to "perdre . . . conscience"; or does he view woman as a "remplacement" for the natural world. Rather, the sensual ecstasy which he expresses is a means of penetrating consciousness in order to make his descent into the region of "drowsiness," i.e., the subconscious where the "daughters," i.e., woman, "of Secret," i.e., 248 the undefined but intuited fuller reality which Bojic is seeking, are concealed. Furthermore, Bojic's sensual journey is not debilitating; once having made this descent, he is not repulsed and disconsolate— as in the case of Baudelaire— but rather, renewed, exalted. Thw use of the word "requeim" ("opelo") in the last tercet of Boji<£'s poem is interesting. The poet sings a "requeim of virtues" after sinking into the dream state where he drinks of "delights, deep and endless." This requiem seems to be directed to that part of him which has died, i.e., that conscious part of himself which he has had to surrender in order to penetrate the other world of "delights" which he is seeking. He has had to die to his external self so that the internal self could break through and gain ground, that is, he has had to die in order to become. Moreover, by using sensuality as a vehicle for accomplishing this, he is elevating the senses to the level of the sacred. Bojic "requiem" has two important implications here. First, it echoes the theory of anamneusis referred to in Chapter I and the Platonic imperative that "The only method is death," that is, that the recollection of the original, divine self necessitates man's unequivocal surrender; he must die to his external, worldly self in order to reconstitute the 249 totality of his divine self and actualize the fullness of his nature. A second implication of "requiem" in Bojic's schematic context is that it suggests sensuality and physical love as a means of realizing this goal. In this regard, it seems to be indicate the "dying," which Betty Roszak discusses, that occurs in the act of physical love when the individual ego is surrendered in order to liberate its complete cosmic energy through sexual union.32 More to the point, it is akin to the surrealist concept of love and death as Breton expresses it in "Vigilance": At the hour of love and of blue eyelids I see myself burning in turn I hear human linen tearing like a great leaf I touch now the heart of things I hold the thread A 1 'heure de 1 ’amour et des paup feres bleues Je me vois brtiler h mon tour J ' entends se dgchirer de linge humain comme une grande feuilie Je ne touche plus que le coeur des choses je tiens le fil33 Like Breton, Bojic has broken through to the evanescent center of the cosmic skein, and now can drink fully those "Delights, delights, delights deep and endless." In Bretonian terms, he has discovered: 250 the secret Of loving you Always for the very first time le secret De t 'aimer Toujours pour la premiere .fois34 The marvelous paradox of Bojic's early love poetry is that he doesn't yet comprehend the terms of his discovery. He knows he is on to something, but his youth and naivete preclude a precise identification or definition of it, as is evidenced by the variety of themes and the number of undeveloped images which occur in "Hymn." As his poetic sensibilities matured, however, and particularly after the tragic experience of the Balkan wars, Boji<£ was able to impose a greater measure of control and direction on his verse. His later poetry reflects this maturity and indicates, as well, a transformation of his view of woman. In the Sonnets, while she retains her animative, sensual nature, woman acquires a spiritual aspect as well; she still offers gratification, but she is also a source of solace and inspiration, a refuge from the merciless incongruities of the external world: Because then I saw everything in you: Suns and sisters, mothers and shadows, Sounds and colors, the word and the trembling of foam. Your breath was woven into my brain. 251 To remember you always the same, As an icon which preserves from evil. Stretch out in the dust like a star of the universe,— And I will dream of .you glistening and pure Why weren't you that Woman genuine? Jer video sam sve u tebi tada: Sunca i sestre, matere i sene Zvuke i boje, re£ i drhtaj pene. U mozak moj je dah tvoj bio utkan. Da zapamtim te uvek takvu istu, Kao ikonu od zla £to spasava. Raspi se u prah ko zvezda svemirna,— I da te sanjam bljeStecu i £istu Sto ti ne bese ona Zena prava?35 and in another poem in the same collection: 0 be the witness of my temptation! And I will return pure, to the world full of filth And I will return without sin or misery. Of be my church and the God of my salvation. 0 budi svedok moga iskusenja! 1 vraticu se cist, u svet pun gada I vraticu se bez greha i jada. 0f budi crkva i Bog mog spasenja.36 These lines seem to indicate a complete reversal of Bojic's previous concept of woman; she is still a fountainhead of energy, but it appears here to be exclusively spiritual. Bojic ultimately resolves this 252 dualistic perception in a dynamic fusion which expresses, at last, the "Woman genuine" he has been seeking: 0 let that kiss tell you which Ends in new kisses, that It is an exclamation of longing which continues forever, The song of lips which are drizzled with blood And through the water passions carry the yearning, Gathering suns and flowers and lands, The yearning of mad nights when reason is stilled To sink over you, on your lips and hair And to put into your eye's pupils Smells, sounds, and stars and colors; And like a conqueror who perishes at the target In the clanging applause of the forest, I find the end in it And with it I tell you a poem of the sun When to part lips means: to die. 0, nek ti rekne taj poljubac, §to se Svr£ava novlm poljupcima, da je To usklik zudi koja ve£no traje, Pesma usana £to se krvlju rose 1 preko voda (SeZnju strasti nose, Kupeci sunca i cvece i kraje, Zud ludih noci kada razum staje Da spuste tebi na usne i kose I da usade u zenice tvoje Mirise, zvuke i zvezde i boje; I ko pobednik sto gine na meti Uz sumin pljesak, kraj u njemxx stecem I da ti njemu pesmu sunca re£em Kad rastaviti usne znaci: mreti.37 253 Here, Bojic represents woman as a divine sign, a creature in whom all sexual and spiritual forces coalesce and collaborate to reveal the sacred matrix from which all life emanates. She still evokes a vivid sensuality, but now that sensuality becomes a medium of spiritual transformation. The image of blood, so prevalent in Bojic's early poetry, is one indication of this; whereas previously the poet spoke of "your blood" or "my blood," here, it is a commingling of blood, a concept which seems to echo Breton's "So that your blood and mine/ Make but one" ("Pour que ton sang et le mien/N'en fassent qu'un").38 In his earlier love poems, Bojic seemed to be standing before woman, confronting her with awe; now, however, he stands alongside her. Woman is no longer merely a manifestation of sensuality, but a conduit through which sensuality is mutually transmitted and expressed. It is a notion of sensuality which implies movement and transformation; "reason" i.e., the rational world, is suspended and "water," which suggests mutability and motion as well as sexual power, fertility, etc., brings forth images of "suns and flowers and lands," and their associated meanings of illumination, growth, and journeying. And it is no longer the feminine body, but the feminine eye which is the seat of this transformation. While the eye is a 254 source of sensual attraction, its reflection is also the center of spiritual illumination; in the feminine glance, these two aspects, the sensual and the spiritual, are fused. Hence, it transforms the "exclamation of longing” into a "poem of the sun." But outside woman's embrace, this eternal self is inaccessible, and thus Bojic's pronouncement that "to part lips means: to die," a phrase which seems to anticipate Breton's image of the "World in a kiss" (Monde dans un baiser").39 Bojic's creative application of historical themes constitutes another important innovation in Serbian poetry. While the use of historical themes had been a mainstay of Serbian literature since the epics of the medieval period, its function was primarily to inspire national pride and spiritual strength as a means of diffusing the tragic reality of Ottoman domination. Thus, historical figures and events were often highly romanticized, simplistic representations of the Serbian past. Cultural heroes were idealized, glorified figures who, against the background of legendary events, displayed self-sacrificing, god-like courage and strength in the face of overwhelming adversity. Consequently, this mythical overlay gradually usurped the genuine human identities of these characters. 255 Bojic's adaptation, however, indicated a complete revamping of this traditional literary treatment of Serbian history. His aim was to retrieve the concrete, human personalities of these characters from the abstract, mythical image which had been superimposed on them, and thus to make them an accessible force in the contemporary national consciousness. Bojic's technique was completely unconventional. Instead of depicting these figures as distant heroes and heroines at the height of monumental glory, he chose instead to represent them as thoughtful, complex human beings in intimate moments of profound reflection, anguish and despair. In order to present these figures as authentically as possible, he devoted a great deal of time to historical research, carefully trying to separate fact from fiction in an effort to discover significant details which he could use to "flesh out" his characters and truly bring them to life, and as ©orcTevic notes, his studies were not limited to Serbian historical sources.4® Bojic was interested in Byzantine and medieval Serbian themes, and his dramas, Autumn of a Kina (Kralieva Jesen) (1913) and The Wife of Uro§ (Uro^eva £ena) (1916) reflect Bojic's careful research of those historical periods. However, Bojic had also closely studied biblical texts, and some of the most 256 striking examples of his innovative historical technique are found in his early poetic portrayals of biblical figures. One section of Bojic's first collection of poetry was devoted entirely to these biblical portraits. Two of these poems, "Salome" ("Saloma") and "David in Love" ("Zaljubljeni David"), merit particular attention. Both poems are written in terza rima and are quite long ("Salome" has 28 stanzas and "David in Love," 2 9); the point of view shifts from third to first person and back to third again— "David in Love" has two such shifts— so that the effect, especially in the case of "Salome," is an interior monologue. Bojic uses biblical epigraphs which serve to introduce the poems' motifs. In both poems, the characters are represented as aging, helpless victims of their own corruption and wantonness, appalled and embittered by the horrible spectre of their withering bodies and filled with pathetic yearning for the carnal pleasures of the distant past. These portraits of powerless, despairing human beings betrayed by their own vanity and willful desire evoke a grotesque irony so intense and poignant that Vu^kovic has likened these poems to expressionist paintings.41 The overwhelming sense of irony is due in large part to the imagery which Bojic uses in these poems; his lexicon is 257 colorful, concrete, and appeals vividly to all five senses. This imagery, so vital and rich in color and sensory stimuli, when contrasted against the motif of physical and spiritual decay, creates a dramatic tension which is almost palpable. Bojic's characters are stunning; it is not their grandeur and majesty which move us, however, but the human frailty and pathos which they convey. ■Dordevic writes that Bojic's "Salome" was inspired in part by Oscar Wilde's play of the same name, noting that Bojic even used the polite second person form of address in deference to Wilde's "thou art".42 He point out, however, that Bojic's poem is set in a completely different time frame: "Wilde painted Salome in her initial exaltation for Johanan, but Bojic, with a cruel logic, showed her . . . at a time when her body was nothing more than wounded and decomposing flesh."43 Salome's "Gray eyes sink into the dark copper of her face" ("Sive oci tonu u mrk bakar lica"), her graying hair has the scent of "fading violets" ("svelih ljubi£ica"), and her hands are "faded and yellow" ("Uvele i zute").44 But in the moonlight, "When the ripe fig spreads its sweet smell" ("I kad sladak miris prospe smokva zrela'j , she dreams of "The head of John, bloody and white" ("Krvava i bela Jovanova glava") and 258 her "wrinkled lips" (nabrana usta") long for the taste of young men and the "fumes of the bed and the wine" ("I udara zadah loznice i pica"). She would pay "with a goblet of blood" ("peharom krvi") for the touch of "marble-like, naked masculine legs" ("mermere gole mu^ke gnjati"), but her eyes are red with tears and "Old age covers the face with blue snowflakes" ("Pahuljice modre starost licem ospe"). Imprisoned in her decaying body of "staggering legs, dried-up breasts,/Dark veins" ("Klecave su noge, sparuskane dojke,/Crne zile"), the overheard laughter of young girls "hisses" ("bruji") at her. This constant juxtaposition of images of old age and decay with images of sensual vitality heightens the pathos of Salome's bewildered admission that indeed, "Salome is old" ("Saloma je stara"). "The young roes cry, drops of pomegranate waft,/ And in a cloud rises the scent of the mandrake/ And disappears" ("Vri^te mlade srne, kaplje miris nara,/ U oblak se dize kad od mandragore/I gubi"); the scent of resin intensifies her helplessness; the wind from the Nile stirs in her the vision of pyramids, but she is covered with hoarfrost; her limbs, "without blood, without juice" ("bez krvi i soka"), implore the sun and the night, "Like a date palm that is forever green" ("Kao urma sto se vecito zeleni"). She envisions her decomposing body, "Stench, ashes, bones, the worms gather in the corpse!" ("Smrad, pepeo, kosti, crvi lesom zbrani!"), but this image immediately shifts to the image of green grass growing from her body as Salome wonders, "Does new life appear? ("Novi zivot nice?"), and even in the final moment of death, Bojicfs imagery is full of sensual energy and color: The frail bones gnash and the withered limbs. Blue-black nails sink into the sand. And from her lips, she pours out blood and gall and foam. She opened her lips, dying and dreaming A furious dance, the luxury of Herod's house. And a white smile spreads over the blue face. So it is with death in the south. Salome, Salome. Skripe trosne kosti i udi £to venu. Modre, erne nokte u pesak zariva . Iz usta prosipa krv i zuc i penu. Otvorila usta, umire i sniva Besni tanac, raskos Irodova doma. Bell osmeh modrim licem se razliva. Tako mru na jugu. Saloma, Saloma, The epigraph which Bojic uses in "David in Love" ("Zaljubljeni David") is taken from the Book of Samuel and relates King David's first encounter with Bathsheba. In Bojic's poem, then, David is already old, 260 but aroused by his passion for the beautiful wife of Uriah, he cries: 'Woman with milk-white body, I so thirst for you! My day is full of winter, old age rots my blood' '%eno mlecna tela, zedan sam te vrlo! Moj dan pun je zime, starost krv mi truje ,45 David's lips are colorless, his heart waxen, his throat withered, but Bathsheba's beauty has evoked in him the vision of those distant days when "Thousands of second wives pressed my thigh" ("Tisuce inoca stezahu mi bedra"). Some were "white like the snow from Selmon" ("bele ko sneg sa Selmona")/ "Others were black as the wings of the griffin" ("Druge behu erne ko krila grifona"). In a litany of similes, he likens them to "the murmur of the cedars" ("sumor kedra"), "the indigo from Sidon" ("£ivit iz Sidona") , and the wildness "of the zebra" ("divlje kao zebra"). He recalls his youth "with its golden fringe" ("zlatnim ure^enu resom") but old age has wrinkled his ribs; his once "marble body" ("mramor-tela") is infested with the "pus of insatiable wounds" ("gnoj nesitih rana"). Struck by his helplessness, the King collapses: And David, king of a holy state, fell down, 261 And biting the silk of a colored divan Sobbed with tears of furious melancholy. From outside the song of the palm branches rustles He gasps, and the yellowed hand droops. And at the open doors, he traces the path toward Lebanon, Where the dust of the stars washes the universe in silver, And he roars: ’Women!1 While his eyes, silently, sink into darkness. J srusi se David, car drzave svete> I grizuci svilu sarenog divana Jecao je placem razgnevljene sete. S polja sumi pesma sa palmovih grana On huknu, dok ruka pozutela klonu. I otvoriv vrata glednu put Livana, Gde prah zvezda srebrom mije vasionu, I urliknu: 'Zene! ' Dok njegove oci nemo u mrak tonu. The tortured image which Bojic presents here is one of a once young, powerful king who, when faced with death, the ultimate adversary, does not have the wisdom to accept defeat. The poet does not judge David, however; he is not motivated by small-minded, didactic moralism. Rather, he attempts to comprehend him in human terms, to search out the mortal form which lies encrusted in myth, and reveal it, with compassion and objectivity. He understands that the king's anguished demand for "Women" will not allay his agony, and his awareness, even as the slave girls enter, "warm, barefoot and rosy" ("tople, bose i rumene"), that the orgy which will follow is only 262 "the mindless game of a drunken king!” ("ludu igru pjanog cara!"). David wants only Bathsheba, "That clean, woman like a day from a fairy tale" ("Onu zenu £istu ko dan iz bajaka"), "transparent, saturated to the core with sun" ("se prozri, suncem prozmana do srzi"). "Before him the black veil falls away" ("pred njim crn se veo smace") and David "bursts into tears" ("u suze su brizli"). The last three stanzas of the poem are somewhat weakened by the strong Baudelairean influence; there are allusions to sin, pain, blood and masochism, as David grips a knife, screaming: "'Uriah's blood will rinse away my despair!'" ("'Urijina krv ce ocaj da mi spere!'") while "the Holy City sleeps beneath a veil of silence" ("A Grad Sveti spava pod velom tisine"). Certainly, the implications of sado masochistic eroticism flaw "David in Love," and to a lesser extent, "Salome," as well, and certainly, ■Bordevic is quite correct in his contention that Baudelaire's influence on Bojic's early poetry was unfortunate.46 However, it should be remembered that the poet was only nineteen years old when these poems were written. Considering his youth, Bojic's grasp of human psychology is astonishing; there is no encumbering display of youthful sentimentality, and aside from the occasional "heaviness" of the decadent infuence, he 263 maintains a pure dramatic level. Even in these early poems, Bojic's verse reflects many of the hallmarks of modern poetry: psychological insight; rich, sensual diction; syntactical compression; and a tension which elicits disorientation rather than harmony. It is these features, together with his youthful confidence and sincerity, which enabled Bojic to succeed in his attempt to demythify these biblical figures. And although his later poetry does indeed reflect the theoretical progression, technical refinement and emotional control of a more mature poetic perspective, he rarely achieved the degree of intense poetic inquiry and raw revelation which these poems reveal. His dramas are the only part of Bojic's oeuvre that approach it, and had he lived, perhaps he would have realized his full lyrical potential in that genre. Citing the plays, Miodrag Pavlovic writes that Bojic's technique was "a part of the anti-romantic reaction."47 The earlier poems, and especially the portrayals of biblical figures bear out this view. It is ironic, then, that in his later poetry, his application of historical themes reveals an essentially romantic viewpoint. The theme of the collection, Poems of Pride and Suffering (Pesme bola i ponosa) (1917), for instance, is the metamorphosis of national suffering into national pride. These poems, 264 however eloquent in tone and spectacular in scope, lack the imagination and vitality of Bojic's earlier verse, and furthermore, only serve to perpetuate the so-called Serbian "cult of martyrdom."48 In "The Sowers" ("Sejaci"), for instance, the Serbs are portrayed as helpless victims of their own cruel fate: Like wanderers followed by a curse, Still in a row our bones are being sown Through islands and foreign waters, Through deserts where simoons are howling, and the cold steppe. And when the sun sets, Satiated crows run from our carcasses. Ancient fires, extinguished and gray, Send muffled messages with a sigh. We have left living corpses there. And like Ahasuerus, whom the Lord cursed, We search the plains to burst endlessly. Lord, wasn't it punishment enough? Like wanderers followed by suffering, From the longing south, with the fate of Job, We are prepared to sow new graves. Ko lutalice koje kletve prate, I jos se redom na^e kosti seju Po ostrvima i u vode strane, U pustinjama gde samumi veju, I hladnoj stepi. I, kad sunce stane, S lesina naZsih site beSe vrane. A vatre drevne, zgasene i sive, Uzdahom silju poslanice mukle. Mrtvace tamo ostavismo zive. I ko Ahasfer, koga Gospod ukle, Traiimo ravni do u beskraj pukle. 265 Gospode, kazne zar ne bese dosta? Ko lutalice koje patnje prate, S 6eznjivog juga, sa sudbinom Jova, Spremin smo groblja da sejemo nova .49 These lines, though more polished, reflect little of the bold, innovative poetic daring of Bojic’s earlier collections. With the possible exception of "Saint Peter's Day Vision" ("Petrovdanska Vizija"), which depicts a dream-like encounter between King Peter I and the medieval despot -Durad Brankovic (1427-1456), Bojic's applications of historical themes in the Poems of Pride and Suffering are idealized attempts to rationalize the tragic past of the Serbian nation. It is typical of the type of patriotic poetry which was common in the period between the Balkan wars and World War II. The poet's frame of reference has shifted from "I" to "we," a point which is illustrated in Vuckovic's observation that in his patriotic verse, the poet's lexicon is characterized by the words, "narod" (people in the collective, national sense), "porod" ("descendant"), and "rod" ("blood lineage), rather than "covek" ("man") or "cove^anstvo" ("humanity").50 Even Bojic's famous "Blue Grave" ("Plava Grobnica"), however majestic and inspiring, is nevertheless a poem about a people, rather than about individual human fate, and therefore is 266 intrinsically more abstract and less immediate. Bojic’s contributions to Serbian litrature are many, but his greatest worth lies in the young, unaffected, unrestrained, unadorned, ecstatic voice of discovery with which he recorded his deeply human, and therefore universal rites of passage. Serbian history and feminine love are also important elements in the poetry of Rastko Petrovic. However, in his infinitely complex poetic cosmography, both of these themes acquire greater scope and definition. Petrovic’s historical vision was influenced to a great degree by the concept of subconscious memory which Henri Bergson (1859-1941) espoused in Mind-Eneray (L'Eneraie spiritueile). Thus, the national past becomes the racial past of primitive Slavic origins, and is then further expanded to represent the eternal cosmic past which Petrovic associates specifically with pre incarnate existence in the womb, and which is accessible only in the subconscious. Woman is an integral component of this poetic schema; however, her role is two-fold and reflects the climate of Petrovic's personal psychological landscape. In the act of physical love, woman is portrayed in the conventional surrealist image: She is the portal of sensuality through which man passes to the archaic, cosmic world. More often, however, in 267 Petrovic's poetry, woman is a paradoxical maternal figure of both human and archetypal dimensions: On the one hand, the poet damns her for having expelled and abandoned him— at the moment of birth— to what he terms the "loathsome punishment" ("gnusna kazna") of conscious life; on the other, he mourns her absence and nostalgically yearns for the embryonic world of pre existence— "the home to which one does not return" ("dom gde se ne vracfa")— which she represents. These elements are all woven together and developed in a poetic form which Vu£kovic contends initiated "the road of surrealism before those in France had constituted it as a school."51 While this contention is essentially accurate, it must be noted that Petrovic's surrealist form was developed during his long residency in Paris and inspired in large part by his affiliations with both the dadaist and surrealist movements there. Petrovic first lived in Paris from 1915 to 1919, after having fled Serbia during the Albanian exodus; he returned again in 1920 as a university student and remained there until 1922. He was deeply involved in Parisian literary life, and as KapidSic-Osmanagic notes, was well known and well liked by all the members of the dadaist and surrealist groups.52 Because of Petrovic's close relationship with 268 , v , / , / , , these groups, Kapidzic-Osmanagic casts him m the role of a "younger Apollinaire," who acted as a sort of intermediary between them and the early Belgrade surrealists, guiding and directing the literary development of the latter.53 However, although Petrovic did have strong personal ties with some of the Belgrade surrealists and contributed to their early journals, Putevi (Paths) (1922-1924) and Svedocanstvo (Testimony) (1924-1925), his association with the Belgrade Group was peripheral. Indeed, although he had participated enthusiastically in the development of Dada, French surrealism and Serbian surrealism, he was never formally aligned with any of those movements because none of them could sufficiently express Petrovic’s multichambered, profoundly Slavic poetic vision. In fact, in a sense, both dada and surrealism were diametrically opposed to it: Petrovic was not satisfied with a synthetic, fragmentary new reality; rather, he was struggling to restore the authentic old one in its totality. His method was to cultivate what Zoran Misic terms the "cult of primitive mentality". In Misic's words: Rastko, in contrast to the surrealists,was much more fixed on penetrating the secrets of those 'immeasurable forces which govern the world, rather than on building new poetic worlds more magical than reality.54 269 And as a Slav and a Serb, Petrovic did not have to resort to the inductive techniques which the surrealists used to plumb the depths of cosmic reality: He started to search for the sources of a new poetic spirit where they are clearest and freshest: in the forests and lakes where the colors of our climate are reflected and where the secret of our essence rests . . . in our old monasteries, legends and customs. In our national folklore, he found everything that the leaders of modern European poetry were searching for: first, natural forms of irrational creativity, unrestrained instinct for play, rational and irrational humor, a cosmic spirit which permeates all things, the most intimate unions of experience and prophecy, wisdom and magic, verbal and visual imagination. But Rastko also sensed the crucial, human significance of our epic tradition, in which the wonder is not only the product of individual fantasy, but a collective and universal experience.55 ( / , Petrovic's interest m Slavic studies had begun to develop during the poet's early years in Paris. Marko Ristic, who also spent a great deal of time in Paris during those years, reports that from the beginning, Petrovic was completely consumed with the study of Slavic culture and passed countless hours in the National Library researching ancient Slavic mythology and folklore, Eastern Orthodox theology, 270 Byzantine history and art, and medieval Serbian legends and epics; he consulted the ancients as well— Homer, Herodotus, Saxo Grammaticus, etc.— searching for clues, confirmation of Slavic origins.56 The first tentative fruit of Petrovic's passionate scholarship was a brief article entitled "A Theory About the Origin of the Slavs” ("Jedna teorija o poreklu Slovena”), published in October, 1920, which Ristic describes as a little confused and naive, but nevertheless very moving and fascinating.57 In it, Petrovic linked together the fragments of historical evidence he had uncovered about the cult of the Svetovid, the origins of the Scythians, Pannonians, Illyrians, Venetians, etc., in an effort to reconstruct the history of the ancient Slavs. This article was only a preliminary exercise, however, which prepared the way for his first truly imaginative literary depiction of Slavic culture and history. Published in 1921, Petrovic's first novel, Burlesque of the Lord Perun God of Thunder (Burleska Gospodina Peruna Boaa Groma), was both praised and ridiculed. Based on the myth of Perun, the chief deity of the ancient Slavs,56 the novel is a fantastic interpretation of Slavic mythology which interweaves pagan myths, Christian figures and symbolism, historical characters, and ancient and modern writers and artists by completely 271 collapsing temporal and spatial limits. The ancient Slavic gods are juxtaposed with Tintoretto, Van Gogh, Christian saints, Brueghel, the Virgin Mary, Picasso, Rimbaud, etc., in various places and time periods, creating a striking sense of eternal, cosmic time and space. Citing a passage from the novel, Ristic writes that it defines the characteristic authenticity of poetic power. In this passage, the Virgin Mary asks Saint Peter how it is possible to smoke, since at this particular point in the novel, they are in the fourteenth century, and Columbus has not yet brought tobacco from America. Saint Peter tells her: Listen sister, whether we're in the fourteenth, eighteenth or sixth century, it's all the same. I constantly move between heaven, earth and hell, and I am in closer contact with things than other people are, so I can use them before they have been discovered.59 This passage expresses the essence of the cosmic vision of unity and timelessness which Petrovic was trying to translate into contemporary human speech. With Burlesque. Petrovic had unbolted the sacred doors which lead to the structural unity of all reality, and it is that same lucid, poetic vision which he exposed that lies at the heart of contemporary Serbian surrealism. 272 It was in Petrovic's work that the synthesis of the indigenous Serbian surrealist form was crystallized, but it was accomplished at great personal cost to the poet. In 1922, Petrovic published his one and only collection of poetry. Entitled The Revelation (Qtkrovenie) , this collection marked a definitive departure from Serbian poetry of the period, and caused a sensational scandal in Belgrade literary circles. Petrovic was attacked from all sides; he was accused of being a sexual pervert, a cultural heretic, a social psychopath, and finally, was threatened with excommunication from the Serbian Orthodox Church. Although some critics— most notably, Isidora Sekulic and Ivo Andric— defended Petrovic's poetry, the majority found the book to be abominable. Sima Pandurovic criticized Petrovic for having "no soul and no taste," and likening his poetry to the black arts, wrote, "Perhaps the writer of The Revelation is the first and biggest Black One in our poetry."60 Zivko Milicevic declared that The Revelation presented "only a cult of animalism,"61 and Milos Milosevic judged the entire work to be a psychological biography of unintelligible, vulgar stupidity of the worst kind.62 Despite the lack of analytical and artistic insight reflected in these critical denunciations, after the publication of The 273 Revelation and the ensuing literary reaction to it, Petrovic subsequently wrote very little poetry, and none at all after 1924. In that year, he entered the diplomatic service and served as a government attache in Belgrade, Rome and Washington, D. C., where he died in 194 9. Ristic believes that Petrovic, having come so close to total public and personal disgrace, weakened under the emotional and intellectual strain, and compromised with society.63 However, his poetry seems to indicate that it was not so much a willingness to compromise with society, but a refusal to compromise with art that led him to that decision. Petrovic's language is concrete, fluid and full of color and sensuality. His lexicon, which assimilates a wide variety of poetic and cultural elements, is described by Vuckovic as "a provocative- sarcastic collage of various linguistic spheres (ideal and banal-colloquial) which is presented with an artificial and abstract secessionistic idiom and the hymn-like pathos of a cosmographer. 1,64 There is a great deal of inversion and the unconventional syntactical structure frequently borders on the hermetic. Perhaps the most striking feature of Petrovic's poetry, however, is the range of tone it presents, extending from joyful exuberance to profound agony. The variance in tone is 274 directly linked to the theme which pervades these poems: The desire to make manifest that "new life which always lies within." When the poet senses that he is nearing this goal, his tone is exalted; when he feels he is losing ground, his anguish is all-pervasive. In "Divka on the Waters" ("Divka na vodama"), which celebrates the spring renewal of the natural world, Petrovic is exultant as he invokes the ancient Slavic gods Veles (god of the herds) and Kupalo (god of Spring) to bring forth the fruit and herbs of the new season. Spring is personified in the "rascal" ("deran") god Kupalo, "the beautiful boy of Veles/Whose lips were created for ■ t ( V ^ , i kissing" ("ubavi decak Velesa/Cija su usta sazdana za 1jubljenje")65. Since the advent of Christianity in Serbia, the coming of spring has traditionally been associated with Saint George, who arrives on his horse, "Zelenko" ("green one"), in mid-April, and the tone of Petrovic's poem simulates, to some extent, the jubilant anticipation which prevails in the traditional Saint George's Day songs. However, for Petrovic, fertility necessarily implies woman, and the provocative, sensual imagery of the poem adds depth to its lighthearted timbre. "In thoughts, all the fertile girls/ Already are bringing forth heroes" ("U mislima, sve devojke oplodene/Vec radaju junake") "And the legs are strong/in 275 every young woman" ("I noge su jake/U svake mlade zene"). The second stanza, of the poem introduces the associative image of woman and blood-symbolized here in red rivers— which pervades the poems of the Revelation: Through your hands water flows And therefore, look, all the rivers are red, And still only my eyes are green So that in them sail my little brother's paper boats. And willow groves and brooks walk Kroz tvoje ruke proticu vode I zato, gle, sve reke su crvene, A jo£ su samo o6i mi zelene Da po njima mog brata malog papirni dunici brode I vrbljaci i potoci hode The enigmatic imagery of these lines subsequently gives way to more conventional— evening approaches, thoughts fall like dew, etc.— and the resumption of a convivial, playful tone. "New Point Ballad" ("Bodinova Balada") also depicts the Slavic gods, but in a completely different reference. In this poem, Petrovic is not appealing to specific gods who inhabit the natural world; here the gods are symbols for the internal primordial forces which he is trying to liberate. The tone of this poem is wistful and melancholic, but the concrete imagery evokes a sense of immediacy as well: 27 Through the mirror a walnut hall passes like a river. And all the poems of the poet Through my soul pass to distant fields. To fields, where mirrored in a lake, hills descend to a chasm. With them primeval oaks and white herds and the fading pine Beneath which the Slavic lords gather for a conference; Pine, beautiful green pine Green pine of my grandfathers. Kroz ogledalo oti£e orahova dvorana kao reka I sve pesme pesnika Kroz du£u moju oti£u u polja daleka. U polja, gde ogledajudi se jezerom brda silaze u ponor Sa njima prastari hrastovi i bela krda i sveo bor Pod kim se skuplja slovenska gospoda na dogovor; Bor, divni zeleni bor, Dedova mojih zeleni bor. This poem depicts the intersecting of the personal subconscious and the collective subconscious, and the mirror is the locus of that intersecting. The green pine, a traditional Slavic symbol of rebirth, becomes a leitmotif of the poem, as Petrovic repeats these last two lines like a magical incantation.66 There is a medieval hunter with a drawn bow mirrored at the bottom of the lake, and when the water washes over his decaying skin, "Algae lays on him, like soft hairs or fleece/While his blooming bones glitter in the whiteness of the snow" ("Kao meka dlaka il runo, alga po njemu 277 leze/Dok rascvetane kosti belinom sijaju snega"). But as the hunter draws his bow at a stag, the odor of decomposition permeates the mountains and hills of the natural world; poisonous vapors rise from the bottom of the lake and he is "alone, without remedy" ("usamljen, bez leka"). The image of the hunter fades and the voice shifts back to first person as the poet senses his poems passing away: Through the soul, through the tepid mirrors of smooth rivers All the way to the strange lakes through which the heavens descend to an abyss, Descending through its stream like the green pine carries away a twig. Kroz dusu, kroz mlaka ogledala uglacanih reka, Sve do cudnih jezera kojima nebesa silaze u ponor, Silazeci maticom svojom ko siblj iku odnese i zeleni bor. Whether it is water, blood or soup, there is always liquid in Petrovic's poetry; he uses it to represent the subconscious which is the vehicle of passage to pre existent reality. This seems to reflect the influence of Bergson, who Petrovic acknowledges in the introduction to The Revelationf specifically Bergson's view of the subconscious as a means of accessing the deeper stratum of the collective subconscious in which "our whole past still exists": 278 I believe that our whole past still exists. It exists subconsciously, by which I mean that it is present to consciousness in such a manner that, to have the revelation of it, consciousness has no need to go out of itself or seek for foreign assistance; it has but to remove an obstacle, to withdraw a veil, in order that all that it contains, all in fact that it actually is, may be revealed.67 However, the liquid forms in Petrovic?'s poetry have another function as well: They represent the protean nature of human existence, or the life force which Berson termed the "£lan vital." In Bergson's view, spirit and flesh are collaborators which, by constantly opposing each other, impel this life force toward its protean becoming: Life as a whole, from the initial impulsion that thrust it into the world, will appear as a wave which rises, and which is opposed by the descending movement of matter. On the greater part of its surface, the current is converted by matter into a vortex. . . . On flows the current, running through human generations, subdividing itself into individuals. This subdivision was vaguely indicated in it, but could not have been made clear without matter. Thus, souls are continually being created, which, nevertheless, in a certain sense pre-existed . . . so all organized beings, from the humblest to the highest, and from first origins of life to the time in which we are, and in all places as in all times, do but evidence a single impulsion, 27 the inverse of the movement of matter, and in itself indivisible. All the living hold together, and all yield to the same tremendous push.68 This is why so much water and blood constantly flow through Petrovic's poems; he understands that the indivisibility which Bergson posits is possible only because it is in a state of constant transmutation, touching everything and clinging to nothing. And it is the flow of that same indivisible cosmic essence which Petrovic expresses when he declares, "The blood speaks from me!" ("To krv iz mene govori!"). It is the awareness of the shifting molecular structure of all those who preceded him— the "Old Slavs"— now crying out to be delivered from his own entrails. The tragic irony of Petrovic is that he spoke with a voice so clear, so keen, that only a few could grasp it. For Petrovic, this life force is associated with woman. In "Adventurer in A Cage" ("Pustolov u kavezu"), it is the sensual, passionate woman who arouses in him the "enormous plasma in the midst of panting" ("ogromna plazma sred dahtanja"). In her green eyes, daylight grows and night carries her voice away "like the fall of heavy, cold waters" ("kao pad te^ke hladne vode"). She is the hierophant, the means of 280 passage to "the gathering among the former Slavic lords" ("zbor medU negdasnju slovensku gospodu"): You, whose bridegroom I am now, you who speak coldly about death, While about you my Slavic barbarities and their Perun gardens whirl, with your hair lifting me like a wreath: so that in Elysian fields in which I will be strolling my shadow will always be peaceful, At least for a moment— far from this earth, because it seems to me that those strange things happen to me again as if they sneak up from another world; look, my mouth is full of blood when the boredom leads me to perfection; then I'm bored, then I am again the old Slav who in a boat which sails through a gray lake, and full of heroes whose shadow falls on the water. Ti, ciji sam sad zenik, koja govori£ hladno o smrti, dok su po tebi barbarstva moja slovenska i njini perunski vrti, svojom kosom kao vencem me uzvisi: da u poljima jelisejskim kojima budem £etao moja senka uvek mirna budef Trenutak makar samo— daleko od ove zemlje, jer tfini mi se da mi se opet zbivaju one £udne stvari £to kao da se prikradaju sa drugoga sveta: usta mif evo, puna krvi kad me dosada savr^enstvu vodi; onda mi je dosadno/ onda sam opet Stari Sloven u £unu koji jezerom sivim brodi, i pun junaka cija pada sen na vodi. 28 Sexual love, however, offers only a temporary lapse of conscious reality, and even seems to heighten the interminable awareness of another, greater reality. This is illustrated in the embittered, disappointed tone of "Bestialities" ("Zverstva"): But sweating, shuddering, we found out about nightmarish defeats! Who lifts the anchors, Who breaks the chains, for the great departures? That's why with hammers we smashed our muscular decks, That's why with razors we severed the living cords from blood; All oznojeni, najezeni saznavasmo za kosmarske poraze! Ko dicl kotve, ko prekinuti lance, za velike polaze? Zato smo cekicima razbijali svoje misicne palube, Zato smo britvama kidali uzad zivu sa krvi ; Ultimately, the secret of that other reality is inextricably linked to the secret of birth. Thus, the feminine model which motivates Petrovic is not the lover, but the mother. Now, much— perhaps too much— has been written about Petrovic's "obsessive" desire to return to the womb. As Vuckovic notes, the poet lost his mother at an early age,69 and Ristic, as well as other critics, suggests that Petrovic's preoccupation with his mother may be attributable to the theory of 282 birth trauma postulated by Otto Rank.70 Perhaps he was suffering from an unresolved oedipal complex as well; there is a specific allusion to this in the poem "Wolf" ("Vuk"),"78 and since he was the youngest of thirteen children, it would not be a wholly unexpected consequence. However, perhaps too much has been read into Petrovic's metaphor of birth. In fact, the poet lost both his parents during his adolescent years.72 Shortly thereafter, he left his homeland and settled in France— as an orphan and a refugee— where he became passionately engrossed with the study of his own cultural history, and, as he himself affirms, where he began to write poetry: It was just then that he began to write poems,and it seemed to him that every good word he pronounced was of great value. . . . He had originated as a good [person] and he didn't understand who could have annihilated that goodness in him. . . . So they grew together: he and his fatherland; he and his talent; neither one could be separated from the other.73 Although one may speculate about the psychological conditions which may have motivated Petrovic, judging from this passage, it seems plausible that he was simply a homeless, disoriented, sensitive young man, who, overwhelmed by the events of the war, mourning the loss 283 of his family, and yearning to return to his country, turned to poetry as a means of self-preservation. After all, the theme which dominates his poetry is the same theme which dominated his emotional energies: the return home. He had lost all of the physical evidence of his own identity, and he was trying to reestablish that identity in his poetic world. In, "Paris Night" ("Noc pariza"), the tone of anger and grief with which he addresses his mother is a natural emotional response to what he perceived as her abandonment of him: Never 1 Why did you never slap me, So that one violet bruise bloomed on my fat childish flesh? That burn, that print of your hand would be dear to me today, and would be, here, a trace to my cradle full of blood, to my origin of your flesh, V v Nikada! Zasto me nikada nisi isopala, da se jedna ljubi£asta modrica na mom de£a£kom debelom mesu rascvetala? Ta opekotina, taj otisak ti ruke mi drag i danas bi mi, evo, bio trag, do kolevke mi pune krvi, do porekla mi tvoga mesa, After his contacts with the dadaists and surrealists, and especially after his exposure to Bergson, it seems likely that this theme of return evolved into a highly sophisticated philosophical and poetic view of existence. "The Secret of Birth" ("Tajna RodTenja") is significant in this respect because it indicates a tentative resolution of Petrovic's despair. Moreover, initiates the direction of his evolving cosmic view: Oh, redness flows into me from the mother Light, hear, from the home to which one does not return I will never tell you the red tide of freedom, I will never mention to you The jungle-like delirium of freedom! But the red light of the home to which one does not return, And the strong body still calling out Will confuse me I have come out of the scented jungle And I have covered the earth with my body to keep it safe from evaporation . . . And no one will tell me then— which is the shortest path To salvation: But I will die, I see, from the bursting Of a radial vein. 0f crvnenilo mi dotece iz matere Svetlostf £ujf iz doma gde se ne vraca Ja vam necu reci nikada crvenu plimu slobode, Ja vam necu spomenuti nikada Prasumski zanos slobode! Ali erven a svetlost doma gde se ne vraca, I krepko telo jos zvucno Pobrkace me Ta izadtoh iz dzungle namirisane I pokrih zemlju telom da je sacuvam od isparenja . . . I nece mi reci niko tad— koja je staza najkraca Do spasenja: No umrecu, vidim, od prskanja Damara. 285 Instead of the static symbol of "a cradle full of blood," here the blood signifies motion, transformation, ascent. There is still the longing to return to that cradle, but now the poet suggests that the blood of life and death are one and the same; and further, that it is poetry which will enable him to transcend both. In "A Singular Dream" ("Jedini san"), the "red tide of freedom" is again associated with the womb: And not even one dream of life Is so clean And from everything chaste, as if it is in the belly of some mother; I walk through that dark space where every leaf, In dreaming, retracts, to have one world Which is beyond this one: free, and without measure; And again through the same halls of sleep Frightened, I knock on the muscular doors of this life: Ah, one, twol Ah, one, two! Pa nijedan zivota san Nije tako &ist I od svega <5edan, kao da je u trbuhu neke mat ere Prohodim kroz onaj tmuri prostor gde svaki list, U sanjanju, poride da ima jedan svet Koji je van ovog: Slobodan, i bez mere; I opet kroz iste sale sna Zakucam prestravljen na misicna vrata ovog zivota: Ah, jedan, dva! Ah, jedan, dva! The poet’s emphasis on the dream world increases in "All The Bowls Are Empty" ("Svi su <*anci prazni"); "Fall thus asleep, moon/Over the warm soup of childhood" ("Tako 286 zaspi, mesece,/Nad toplom supom detinjstva"), he writes. In the light of day, however, the bowls are empty, and he wonders, "where to strain out that sediment?" ("gde iscediti to vrenje?"). The Revelation is evidence of Petrovic's heroic attempt to answer that question. Petrovic was aided in this attempt by Bergson, whom he acknowledges in his introduction to The Revelation as one of the forces which impelled his "principle of a new life." He was receptive to Bergson's concepts because, of course, they were useful to him in reestablishing his personal and cosmic past. But Petrovic was also attracted to Bergson's theories because they complimented his own cultural world view, and particularly the attitudes toward time and space discussed in Chapter II. In Bergson,- then, he found a means of defining and legitimitizing the Serbian world view in modern philosophical terms, and in this sense, The Revelation constitutes not only an innovative poetic work, but a significant cultural contribution as well. It is not difficult to imagine, then, Petrovic's bewilderment and despair when he was publicly renounced and disgraced for having produced what he perceived to be a work of literary and cultural value. As Ristic records: 287 It is necessary to grasp everything, maybe to love, and then to understand what it meant to the poet, what it could have, must have meant, when returning home . . . in 1922, and bringing with him that which he considered to be his great poetic and vital, essential message, when it was met with misunderstanding and sneering, with idiotic journalistic sneering, with the total incomprehension of a stubborn middle class environment, with malice and stupid jokes, with cretinous witticisms and with spiteful subterfuge, when he hit his head against the wall of obtuse rationalism, narrow-mindedness, pettiness and envy.74 After the shame and humiliation of The Revelationf Petrovic wrote only a handful of poems, and these were published--some in only fragmentary form— in various literary journals. Nevertheless, these poems are some of Petrovic's most telling works, not only because they evidence his poetic genius, but because they also serve to explain his subsequent retreat from poetry. "The Hour of Restoration" {"Cas obnove"), which Ristic considers to be Petrovic's finest poem, expresses the poet's complex philosophical and poetic vision. The initial tone of the poem is melancholy and nostalgic, as he recalls "Color: still the trace of a thing that lived beside me" ("Boja: jos trag stvari sto je kraj mene Sivela") and "All those coincidences and experiences, thus, only lines" ("Svi ti sticaji i iskustva, dakle, 288 samo linije"), but the lines become more distinct and the tone grows stronger, more confident, as the poet reaffirms the validity of the other reality which beckons him: like a river with its whole course from the mountain, So with the soul we gushed suddenly from the mother, Our body is only the first barrage which we drive off With a force that constantly approaches behind it. kao reka svojim celim tokom iz planine, Tako duhom potekosmo odjednom iz matere, Telo nam samo prva brana koju gonimo Snagom sto stalno za njim nadolazi. The source of this river is in sleep, but even "when the river throws the body out on the shore" ("kad reka izbaci telo no obalu"), it continues to flow "outside life" ("van zivota"), then "the intercourse with her quietly collapses/On the very border of understanding" ("Vec tiho klone s njome opStenje/Bas na granici samoj razuma"). But the poet will not compromise this reality: It knows that I believe in hallucination, the circulation of blood, wounds, and in misery, In one true and indivisible self, In ascension, in dullness, and in the incurable fall. Zna da verujem u halucinacije, krvotok, rane i u jad, U jednog sebe istinitog i nerazlucnog, U dizanja, otupljena, u neizle£ivi pad. 289 And just as the river of sleep is part of that indivisible self, so, too, is the world of matter. Addressing himself to the earth, the poet speaks tenderly, lucidly: Mother ours, because the mother is mixed with you, We are not repulsed by you, nor, swallowing us, will you be the last beast: We enter into you sadly, as we have exited from the mother, It is only a return to her; because there is nothing else to be chosen: Than to drop her and ourselves in a glass of boundless water . . . Where we have soaked the scars of sleep having torn the bandage of blueness! Majko nam, jer pomesa sa sobom mater, Ne gadimo te se, nitl, gutajuci nas, bices poslednja zver: Ulazimo u tebe tu2no kao sto izadtosmo iz mat ere, To je samo povratak k njoj; jer nema sta da se izbere: Do spustiti i nju i sebe u &asu beskrajne vode . . . Gde potapasmo oziljke sna razdravsi pi avila zavoj! The allusion to death in "The Hour of Restoration" is amplified in "Wolf" ("Vuk"), as the poet contemplates suicide. Despite its theme, "Wolf" is one of Petrovic's richest, most complex poetic structures; its tone ranges from apocalyptic agony to exalting affirmation. The title refers to the traditional association of the totemic Serbian wolf-god with the pagan sun god, Dabog. Hence, the dominant symbol of the 290 poem is the sun, which, in Petrovic's cosmology, implies at least two levels of meaning: First, it represents the light of the world without measure which he sought and was denied; and second, it symbolizes the Slavic world— and by extension, Serbia, which he venerated and which rejected him. In sleep, he says, the sun reclined on his chest, driving its light into "open veins, cut deeply into my hands": It flowed out again with the dawn, it rolled along the meadow, Barely awake, I watched it, smiling in wonder; I didn't know that afterward it would slaughter a flock of lambs, And that it would splatter the stars with the blood of my youth; Oticalo je opet zorom, kotrljalo se po livadi, Gledah ga jedva razbudten, nasmejan u Sudenju; Ne znadtah da ce potom preklati stado jagnjadi, I da ce zvezde poprskati mladoscu moje krvi; The poet dedicates himself to the sun, constantly following "its track of light" ("trag njegov svetli") and he discovers "Moon-beings and Sun-beings who attack some secret subject" ("Mesecare i Suncare koje privlaci tajni neki zrak"), in "another starry wheel" ("drugome zvezdanom kolu") which he associates with the mother who, "like a she-wolf, washed me with her tongue/when I crawled to her breast drunk from light" ("ko vucica, 291 jezikom umila/dopuzih do njene dojke pijan od svetlosti"), and the sun offered the complete restoration of that other, greater reality: Sun, it was only to you that I longed to be equal, To know one single thing and through it to know everything: And hidden, behind the doors I awaited your eternally glorious birth, And only because of your image I sacrificed those Dreams. Sunce, jedino tebi sto sam zudeo biti ravan, Znati jednu jedinu stvar i njome znatl sve: I za vratima skriven <5ekah rodtaj ti vecno slavan, I jedino rad tvoga lika zrtvovah one Sne. But the sun begins to flow wildly, swarming over him, hurting his face with its light, until "Blood bounces into fountains" ("Krv lopti na kljuceve") and "The room is filled with blood" ("Soba je puna krvi"). Betrayedthe poet lashes out at the sun: "You promised; but you didn't keep your promise" ("Obecao si, nisi odrzao"). But still the sun remains inside him, "the most beautiful, indeed, of everything I realized!" ("najlepsi, zaista, od svega sto sam saznao!"), and bareheaded now, with blood flowing from his lips, hands, he still longs for that light "which flows from childhood" ("koja sa detinjstva pote£e"), which he "witnessed in green waves to the sky" ("prisustvovah 292 crvenim talasima do neba"). The sun has betrayed him, but he will not betray the sun: SUN Sun, Sun, you will die too. You will disintegrate. Nothing can prevent that. I witness your decaying. But I love you, like a friend, the only one who loves you, who worries about you,who without hands, spitting blood, went out to see you. Who damns you. SUNCE i f ^ | Sunce, Sunce, ti ces umreti takodte. Raspa^ces se. Ni'Sta to ne moze spre£iti. Prisustvujem tvome truljenju. Ali ja te volim, prijatelju, jedini koji te voli, koji te zalif koji je bez ruku, pljujuci krv, izisao da te vidi. Koji te proklinje. Petrovic declares in "Wolf," "I am defeated" ("Pobeden sam"). He was and he wasn't. Although he did not give up literary life altogether (he subsequently translated Rimbaud's "Drunken Boat" and published three novels and a travelogue about his journey through Africa), he never ventured near the high voltage of poetry again. By entering the diplomatic corps, he managed to live in respectable self-exile. But he never really recovered from the spiritual devastation of the literary reaction to The Revelation. In a letter to Ristic in 1945, he wrote, "I lost my past— piece by 293 piece."75 Nevertheless, as Thomas Eekman observes, he is considered one of the most influential figures in Serbian poetry.76 In a certain sense, his role parallels Rimbaud's in French letters. He, too, experienced a brilliant, meteoric rise, was misunderstood and controversial, and sought sanctuary in the seclusion and obscurity of foreign lands. And yet, like Rimbaud, he, more than any other poet of his time, shaped and refined the direction of his national poetry. For it is in the complex of elements which he first synthesized— the vision of an all encompassing reality which includes the collective subconscious and myth and archetype as well as the personal subconscious and the world of dream; the indigenous thematic base; and the colorful, concrete imagery— that the poets who followed him discovered the living code with which to liberate the immeasurable forces of their own poetic worlds. His world "without measure" has been concretized in Lalic's "garden beyond the wall" and in his "voices of ancestors"; it is affirmed, as well, in Miljkovic's "blood that binds oxygen and time"; in Pavlovic's "bones that secretly bear fruit in singing"; and in the proliferation of wolf images which populate Popa's poetry. And one senses that Popa's Homage to the Lame Wolf is, in some way, a homage to Petrovic, as well. 294 The awareness of another reality beyond the visible plane of existence which is expressed in the poetry of Dis, Bojic, and Petrovich is further defined in the poetic vision of Momcilo Nastasijevic, whose verse is perhaps the most enigmatic in all of Serbian poetry. Nastasijevi<5, however, takes a somewhat different approach in that his method of penetrating this reality is highly controlled and exacting, almost formulaic. The basis of this method is the principle of symmetry which governs both the structure and content of his work. NastasijevicTs adherence to this symmetrical order facilitates a poetic alchemy in which apparent opposites are merged to make manifest an otherwise inaccessible unity which exists on a plane of reality beyond that of measurable, historical existence. In order to penetrate this reality, he reduces the visible world to its essential elements, and then resensitizes himself to the singular cosmic energy hidden within those apparently heterogeneous elements, thereby revealing a genuine, complete reality outside of linear time. Yet, as Miodrag Pavlovic explains, the impression of this timeless other reality is effected naturally, almost effortlessly: Nastasijevic's vision of the world is non-historical, but that non- historicalness is not the consequence of some long meditative 295 development; it is truly like that date, a priori and archaic in its first and last jurisdiction.77 This phenomenon of timelessness is established in great part by Nastasijevic1s creative use of language. His syntax reflects a great deal of inversion, and is so economical and compressed that it frequently appears to be truncated in form. Some critics feel that this truncation is largely a result of the frequent omission of verbs. However, as Ljubomir Simovic points out, Nastasijevic1s reduction of verbs is not systematic; while many sentences are indeed devoid of any verbal construction, some of Nastasijevic1s poems literally "teem with . . . the most explosive, most dynamic, most dramatic verbs"; Simovic notes that nouns, as well, are often noticeably absent.78 "Nastasijevic wants to speak about essences with the language of essences," writes Pavlovic, and in this aim, often employs the leaner syntaxes of "archaic and medieval variants"; he adds, however, that this lean form is compensated by the rich, exotic quality of Nastasijevic1s diction, which includes folkloric and liturgical as well as medieval forms. This lexicon, in Pavlovich's estimation, contributes to the sense of timelessness in Nastasijevic's poetry: 296 [Nastasi jevicf' s ] lexicon, folklorically exotic or medievally archaic, also creates difficulties. We find words which are really totally beyond the circulation of contemporary literary language, and even beyond any living dialectical speech.79 This radical linguistic technique is necessary because Nastasijevic is attempting to transform concrete reality, and language is the vehicle of transformation; thus, it must be stripped down to its bare, concentrated essentials.80 Moreover, as Popa points out, this technique forces the reader to become involved in and to "enter" the otherworldly environment of the poem: Each of his poems is an icon of our virgin mother tongue. It can't be told only with the eyes. The glance is confused by its severe green gold. The very lips are moved, and as if bewitched, pronounce line by line. And only in this way, with a living voice in which once again a magical incantation is brought forth, does one enter his poem.81 The thematic content of Nastasijevic's verse contributes, as well, to the impression of timelessness. Whether it is represented in the exaltation of erotic love, the anthropomorphism of the natural world, or the struggle for spiritual transfiguration, the consistent underlying theme in all of his poetry is the awareness of a reality which transcends and is coincident with 297 that of the physical world. Nastasijevic's unswerving determination to express this profoundly lucid vision necessitated the elimination of all the beclouding irrelevancies of worldly distractions. It required a discipline and focus which bordered on the ascetic, and this imbues his work with an impenetrable quality. However, if, as Simovic remarks, Nastasijevic seems to "turn his back on the reader,"82 it is a necessary act. It is only from this oblique angle, "in the middle of that deafness," that he can distinguish the pure sound of the cosmic murmur; only in "dumbness" will the "words in stone" blossom. This sense of isolation is often amplified by the liturgical element in Nastasijevic's lexicon and by the liturgical intonation which he frequently uses. He sets himself apart in order to witness, and he is a witness in the specific religious sense that Kierkegaard implies when he instructs that "the true knight of faith is a witness, never a teacher."83 For it is only by attending to, i.e., witnessing the concrete, sensory world that he is able to distinguish the greater reality its phenomena express, that is, the unity of the cosmic order. As Vuckovi<£ observes, it is in sensory matter that Nastasijevic discovers the "mystique of divine providence" which he identifies with the absolute.84 298 This vision of cosmic order is the motivating force of Nastasijevic1s poetic vision. It is represented in the symmetrical opposition which is the basic structural and philosophical principle of his work. This principle is evident throughout his poetry. For every force, there is a counterforce: darkness/light; winter/spring; blindness/clarity; sin/redempton, etc. In attempting to penetrate their common source, the indivisible core of being, Nastasijevic constantly juxtaposes these opposing forces. The juxtaposition of opposites on an experiential level manifests the reflection of one in the other, implying that apparent opposites are in fact projections of a single source located on a higher plane of reality. As Simovic writes: These symmetrically arranged oppositions, which are in constant conflict, but in constant unity and balance, act as the basic stylistic principle and basic syntactical formula of Nastasijevic1s poetry and prose. Those oppositions promote one in the other.®5 Underlying this interplay of opposites is the belief in the fundamental unity of the cosmic structure, a unity which is reflected in the symmetrical interdependency of all things. By adhering to this symmetrical opposition, Nastasijevic is able to arrive at the point from which 299 all opposites emanate, the point at which they are in fact espoused. As noted in the previous chapter, this technique is in evidence in Orthodox liturgical poetry, and demonstrates Alan Watts' "myth of polarity." Moreover, the fact that Nastasijevic frequently concretizes these oppositions in anthropomorphic representations of the natural world also reflects the poet's religious grounding in that many of these anthropomorphic images suggests the Orthodox concept of cosmic awareness. Indeed, Nastasijevic's approach to the natural world seems to express the same "all- embracing love" which Dostoevsky articulates through the character of Father Zosima in The Brothers Karamazov: Love all God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand of it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's, light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love.86 The profound sense of symmetry which Nastasijevic brings to his craft is illustrated by the fact that his entire canon constitutes one long, continuous poem, or as Edward Goy comments, "a single, long poem, a symphony in words."87 Nastasijevic's Five 300 Lyrical Circles (Pet lirskih krugova), published in 1932, actually comprises s.even cycles of poems. They are entitled Matins (Jutarnie); Vespers (Vecernie); Vigils (Bdenia) ; Deafnesses (Gluhote) ; Words ilL-Stana (Re$i u kamenu); Instants (Magnovenia); and Echoes (Odieci). The order of these cycles is significant as each one represents a stage of spiritual transformation. The first five each present a specific theme: Matins is concerned with the vitality of life; Vespers with death; Vigils with the terms of existence; Deafnesses with suffering and apocalypse; and Words in Stone with suffering and metamorphosis. The first three cycles appear to present three aspects or problems of human existence, and the fourth amd fifth cycles posit two choices or solutions to those problems. The sixth and seventh cycles serve as afterthoughts or postscripts for the first five. The continuity of these cycles is made explicit by a coupling device which is implemented throughout the collection, the last poem of each cycle inaugurating the theme of the subsequent cycle. The first cycle, Matins. is composed of nine characteristically brief poems (Nastasijevic* *s longest poem, "The Road" ("Put"), from the cycle, Instants, runs fifty-nine lines, and averages three words per line) . With one exception, "Aspens" ("Jasike"), these poems are 301 unrhymed, but do present a high degree of assonance. The theme of Matins is the awakening of the vital forces of nature. The collection announces life and explores the atmosphere of the rural natural world in imagery which ranges from pastoral to erotic. The tone is curious, tender, and anticipatory, yet even in this first cycle there is a chord of melancholy. The title of the first poem in Matins is "Flute" ("Frula"), which refers to the hand-carved wooden folk flute commonly used by shepherds in many of the Balkan countries.88 Vuckovic feels that the poet's entire poetic philosophy is exemplified by this poem89; and indeed, it does contain the characteristic elements of Nastasijevic's poetic schema: symmetry, anthropomorphism, folkloric diction and lexicon, the sense of isolation, and the yearning to exceed physical boundaries. Symmetrical oppositions are used to signal the growing awareness of some invisible reality, alluded to here as the "elusive secret": Flute, what makes my joyous breath reverberate sadly in the little valley? Is it because the dead shepherds invoked their beloved with you? Or does the sorrow dwell in me: from the sky an arrow wounded me, the dark earth pricked me, Is my poem decorated with a tear and a drop of blood? 302 Or when my breath flows away, do you feel sadness for the elusive secret? 90 Frulo, sto dah moj radosni zalno u dolji razleze? Da 1 ' sto pastiri pomrli tobom prizivahu dragu? II ' zal se stani u meni: s neba me strela ranila tamna me zemlja pecSila, te pesma mi je suzicom i kapljom krvi kicena? II ' dah moj kad protege, zal te za odbeglom tajnom?91 The flute is a vessel of transmutation through which joy and sorrow, earth and sky, tear and blood, and evocation and cessation of emotion are symmetrically fused. The poem opens with "joyous breath" which reverberates and concludes with the flow of breath which saddens; the shepherds have died off, but the sorrow lives; the sky wounds and the earth pricks; the poems are made of tears and blood and they both decorate and sadden. In addition, the first two lines, which suggest that the sorrow has an external locus, i.e., the flute, are symmetrically opposed to the last two lines, which suggest an internal locus in the flutist himself. The poem also introduces the folkloric element which is present in much of this collection. This element is not always made explicit through theme, but as in this case, 303 is expressed primarily through pastoral settings and a folkloric lexicon— "dolja" and "draga," for instance, have a definite rural or folk connotation— which envelope Nastasijevic's poetic environment in a folkloric aura. The second poem in Matins. "Aspens," ("Jasike") introduces the white color which dominates this cycle: What do the white aspens murmur, chaste mountain maidens when the morning sun throws silver arrows at them and in the sunray skylarks shriek? £ta Mume jasike bele, preMiste gorske deve, srebrne kad im strele jutarne sunce hitne i zrakom kliknu Meve? The poet describes the cold bodies of the trees, shivering and nude in the rain, but: They don't freeze from winter, the terror of the heart doesn't clench them, because on the mountain they grew up alone. Od zime se ne jeMe, strah srca im ne steMe, jer na planini odrasle su same. They yield only when some unknown, mysterious force summons them: But behind the dream— of clear darkness, a vibration which they dreamed happily, and to the sun, to the fog, and to the clearing they whisper a white secret at early rising. No iza sna— vedre tame, trepet ih cilo Sto snile, pa suncu, magli, pa proplanku cucore belu tajnu na uranku. The imagery of "Dawn" ("Zora") is sensual and colorful but dawn, too, is endowed with some invisible presence Hey, on the white horse, dawns my dawn and my girl. Stay, don't pass by, sprinkle this sorrow with dew. With the dove she would coo. With its lips it lures the bud into flowering, with its breasts cherries into ripening. Stay, don't pass by. Hej, na belom konju zorl ml zora 1 devojka. Stani ne mini, orosi ovu zal. S golubicom bi da zaguSe. Usnama pupolj u cvetanje mami, nedrima treSnje u zrenje. Stani ne mini. In "Dream at Noon" ("San u podne"), which is set on Saint George's night, this eroticism is directly associated with the awareness of another reality: It is behind the dream, I know, a golden dust remains after her. And in a kiss the delight of an overripe peach. Love ripens. Noon. To iza sna, znam, zlatan prah ostane po njoj. 305 I u poljupcu prezrele breskve slast. Zri ljubav. Podne. But "Oleander" ("Dafina"), which is the last poem in Matins. ushers in the theme of death: All at once by withering the bud flares up to flowering, it unlovingly awakens Death. Don't plant the oleander on the grave, dark is the breath from it, ghostly it lures into the darkness. U mahu povenucem to bukne pupolj precvetanju, Smrt neljubljeno razbudi. Daflnu na grob ne sadl, tmoli je dah iz nje, sablasno maini u tamu. Vespers also contains nine poems. In this cycle, the confrontation with death is advanced, and in Nastasijevic's characteristic manner, is explored from various angles, as he probes, considers, and strains to understand its finality. Vespers begins with "Lilies" {"Ljiljani"), which Nastasijevic likens to "my dear sisters" ("sestre moje mile"), virgins who die on a golden bier ("Po zlatnom odru device mru"). In "Vesper Prayer" ( "Ve&rn ja") , "Day droops/with the mountains into the sumac"("Klone dan/gorama u ruj"); red is a significant color in this cycle— sumac, wine, blood, 306 etc. are noted in the imagery. In "Twilight" ("Suton"), there are red birds, and they, too, are descending: Is it the wings? Suddenly they wave in the darkness. Or a red flock sinking behind the hill? Is it a birch, or a pale tuft of the day? Your body gleams at twilight. Krila li to? Nenadno mahnu na tamu. Hi crveno jato potonu za breg? Breza li to, il1 bledi pramen dana? Belasa tvoje telo u suton. It is not clear, of course, what or whose body is gleaming. Objects lose their definition more and more now, and this abstraction will increase in the following cycle. The last poem of Vespers. "To My Sister in Repose" ("Sestri u postoju"),refers to the death of the poet's sister, and initiates the utter isolation which characterizes the third, fourth and fifth cycles: Saturday, sorrow torments me, light a candle, mama. Roses which in pain, you were knitting, so it would subside, like stains of blood on the wall evaporate in the darkness. Light a candle, mama. Were you consecrated from pain, with a drop of our oil for a remedy from the unknown, So that the icon lamp shines with delight, where your pain still remained alive, little sister, where you, white, passed by. 307 Subota, mori me tuga, prislu£i, mamo. Ruze sto u muci, da umine, vezla, k’o mrlje krvi na zidu tamom lape. Prisluzi, mamo. II' se od bola posvetila, po kap nam ulja za lek iz neznani, miljem da svetli kandilo, bol tvoj gde £iv jo£ ostao, sejo, gde bela prominu. In contrast to the nature imagery and what Goy describes as "overtly pagan overtones"92 of the preceding cycles, Vigils reflects a more contemplative, religious tone. In "Prayer" ("Molitva"), the first poem in the cycle, the poet likens himself to a "humble slave" who must "wade through suffering" ("Tiho po muci brodim smerni rab"): This is the root, a worm to me, father, in corrosion, corrode, oh, corrode this slave. Because hell, too, is yours, and it chants. I go forth warmly from the odors of the body. And root by root less in my suffering. Koren je ovo, crva mi, o6e, u nagrizanje, rasto£i o rastocSi raba. 308 Jer i pakao je tvoj, i propoje. Zalapim toplo iz ove oporine tela. I koren po koren manje mome stradanju. In "Beggar" ("Bo^jak"), the "humble slave" becomes the holy blind beggar, a figure traditionally revered in the • v . i / ii Balkans because, as Veselin Cajkanovic reports, it is popularly believed that blind beggars are incarnations of the souls of the dead93: The earth my body, He walks. Terror drives on the steps to God where they remained. Sickness they offer me, mother, to each the trembling of God To them a gift, I, the singing beggar. Zemlja mi telo, hodi on. Zalapi groza na stope Bogu gde ostale. Obol mi pruSe, majko, po drhtaj Boga ja njima na dar, bo$jak ja raspevani. The terms of existence become clearer and the poet1s tone more decisive in the symmetrical structure of "Loneliness on the Square" ("Osama na trgu"). People restlessly mill about him, but he is oblivious to them, likening himself to a "stone unto the ages," and to a sundial upon which "sunsets and daybreaks" are measured That which is an impasse to them, strangely opens a road to me. In the teeming throng tears and laughter, flare up like pitch, pale, they spread sorrow. To where they are I stride, from reddened faces I read the fate of the skull. Pierce, oh pierce. So that I be a stone unto the ages. So that by my shadow they measure sunsets and daybreaks on the square. To kuda neprohod im, cudno mi se otvori put. Pla£ i smeh vrve u vrevi, bukcu kao smola, bledi pronose tugu. kud oni £estarim, sa rujnih lica £tijem lobanje kob. Prostreli, o prostreli. Kamen da sam na veki. Po mojoj send da mere smiraje i svitanja na trgu. 310 / In "Stillness of The Woods" ("Mirovanje drveca"), Nastasijevic returns to the natural world and invokes its mysterious powers: Everything hurts. Dear companions, because of me you keep still. Not even a leaf in its trembling wounds me . I kiss the tree trunks, my brothers in a row. I caress the scars tenderly. Dear companions, does it hurt you when the ax cuts into your body? I, suffering, companions, for you the mute, in a whisper to the heights express a gentle word. Sve boli. Mili druzi, rad' mene mirujete. Trepetom ne ozledi me ni list. Celivam stabla, bracu moju redom, milujem oZiljke neZno. Mili druzi, boli li kad vam sekira zasece telo? To mukotrpan, druzi, za vas neme, sapatom visinama kazujem blagu rec. 311 And once again, the last poem of one cycle inaugurates the theme of the next, as Nastasijevic expresses the inescapable meaninglessness of existence in "To The Parent" ("Roditelju") : Who are you? Who and to where am I, Your fruit without fruit, And this word of judgment within me? A son, look here, I begin to see. By dying in life I cast off the blind sign of birth. Look, I open a road For my own annihilation, For the peace of those unborn. I am your fruit without fruit, And this word of judgment within me. Ko si ? Ko i kuda ja, Plod bez ploda tvoj, I sudnja ova u meni rec? Sin, evo, progledavam. Mrenjem za zivota Skidam sa sebe slepi rodtaja znak. Put otvaram, evo, Sebi za uni^tenje, Nerocfenima za mir. Plod ja bez ploda tvoj, I sudnja ova u meni red. The poems in Deafnesses are untitled, and are numbered instead I through X. It is the most compressed and the most hermetic cycle in this entire collection. 312 The tone is absolutely oppressive; only bones of words remain: It became hardened, it quivers strangely, it will exceed. And for a drop only, and for a drop, this inexpressibility into a word. .....................................(II) I know, it's to the arrows of darkness, in a stone, too, day dawns. .............................(Ill) You are a remedy, but I putrefy in the heart. And because you are a remedy, because it will be warm for everyone, I am strangely cold in this spring. You are a remedy, I myself suffer for you. (VII) Otvrdnulo je, uzdrhti cudno, prevr£ice. J za kap samo, i za kap, neizrecje ovo u rec. ..................... (II) Znam, po strelicom je tame, te i u kamenu razdani. ........................(Ill) Lek si, a gnjijem u srcu. I jer lek si, jer toplo bude svima, 6udno me v proleti ovoj zima. Lek si, bolujem te sam. (VII) The parched, barren atmosphere of Deafnesses gives way, drop by drop, to the torturous metamorphosis of the Words in Stone. The poems in this cycle are als untitled and are numbered I through XIV: And yes, a mass of kettles in the kettle. Does the devil put it on the fire because of God, or does God put it on the fire because of the devil? (I) And the lock and beyond the lock the key of the key in the door of the door. ........................................(IV) And they say, for two drops of scented oil on the body a load of roses is crushed. And that in the noble larvae, the butterfly perishes. .........................(VI) A cross on a crossroads here a learning. You didn't crucify your son, he crucified himself. ...................... (X) I jeste, tma kotlova u kotlu. Boga li radi pristavi vrag, vraga li Bog? (I) I brava, i mimo bravu 314 kljuc klujca u vratima vrata. ............................... (IV) I kazu, za kap dve mirisnog ulja po telu tovar je potrano ruza. I £to u plemenitoj larvi gine leptirak. ..............(VI) Krst na raskrscu tu nauka. Sina ne raspeste vi raspeo se sam. ..............(X) The poems in the sixth and seventh cycles are divided into brief, sometimes almost aphoristic, numbered sections. They do not disclose any dominant, unifying themes, and should be considered in the contexts which their titles imply— Instants and Echoes.. respectively. However, there is a release of the suffocating tension of the preceding cycles, and a sense of quiet revelation in the tone of these poems. In "Words from Isolation"("Re£i iz osame") from Instants. for example, it is quite pronounced, as all opposites seem to find their common source: I step across the abysses, the foot flinches on the level ground. I obscure my days, the light of God flares up. (1) Into stillness I dress, matter utters a secret. 315 Ashes and winds blow on me, the glow remains. (2) Homeless, I offer a warm corner. Roadless, I lead out onto the road to distances. (3) And I am being judged, and I die, but life just opens the doors. Mute, I bequeath my word to the stone, and to the beast. (4) Childless, I walk toward the truth. Sons and daughters follow me. (5) Ambise prekoraSim, stukne na ravnom tlu noga. Dnevi svoje zamracim, blesne videlo Boga. (1) U tisinu se oblacim, tajnom progovara tvar. Pepeo vetri me veju, ostane zar. (2) Bezdoman, topli nudim kut. Besputan, daljinama povedem na put. (3) I sudnje me, i mrem, a Zivot otvara tek dveri. Re 6 svoju nem kamenu zavestavam, i zveri. (4) 316 Bezdetan, na istinu grem. Sinovi prate me i kceri. (5) In Echoes. Nastasijevic's tone is reflective but confident. "From Isolation" ("Iz osame"), the sixth of the seven poems in this cycle, evokes the impression of transformation and completion: Know from the bottom of pain, here the root pain suckles clarity. And unripe joy, or woe, does it wave from the suffering heart, like a little bird when an evil hand hits it, falls, and leaves a bloody track. (4) Stay where you are, and flow like a river, and grow like a tree, and whistle like a storm or bloom like a flower. (5) Vedrinu iz tla bolaf znaj, si£e ovde koren bol. I radost nedozrela, H i vaj, iz patna srca li vine, k 'o pti£e zla kad ustreli ruka padne, i krvav ostavi trag\ (4) Ostani gde si, i teci kao reka, i kao drvo rasti, i olujom zahuji, il' cvetaj kao cvet . (5) The poetic schema which Nastasijevic developed was adopted in varying degrees by the Serbian surrealist poets of the 1950s. Their poetry reflects similar stylistic tendencies toward symmetry, compression, and 317 reductionism, as well as the anthropomorphic and folkloric elements. His cyclic form has also been popular among the surrealists; it is the fundamental structural feature of Popa's poetry. These poets, however, were able to make Nastasijevic1s vision more accessible. They avoid his hermeticism through the interplay of historical and mythical personae who have readily recognizable associations in the cultural consciousness. These poets are not ascetics, but flesh and blood survivors whose desire to interpret the national spirit is equal to their desire to engage the cosmic forces to which they, like Nastasijevic before them, feel themselves to be inseparably linked. But it / is from Nastasijevic that they learned how to engage those eternal forces in intimate, immediate conversations which give meaning and refreshment to contemporary daily life. Popa, whose poetry has often been compared to Nastasijevic's, acknowledges this debt in his moving tribute to the great poet: He found himself with his poem in one wicked and hellish world. . . . In the middle of that horror, in the middle of that deafness, he silenced his words: He unaccustomed them to speak about other words. He accustomed them to act: He gave them back the power of transforming life which they had on the day of birth. He performed and he magically performed with his verses. With his inexplicable poetic direction, he 31 transformed a fall into an ascent, pain into light, disappearances into appearances. He drew his entire poem out of the goodness which, like the silk of tradition, no sword cuts. He sang in that dark world, but his poem of merciless beauty, and now and then of melancholy radiance, resounded also outside his walls, somewhere before his beginning and after his end.95 Earlier in this discussion, I spoke of the apparent heterogeneousness of Dis, Bojic, Petrovic, and Nastasijevic. However, when considered in a contemporary context, the collective poetic direction of this group of poets evidences the initial development of the two tendencies which dominate Serbian surrealist poetry today: (1) the identification of an all- encompassing dimension of reality beyond that of the visible world in which all cosmic phenomena exist as parts of a universal, eternal whole; and (2) the innovative integration of indigenous thematic elements as a means of expressing national identity. The former is a result of the universal, immemorial quest for meaningful human existence, and the latter is a response to the quest for cultural affirmation. These features tend to produce a synergistic effect: Each is expressed through and resonates in the other, resulting in a timeless, otherworldly quality. This same quality has become the hallmark of contemporary Serbian surrealist 319 poetry. As the following chapters will attempt to demonstrate, by adopting and refining the fundamental poetic vision developed by the poets of the precursor group, the later poets of the post-World War II generation were able to create a poetry which at once defines and exceeds the concept of "race," and which enables both poet and reader to take up residence— at will— in a world without measure of the here and now. Endnotes for Chapter III 320 "''Ante Kadic, "The Ideological Conflict Between Milos Crnjanski and Marko Ristic," Serbian Studies, Vol. 2, No.. 4 (1984), p.41. 2 v / / Hanifa Kapidzic-Osmanagic, Srpski nadrealizam i njegovi odnosi sa francuskim nadrealizmom (Sarajevo: Svetlost, 1966), pp.55-56. ^Alexander Vu£o, Oskar Davico, Milan Dedinac, v'. * X V . t Vane Zivadmovic-Bor, Zivanovic-Noe, ■Bord'e Jovanovic, •Dorde Kostic, Dusan Matic, Koca Popovic, Petar Popovic, and Marko Ristic, "Pozicija nadrealizma," 23 December 1930, Belgrade, reprinted in Gojko Tesic's Zli Volsebnici: Polemike i pamfleti u srpskoj knj iSevnosti~ 3 Vols. (Belgrade: Slovo Ljubve, 1983) , Vol. I, pj? .xiv-xvii; and Alexander Vuco, -Dorde Jovanovic, Dusan Matic and Marko RisticT, "Ko su trinaest nadrealista?" Politika, 14 April 1930, p. 10, reprinted in TeMic, Vol. II, pp.22-34. 4 Of the thirteen members of the Belgrade surrealist group, nine (Dedinac, Ma/:ic, Davico, Ristic, Kostic, Zivadinovic-Bor, K. Popovic, Dimitrijevic, and Vuco) had lived and/or studied in France at some time. 5 . / . Sveta Lukic, Contemporary Yugoslav Literature, trans. Pola Triandis, ed. Gertrude Joch Robinson (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1972), pp.5 8-59. 6Ibid., 58. 7 Svatava Jakobson, "Slavic Folklore," in Funk and Wagnalls Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology and Legend, 2 Vols., ed. Maria Leach (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1950), Vol. I, p.1019. g Aleksandar Petrov, "Neo-Surrealist Poets," Relations, Nos. 5/6 (1978), p.72. 9 . t Lukic, p.60. 321 10 . . v In an article entitled "Jedna knjizevna zaraza" ("A Literary Infection"), written in 1911, Skerlic berated what he considered to be morbid pessimism in dis1 poetry. 11 v . ' Radovan Vuckovic, Avangardna poezija (Banja Luka: Glas, 1984), p.37. ■^Ante Kadic, Contemporary Serbian Literature (The Hague: Mouton, 1964), p. 2 8. , 13 v Antun Barac, Jugoslovenska knjizevnost (Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1959), p.250. 14 . * / Kapidzic-Osmanagic, p.57. 15 / Miodrag Pavlovic, Osam pesnika (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1964), pp.53-92. 16Ibid., p.59. 17 . Baudelaire's poetry was only made available m Serbo-Croatian translation in 1918 when Les Fleurs de Mai was published under the title, Cvece zla (Sarajevo-Belgrade: Mala Biblioteka, 1918). 18 Predrag Palavestra, Novi jevandelisti (Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1968), pp.232-233. 19 Unless otherwise noted, all translations of Dis' poetry are my own. 2 0 . All of Dis' poems are taken from Sime Vucetic, et al., eds., Novija jugoslovenska poezija (Zagreb: Naprijed, 1966), pp.87-88. ^Pavlovic, pp. 63-74 . ^^Vuckovic, p.57. 23 t Mihailo ©ordevic, Serbian Poetry and Milutin Bojic (New York: Columbia University Press, 1977), p. 32. 322 ^Vuckovic, p. 33. 25 ' ■Dordevic, p. 71. ^Ibid., p.33. 27 Unless otherwise noted, all translations of Bo]ic's poems are my own. 28 / Milutin Bojic, Pesme (Belgrade: S.B. Cvijanovic, 1914), p.7. ^■©ordevic, p. 3. 30 Leo Bersani, Baudelaire and Freud (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977), p.66. 31 Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mai, trans. Richard Howard (Boston: David R. Godine, 1982), pp.133-134 and 311-312. 32 Betty Roszak, "The Human Continuum," Masculine/Feminine Readings in Sexual Mythology and the Liberation of Women, ed. Betty Roszak and Theodore Roszak (New York: Harper and Row, 19 70). 3 3 s Andre Breton, Poems of Andr6 Breton, trans. and ed. Jean-Pierre Cauvin and Mary Ann Caws (Austin: University of Texas, 1982), pp.78-79. 3^Ibid. , pp.110-111. 35 . . ' B031C, "Sonet III," Soneti (Belgrade: S.B. Cvijanovic, 1922), n.pag. 36Ibid., "Sonet XXI." 37Ibid., "Sonet XXXII." 3 8 Breton, Poems of Andre Breton, pp.102-103. 39Ibid., pp.94-95. 3 4 0 / ■Dordevic, p. 57. 41 v ' Vuckovic, p.34. 42 ' ■Dordevic, p. 75. 43Ibid., p.74. 44 . / Bojic, Pesme, pp.50-53. ^Ibid. , pp.44-47. 4 6 ' Dordevic, p.74. ^Pavlovic, p.13 2. 4 8 The "cult of martyrdom" is a consequence of the rise of millenarism which occurred in Serbia— as well as in other parts of the Ottoman Empire— in the fif teenth century, and peaked in the latter part of the eighteenth century. In A Study in Balkan Civilization (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1967), Traian Stoianovich describes it as a "messianic cult of liberation" or a "fantasy of the sleeping god, hero, or king" who would appear to liberate the Serbs from their Turkish oppres sors. The Serbs projected this legend onto the figure of Saint Sava, and by the late sixteenth century, the cult of Saint Sava had reached such great proportions that the Turks called a "jihad" ("holy war") in order to subdue the insurrections it inspired. The Serbs also awaited the return of Kraijevic Marko, who was believed to be sleeping in a cave near Prilep, his ancient citadel. Stoianovich reports that in the seventeenth or eighteenth century--the date is disputed--the following prophecy of a Serbian messiah was foretold by an old man named "Stanj," and was widely disseminated: "From below the point where the Lim discharges into the [Drina, the Drina into the Sava, and Sava into the] Danube [and presumably from the bowels of the earth and empire of the deadj will appear a dark man— crni £ovjek--who will reveal him self as the king in moccasins. Until his coming there will be much evil, but he will liberate many 324 Serbians. . . . The liberated will then live well, and the Mist Cap (Crnokapa) and Mist God (Crnogaca) will show up in our midst. The Turks will increasingly disappear from the face of the earth" (pp.144-147). Hence, when Karador&e (Black George) appeared in the early nineteenth century, he was perceived by many Serbs to be the fulfillment of the prophecy. 49. * v Milutm Bojic, "Sejaci," Srpska rodoljubiva lirika, ed. -Duza Radovic and M. Pantic-Surep (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1952), p.260. ~^Vu£kovic, p. 72. 51Ibid., p.168. 52 v ^ t Kapidzic-Osmanagic, p.61. 53Ibid., p.63. 54 . v ' Zoran Misic, introduction, Qtkrovenje, by Rastko Petrovic (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1968), p.9. 55Ibid., p.11. 5 6 , . . / . / Marko Ristic, "Rastko Petrovic," Pnsustva (Belgrade: Nolit, 1966), pp.174-178. 57Ibid., pp.177-178. 5 8 See Appendix "A" for background of pagan Slavic deities mentioned in the text. 5 9 . ' ' Petrovic cited by Ristic, p.176. ^Sima Pandurovic", "Kompromitovanje knjizevnosti, " Preporod, 27 January 1973, pp.4-6; reprinted in Tesic, Vol. I, pp.322-326. 61v y f . / Zivko Milicevic, "'Otkrovenje' G.R. Petrovica," Politika, 6 February 1923, pp.3-4; reprinted in Tesic, Vol. I, pp.326-328. 325 Milos Milosevic, "Rastko Petrovic," Novi List, 28 January 1923, pp.2-3; reprinted in Tesic, Vol. I, pp.317-320. 63 • / Ristic discusses this entire episode and Petrovic's response to it in "Tri mrtva pesnika," Prisustva, pp.299-303. 64 v . f Vuckovic, p.161. ^All of Petrovic1s poems are taken from Qtkrovenje, op.cit. All translations of his poetry are my own unless otherwise noted. 6 6 The pine alludes to the sacred pine grove of the ancient Slavs mentioned by Theitmar. See, for example, Milan G. Popovich, "The Religion of the Ancient Slavs and the Features of It Which Survived in the Christianity of the Serbs," diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1939, p.86. 6 7 Henri Bergson, Mind-Energy, trans. H. Wildon Carr (London: MacMillan and Company, Ltd., 1920), pp.56-57. 6 8 Henri Bergson, Selections, ed. Harold A. Larrabee (New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc, 1949), pp.67-105. 69 v . / Vuckovic, p.406. ^Ristic, "Tri mrtva pesnika," p.295. 71 "The room is filled with blood;/Stamping through the blood absentmindedly, like a young boy when he murders his father./I watch you bravely, decisively" ("Soba je puna krvi;/Tabah po krvi rasejan, kao decak kad ubi svog oca./Gledam te hrabro, odlucno"), Qtkrovenje, p.77. 7 2 / Petrovic's father died in 1911 when the poet would have been 12 or 13 years old. There is an allusion in "Wolf" which indicates that Petrovic was 16 years of age at the time of his mother's death. 326 73 ' Petrovic's intriguing introduction to Qtkrovenje, entitled "Opsti podaci i zivot pesnika" ("General Facts and the Life of the Poet"), is written in the third person. 7 4 / Ristic, "Tri mrtva pesnika," pp.297-298. ^Ibid . , p. 351. 7 6 Thomas Eekman, Thirty Years of Yugoslav Literature; 1945-1975 (Ann Arbor; University of Michigan, 1978), p.23. ^Pavlovic, p. 179. 78 . ' Ljubomir Simovic, introduction, Pet lirskih krugova, by Momcilo Nastasijevic (Belgrade: Slovo Ljubve, 1981), pp.24-25. 79 . / Pavlovic, pp.18 2-18 3. 80 ' Although Nastasijevic's departure from tradi tional linguistic style was perhaps more radical, it should be noted that other writers of the same period also broke with tradition. In "Pripovetke Momcila Nastasi j evica u ikviru srpske me<3"uratne proze," Naucni sastanak slavista u vukove dane: 11-16 IX 1984 (Belgrade: Matica iseljenika srbije, 1985), for example, Tom Eekman notes that stylistic experimenta tion was common during the interwar period. He com pares Nastasijevic's style to that of Milo^ Crnjanski and Rastko Petrovic who, he writes, "diversified their manner of writing by using a specific syntax and vocab ulary with antepositions and other inversions . . . re petitions and enumerations, elliptic forms (omitting a verb, usually the auxiliary), archaisms, less common verbal forms (the imperative for the present tense, a constant use of aorist and imperfective), etc. (p.251). 81 Vasko Popa, afterword, Pet lirskih krugova, op. cit., pp.154-155. 8 2 . ' Simovic, p.35. 327 83 Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, trans. Walter Lowrie (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1941), pp.61-62. ^VuSkovic, p. 14 0. Simovic, p.33. 8 6 Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. Constance Garnett (New York: New American Library, 1957), p.294. 8 7 Edward Goy, "The Cycle 'Bdenja' from the Pet lirskih krugova of Momcilo Nastasijevic," Serbian Studies, Vol. 4, Nos. 1/2, (1986/87), p.50. 88 f Nastasijevic was himself an accomplished flutist. ^Vu£kovic, pp. 147-148. 90 Unless otherwise noted, all translations of Nastasijevic's poems are my own. 91 f All of Nastasijevic1s poetry is taken from Pet lirskih krugova, op. cit. 92 Goy, p.2 9. 93 v . . t .... Veselm Cajkanovic, Studije iz religije i folklora, Knjiga 13 (Belgrade: Srpska Kraljevska Akademija, 1924), p.20? the blind beggar is also associated with thevcult of ancestors, / according to S. Kulisic, P.Z. Petrovic and N. Pantelic in Srpski mitolo^ki re<*nik (Belgrade: Nolit, 1970), pp.39-40. 94 ' See, for example, Karlo Ostojic, "Jedna paralela: Momcilo Nastasijevic, nadrealizam i Vasko Popa," Izraz IV, 1/2 (1960), pp.24-40. ^5Popa, p.154. THE ARCHAIC ROOTS OF BALKAN SURREALISM: A STUDY OF MODERN SERBIAN AND GREEK POETRY Volume II by Maria Budisavljevic-Oparnica A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (Comparative Literature) August 1990 Copyright 1990 Maria Budisavljevid-Oparnica UMI Number: DP22555 All rights reserved INFORMATION TO ALL USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. Published by ProQuest LLC (2014). Copyright in the Dissertation held by the Author. Dissertation Publishing UMI DP22555 Microform Edition © ProQuest LLC. All rights reserved. This work is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code ProQuest LLC. 789 East Eisenhower Parkway P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106-1346 Chapter IV The Cosmic Guardianship of Vasko Popa 329 Bite into the apple and you will see what it means I --Vasko Popa 330 In order for a work of literature to be truly effective, writes Rene Wellek, "the two 'notes' of pleasure and utility should not merely coexist but coalesce."1 This view precisely expresses the essential dynamic of the Serbian surrealist poetry which emerged in the years immediately following World War II. In order to comprehend the tenacity and authenticity of this dynamic, however, it may be helpful to keep in mind the historical milieu in which it was developed, that is, to consider it, for a moment, in terms of the broader Yugoslav background. The post-World War II period in Yugoslavia was characterized by social and political upheaval and transformation. The German invasion and occupation initiated by the bombing of Belgrade on April 6, 1941 lasted nearly four years, the Germans being driven out toward the end of 1944. During the occupation, Yugoslavia was also involved in violent and bitter inter-ethnic warfare between various regional groups and factions. This infighting was ultimately resolved by national elections and the declaration of the Constituent Assembly on November 29, 1945, which abolished the monarchical government and established Yugoslavia as a Federal People's Republic.2 Eventually, 331 national order was restored, but the process of social and political transition was painfully slow. The events of the previous four years had had catastrophic effects. Dennison Rusinow records that with 1,700,000 casualties — 11 percent of the pre-war population— Yugoslavia suffered the second highest proportionate loss in Europe (the highest being that of Poland); in addition, 3,500,000 people were left homeless, and it was only through the efforts of relief organizations such as the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration that the threat of mass starvation was overcome.3 The general sense of displacement and disorientation was exacerbated when, after a series of bitter ideological disputes with the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia was officially ostracized by the Cominform in 1948.4 Thus, the country found itself in an unprecedented political position: Having established a communist government, Yugoslavia had depended upon Moscow for support;instead, however, it had been condemned by the entire communist world and was left to forge its new society entirely on its own. Initially, this event increased national tension and anxiety as the Yugoslavs grasped the possible future ramifications of their unique political situation. Gradually, however, this anxiety was transformed into a feeling of great national pride and 332 unity as the new Yugoslavia, a nation of traditionally antagonistic ethnic groups, now bound by a common aim, began to take shape. Given this national climate of social and political adversity, the revival of Serbian surrealist poetry which occurred during the general reformation in Yugoslav letters in the early 1950s is all the more remarkable. As Paul Engle and Hualing Nieh Engle have observed: It is astonishing, after the Nazi occupation, the constant fighting, the blood on street, field and mountain, the imposed poverty of the war, that such a richness of poetry should be created. These are tough poets, who lived with death as luckier parts of the world lived with sunlight. It was a daily fact, visible to the eye. From conditions out of which many people made self- pity, they made the art of poetry.^ At first glance, it does seem astonishing. However, when considered in the historical and literary contexts discussed in the two preceding chapters, it appears that the tragic events of the war only served to catalyze the elements which were already in place in Serbian poetry. The development of the new surrealist adaptations during the post-World War II era was not only predictable, but was, in fact, the only possible choice: If, as a result 333 of cultural suspension, the tendency to view the world holistically remained a fundamental feature of the Serbian psyche— and consequently, of the Serbian poetic perspective— the disorientation brought on by World War II mobilized that holistic outlook; and if the quest for cultural reaffirmation was present in an embryonic state in the poetry of the Serbian precursors, the devastation of the war heightened the urgency of that quest. Here, then, are the two "dialectical" notes of the Serbian surrealist dynamic: First, it presents an holistic world view which relies on intuition and imagination rather than on purely rational thought, and thus reflects to a relatively high degree a primordial sense of the world, or what Gaston Bachelard terms "anthropocosmic ties."6 Such a world view, by its very nature, implies a predisposition toward discovery, lucidity and revelation, toward "seeing things as if for the first time." Hence, it implies, as well, refreshment, felicitousness, and even delight, since all revelation-- including the ironic or tragic— bears within it an element of intellectual illumination and satisfaction. This is the "play" component which Johan Huizinga posits in his notion of poiesis as a "play-function."7 Inasmuch as this world view presupposes cosmic unity and attempts to interpret the inexpressible, abstract 334 reality of cosmic discourse, it also implies the influence and validity of the subconscious. The second "note" of this poetic dynamic is its purposeful, preconceived aim— the desire to affirm cultural identity. This aim is grounded in historic, concrete reality and is dependent upon the conscious memory for reference and direction. It is the "working" component of the dynamic; its successful functioning is directly related to the breadth of the intellectual sweep imposed on it and the ability to detect, preserve and assimilate the multifariou mnemonic shards of all cultural activity. Furthermore, although this quest is mentored by the conscious, rational, anthropocentrically-oriented intellectual mind, that mind must be discerning and beneficent enough to yield to the sub-conscious, irrational, cosmically-oriented psychic mind when it is efficacious— that is, when it furthers or enhances the quest— to do so. The dialectic of this poetic dynamic, then, appears to duplicate the tension of the ancient, universal dialectic of mythos and logos: Although it strives to express the ineffable, unnameable reality of the invisible, internal realm, it is rooted in the external, recorded reality which is immediately visible and definable. Ultimately, however, it is a dynamic which seeks not to maintain, but to resolve that 335 tension, that is, to reconcile the intolerable incongruities between the internal and external worlds in order to realize their absolute, ceaselessly evolving singular reality. Thus it is impelled by the same forces which, as Michel Carrouges acknowledges, motivated the French surrealists: [Surrealism] is not the result of intellectual caprice, but rather of a tragic conflict between the powers of the spirit and the conditions of life. It is born of an enormous despair prompted by the condition to which man is reduced on earth, and of a boundless hope in human metamorphosis.8 Considered together with the Serbian perspective of time and space discussed in Chapter II, i.e., the relative ease with which the Serbian psyche adjusts these dimensional borders, the poetic dynamic which I have delineated here seems to preclude anything other than a surrealist orientation. Moreover, the situation in post-World War II Yugoslavia in which this dynamic developed, presents all of the fundamental conditions for the assimilation and reordering of foreign influences by an emerging national literature, as described by J.T.Shaw: Literary influence appears to be most frequent and most fruitful at the times of emergence of national literatures and of radical change of 336 direction of a particular literary tradition in a given literature. In addition, it may accompany or follow social or political movements or, especially, upheavals. Thus, like all literary phenomena, it has a social and often also a meaningful political context, in addition to the literary one. When literary forms and aesthetics appear to be outworn, earlier manifestations within the same literature may provide an answer to authors' present needs, or they may discover abroad what exemplifies or satisfies their inclinations. In the case of emerging national literatures, authors may seek in form or ideology that which they can adapt or transmute for their own consciousness, time, and nation.9 Although the new forms which appeared in post-World War II Serbian poetry varied and were determined at least to some degree by personal temperament, general characteristics may be distinguished in the poetry of that period. In his insightful discussion of twentieth- / century Serbian poetry, Vuk Krnjevic cites the development of surrealist principles, folkloric elements and hermetic structures as prevailing trends; he acknowledges the influence of Rastko Petrovic on the surrealist and folkloric traditions, and of Momcilo Nastasijevic on the folkloric and hermetic traditions. In addition, he notes the presence of one or more of these trends in the major poets of the post-war generation: Vasko Popa, Miodrag Paviovic, Ivan V. Lalic, 337 and Branko Miljkovic. Krnjevic also isolates two basic tendencies of post-war Serbian poetry: (1) the tendency toward humor— which he identifies with Popa; and (2) the tendency toward intellectualism— which he identifies with Pavlovic; and further, observes that Popa's Bark (Kora) (1953) and Pavlovic's 87 Poems (87 pesama) (1952) were instrumental in establishing these tendencies.10 It is from the poetry of Popa and Pavlovic, then, that the new directions emanated and were subsequently decanted throughout contemporary Serbian poetry. This view is generally upheld by literary critics, and the contributions of Popa and Pavlovich have been widely recognized. Vasa Mihailovich concurs that "the advent of these two writers was one of the decisive factors in Yugoslavia's re-entrance into the mainstream of world literature."11 Aleksandar Petrov endorses this appraisal, and notes, as well, the innovative surrealist direction of both poets: Some poets of the first post-war generation, notably Miodrag Pavlovicf and Vasko Popa, poets whose fate was somewhat different from that of the majority of poets of their generation, inspired and led the distinct orientation toward the inner vaults of man's personality, to the limits where dream and reality meet and mingle, where the personality is chaotically awake even in the deepest dream, but where it experiences consciousness, too, as a waking dream, the new 338 orientation toward the refraction of outside events and, more broadly, history, in inwardly turned mirrors.12 However appealing the prospect, an in-depth analysis of both of these major poets is beyond the scope of this study. I have elected to focus on Popa, for two reasons. First it is Popa1s poetry which reflects most clearly and consistently the surrealist influence; Pavlovic's intellectual orientation, on the other hand, frequently tends to diffuse the surrealist presence in his verse.13 Second, the diversity of Popa1s poetic sources and the complexity of poetic features in his texts has resulted in an often prohibitive hermeticism. Consequently, whereas Pavlovic's work has been treated extensively, Popa's, in my judgment, has not been considered in sufficient depth, a situation which I hope to remedy in some measure with the present study. Accordingly, I will devote this chapter entirely of my discussion to the phenomenon of Serbian surrealism as it is manifested in Popa's poetry, and then identify and comment on similar elements in the poetry of Pavlovic as well as that of Lalic£ and Miljkovic in the following chapter. Bachelard maintains that "All great, simple images reveal a psychic state," and writing about the 339 concept of the poetic act as "pure liberation" of the image, he draws an effective parallel between housework and poetry as creative activities, observing that just as sleeping furniture is awakened by a bit of wax and a caring touch, so, too, ordinary objects take on new life when "rubbed" by the poet's concern and imagination: Objects that are cherished in this way really are born of an intimate light, and they attain to a higher degree of reality than indifferent objects, or those that are defined by geometric reality. For they produce a new reality of being, and they take their place not only in an order but in a community of order. Thus, he concludes: When a dreamer can reconstruct the world from an object that he transforms magically through his care of it, we become convinced that everything in the life of a poet is germinal.14 This analogy aptly characterizes the poetic world of Vasko Popa, a world in which even the most humble objects are afforded the opportunity to express their cosmic dignity. In Popa's world, all things are relieved of spatial dimensions, i.e., of "geometric reality," in order to explore and confirm the dimensions of their ultimate cosmic reality or "psychic state." Furthermore, they are divested of linear time in order 340 to reveal the unity of past, present and future. These spatial and temporal divestitures are applicable in and indeed reinforce the notion of a continuous reality of dream and waking states. Hence, Popa's objects exist on a four-dimensional psychic plane where they appear at once wholly strange and wholly familiar, and from which they encourage us, indeed convince us, that we, too, belong there, that we exist only to the degree that we are cognizant of that plane, and conversely, that our cognizance of it is integral to the cosmic unity which exists there. For, Popa's poetry, as Bogdan A. Popovic confirms, "is poetry which, from the position of the fourth dimension, models the life which is at the foundation of the human personality."15 The illumination of this anthropocosmic relationship is Popa's ultimate poetic aim, and he pursues that aim through a scrupulous, unrelenting inquiry into the nature of the poetic object at hand. The operational principle of this inquiry is provocation rather than penetration, as Popa "coaxes" the object to yield forth, of its own volition, some clue, some elemental objective truth about its nature which thereupon reveals a corresponding truth about the nature of humanity; and it is just there, at the nexus of that correlative, that 341 the eternal cosmic unity which sustains both, erupts and announces itself. The backbone of the poetic method which Popa uses to locate this unity is the modified surrealist procedure which I have delineated previously, in Chapter III. Popa's application of this procedure is distinguished, however, by the incorporation of three additional features: (1)humor; (2)the cyclic form; and (3)reductionism. The first constitutes a philosophical approach;the last two are structural techniques which Popa uses to enhance that approach. However, all of these features emanate from the poet's essential world view, which is perhaps best described as a posture of moral wakefulness. This view is manifested in Popa's poetry in a three-phase process of inquiry, distillation and reintegration which is consistent in all of his work, and which I will subsequently address in direct relationship to the poetry. The role of humor is pivotal in this process. Its function is to reduce the world to essential terms, and in so doing, to reveal the cosmic significance of all things. The cyclic form promotes and reductionism reinforces this poetic distillation. Inasmuch as these features have come to be considered as hallmarks of Popa's poetry, it is imperative to understand their specific, individual 342 functions within the context of his overall poetic vision. Before addressing these features, however, there is one other aspect of Popa's unique poetic formula which must be considered here, and that is the oriental component. The influence of specific oriental philosophical systems— Hinduism, Mahayana Buddhism, Zen Buddhism and Taoism— is evident in Popa's verse. He is obviously familiar with all of them. Various conceptual and symbolic allusions to these systems of thought are apparent throughout his work, particularly in the earlier poetry, and account for much of his apparent hermeticism. Popa's attraction to Orientalism should not be construed as a departure from surrealist poetics;on the contrary, there is an inherent affinity between the two modes of thought. Both seek to dissolve individual identity— the level of the "I"— in order to actualize cosmic identity, and both accede to this goal through the liberation of inner psychic currents. Writing about Andre Breton, Octavio Paz comments on the philosophical kinship between surrealism and Buddhism: Poetry does not save the 'I' of the poet, it dissolves it in the vaster and more powerful reality of speech. The practice of poetry requires abandonment, renunciation of the 'I.' It is sad that Buddhism did not interest [Breton]: that 343 tradition too destroys the illusion of the 'I,' though not for the benefit of language but of silence. . . . I am reminded of Buddhism because I believe that 'automatic writing' is rather like a modern equivalent of Buddhist meditation; I do not think it is a method for writing poems, nor is it a rhetorical recipe: it is a psychic exercise, a convocation and an invocation destined to open the floodgates of verbal flow. Poetic automatism, as Breton himself stressed many times, is a neighbor of asceticism: it implies a state of difficult passivity which, in turn, requires the abolition of all criticism and self-criticism. - It is a radical criticism of criticism, a placing of conscience under interdict. In its fashion, it is a way of purgation, a means of negation which tends to provoke the appearance of true reality: primordial language.16 Although a thorough investigation and analysis of the oriental elements in Popa's poetry is' beyond the scope of this study, some discussion of them is essential at this point in order to understand the complex poetic terrain on which we are about to embark. Popa's affinity for oriental philosophy can be noted specifically in the various, subtle poetic applications of oriental symbolism and imagery in his verse, and I will subsequently point these out in individual poems. However, the influence of various Eastern precepts is also evident at a more general level 344 in his work.17 His cyclic form, for instance, suggests the temporal cyclicity postulated in Hinduism in which existence is regarded as a never-ending process of birth/death/rebirth ("samsara"). In this view, man is perceived as having an innate sacral essence which is actualized by continuously attaining to higher levels of consciousness. Thus, life is perceived as a constant, infinite becoming or deliverance of this sacral core. Like the Hindu, Popa is constantly striving to actualize his full human nature; each time a new level of consciousness is achieved, a cycle of poems ends— and begins. Popa's philosophical stance is similar to that of Buddhism (The term itself, from the Sanskrit root, "budh"— "to awaken" or "to know"— finds an etymological commonality with the Serbo-Croatian word, "buditi"— "to awaken"— a fact which undoubtedly is not lost on Popa). His humanism recalls the Mahayana Buddhist doctrine of "withdraw and return." This doctrine demands that the novice seclude himself in contemplation and study in order to arrive at the ideal or Nirvanic state. Having reached his goal, however, the novice— now called "Bodhisattva" ("He whose essence is perfected wisdom")— is obligated not to enter Nirvana, but to return to the world in order to share his wisdom with others. This sense of responsibility to the group— which, as I 345 discussed in Chapter II, is also a result of cultural conditioning— is echoed in the thematic phases of Popa's poetry. Initially, the emphasis is on self-examination and introspection; the poet withdraws into himself in order to penetrate the psychic plane of the inner landscape. Later, however, the emphasis shifts to national consciousness as he returns and applies what he has learned for the benefit of the cultural body. Finally, the textual style of Zen Buddhist and Taoist writings is evinced in many of Popa's poems. Frequently structured as riddles in the manner of Serbian folklore, these cryptic, elliptical, solemn yet lighthearted texts closely resemble Zen koans or the mysterious verses of Lao Tzu1s Tao Te China. Popa's oblique aphoristic texts, like those of the oriental sages, always invite intellectual speculation and promote spiritual revelation. In addition to these similarities, Popa's poetry evidences three concepts which are fundamental tenets of all oriental philosophical systems. First, all present profoundly non-dualistic world views in which the value of things is considered to be relative. Hence, the Oriental constantly seeks to resolve polarities, to locate "the one in the other." Alan Watts points out that since they represent the terms of 346 a single pole, polar opposites are intrinsically related and may therefore be viewed as "inseparable opposites"— 1 the implicit union of polarities mentioned in previous chapters. He notes that this relationship is expressed in the familiar Chinese "yin-yang" symbol, in which "the 'S' curve dividing the yin-yang circle suggests a kind of whiplash or peristaltic motion, a continuous undulation not only of life and death, day and night, but of one living form into another."18 A second shared characteristic of oriental philosophies is that all strive to actualize the full potential of human nature. This is evident in the Yogic spiritual exercises of Hinduism which are designed to release man's hidden, inner self or "atman," as well as in the ultimate reality of ""The Way" or "Tao" in Taoism. The same principle is manifested in both Theravada and Mahayana Buddhism in the goal of Nirvana, the state of complete enlightenment, while in Zen Buddhism, it is evinced in the concept of "satori." Finally, all oriental philosophical schools provide formal, rigorous moral codes. These would include the Eightfold Path of Buddhism and the Six Darshanas of Hinduism, instructional precepts which stress discipline and self- control. Collectively, then, these three fundamental philosophical directives— to realize the unseen unity of 347 polarities, to actualize human nature, and to adhere to specific moral principles—-constitute a certain psychological and philosophical posture or world view, and this world view is reflected in Popa's poetic method. Popa's poetry endeavors to resolve polarities by approaching the world from an oriental, non-dualist, relativistic point of view. Polarities abound in his poetry, but they are always represented as two aspects of the same force which counterbalance and complement each other— the "inseparable opposites." Shunning the specific and the fixed, Popa attempts to create a synthesis of all of the associations between these two poles of meaning. Thus, he produces multiple levels of meaning, and multiple possibilities of interpretation occur at each level. This often tends to make his poetry seem hopelessly hermetic: In the constant back and forth action of his poetic direction, opposites crisscross, overlapping again and again until one is indistinguishable from the other, and every sign seems to be— and is— both thesis and antithesis, and may signify, as well, any number of related associative meanings in between. 348 The concept of self-actualization in Popa's poetry is expressed on both individual and cultural levels, and represents the confluence of his personal and cultural identities. In his early poetry, the emphasis is on individual actualization; the poet is concerned with the self and the objects of daily, personal life. He recognizes that all phenomena are imbued with an ultimate reality and strives to penetrate this psychic plane. Gradually, the focus shifts to actualization of the national identity; historical, religious, folkloric, and mythological themes dominate. Popa seeks to unfetter the cultural elan by plunging it into an atemporal reality which encompasses past, present and future. Finally, the impression of an austere moral code is apparent throughout Popa's poetry; indeed, it is an integral part of it. He is trying to discover the ultimate truth of things, and he is prepared to accept that truth, whatever it may be. But he must be convinced of its authenticity; he will not tolerate illusion. He is explicit about this— "I'm not dreaming, " he says, and continues to say in one way or another in every poem. The structure of Popa's poetry also reflects his moral stance; the lineation is carefully balanced, the syntax is highly controlled, and 349 the diction is extremely economical. The cyclic form evinces his commitment to the total scrutiny of each theme, as he probes it from every possible angle, tracing and retracing his path in what Ted Hughes describes as "an air of trial and error exploration": [Popa] will trust no phrase with his meaning for more than six or seven words at a time before he corrects his tack with another phrase from a different direction. In the same way, he will trust no poem with his meaning for more than fifteen or so lines, before he tries again from a totally different direction with another poem.19 This highly structured poetic method contributes to the formulaic impression of Popa's poetry. He seems to be following some unseen set of instuctions designed to lead him to the heart of the cosmos in much the same way that the Hindu follows the prescribed Yogic exercises to reach "the beyond that is within." Happily, the method meets with success more often than not. Popa's Orientalism, then, functions as a philosophical substructure, and as we shall see, often provides the subtext of his poetry. Hence, his work is frequently perceived as being overly ambiguous or hermetic. Once the oriental elements are identified, however, many of these ambiguities dissolve, and his 350 poetry becomes, in fact, even more universal in perspective. While the present study focuses on indigenous cultural elements, it is nevertheless critical to bear in mind this Orientalist background. If Popa's oriental asceticism seems austere, it finds a lively counterbalance in his humor. While Popa's humor is frequently ironic, and may, as Petrov remarks, deliver "a lethal sting,"20 on the whole, it cannot be equated with the surrealist concept of "black humor." This divergence is readily understood. Black humor is perceived by the French surrealists as a vehicle of psychic fragmentation and entropy which brings about the total disintegration of reality so that it may be reconstituted in its fullest form. However, since Popa's primary objective is the resumption and revalorization of a cultural tradition, the natural progress of which was suspended, it is therefore the reintegrative rather than the disintegrative aspect of the surrealist process which Popa emphasizes. This aspect is identified by Breton as the "rising sign" ("signe ascendant") and is defined as "a vital tension which is directed in the highest possible degree toward health, pleasure, tranquility, grace rendered and accepted customs."21 351 Now, as Carrouges indicates, black humor is grounded in the Hegelian concept of objective humor and is related to the Freudian analysis of humor as an ego-affirming activity. In the surrealist process, he writes, it is the "grim disintegration" which leads to the "supreme reintegration": Black humor, which Breton presents on the same page as being analogous to high magic, is indeed a modern form of initiation into magic;it is that lightning-bolt that seems to bear man from the depths of nihilism to the incomprehensible summit of omnipotence, from disintegration to reintegration, from the dark prime matter to the gold of enchantment. It is an essential process of mental alchemy.22 At first glance, this appraisal seems compatible with Popa's poetic aims. However, there are certain aspects of black humor which diverge radically from his philosophical and moral positions. First, as Carrouges points out, black humor is a delusive behavior because: [M]an has denied all possibility of the hope which he consents to acknowledge within himself, and because he has found in the taste of black humor a kind of exquisite compensation. There is for him no other way out but to glorify his own despair and to hole up like a criminal in the dead end where he is at bay.23 352 Second, it is frequently characterized by a tone of mean-spiritedness which Carrouges describes as "an insulting laugh that comes from the depths of the being in revolt to provoke and defy public opinion and the cosmic fates."24 Citing this sadistic tendency as one of the "trademarks" of black humor, Gloria Orenstein defines it as: The aesthetic and pleasurable appreciation of death and the glorification of cruelty, which provoke a sadistic humor that liberates the mind from all constraints of morality and propriety.25 Popa's humor, however, is neither delusive nor sadistic, perhaps because his poetry represents not so much a revolt against the past as an affirmation of it. He is seeking to recover the cultural integrity of a people; morally, he cannot permit himself the luxury of delusion. Nor does he need to resort to sadism; the events of the past have been cruel enough. His aim is to determine what is of value in the past in order to effect the reintegration and revalorization of those elements in the cultural present. Popa's wry humor is most closely related to the irrational humor of folklore, an indigenous resource of the past which, because of its functionality, can be 353 practically applied in the present. This kind of humor is not delusive; it is understood that the tale or the riddle is a kind of verbal play which attempts to account for reality by temporarily suspending the limitations of "the real world.” It is a product of instinct and imagination rather than of reason and intellect. As a result, it is humanistic; it tends to be expansive rather than conclusive, felicitous rather than authoritative, and objective rather than subjective. Popa's humor evinces these same tendencies: It tends to suggest rather than define; it comments without judging; it opens rather than closes the circle. It arises out of the same innate penchant for play which inspired Popa's compilation of folk literature, The Golden Apple (Od zlata iabuka) (1958), a collection of folktales, riddles and spells. This humorous tendency is most dominant in Popa's first three poetic collections, Bark (Kora) (1953), Unrest-Field (Nepocin- Polie) (1956) and Secondary Heaven (Sporedno nebo) (1968), in which it is manifested in the delightfully unself-conscious activities of the archetypal beings who inhabit the primordial environment of Popa's poetic world. Humor is not merely a by-product of that world, however. Rather, it is an essential component of Popa's poetic plan, and since it appears to be so natural and 354 spontaneous— so obvious— perhaps one of the most underestimated as well. Emphasis is often placed on the "mythic" quality of Popa’s poetry, and myth infers a certain degree of preconception and intensity. It may seem incongruous, then, that humor should be his poetic signature, since, by its very nature, humor implies spontaneity and a release of tension. However, a more important characteristic of humor is that it presents an essential, integrated view of the world. The same is true of myth; Mircea Eliade's definition of myth illustrates this point: To tell a myth is to proclaim what happened ab oriaine. Once told, that is, revealed, the myth becomes apodictic truth; it establishes a truth that is absolute. . . ■ . The myth proclaims the appearance of a new cosmic situation or of a primordial event.. Hence it is always the recital of a creation; it tells how something was accomplished, began to be. It is for this reason that myth is bound up with ontology; it speaks only of realities, of what really happened, of what was fully manifested.26 Now, if we grant that the mythic aspect of Popa's poetry emanates from the same love of play which impels his humor, that both are ludic activities, the function of which is to account for existence, the collaborative 355 relationship between these features may be exposed. Huizinga's analysis of the nature of play is extremely instructive in this regard. First, observing that there is no biological explanation for the intensity and absorption of play, Huizinga concludes that it is essentially a primordial phenomenon, and second, that it is an irrational activity: Play only becomes possible, thinkable and understandable when an influx of mind breaks down the absolute determinism of the cosmos. The very existence of play continually confirms the supra- logical nature of the human situation. Animals play, so they must be more than mere mechanical things. We play and know that we play, so we must be more than merely rational beings, for play is irrational.27 The purpose of this irrational activity in a social context is "the manipulation of certain images, or a certain "imagination" of reality (i.e., its conversion into images)." Thus, play is a primordial, i.e., instinctual means of converting, i.e., transforming reality, and, Huizinga argues, myth is an aspect of that transformative power: [Myth] is a transformation or an 'imagination' of the outer world, only here the process is more elaborate and ornate than is the case with individual words. In myth, primitive man seeks to account for the world of phenomena by grounding it in the Divine. In all the wild imaginings of mythology a fanciful spirit is playing on the border-line between jest and earnest.28 Hence, from the primordial, irrational realm of play, man's cosmic identity unfolds: In the form and function of play, itself an independent entity which is senseless and irrational, man’s consciousness that he is imbedded in a sacred order of things finds its first, highest, and holiest expression. Gradually, the significance of a sacred act permeates the playing. Ritual grafts itself upon it; but the primary thing is and remains play.29 Further, the most effective literary medium for the expression of these sacred transformative processes is always poetry: Civilization is always slow to abandon the verse form as the chief means of expressing things of importance to the life of the community. Poetry everywhere precedes prose; for the utterance of solemn or holy things poetry is the only adequate vessel.30 But since mythic play springs from the irrational play sphere, and since "we play and know that we play," poetry, like the transformative process it expresses, i never "serious" in the limited, conventional meaning of that word: 357 [T]he function of the poet still remains fixed in the play-sphere where it was born. Poiesis, in fact, is a play-function. It proceeds within the play-ground of the mind, in a world of its own which the mind creates for it. There things have a very different physiognomy from the one they wear in 'ordinary life, ' and are bound by ties other than those of logic and causality. If a serious statement be defined as one that may be made in terms of waking life, poetry will never rise to the level of seriousness. It lies beyond seriousness, on that more primitive and original level where the child, the animal, the savage and the seer belong, in the region of dream, enchantment, ecstacy, laughter. To understand poetry, we must be capable of donning the child's soul like a magic cloak and of forsaking man’s wisdom for the child's.31 Poetry, then, like myth, exists "on the border-line between jest and earnest," and therefore, like myth, implies humor, the essential humor of the play-sphere. Huizinga indicates this humorous element in his explication of "the threefold connection of myth, poetry and play": In whatever form it comes down to us, myth is always poetry. Working with images and the aid of imagination, myth tells the story of things that were supposed to have happened in primitive times. It can be of the deepest and holiest significance. It may succeed in expressing relationships which could never be described in a rational way. But despite the sacred and 358 mystic quality quite natural to it in the mythopoetic phase of civilization, despite, that is to say, the absolute sincerity with which it was accepted, the question still remains whether the myth was ever entirely serious. We can safely say, I think, that myth is serious to the degree that poetry is serious. Like everything else that transcends the bounds of logical and deliberative judgement, myth and poetry both move in the play-sphere. This is not to say a lower sphere, for it may well be that myth, so playing, can soar to heights of insight beyond the reach of reason. Myth, rightly understood and not in the corrupt sense which modern propaganda has tried to force upon the word, is the appropriate vehicle for primitive man's ideas about the cosmos. . . . For the savage, with his extremely limited powers of logical co-ordination and arrangement, practically everything is possible. . . . For all that, however, we would still like to ask whether the savage's belief in his holiest myths is not, even-from the beginning, tinged with a certain element of humour. Myth and poetry both come from the play-sphere; hence it is at least probable that the savage's belief lies partly, as his life does entirely, in this same sphere.32 The kind of humor which Huizinga addresses is what might be called in a contemporary Western context, the "disavowed sense of humor." This is perhaps best illustrated in the Hindu concept of "lila"— "God's Play." The Hindu believes that God is, among other 359 things, a Trickster, and that he has imbued the world with an illusion of multiplicity, materiality and transience— "maya"(from the Sanskrit root for "magic"). "Maya" can be overcome, however, by expanding the consciousness through appropriate study and meditation. The Hindu then approaches the world and pretends, that is, he participates in the game of life— in "God's Play"— fully aware that it is in fact only an illusion, and that whatever he wins or loses in material, objective reality is of little significance on the higher plane of cosmic consciousness.33 In the West, however, we have become very serious about our world and defensive about the reality of it; we have "disavowed" the illusion— and consequently, the humor— of it. We have, one might say, "lost our sense of humor" about ourselves. The word "sense" should be emphasized here, too, because, although we frequently use the phrase, "sense of humor," we tend to misinterpret, and more often, to completely disregard the "sense" of it. We tend to consider humor as a mental rather than a sensory activity, as an intellectual rather than an instinctive approach to the world. We have come to regard it as a psychological mechanism which we invented in order to manage our surroundings more efficiently, instead of as a sensory aid which has been provided to us as an innate 360 part of our human equipment to help us understand and internalize the nature of the universe. It is this fundamental sense of humor which was awakened in primitive man when he first confronted the conditions of existence and realized that even the most literal and intimate of those conditions was absolutely beyond his control. What could be more objective, more familiar than one's own body, for example? And yet, how the arbitrary constraints and demands of the human anatomy must have perplexed our ancestors. How could they account for the phenomena of bodily fluids and functions, for instance, or for the anatomical changes which occurred as a result of physical growth? Moreover, how could they explain the events of the natural world— the sun, the moon and the stars, the changing of the seasons, natural disasters? Contemplating these things, early man must have experienced a profound sense of bewilderment. Realizing, in his primitive way, that he was confronted with the undeniable, objective evidence of his own helplessness before some force which he did not understand, but which apparently held him completely within its power, even controlling the very body in which he moved about, he could react in one of two ways. He could cry and rant and rave, bemoan his miserable 361 fate, and finally, acquiesce to the power of that force; or, struck by the incongruousness, the supreme curiousness of his existence, he could smile in wonder. Even then, he must have realized instinctively that capitulation would ultimately result in annihilation. But if he could laugh, if he could "play back" at the force which was playing with him, he could confound that force and thus give the appearance of being in control, fully aware that such control was an illusion, so that even as he was playing, he knew that he was playing. As man became more sophisticated, however, his concept of play became more sophisticated as well and, as Huizinga recognizes, motivated all of those activities which are associated with the process of civilization: [I]n myth and ritual the great instinctive forces of civilized life have their origin: law and order, commerce and profit, craft and art, poetry, wisdom and science. All are rooted in the primaeval soil of play.34 Eventually, then, man's play became so "serious" that he was no longer willing to accept play as play and began to call it "civilization" instead. As his belief in the validity of this play activity, i.e., civilization, increased, his illusion of control also increased, so 362 that as time passed, he gradually subordinated the awareness that he was in fact playing. Thus, the original sense of humor which had initially sparked his play activity lost its legitimacy and was eventually disavowed, since to acknowledge it would be to acknowledge, as well, that the process of civilization which sprang from it was in fact only an elaborate form of play, a chimeral response to the incongruities of human existence; and consequently, that everything, even the most universally revered institutions and beliefs generated by that process constituted nothing more than a complex network of gestures designed and imposed by man to perpetuate the illusion that the world could be explained and controlled. Hence, the notion that civilization is meaningful is valid only insofar as man is able to maintain the seriousness of his play, that is, only insofar as he is able to suppress the fundamental humor of the human condition. But humor cannot be entirely suppressed. No matter how much we try to ignore it, to outlaw it, humor always emerges to put the human continuum back into its authentic perspective; it reminds us that despite all of our attempts to reduce the world to finite, knowable terms, the world remains infinite and mysterious, that despite all of the technology we have amassed to explain how and 363 what we are, we still cannot adequately explain why we are, and ultimately, it reminds us that, everything we have created has been shaped from the filamentous tissue of nothingness. But humor also has a benevolent aspect. By forcing us to admit our limitations, to admit the illusionary premises on which civilization rests, it affirms, as well, our racial integrity and indeed, our nobility: Mindful of our human limitations, we have survived in spite of them; cognizant of our tenuous grasp of existence, we have struggled to counter it with essence even if that essence is finally nothing more than the struggle— the play activity— itself. Thus, the fundamental sense of humor is two-fold. For even as it destroys illusions, it creates from them; as much as it delineates the incongruities of human existence, it reconciles them; and although it forces objective truth upon us, it offers in return the solace of wisdom. It is in this context, then, that Popa's humor must be regarded. Writing in The Noisemaker (Urnebesnik) (1960), which is a compilation of humorous poetic texts, Popa expresses this same dualistic perspective of humor: The creation of humor lies in that which moves everything in the world so that nothing remains intact. So that the inexorable scissors of beginning and end will be evaded and 364 snap vainly in emptiness. The creation of humor is something like the creation of ruins. Of truly beautiful and complete ruins, because no one can topple them down any further. From the height of their strange construction, built from karst, debris, and the heart of mindfulness and madness, humor knows how to soar unexpectedly to an exceptional, to an otherwise inaccessible keen-wittedness. Stvaranje humora se sastoji u tome sto ispremeSta sve na svetu, tako da nista ne ostane 6itavof tako da nista ne ostane na svome mestu. Tako da neumitne makaze pocetka i kraja budu izigrane i da uzalud skljocaju u praznom. Stvaranje humora je ne^to kao gradtenje rusevina. Velelepnih i savrsenih rusevina doduse, jer ih niko ne moze vi£e srusiti. Sa vrha tih cudnih svojih gradtevina, sazdanih od krsa, loma i sr<5e umlja i bezumlja, humor zna da se, neocekivanof vine do jedne izuzetne, do jedne inace nedostizne ostroumnosti.35 In effect, then, humor reveals us to ourselves.. And because these revelations dissolve the conventional polarities of rational experience— uthe beginning and end of things"--and imply orders and relationships which are beyond the reach of empirical evidence, they preclude the concrete, factual language of any wholly rational, wholly serious mode of discourse. Only the language of myth, i.e., poetry, can adequately express them. Alan Watts elucidates this point in his discussion of the nature of myth: 365 Factual language dissects and disintegrates experience into categories and oppositions that cannot be resolved. It is the language of either/or, and from its standpoint, all that is on the dark side of life— death, evil, and suffering— cannot be assimilated. There is nothing for it but to get rid of it. . . . By contrast, the language of myth and poetry is integrative, for the language of the image is organic language. Thus it expresses a point of view in which the dark side of things has its place, or rather, in which the light and the dark are transcended through being seen in the terms of dramatic unity.36 It is exactly this unity— revealed through humor and expressed in the poetic image— which Popa has in mind when he houses humor, "that defamed arsonist," within "the fiery walls of poetry": That old homeless one, humor, took up residence in the very center of poetry. The foundations of that poetry which lost sanctity in order to overcome humanness, he preserves with good work, that defamed arsonist. That unique residence was as if created for him; there he has a noble roof over his head and the fiery walls of poetry around him and behind him. There he reigns as only he knows how, burning and setting fire to every and even the least sign of reigning. And it is difficult to predict whether anyone at any time will be able to drive him out, the humor-emperor, from his capitol of poetry. Stari beskucnik, humor, nastanio se u samom zariStu poezije. Temelje te 366 poezije koja je izgubila svetost da bi izvojevala &ove£nost odrSava dobrim delom on, ozloglaseni palikuca. To jedinstveno boravi£te je kao stvoreno za njega, tu on ima plameni krov nad glavom i ognjene zidove poezije oko sebe i za sebe. Tu on caruje kako samo on to ume, zareci, i paleci svaki i najmanji znak carevanja. I te%ko je predvideti hoce li iko moci ikada da izagna njega, humor-cara, iz njegove prestonice poezije.37 For Popa, humor is the definitive stamp of humanity, since it enables us to recover our "humanness" as well as our sacred worth. Humor "sets fire" to everything, that is, it reduces everything to essentials, in order to "reign" over or to penetrate everything, in order, that is, to reveal the polymorphic nature of cosmic existence in its totality. This is its unceasing task. In this process, creative energy— what Huizinga might call the "play impulse"— is emitted, which in turn generates the mythic vision, but because this energetic vision is all-encompassing and therefore beyond the scope of ordinary language, it can only be expressed or "discharged" in the environment of the poetic image which, in its surrealist context, is by definition combustible. The relationship between humor, myth and poetry, then, is a collaborative effort born of the necessity to accomodate this organic vision which cannot otherwise be expressed. Accordingly, it must be 367 understood that however whimsical Popa's humor may appear to be, it is nevertheless a conscious, integral part of his craft, and despite its occasional "sting," it is always a positive, constructive force. The two-fold function of Popa's humor— to reduce and reveal— is amplified in the structural features of his poetry. Like his humor, Popa's poetic form is also deceptively simple, but as Popovic points out, it, too, is an integral part of the meaning of his poetry.38 Earlier, I characterized Popa's world view as one of moral wakefulness. Such a philosophical orientation implies, first, a strong element of curiosity. Wakefulness connotes vigilance, but it also connotes inquisitiveness and arousal. Popa is "wakeful" in the sense that he is open and responsive to the world, and on a cosmic level, this means that everything is worthy of inquiry because everything has an integral role in the ultimate cosmic unity and therefore a unique cosmic value to impart, as well. But this cosmicity is polyvalent and cannot be expressed in any absolute, definitive way; its totality can only be determined from the perspective of its various, often apparently conflicting aspects. Popa understands this; he thoroughly explores and acquaints himself with these various aspects, each in turn, and each with equal 368 intensity, for it is only through this multiphasic, exhaustive poetic exploration that he is able to bring forth the full cosmic significance of the object at hand. It is a procedure which requires infinite determination and curiosity. The remarkable quality of Popa's application of it, however, is that it seems to have been carried out spontaneously, almost effortlessly. In addition to curiosity, a second important element of Popa's philosophical orientation is responsibility. But his approach is not limited to the moral issues which we associate with the concept of responsibility in the modern sense of the word. Rather, it constitutes a posture of moral cosmic rectitude not unlike that which Eliade ascribes to premodern man: [I]t is a different kind of responsibility from those that, to us moderns, appear to be the only genuine and valid responsibilities. It is a responsibility on the cosmic plane. in contradistinction to the moral, social, or historical responsibilities that are alone regarded as valid in modern civilizations. From the point of view of profane existence, man feels no responsibility except to himself and to society. For him, the universe does not properly constitute a cosmos— that is, a living and articulated unity;it is simply the sum of material reserves and physical energies of the planet, 369 and the great concern of modern man is to avoid stupidly exhausting the economic resources of the globe. But, existentially, the primitive always puts himself in a cosmic context.39 Popa's world view, then, and consequently, his poetic vision, may be characterized as a cosmic guardianship. His poetic task is to identify and recover the authentic, cosmic value of the object so that its role within the greater unity of the cosmic organism may be revealed. But conventional aesthetic principles of poetics may diffuse the essential cosmicity of phenomena, and in fact, often directly contribute to its concealment by inducing from the poetic object a preconceived, predisposed notion of it. Accordingly, these outworn principles must be discarded if the poet's objective is authentic cosmic symmetry; the superfluous, static exterior of phenomena must be stripped away in order to recover the underlying cosmic sediment. Popa recognizes this, and recognizes, too, that cosmic truth cannot and need not be induced into existence, or deflected and modified by poetic ideals; rather, it exists eternally in all things— on its own terms— and reveals itself continually, of its own volition. This perspective necessitates a carefully controlled ongoing distillation process, the aim of which is to distinguish 370 and slough off the profane exterior of phenomena and thus recover their essential cosmic meaning. Hence, the moral challenge for the poet is to present an unaccommodated, authentic account of whatever is revealed. This unflinching moral integrity is at the heart of Popa's poetic vision; in his view, the poet's primary responsibility is to confront and record the revelation of cosmic truth, in its nakedness and in its entirety, and further, to accept that truth as it emerges— independently of him— in the poetic context. Describing the poetic process, Popa acknowledges this responsibility: You awake and look about you: Everything is already here— the tree, the snake, the stone and the sun. Nothing awaited you. Nothing heeds you, nothing questions you; everything stands and goes on its own. And then, from some profound obstinance, or from whatever, you set to create from mud, from dream, from naked breath, from whatever you get ahold of, something of yours, like that, on your own. You let it go into the world and you worry: you don't know whether it will begin to walk, begin to speak, whether it will survive. And should it be so, and that occurs rarely, soon that which is yours, created by you, steps out along the white world, and all on its own. So then, do you love that? Osvanes i pogledas: Sve je vec tu, i drvo i zmija i kamen i sunce. Ni£ta na tebe nije £ekalo. NiSta se na tebe ne osvrce, ni£ta tebe ne pita, sve to stoji i ide po svome. I onda, iz nekog dubljeg inata, iz cega li, krenes i ti da od blata, od sna, od golog daha, od £ega-god stigneS ne£to, nesto svoje, onako po svome stvoris. Pustis to u svet i strepis: ne znas hoce li prohodati, pregovoriti, hoce li opstati. I bude li tako, a tako biva retko, ubrzo to tvoje, od tebe stvoreno, stane po belom svetu da hoda, i ono, po svome. Pa da li to onda volis?40 For Popa, to be responsible to the cosmos means interpreting and participating in its constant creation; if what one has created has essential cosmic value, it must eventually "step out along the white world" to take up its cosmic role and fulfill its cosmic destiny, a destiny which the poet cannot anticipate. Popa's determination to accept unconditionally the integrity of that destiny— whether he "loves" it or not— attests to the inviolability of his moral commitment. These two apparently diverse principles, then, are the philosophical "guy wires" of Popa's poetic method: a broad, unrestrained, rigorous inquiry free of all bias and presupposition; and an unswerving, utterly scrupulous moral commitment to essential cosmic truth. 372 These principles have direct parallels in the two structural features which Popa has consistently relied upon: the cyclic form and reductionism. Acting as structural counterchecks, these features monitor the integrity of Popa's philosophical orientation— toward comprehensive inquiry on the one hand, and toward cosmic essence on the other. Their combined effect is synergistic; together, they constitute a structural stewardship, the duty of which is to prevent any corruption of Popa's fundamental poetic vision. The cyclic form allows Popa to maintain a free philosophical inquiry, and in fact, promotes it. Ted Hughes writes, "Each cycle creates the terms of a universe, which [Popa] then explores, more or less methodically, with the terms"41 (The number of individual poems in a cycle varies, but Popa has a particular fondness for the number seven42) . A central theme is presented, and the poems within the cycle explore various facets of that theme; this circular mode of inquiry enables the poet to meditate on the theme from a number of imaginative angles so that all of its cosmic conditions and possibilities are disclosed. As Charles Simic observes, the result is the disclosure of the cosmic drama: Each cycle is like a spoke of a wheel reaching from a different angle toward a common center in which the poet's entire conception 373 of the world lies. The impulse is toward the epic. It is the drama of the universe where each particle contains the cosmic, or in the words of the hermetic proverb: ’As above, so below.143 The reductionism of his prosody, meanwhile, upholds and reinforces Popa's moral commitment; it is his linguistic code. Typically, his poems do not exceed 40-50 words; they run 10-15 lines, with 3-5 words per line, and are arranged in somewhat uneven stanzas of couplets, tercets, and more rarely, quatrains. Thus the compression is visual as well as verbal. This compression also contributes to the strong rhythm of his poetry— the meter is irregular but distinct. The majority of Popa’s poetry is written in present tense which amplifies its terseness and intensity. His syntax is highly compressed and frequently ambiguous; the lexicon is lean and concrete; and the diction is inordinately concise. Popa frequently creates neologisms. He uses a minimum of connecting particles and transition words, and punctuation is altogether absent. Every word must have a justifiable function within the terms of the image, and the image must be simple, yet rich in associational value. By adhering to this economic style, Popa is able to sustain the distillation process even as he develops a theme. 374 The functions of these features, moreover, are not mutually exclusive. While the cyclic form promotes a revealing, comprehensive inquiry by containing the thematic aspects in workable segments, it also implicitly participates in their reduction and consequent distillation. Conversely, just as reductionism reinforces the essential cosmicity of phenomena by exposing the multifarious cosmic relationships inherent therein, it simultaneously contributes to the development and enrichment of the theme. The versatility of these features enhances their collective effect. The result is a tensive process of constant, simultaneous expansion and reduction which progresses ad infinitum and which is directly related to the "sequentiality and simultaneity of relationships." that Ronelle Alexander identifies as a structural feature in Popa's work.44 Thus, the form actively participates in the philosophical aim of the poetry. In Hughes' view: [Popa's] poems are trying to find out what does exist, and what the conditions really are. The movement of his verse is part of his method of investigating something fearfully apprehended, fearfully discovered. . . . His words test their way forward, sensitive to their own errors, dramatically and intimately alive, like the antennae of some rock-shore creature feeling out the presence of the sea and the huge powers in it.45 As this exploration proceeds, conventional polarities dissolve; the profundity of the cosmic continuum is exposed, and fundamental anthropocosmic relationships are recovered and renewed in a manner that is at once timeless and refreshingly modern. As Popovic acknowledges: Vasko Popa . . . moving in circles where the mysteries to which the world submits were revealed to him, arrived at a system of truth about the time in which we live.46 The methodological axis of Popa's "system of truth" is this same process of inquiry, distillation, and reintegration. This process suggests the alchemical formula of analysis, dissolution and congelation, and a we shall see, the various alchemical references in Popa's poetry appear to support this association. The process is spontaneous as well as methodical, however. Popa determines the general meditative direction of a poem by arousing the cosmic identities of objects, but once summoned, these forces control the route and ultimate destination of the poem. Popa himself is merely the provocateur; he incites cosmic activity, and then steps back to observe it, carefully recording the 376 intersections of its circuitous path. Hence, as Charles Simic comments: It is not Popa who meditates on myth. What we have here instead is myth meditating on myth. By uncovering its laws, Popa has made myths reflexive. They think aloud and we overhear them. The poems that result are unlike any others we have read. They are both strange and familiar. Strange in that we have forgotten them, familiar in that we have always known them.47 What Popa— and consequently the reader— discovers from this mythic eavesdropping is the daily, extraordinary reality of cosmic existence, and, to paraphrase Andre Breton's famous pronouncement, never having seen it before, he recognizes it immediately.48 It has always been there, but modern man, entrenched as he is in the machinery of logic and literalism, has become desensitized to it. Popa's method, however, provides immediate access. As his poetry confirms, the destinies of all things are in some way intimately linked to our own. The molecular arrangement may vary, but on the cosmic level, every thing is a unique, necessary expression of cosmic unity, simultaneously and collectively involved in and accountable for the sacred task of preserving that unity. The structure of Popa's poetry further heightens this sense of unity in that 377 although every level--poem, cycle, collection— is self- contained, his entire canon can be regarded as a single, tightly woven, extremely complex poetic structure in which events and personae recur in various contexts, introducing new relationships and illuminating those explored previously. In Alexander's estimation, one of the unique features of Popa's work is "the construction of his poetic message in a series of hierarchically- embedded cycles, among which very complex structural relationships can be perceived"49; and she views his opus as "a single dramatic connected statement."50 Popa's three-phase process is evident at all levels of his poetry. It may be observed in the individual poems as well as in the schema of cycles and collections. Furthermore, the development of his entire oeuvre may be delineated by this same procedural pattern. The first developmental phase of Popa's poetry— what I shall call "The Inquiry"— is reflected in his first collection, Bark. noted earlier. This volume includes the cycles "Besieged Serenity" ("Opsednuta vedrina"), "Landscapes" ("Predeli"), "List" ("Spisak") and "Deep Within Us" ("Daleko u nama"). Written over a period of eight years (1943-1951), the poems in this 378 collection record the poet's spiritual and intellectual odyssey as he attempts to come to terms with the apocalyptic experience of the war, and subsequently, to reassess his personal and cultural identity during the tumultuous birth of a new nation. If, in this pursuit, Popa is a refugee from a shattered world, this early poetry clearly demonstrates that he is not a fugitive from it. He does not deny the forces of chaos, nor does he want to elude them. On the contrary, he seeks to confront and comprehend them in the broader context of cosmic existence, and in so doing, to deflect their course. The poems in Bark exemplify this moral posture, and dramatically bear out Daniel Weiss' observation that, "Human anxieties are the loom of literature."51 This first collection confirms the efficacy, and indeed, the necessity of the poetic act as a vehicle of regenerative power. It reflects Popa's determination to transcend the overwhelming devastation of the war years by penetrating the external "bark" or "crust" of man's being in order to tap the inner strength— the core of spiritual existence. It is the poetic arena in which he undergoes a definitive spiritual trial, and for that reason, this volume is referential to all of his subsequent poetry. The outcome 379 of this trial is indicated in the progressive tone of the poems in Bark— ranging fom the oppressive atmosphere of "Besieged Serenity" in which cosmic space is perceived as an ever-encroaching, menacing "beast," to the tempered, lyrical landscape of "Deep Within Us," which exalts the power of love as a transformative, unifying force. In "Besieged Serenity," Popa writes from what Petrov refers to as "a situation of human endangerment,"52 as he responds to the threat of physical and spiritual annihilation brought about by the extreme conditions of the war. These poems record.the poet's initial disorientation and the intellectual and emotional transformation which leads to his subsequent reorientation. In order to demonstrate the progression of the three-phase process in Popa's work and the integral role which the cyclic form plays in that process, I will address each poem in this first cycle individually. The first poem, "Acquaintance" ("Poznanstvo"), introduces the "beast" and delineates Popa's moral position toward it: Don't try to seduce me blue vault I'm not playing You are the vault of the thirsty palate Over my head 380 Ribbon of space Don't wind round my legs Don't try to entrance me You are a wakeful tongue A seven-forked tongue Beneath my steps I'm not coming My ingenuous breathing My breathless breathing Don't try to intoxicate me I sense the breath of the beast I'm not playing I hear the familiar clash of dogs The clash of teeth on teeth I feel the dark of the jaws That opens my eyes I see I see I'm not dreaming53 Ne zavodi me modri svode Ne i gram Ti si svod zednih nepaca Nad mojom glavom Trako prostranstva Ne obavijaj mi se oko nogu - Ne zanosi me Ti si budan jezik Sedmokraki jezik Pod mojim stopalima Ne i dem Disanje moje bezazleno Disanje moje zadihano Ne opijaj me Slutim dah zverke Ne igram V , / ' Cujem poznati pseci udar Udar zuba o zube Osecam mrak 6eljusti Koji mi o£i otvara Vi dim Vidim ne sanjam54 The "blue vault" is a recurring image with Popa, and in his multi-layered cosmology, it is a complex symbol. On the one hand, it designates infinite, encroaching cosmic space, chaos, death, spiritual desolation, and the uncaring god; in the present poem, it seems to hint at the specter of suicide, as well. In its positive manifestation, however, it is the "blue womb"("modra utroba") of spiritual enlightenment and cosmic regeneration and unity, a geometric form which suggests the containment of the uroboros. The duality is also consistent with the union of opposites implied in the androgynous uroboric form.55 In addition, subsequent poems in Popa's opus suggest that it represents the negative and positive capabilities of human nature itself. Here, in its negative aspect,it.is the polymorphous, cunning, deadly combatant, the chthonian "beast" that invades the poet's conscious existence. Clearly, he is vulnerable; this "beast" holds a certain attraction for him. But Popa's position is resolute: "I'm not coming . . . I'm not playing." He does not attempt to circumvent the beast, but to confront it head-on. He explores its nature in order to gird himself against its allure. He concretizes it in the serpent-like "ribbon of space" that tries to "wind around" him, to immobilize him, and subsequently, in the 382 image of the "wakeful tongue," the malevolent "seven forked tongue" above which.he balances breathlessly as it threatens to reach out and swallow him up. But ultimately, it is his senses which inform him. He intuits the raw animal aggression— the "dark of the jaws" waiting to devour him. He "sees" now the seductive illusion of the beast, and his integrity cannot be violated: "I'm not dreaming." Like "Acquaintance," the second poem in this cycle, "Conversation" ("Razgovor"), is a poem of inquiry. However, while it is only implied in "Acquaintance," the prospect of suicide and the decision against it are more explicit in the less hermetic text of "Conversation." In this poem, which is a dialogue of flesh and spirit, Popa advances his commitment to his poetic task— the unfinished "infinite circle"— in order to dispel the seductive power of the "blue vault": Why do you rear up And desert the tender shores Why 0 my blood Where should I send you To the sun You think the sun kisses You've no idea My buried river You're hurting me Carrying away my sticks and stones What ails you my whirligig 383 You'll spoil my infinite circle That we haven't finished building yet My red dragon Only flow further So the feet don't walk off with you Flow as far as you can 0 my blood v . v Zasto se propmjes I obale nezne napustas Zahto krvi moja Kuda da te pustim Na sunce Ti mislis poljubac sunca Ti pojma o tome nema£ Ponornice moja Bolis me Odnosis mi drvlje i kamenje £ta ti je vrte^ko moja Razvali6e£ mi beskrajni krug Koji jos dozidali nismo Crveni zmaju moj Teci samo dalje Da stopala te ne raznesu Sto dalje mozes teci krvi moja Here the tone is one of friendly persuasion as the poet tries to subdue and direct his "blood"— flesh, passion, life itself— in order to realize his poetic vision, his "infinite circle," an image which also suggests the Hindu concept of "samsara." In the third poem, "The Iron Apple" ("Gvozdena jabuka"), the poet is threatened interiorly by what Petrov describes as a "fruit-monster" which "does not nourish him with its fruit, but instead destroys and 384 devours him."56 The title of the poem seems to allude to the Adam's apple, the outward sign of human limitations and vulnerability, which the poet is struggling to overcome; like iron, the burden of humanity is heavy, inflexible, "dead weight." In this respect, the image of the apple is related to the Christian fall from paradise and the concept of original sin, an allusion which seems to figure in some of Popa's subsequent collections. The poem also suggests two Yugoslav folktales, "The Golden Apple and the Nine Peahens" ("Zlatna jabuka i devet paunica")— with the implicit contrast of gold and iron and the attendant alchemical allusions— and "Real Steel" ("Bas Celik")57 One final reference which appears to be relevant here when considered in conjunction with those already mentioned is that of the mythical Serbian "iron mountain" ("gvozdena planina") by means of which heaven and 'earth are conjoined, and which also seems to be of some significance in later poetry.58 In the context of the present poem, the combination of these allusions suggests that the iron apple is the golden apple in its raw unactualized state, and thus symbolizes unfulfilled destiny on both individual and national levels. Whereas in the previous two poems, Popa's aim was the preservation of the flesh, in the "Iron Apple," his 385 objective is the transcendence of it. He achieves this objective through a total abnegation of the physical body. In some of the most provocative imagery in this cycle, the persona literally consumes himself, effecting what is perhaps the apotheosis of the surrealists' "edible” objects: Where is my peace Impenetrable peace The iron apple Has pierced my skull with its stalk I gnaw at it I have gnawed away my jaws With its leaves it fettered me I browse on them I have browsed away my lips With its branches it hobbled me I try to break them I have broken my fingers Where is my peace Unbreakable peace The iron apple Has sent down its roots Deep into my soft rock I pull at them I have pulled out my entrails With its cruel fruit it fattens me up I bore into them I have bored through my brain Where is my peace To be the iron apple's first rust and last autumn Where is where is my peace Gde me je mir Neprobojni mir 386 Gvozdena jabuka Teme mi je stablom probila Gloctem ga Vi lice sam oglodao Li seem me okovala Brstim ga Usne sam obrstio Granama me sputala Lomim ih Prste sam polomio Gde mi je mir Nesalomljivi mir Gvozdena jabuka Korene je duboko U kamenjar moj meki pustila £upam ih utrobu sam iscupao Plodovima me okrutim tovi Tocim ih Mozak sam rastocio Gde mi je mir Gvozdenoj jabuci da bude Prva rda i poslednja jesen Gde mi je gde mi je mir The poet has preserved the flesh only to find that it hinders him. His exterior self is confining, and must be discarded in order to recover the displaced spirit submerged within. He wants nourishment, but he has no jaws; he wants to speak, to love, but he has no lips; he wants to reach out, to act, but his fingers are broken. The "cruel fruit" of thought and the imagination both sustains and torments him. "Peace" has two meanings. In the midst of war, he longs for peace literally. But 387 Popa is speaking from an internal, poetic plane. He is not seeking peace so much as direction, a means of overcoming both the "apple," i.e., human limitations, and the "iron" legacy of the cultural past; in other words, he is searching for a way to tranform the iron apple into the golden apple of the folk tradition. This poem initiates the distillation interval in this cycle, which continues in the following poem. Now that Popa has devoured the flesh, he is left with a pile of bones, but in the dehumanized landscape of the fourth poem, "Echo" ("Odjekivanje"), he resolves that problem as well: The empty room begins to growl I withdraw into my skin The ceiling begins to whine I fling it a bone The corners begin to whimper To each I fling a bone The floor begins to bay I fling it a bone too One wall begins to bark To it I fling a bone And the second and third and fourth walls Begin to bark I fling each a bone The empty room begins to howl And I myself empty Without a single bone Turn into a hundredfold Echo of the howling And echo echo Echo Prazna soba stane da rezi Uvucem se u svoju kozu 388 Tavanica.stane da skici Hitnem joj jednu kost Uglovi stanu da kevcu I njima hitnem po jednu kost Pod stane da zavija Hitnem i njemu jednu kost Jedan zid stane da laje I njemu hitnem jednu kost I drugi i treci i cetvrti zid Stane da laje Hitnem svakom po jednu kost Prazna soba stane da urla I sam prazan Bez ijedne kosti U stostruki se odjek Urlika pretvaram I odjekujem odjekujem Odjekujem Although the first person persona is still prominent in this poem, it is erased, bone by bone, until it is merely an echo. The negation of the human form in this poem is significant. From this point onward, human beings appear only infrequently in Popa's poetry, and then only in vestigial or truncated forms similar to the epidermal and osteal remnants which this poem presents. The poet has deflected the threat of physical endangerment by "dying" to the familiar, physical world. This negation of exterior existence is necessary, however, in order to penetrate and affirm interior existence. It is the same "dialectical necessity" which Carrouges describes: 389 The surrealist must plunge provisionally into this abnegation and this will to blot out the exterior world the way an explorer must first wander off every known course before penetrating into the heart of unexplored territories. Afterwards, he puts them into communication with the whole of the known world, for otherwise he would only become lost without having been able to transmit any message to the rest of men.59 Popa, too, is preparing for a journey into "unexplored territories," and evincing the characteristic openness which is indicative of his moral posture, he literally discards the physical self in a sort of ritual metamorphosis. The fifth poem, "Departure" ("Odlazak"), institutes the final phase of "Besieged Serenity," the reintegration. Here, the poet explicitly announces his withdrawal from the external world and hints at the subsequent route of his exploration: I am no longer here I haven't moved from the spot But I'm not here now Let them come in Let them look let them search The watermill in the shadow of the ribs Grinds the ripe void Fag ends of cheap dreams Smoulder in the ashtray I'm no longer here 390 A moored boat rocks On the red waves A few unripened words Hang in the cloudy throat I'm no longer here I haven't moved from the spot But I'm far away now They'll scarcely catch me Nisam vise tu S mesta se nisam pomerio Ali tu vise nisam Neka udu Neka pregledaju neka pretraze Vodenica u send rebara Zrelu prazninu melje Opusci jevtinih snova U pepeljari se dime Nisam vi£e tu Privezan camac njise se Na crvenim talasima Par nedozrelih r e d U obladnom grlu visi Nisam vi%e tu S mesta se nisam pomerio Ali sam vec daleko Tesko da ce me stici The physical self continues to exist, but the poet no longer resides there. The lungs continue their work, inhaling— "grinding"— the empty air of nothingness ("praznina" connotes "emptiness" or "gap"), which is always "ripe" and waiting to be filled. Into this nothingness, the physical self expells the smoke of "cheap dreams," i.e., of the old, ingenuous, vulnerable self which the poet has left behind in the external world. The "moored boat" rocking on the "red waves" 391 represents the body which has been left behind, but may also symbolize the notion of suicide which has been discarded because the poet has found another, far better alternative. The words which could not be articulated from the "clouded," chaotic perspective of objective reality are abandoned. The poet has survived the crucible of moral conflict, and deflected the tyranny of the invasive "blue vault." The spiritual struggle which this cycle documents reaches its denouement in the determined, purposeful tone of the final poem, "Journey" ("Putovanje"): I journey And the highway journeys too The highway sighs With a deep dark sigh I have no time for sighing I journey further No longer stumbling Over sleeping stones on the highway I journey lighter No longer does the workfree wind Delay me with chatter It's as if he couldn't see me I journey faster My thoughts tell me I have left Some bloody some dull pain At the bottom of the abyss behind me I have no time for thinking I journey Putujem I drum takode putuje 392 Drum uzdahne Dubokim tamnim uzdahom Za uzdisanje vremena nemam Putujem dalje Ne spoti6em se vise O usnulo kamenje na drumu Putujem laksi Ne zagovara me vise Besposleni vetar Kao da me ne primecuje Putujem br£e Misli mi kazu da sam ostavio Neki krvav neki potmuo bol Na dnu ponora za sobom Za razmi^ljana vremena nemam Putujem The poet is "lighter" now; he has departed from the external world of "chatter" and "thinking" in order to traverse the highway of the cosmic interior. It is interesting to note, however, that unlike Baudelaire and Rimbaud, who both set out for the "unknown" as mariners, Popa's voyage is a terrestrial one. This reflects his cultural orientation; he discovers himself not in bodies of water, but near the earth, and near things of the earth. This same orientation is evident in the three remaining cycles of Bark. The hermetic enclosure and psychic dissemination of "Besieged Serenity" are somewhat relieved in "Landscapes." This is evident in the poetic 393 objects which have references in the external, physical world, and in the intensified use of color which lends definition to the extreme interiority of the poetic environment. An increasing predilection for symmetrical opposition is also apparent. This polarity is most notable in the symbolism of the sun as a source of cosmic regeneration which constantly combats and deflects the destructive forces of cosmic space. The poems in this cycle are of two types— concrete "landscapes" and abstract "landscapes." Petrov observes that the first type has a correlative in objective reality while the second has no objective correlative, but presents a "landscape-vision," which depicts a particular "psychic phenomenon" or "psychic state."60 The first poem, "In the Ashtray" ("U pepeljari"), exemplifies the first type: A tiny sun With yellow tobacco hair Is burning out in the ashtray The blood of cheap lipstick suckles The dead stumps of stubs Beheaded sticks yearn For sulphur crowns Blue roans of ash whinny Arrested in their prancing A huge hand With a burning eye in its palm Lurks on the horizon Majusno sunce Sa zutom kosom od duvana Gasi se u pepeljari Krv jevtinog ruza doji Mrtve trupee elkova Obezglavljena drvca ceznu Za krunama od sumpora Zelencl od pepela njiste Zaustavljeni u propnju Ogromna ruka Sa Xarklm okom nasred dlana Vreba na vldlku and the last poem, "In A Smile" ("U osmehu"), i characteristic of the second type of "landscape At the corners of the lips Has appeared a golden ray Waves are dreaming In bushes of flames Blue-eyed distances Have coiled up into a ball Noon is ripening peacefully In the very heart of midnight Tame thunderbolts are buzzing Above the leaves of quietness U uglu usana Pojavlo se zlatan zrak Talasl sanjare U slprazju plamenova Plavooke daljlne Savlle se u klupce Podne mlrno sazreva U samom sreu ponocl Gromovl pltomi zuje Na vlatlma tlslne 395 As Petrov points out, "the landscape of the ashtray is in fact a cosmic landscape in miniature.”61 This landscape resembles a cosmic battlefield in the aftermath of a melee; it is, in fact, an expansion of the image of the smouldering cigarette butts in "Departure" from the previous cycle. The "beheaded sticks" foreshadow the severed heads and headless bodies which appear in later collections. Here in the ashtray, Popa perceives a miniature world governed by its own primordial laws, with its own wisdom to impart, and its own cosmic destiny "yearning" to be fulfilled. This kind of microcosmic perspective, as Bachelard points out, effects detachment from the surrounding world and aids in resisting the "dissolution of the surrounding atmosphere.”62 "In The Ashtray" also introduces two important features which characterize this first phase of Popa's poetry. First the human form is now completely eliminated. The dehumanization which was initiated in the previous cycle is integral to the thematic content of this and subsequent cycles; human beings appear only infrequently, and then only in truncated form. The poet is present only as the mind that orders the poem. Second, this poem inaugurates Popa's exploration of humble ordinary articles of daily life as poetic 396 objects; similar articles in this cycle include a table and a hatstand. Since Popa's goal is the revitalization of anthropocosmic relationships, he begins with the simple things closest to him, regarding them as repositories of cosmic reality. Free now of his corporeal form, the poet enters the cosmic environment of the object, and using evocative imagery and a terse, incantatory rhythm, provokes the outwardly inert countenance of the object in order to summon forth and liberate its inherent cosmicity. At the moment of this liberation, an interpenetration of the spiritual and physical occurs, and the distinction between poet and object is dissolved as spirit and matter intermingle, coalescing into one cosmic entity. It is the technique of "making strange," which Thomas Eekman also observes in Popa's work,63 but here the method tests and achieves new limits. In subsequent cycles, Popa continues to focus on these elemental objects as points of entry to the cosmic plane. The solar symbolism which is central to this cycle is also brought into play in "In The Ashtray." The opposing images of the "tiny sun" which burns out and the "huge hand/With a burning eye in its palm" represent two aspects— extinguishment and ignition— of the same cosmic energy. Their placement in the 397 structure of the poem emphasizes their symmetrical opposition, the "tiny sun" initiating the text, and the "burning eye" concluding it. The latter image is a historical reference; it recalls a well-known Bogomil stone carving of a masculine figure with a huge hand and outstretched fingers that is generally interpreted as a sun symbol.64 Allusions to this same carving appear subsequently in Popa's poetry, and it has been treated by other Yugoslav poets as well. It is used in the elliptical final stanza of the poem to represent the still powerful forces of the national past which await mobilization, and thus signals the spiritual rebirth which is the theme of this cycle. The spiritual struggle of the previous cycle is perceived as a cosmic battle in which the forces of darkness, i.e., cosmic space, have been overcome by the forces of light, i.e., the cosmic sun. The interval of reflection and introspection immediately following the battle is depicted as a period of cosmic incubation during which the poet's spirit has taken root and germinated in the soil of the cosmic consciousness. The poems herein portray the initial reawakening of the spirit as it hesitantly apprehends— from the perspective of the cosmic plane— the heretofore unseen cosmic dimension of its physical environment, and although some poems in 398 this cycle bespeak a lingering suspicion and fear of the "beast," the majority present images of regeneration in which this rebirth is concretized: "The sun clothes the bones/In new golden flesh" ("Sunce obla£i koske/U novo zlatno meso") while breadcrumbs on an outspread tablecloth are described as "Corollas of drowsiness" ("Krunice dremeza") that "Have penetrated the white bark" ("Belu su koru probile"); "The wrinkles of time" ("Bore vremena") "Have germinated/On the abundant wilderness"("Nabujale/Na izda^nom parlogu") of a wall; and in the "rosy desert" ("pustinja rumena") of a hand, everything "Bursts into bud with sense/Bursts into flower with hope" ("Smislom propupi/Nadom procveta"). The "golden ray" which appears in "In A Smile" marks the apogee of this rebirth, and- affirms, as well, the solar triumph over cosmic space which has now retreated into the distance and has "coiled up into a ball." All polarities are resolved in the wake of this regeneration. The sub-conscious realm of dream merges with the conscious terrestrial world, and disparate physical properties are reconciled as water and fire intermingle. Further on, the midday sun emanates from and is regenerated by its antipode in the fourth stanza. This stanza, like the final one which follows it, conveys an apparent sense of well being; the image of 399 the sun "ripening peacefully" while thunderbolts "buzz" in the midday stillness evokes a benign, almost idyllic impression of harmony and serenity. Underlying this pacific tone, however, is a feeling of anticipation and suspense. The "ripening" which arises from the enigmatic commingling of the solar and lunar aspects suggests that yet another level of cosmic regeneration is forthcoming. The sense of expectation is heightened in the image of the thunderbolts. At first glance, this image seems felicitous, almost playful, but the thunderbolt is emblematic of Perun,65 and its association here with the old pagan god is supported in subsequent cycles in which the symbol reoccurs in that connection. It suggests that the tribal myth remains a vital imprint on the contemporary Serbian consciousness despite the persistent attempts of Christianity to diffuse it with a veneer of domesticity. Moreover, the "buzzing" sound connotes convergence and activity; hence, the allusion signifies the imminent revitalization and reintegration of the ancient Slavic deities in a contemporary cultural context. Popa has emerged transfigured from the cosmic battlefield, and has brought with him the still vigorous forces of the Slavic past. These will subsequently provide the 400 vivifying matrix of his poetic quest for cultural affirmation. "List" is an extension of "Landscapes." The poems in this cycle amplify the thematic content of the previous one as Popa continues to draw from the ordinary objects of daily existence. However, whereas his initial exploration was somewhat tentative, in "List," he ventures out into the concrete, physical world unhesitatingly, inquisitively, and often playfully, eager to substantiate and expand the cosmic terrain he has charted in "Landscapes." Weiss contends that the artist has "a strong drive to possess, by means of experience, the 'real' external world. He accomplishes this possession by an act of incorporation, of identification. He becomes the world. . . . This aspect of the creative process is apparent in "List." It is a cycle of cosmic bonding in which the poet recognizes in objects as mundane as a potato or a chair a reality which parallels and converges with his own. Four different types of objects are represented: (1)domestic animals; (2)vegetation; (3)manmade articles; and (4)one mineral object (a quartz pebble). "Horse" ("Konj"), one of Popa's best known poems, belongs to the first group. It suggests Jung's designation of the horse as an archetypal representation of the "non-human 401 psyche, the subhuman, animal side, the unconscious,”67 and may also allude to the role of the horse in the divination rituals of the ancient Slavs.68 Like many of the poems in this cycle, it takes the form of a folk riddle (In Cyrillic characters, "Konj” is written as "KOIfe "; hence the "eight legs"): Usually He has eight legs Between his jaws Man came to live From his four corners of earth Then he bit his lips to blood He wanted To chew through that maize stalk It was all long ago In his lovely eyes Sorrow has closed Into a circle For the road has no ending And he must drag behind him The whole world Obicno Osam nogu ima Izmedu villca (iovek mu se nastanio Sa svoje &et±ri strane sveta Tada je gubicu raskrvavio Hteo je Da pregrize tu stabljiku kukuruza Davno je to bilo U ocima lepim Tuga mu se zatvorila U krug Jer drum kraja nema A celu zemlju treba Za sobom vu6i 402 This cycle is distinguished by the same symmetrical opposition and solar symbolism which appeared in "Landscapes." The dark, underground existence of the "Potato" ("Krompir"), for instance, is illuminated and transformed by the cosmic energy of the sun: Mysterious murky Face of earth He speaks With midnight fingers The language of eternal noon He sprouts With unexpected dawns In his larder of memories All because In his heart The sun sleeps Zagonetno mrko Lice zemlje Ponocnim prstima Jezik ve£nog podneva Govori U zimnici uspomena Iznenadnim svitanjima Proklija Sve to zato Sto mu u srcu Sunce spava And typical of the whimsical tone which characterizes much of this cycle is the fanciful personification of the wistful "Chair" ("Stolica"): The weariness of wandering hills Gave its shape To her sleepy body 4 She's always on her feet How she would love To dash downstairs Or dance In the moonlight of the skull Or just sit down Sit down on someone else's curves of weariness To rest Umor lutajucih bregova Dao je oblik svoj Telu njenom sanjivom Vecno je na nogama Kako bi se rado Sjurila niz stepenice Ili zaigrala Na mese£ini temena Ili prosto sela Sela na tude obline umora Da se odmori This lighthearted survey of the cosmic body is short lived, however, when the poet senses the "beast" once again and the threat of endangerment returns in "Deep Within Us," the last cycle in this volume. "Deep Within Us" constitutes the only love poetry in Popa's canon, but this love poetry exceeds the limits of personal, intimate love. Rather, it' represents a point of transition in which human love is perceived as the ultimate source of spiritual and psychic transformation and actualization. The thirty untitled poems in this cycle may be grouped into three parts, each of which presents a dominant theme. Petrov 404 identifies these themes as: (l)an apocalyptic vision of war, and a feeling of terror because of some strange, uninvited presence (poems 1-13); (2)celebration and glorification of the power of love (poems 14-21); and (3)lost and found love (poems 22-30).69 All of the poems in the cycle are addressed to the beloved, and the first person plural is used almost exclusively. In the first poem, a sense of alarm is expressed; the speaker's trepidation is amplified and its source identified in the charged atmosphere of Poem Two: Look that is that uninvited Strange presence look it's here Horror on the ocean of tea in the cup Rust taking a hold On the edges of our laughter A snake coiled in the depths of the mirror Shall I be able to hide you Out of your face into mine Look it's the third shadow On our imagined walk The unexpected gulf Between our words Hoofs that clatter Under the arched vaults of our mouths Shall I be able On this unrest-field To set up a tent of my hands for you Evo to je to nepozvano Strano prisustvo evo ga 40 y i f , , Jeza je na pucmi caja u solji R(Ta sto se hvata Na rubovima nasega smeha Zmija sklupcana u dnu ogledala Da li cu moci da te sklonim Iz tvoga lica u moje Evo ga treca ^je senka U nasoj izmisljenoj ifetnji Neocekivani ponor Izmedtu nailih re£i Kopita 2>to tutnje Pod svodovima na£ih nepaca Da li cu moci Na ovom nepocin-polju Da ti podignem sator od svojih dlanova The image of the coiled snake "in the depths of the mirror" is significant and foreshadows the metaphysical direction of Popa's second collection, Unrest-Field. in which it recurs. The image is associated with Yoga, the branch of Hinduism which provides instructional doctrines for the actualization of man's divine nature. Hinduism postulates that physiological man is comprised of four parts or layers. These are the body, the conscious mind, the sub-conscious mind, and eternal, divine being itself as defined in the Upanishads: "I am the whole, the diversified multicolored-lovely-strange universe. I am the Ancient One. I am Man, the Lord. I am the Being-of-Gold."70 In Yogic precepts, this spiritual inner strength— the "kundalini"— is perceived as reposing in a dormant state until actualized through 406 a series of meditative exercises carried out by the aspirant or "yogi." The kundalini is represented as a snake coiled in a ring at the base of the spinal column. As a result of the prescribed exercises, the snake uncoils and moves up the spine through the six circles of psychic energy— the "chakras"— until it reaches the part of the forehead which corresponds to the third eye of Shiva, at which point the full power of the kundalini is recovered.71 That this is the allusion which Popa has in mind is confirmed in more explicit examples which occur in subsequent collections. In the present poem, the image symbolizes the ominous threat of confrontation with the omnipresent "third shadow” of death and destruction, but on another level, it also represents the unactualized other or "mirror” self .which lies hidden in the reflected depths of the looking glass.72 Despite the fearful, agitated tone of the poem, however, as the speaker apprehends this ubiquitous, menacing presence, what engages the reader here is the tender, evocative image of shelter in the last stanza. It is inspired by a folk riddle which poses a conundrum: "The dead carries the living over an unrest-field" ("Mrtvi zivoga nosi preko nepo^in- polja").73 The answer is a "barge" ("barka"). The riddle suggests transcendence, and Popa's incorporation 407 of it here implies three levels of meaning in that connection. First, it has an obvious cultural reference; it is the cumulative past of historical events and long dead gods and heroes that will sustain the poet in the tumultuous present and aid him in the effort to restore cultural integrity— the metaphorical "barge" of cultural consciousness which will carry the poet through the chaotic, uncharted waters of the present. The barge also suggests a second reference— in Buddhism. In Sanskrit, "yana" means "ferry" or "raft"; hence, "Mahayana" is "Great Raft" (Theravada Buddhism was originally called "Hinayana" or "Litle Raft"). The name is derived from Gautama Buddha's metaphor of the journey from non-enlightenment to enlightenment— or from "samsara" to "nirvana"— as a ferry crossing in which adherence to Buddhist precepts is perceived as the means of transport or "ferry."74 Finally, Popa's extension of the riddle implies transcendence through the power of human love. Love will provide a refuge from the encroaching destructive forces of the external world. Chaos and evil cannot be altogether purged from the world, but they can be combatted and transcended by the inviolable unity of love's covenant. Love inspires the creative center and engenders a sense of openness and revelation about the world; it always propels the spirit 408 forward, empowering it with a constant state of becoming. "In all beginnings," writes Hermann Hesse, "dwells a magic force/For guarding us and helping us to live."75 And so it is with every act of human love: the world is reinterpreted and made new again, and this epiphanic vision deflects the chaotic events of daily reality which threaten to erode spiritual well being. In "Deep Within Us," love is the "magic force," the guiding principle which delivers the poet from the horror of the suffocating present, and shelters him in the impenetrable, numinous light of an atemporal reality. Hence, its power both preserves and redeems. This dual concept of love is developed more clearly in the second and third sections of the cycle which focus on the themes of preservation and redemption, respectively. In both sections, love is equated with the recuperative power of the cosmic sun, and woman is its hierophantic source. In the second section, she is depicted as the beneficent Great Mother, the cosmic matrix who nourishes and safeguards all things. Poem Fourteen is typical: If it were not for your eyes There would be no sky In our blind dwelling If it were not for your laughter The walls would never Vanish from our eyes 409 If it were not for your nightingales The tender willows would never Step over the threshold If it were not for your arms The sun would never Spend the night in our sleep oSiju tvojlh da nije Ne bi bilo neba U slepom na^em stanu Smeha tvoga da nema Zidovi ne bi nikad Iz ociju nestajali Slavuja tvojih da nije Vrbe ne bi nikad NeZne preko praga presle Ruku tvojih da nije Sunce ne bi nikad U snu naMem prenocilo as is Poem Fifteen: The streets of your glances Have no ending The swallows from your eyes. Do not migrate south From the aspens in your breasts The leaves do not fall In the sky of your words The sun does not set Ulice tvojih pogleda Nemaju kraja Laste iz tvojih zenica Na jug se ne sele Sa jasika u grudima tvojim Lisce ne opada Na nebu tvojih reci Sunce ne zalazi 410 Both poems embody the positive aspect of the Great Mother which Erich Neumann delineates: [She] is the refuge for all suffering, the goal of all desire. For always this mother is she who fulfills, the bestower and helper. This living image of the Great and Good Mother has at all times of distress been the refuge of humanity and ever shall be; for the state of being contained in the whole, without responsibility or effort, with no doubts and no division of the world into two, is paradisal, and can never again be realized in its pristine happy-go-luckiness in adult life.76 She is the omnipotent, reassuring visage whose protective power is always at hand, and in whose presence the constricting "walls" of the familiar, objective world dissolve; she is the eternal sun-bearer of the sub-conscious realm who imbues the shadowy precincts of conscious existence with infinite, incandescent light. The sweeping, all-consuming figure which Popa depicts here is reinforced by the incantatory rhythm and the assonance of the poem; these features, which occur regularly in Popa's work, are standard devices in Serbian folk literature.77 The poems in the third section of the cycle present the most interesting feminine image in "Deep Within Us," for it is here that Popa searches for and is 411 at last reunited with his cosmic counterpart, the Goddess, who redeems and transfigures. The poems herein express "The Meeting with The Goddess" which Joseph Campbell discusses: The ultimate adventure, when all the barriers and ogres have been overcome, is commonly represented as * * * a mystical marriage ("l£pO£7( X } J , 0£") of the triumphant hero-soul with the Queen Goddess of the World. This is the crisis at the nadir, the zenith, or at the uttermost edge of the earth, at the central point of the cosmos, in the tabernacle of the temple, or within the darkness of the deepest chamber of the heart.78 In Poem Twenty-Two, the poet seeks this "other half," but can approach her only through the sub-conscious passageways of the dream state: Our day is a green apple Cut in two I look at you You do not see me Between us is the blind sun On the steps Our torn embrace You call me I do not hear you Between us is the deaf air In shop windows My lips are seeking Your smile At the crossroads Our trampled kiss 412 I have given you my hand You do not feel it Emptiness has embraced you In the squares Your tear is seeking My eyes In the evening my day dead Meets with your dead day Only in sleep We walk the same paths Nas dan je zelena jabuka Na dvoje presecena Gledam te Ti me ne vidi£ IzmeCtu nas je slepo sunce Na stepenicama Zagrljaj na£ rastrgnut Zove£ me Ja te ne $ujem Izme&U nas je gluhi vazduh Po izlozima Usne moje traze Tvoj osmeh Na raskrsnici Poljubac na£ prega2en Ruku sam ti dao Ti je ne oseca£ Praznina te je zagrlila Po trgovima Suza tvoja tra£i Moje oSi Uvecfe se dan moj mrtav S mrtvim danom tvojim sastane Samo u snu Istim predelima hodama 413 The two-fold nature of Popa's quest is again evidenced in the imagery of this poem. The "green apple" is an allusion to the traditional Serbian folk epic, "The . / / - Q Death of the Jugovic Mother" ("Smrt majka Jugovica")/y; it represents here the division of conscious and sub conscious existence, but it is also a symbol of cultural suspension. The "blind sun"— an image which Popa returns to in later poems— has several levels of meaning. It is the dark shadow of the war period which has disrupted the human flow of events and separated the lovers, but the first person plural here also connotes the two "halves" of the self— the psychic or spiritual self and the physical self which are reunited "only in sleep," and thus, the "blind sun" signifies the violation of individual integrity. The image also alludes to Dabog, the totemic wolf-god of the Serbs who, in his negative "vukodlak" ("werewolf") aspect, is believed to bring about solar and lunar eclipse by devouring the sun.80 Popa's quest is ultimately rewarded in the spiritual completion which he finds "On the golden plateau/Far within us." In Poem Twenty-Nine, love provides the conduit between the poet and the psychic world: 414 These are your lips That I return To your neck This is my moonlight That I take down From your shoulders We have lost each other In the boundless forests Of our meeting In my hands Your adam's apples Set and dawn In your throat Flame up and fade My impetuous stars We have found each other On the golden plateau Far within us Ovo su tij usne Koje vracam Tvome vratu ^ , >f , Ovo mi je mesecma Koju skidam Sa ramena tvojih Izguhili smo se U nepreglednim sumama Na^ega sastanka U dlanovima mojim Zalaze i svicu Jabucice tvoje U grl u t vome Pale se i gase Zvezde moje plahe Pronasli smo se Na zlatnoj visoravni Daleko u nama 415 The unequivocal symmetry of the feminine-masculine fusion which Popa creates here recalls the Platonic concept of an original, undivided self expressed in The Symposium, as well as the Hebrew creation myth of the male-female figure of Adam-Lilith. It also suggests the androgynous aspect of the uroboric Great Mother which Neumann discusses, noting its regenerative powers: The tremendous force of this primordial symbol of the psyche does not lie only in the fact that it contains in itself the non differentiated state of union beyond the opposites. The uroboros also symbolizes the creative impulse of the new beginning; it is the 'wheel that rolls of itself,' the initial rotary movement in the upward spiral of evolution.81 This "new beginning" is the meaning indicated in the poem. Popa1s spiritual journey has been a descent inward— not unlike the "dizzying descent" Breton subscribes to. Now, having confronted the "beast" and surmounted all of the obstacles in his path, he has transcended the frontiers of conscious existence and has arrived at "the central point of the cosmos"— the "golden plateau"— through the harmonious union with the Goddess. But this is not the ultimate destination; on the contrary, it is the place of new beginnings, the primordial sub-conscious level where all psychic 416 energies are charged and from which they advance. For, as Joseph Campbell instructs: [T]he ultimate experience of love is a realization that beneath the illusion of two-ness dwells identity: 'each is both.' This realization can expand into a discovery that beneath the multitudinous individualities of the whole surrounding universe— human, animal, vegetable, even mineral-- dwells identity; whereupon the love experience becomes cosmic, and the beloved who first opened the vision is magnified as the mirror of creation.82 The beloved has thrown open the cosmic doors, and from the perspective of this central point, the poet espies the psychic pageant— those luminous whorls of movement and bristling conversations which seethe and resonate through the furrows of the "golden plateau." Fortified by the rejuvenating powers of this cosmic embrace, and evincing his typical curiosity, Popa moves forward now to take a closer look and acquaint— or one may say reacquaint— himself with those archetypal psychic forces. In so doing, he discovers a cosmic dimension which Miodrag Pavlovic has aptly termed "the atmosphere of eternal essential meeting with the world. . . . 1,83 Unrest-Field (Nepo^in-Polie) (1956) designates Popa's second developmental phase— "The Distillation." 417 This collection includes the cycles, "Games" ("Igre"), "One Bone to Another" ("Kosti kosti"), "Give Me Back My Rags" ("Vrati mi moje krpice") and "The Quartz Pebble" ("Belutak"). Unrest-Field contains some of Popa's most hermetic, and ironically, some of his most humorous poetry. It reflects, more definitively than any of his other work, the influence of oriental philosophical concepts. Each cycle in this volume constitutes a metaphysical exercise in cosmic awareness in which the poet re-establishes his ties with the sources of existence. It is poetry that seems inaccessible and yet i is entirely accessible because it depicts, as Popovic confirms, "the world in which we exist and which exists in us."84 As indicated by the logo which graces the text— an eye in a field encircled by a serpent eating its own tail85— it is the uroboric dominion of origins, the primal plane of existence. "Games" is the first cycle in the volume. Although a definitive analysis of this cycle is beyond the scope of this study, it may be noted that there is evidence to suggest that it is based on the meditative exercises of Raja Yoga, the yogic variant which stresses psychological awareness.86 "Before Play" ("Pre igre"), 418 the first poem of "Games," announces the theme of the cycle: One shuts one eye Peers into oneself into every corner Looks at oneself to see there are no spikes, no thieves No cuckoos' eggs One shuts the other eye too Crouches then jumps Jumps high high high To the top of oneself Thence one drops by one's own weight For days one drops deep deep deep To the bottom of one's abyss He who is not smashed to smithereens He who remains whole and gets up whole He plays v Zazmun se na jedno oko Zaviri se u sebe u svaki ugao Pogleda se da nema eksera da nema lopova Da nema kukavi^jih jaja ZpKmuri se i na drugo oko Cu&ne se pa se skoci Skoci se visoko visoko vlsoko Do navrh samog sebe Odatle se padne svom tezinom Danima se pada duboko duboko duboko Na dno svoga ponora Ko se ne razbije u parampar<$ad Ko ostane <*itav i citav ustane Taj igra87 The poet has descended to the bottom of the abyss and he has survived; thus, "he plays." In the terse, laconic texts which follow, he observes, through games as 419 V familiar as "Hide and Seek" ("Zmure") and "Leapfrog" ("Trule kobile"), and some less familiar, the interplay of intuitive and imaginative urges which control / conscious life. The goal, as Pavlovic writes, is the rediscovery of human worth.88 The archetypal beings engaged in these cosmic games explore a variety of social and political topics, but ultimately, even they must defer to the sources of folk wisdom, as in "After Play" ("Posle igre"), the last poem of the cycle: At last the hands clasp the belly Lest the belly burst with laughing But the belly's not there One hand just manages to lift itself To wipe the cold sweat from the forehead The forehead's gone too The other hand clutches at the heart Lest the heart leap out of the breast The heart1s gone too Both hands drop Idle drop into the lap The lap's gone too On one hand now the rain is falling From the other grass is growing What more should I say Najzad se ruke uhvate za trbuh Da trbuh od smeha ne pukne Kad tamo trbuha nema Jedna se ruka jedva podigne Da hladan znoj s cela obrise Ni Sela nema 420 Druga se ruka ma^i za srce Da srce iz grudi ne iskoci Nema ni srca Ruke obe padnu Besposlene padnu u krilo Ni krila nema Na jedan dlan sad kisa pada Iz drugog dlana trava raste Sta da ti pri&am The traditional proverb which has been ingeniously inlaid in the last stanza of the poem is well-known: "Rain is falling/Grass is growing/The mountain is green" ("Kisa pada/Trava raste/Gora je zelena"), and beautifully illustrates the interaction between the forces of good and the forces of evil which confronts us in daily life and to which the elementary world of "Games" attests. "What more can I say?" asks the poet. Why are we the way we are? How can kindness and malevolence exist in the same human shape? Why does life go along so merrily and then suddenly fall in on us? Because that is simply the nature of existence; it is the cosmic balance constantly checking itself, the perpetual symmetry of force and counterforce. But such an answer cannot be grasped in factual, concrete terms; only the organic language of myth will accomodate it. And because Popa is the product of a mythically-oriented culture, that language is his intuitive choice; it is his original mother tongue in the fullest sense of the 421 term. Furthermore, it must be remembered that for the native speaker who is familiar with the referential folk proverb, there is an implicit message of hope and purpose in the unwritten last line, "The mountain is green." In subsequent cycles in this volume, the mythical proportions of "Games" are expanded further in microcosmic, primordial worlds which echo the discordancy of modern daily existence. The personae who inhabit these worlds are tough, alert and cynical. They bear out Popovic's assertion that Popa has had to create new archetypes which reflect the skeptical heroes of the mechanistic contemporary world; Popa, he writes, "is a part of the consciousness of his time without which it could not be fully grasped."89 We encounter such heroes in "One Bone to Another," a cycle which is perhaps best characterized as apocalyptic humor. The personae are two bones, one masculine and one feminine— a "bone couple"— who have managed to free themselves of their physiological burden by "getting rid of the flesh." The bones speak to each other in clipped, detached conversations which Edwin Morgan likens to the dialogue of the two tramps in Samuel Becket's Waiting for Godot.90 They make music, 422 stick in dogs1 throats "for enjoyment," and go sunbathing, but "In The Moonlight" ("Na mesecini"), they sense the ultimate futility of these activities: What is that now As if flesh some snowy flesh Were sticking to me I don't know what it is As if marrow were flowing through me Some cold marrow I don't know either As if everything were beginning again With a more horrible beginning You know what Do you know how to bark Sta ie to sad y Ko da se meso neko snezno meso Na meni hvata Ne znam sta je I kroz mene ko da tece srS Neka hladna srz Ne znam ni ja Ko da ponovo sve poSinje Nekim strasnijim pocetkom Znas li sta Ume£ li ti da lajeS While the image of the bone may seem a bit macabre, it also has a positive aspect which the progression of the cycles in this volume indicates. Citing Hebraic tradition, J.E. Cirlot remarks that this positive aspect "refers to an indestructible, corporeal particle, represented by a piece of very hard bone; it is, then, 423 symbolic of the belief in resurrection, and is comparable with the symbol of the chrysalis from which the butterfly emerges. The mystical quality of bone is also acknowledged in the Yugoslav folk tradition of "reading" the bones of certain animals— particularly sheep— which remains even today a popular form of augury.92 Yet another interesting association is found in a well-known reference from Zen Buddhism.. When Bodhidharma, the founder of Zen, was preparing to leave China and return to his native India, he assembled the followers he was leaving behind in order to test their knowledge of truth. The discourse is one of the most famous in Zen tradition: Dofuku said: ’In my opinion, truth is beyond affirmation or negation, for this is the way it moves.1 Bodhidharma replied: 'You have my skin.' The nun Soji said: 'In my view, it is like Ananda's sight of Buddha- land— seen once and forever.' Bodhidharma answered: 'You have my flesh.' Doiku said: 'The four elements of light, airiness, fluidity, and solidity are empty [i.e., inclusive] and the five skandhas are no-things. In my opinion, no-thing [i.e., spirit] is reality.' Bodhidharma commented: 'You have my bones.' Finally, Eka bowed before the master--and remained silent. Bodhidharma said: 'You have my marrow.'93 424 It will be recalled that in previous cycles Popa discarded skin, flesh, and bones. There is now a reference to marrow— "cold marrow"— and flesh— "some snowy flesh." All of this seems slightly contradictory. However, if existence is cyclic, as Popa suggests, everything must begin over and over again— the flesh dissolves, the marrow disintegrates, and the process is subsequently reversed. Popa has had to die to the conscious world in order to penetrate the sub-conscious, psychic realm. Now he is preparing to reenter the conscious world, and the prospect of "everything beginning again"— as he knows it must if he is to continue on the path of infinite becoming— is terrifying. The external world of objective reality is finite, sterile and painful— a "cold" world compared to the infinite, vital inner realm of the psychic plane. However, as the next cycle evidences, he does indeed want' to venture out. Somewhat less cynical is "The Quartz Pebble," which is the last cycle in Unrest-Field. The archetypal presence in these verses is no less wakeful than the others in this volume, but it is also wise. Inspired by the round, white quartz pebbles which are commonly found throughout Yugoslavia, the image was first introduced in 425 the last poem of the cycle, "List." The same poem, "The Quartz Pebble," now opens the present cycle: Headless limbless It appears With the excitable pulse of chance It moves With the shameless march of time It holds all In its passionate Internal embrace A smooth white innocent corpse It smiles with the eyebrow of the moon Bez glave bez udova Javlja se Uzbudljivim damarom slucaja Mice se Bestidnim hodom vremena Sve drzi U svom strasnom Unutrasnjem zagrljaju Beo gladak neduzan trup Smesi se obrvom meseca At least four levels of meaning may be distinguished in the image of the quartz stone in this cycle. First, as mentioned in Chapter II, Serbian folklore holds that the souls of ancestors are incarnated in quartz stones; in this respect, Popa's quartz stone can be said to represent the entire cult of ancestors. In addition, stone universally symbolizes self-containment, indestructibility and permanence; Cirlot instructs that, "Stone is a symbol of being, of cohesion and harmonious reconciliation with self."94 In many folkloric 426 traditions, quartz is believed to have curative powers; E.A. Wallis Budge records that quartz--sometimes called "Eye-Stone”— and white and/or circular stones in general have been used from time immemorial to avert the "Evil Eye."95 This superstition of the evil eye— "urokljivi oci" in Serbo-Croatian— is commonly held throughout the Balkans. Finally, the image infers the Philosopher's Stone of alchemy, a reference which is of great importance to the French surrealists as well. Anna Balakian records that Breton, for instance, was an avid collector of stones: Questioning the stones was for him a way of transcending a world denuded of sense. The stone carried as the mountain, as the eagle, as the water, 'the signature of nature.' 'The stones continue to speak to those who will listen to them.' He saw a strong link between the caprices of nature and those of the arts, and where has nature left as permanent an imprint as on stone? . . . The search for lucidity in the most opaque of all material things is the emblematic gesture of the alchemist in his quest for the Philosopher's Stone; Breton's gold is made of light, whether epitomized in the North Star or in the clarity of the stone polished by the ages.96 Stones will continue to crop up in Popa's poems; like Breton, he recognizes their authentic cosmic imprint. 427 Pavlovic opines that "The Quartz Pebble" indicated a major transition for Popa which enabled him to advance his dialectic significantly.97 In the second poem, "The Heart of the Quartz Pebble" ("Srce belutka"), this new direction begins to emerge: They played with the pebble The stone like any other stone Played with them as if it had no heart They got angry with the pebble Smashed it in the grass Puzzled they saw its heart They opened the pebble1s heart In the heart a snake A sleeping coil without dreams They roused the snake The snake shot up into the heights They ran off far away They looked from afar The snake coiled round the horizon Swallowed it like an egg They came back to the place of their game No trace of snake or grass or bits of pebble Nothing anywhere far around They looked at each other they smiled And they winked at each other Igrali se belutkom Kamen ko kamen Igrao se s njima ko da srca nema Naljutili se na belutak Razbili ga u travi Ugledali mu srce zbunjeni 428 Otvorili srce belutka U srcu zmija Zaspalo klup£e bez snova Probudili su zmiju Zmija je uvis £iknula Pobegli su daleko Gledali su izdaleka Zmija se oko vidika obvila Ko jaje ga progutala Vratili se na mesto igre Nigde zmije ni trave ni par^adi belutka Nigde niceg daleko u krugu Zgledali se osmehnuli I namignuli jedni drugima The coiled snake— symbol of the kundalini— appears again here, but now it ascends "into the heights"— through the chakras— coils "round the horizon"— cosmic space— and swallows it "like an egg"— the vault of space, as Cirlot substantiates, is represented in many cosmogonies as "The Egg of the World" or "The Cosmic Egg."98 The kundalini has reached the third eye of Shiva. In Buddhist terms, Nirvana has been attained. Now Popa must return to the world, and as "The Adventure of The Quartz Pebble" ("Pustolovina belutka") indicates, he is quite ready to do so, for even ultimate reality is apparently tinged with ennui: He's had enough of the circle The perfect circle around him He's stopped short His load is heavy His own load inside him He 1s dropped it His stone is hard The stone he's made of He- 's left it He's cramped in himself In his own body He's come out He's hidden from himself Hidden in his own shadow Dosadio mu je krug Savrseni krug oko njega Zastao je Tezak mu je teret Sopstveni teret u njemu Ispustio ga Tvrd mu je kamen Kamen od koga je sazdan Napustio ga Tesno mu je u sebi U rodenom telu IziMao je Sakrio se od sebe Sakrio u svoju senku Still somewhat ambivalent about his re-emergence, the poet hides "in his shadow." However, in the following poem, "The Secret of The Quartz Pebble" ("Tajna belutka"), he evokes a sense of playfulness and good humor; he invites questions about his adventure in the depth of the stone, but quips, "Don't expect an answer" He's filled himself with himself Has he eaten too much of his own tough flesh Does he feel ill Ask him don't be afraid He's not begging for bread 430 He's petrified in a blissful convulsion Is he pregnant perhaps Will he give birth to a stone Or a wild beast or a streak of lightning Ask him as much as you like Don't expect an answer Expect only a bump Or a second nose or a third eye Or who knows what Ispunio je sebe sobom Da se nije tvrdog mesa svog prejeo Da mu nije zlo Pitaj ga ne boj se Hleba ne iifte Skamenjen je u blazenom grcu Da nije mo^da trudan Da li ce roditi kamen Da li zver da li munju Pitaj ga do mile volje Ne nadaj se odgovoru Nadaj se samo cvoruzi H i drugom nosu ili trecem oku Ili ko zna £emu The "blissful convulsion" which grips Popa here is the same sort of paroxysmal cosmic shudder that Breton indicated when he set down the famous surrealist dictum, "Beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all."99 It is the clench of the numinous, and it cannot be reduced to the denuded discourse of objective, wholly rational language: "Don't expect an answer." Popa has emerged 431 from the microcosm of the self intact, and his third eye is firmly in place. Now he will focus it steadfastly on the macrocosm of his native land, and with the convulsive force of the cosmic gaze, reanimate the buried reality of the cultural past. Secondary Heaven (Sporedno nebo) (1968) contains seven cycles. The first five— "The Yawn of Yawns" ("Zev nad zevovima"), "Signs" ("Znamenja"), "Dissension" ("Razmirica"), "Imitation of The Sun" ("Podrazavane sunca") and "Schism" ("Raskol)--may be considered as part of the second developmental phase, while the last two— "The Lime Tree in The Heart" ("Lipa nasred srca") and "Heaven’s Ring" ("Nebeski prsten")— initiate the third or reintegrative phase of Popa's poetry. A twelve-year period of philosophical reflection and creative development elapsed after the publication of Unrest-Field. With the publication of Secondary Heaven, however, Popa indicated a new poetic direction, one which, in Petrov's estimation, integrates the sacred and the apocryphal: Secondary Heaven by Vasko Popa renders a heretic vision of cosmogonic myths, but this biblical mythopoeia is performed almost completely on the stage of the theater of the absurd. Popa’s mythopoeic imagination, erged with an extremely keen and vigorous intellect, uses linguistic media based on folkloric material and urban idiomatic language which enables it to swing between two extremes: sacred scripture and apocryphal writings.100 From the standpoint of stylistic development, however, perhaps the most notable feature of this juxtaposition is the new emphasis on national themes The seven cycle in this volume reflect the poet's growing interest in Serbian mythology and folklore. The focus of this collection is the search for meaningful existence, and as indigenous elements continue to emerge, it becomes increasingly apparent that the search is leading back t the wellspring of native tradition. Numerous folkloric and mythological allusions can be observed. The interesting thing is that although some of these are explicit and well delineated, others appear in only rudimentary form and will not be developed and refined until subsequent collections. For this reason, this volume may be viewed as a workshop for Earth Erect and Wolf Salt, the collections which follow it, for it is here that many of the national themes which are synthesized in those later works are introduced and explored. 433 In the first cycle, "The Yawn of Yawns," Popa evinces a tone of guarded introspection and creative repose. "A Wise Triangle" ("Mudar trougao") is typical of this mood. The "fourth side" suggests Hindu tradition— the fourth component of being which must be actualized. However, when considered in the context of later poetry, the symbol of the triangle here could be an early, very abstract representation of the wolf-god, Dabog, whose fourth paw is lame; its "glowing center" would, in that case, signify Dabog's solar aspect: Once upon a time there was a triangle It had three sides The fourth it hid In its glowing center By day it would climb to its three vertices And admire its center By night it would rest In one of its three angles At dawn it would watch its three sides Turned into three glowing wheels Disappear into the blue of no return It would take out its fourth side Kiss it break it three times And hide it once more in its former place And again it had three sides And again by day it would climb To its three vertices And admire its center And by night it would rest In one of its three angles 434 Bio jednom jedan trougao Imao je tri strane V Cetvrtu je skrivao U svome uZarenom sredi^tu Danju se peo na svoja tri vrha I • divio se svome sredi^tu Nocu se odmarao U jednom od svoja tri ugla Zorom je gledao svoje tri strane U tri uzarena tocka pretvorene Kako se u nepovratu plavom gube * Vadio je svoju cetvrtu stranu Ljubio je lomio je triput I ponovo je na staro mesto skrivao I opet je imao tri strane I opet se danju peo Na svoja tri vrha I divio se svome sredi^tu I nocu se odmarao U jednom od svoja tri ugla1®1 In "The Story of A Story" ("Pri£fa o jednoj pri£i"), Popa experiments with the symmetrical opposition which also becomes more prominent in this collection: Once upon a time there was a story It ended Before its beginning And it began After its end Its heroes entered it After their death And left it Before their birth Its heroes talked About some earth about some heaven They said all sorts of things Only they didn't say What they themselves didn't know That they are only heroes in a story 435 In a story that ends Before its beginning And that begins Before its end Bila jednom jedna prica Zavr^avala se Pre svoga poZetka I po&injala Posle svog zavrsetka Junaci su njeni u nju ulazili Posle svoje smrti I iz nje izlazili Pre svoga rocTenja Junaci su njeni govorili 0 nekoj zemlji o nekom nebu Govorili su svasta Jedino nisu govorili Ono Ito ni sami nisu znali Da su samo junaci iz priSe Iz jedne price koja se zavr^ava Pre svoga j?o£etka 1 koja pocinje Posle svog zavrsetka In "Signs," images which appear in subsequent volumes can be distinguished as national themes begin to dominate the text. The "fiery bread" ("ognjeni hleb") and "beakers of light" ("£a£e svetlosti") which are shared out "at the sun's round table" ("za sun^evim okruglim stolom") in "The Intruder" ("Uljez"), for instance, allude to the Battle of Kosovo and foreshadow "Supper on The Blackbird's Field" ("Vecera na kosovu polju") from Earth Erect, while "A Homeless Head” ("Glava beskucnica"), also based on an historical event V anticipates "Song of The Tower of Skulls" ("Pesma Cele- Kula”) from the same collection. Perun appears with hi lightning streaks in "A Winged Pipe" ("Krilata svirala"),102 and as the "good-natured thunder" ("dobri grom") who comes to the aid of "An Obstinate Bundle" ("Tvrdoglav zavezljaj"): A formless white bundle Moves over the clear heaven Constantly with all its strength it rocks from side to side Tied crosswise with a green string And so prepares its step Constantly struggling it falls On to the uncaring soil of heaven And so marks time Above it one star keeps silence Below it another star keeps silence To its right an old sun philosophizes To its left a young moon raves Why doesn't it just calm down for once The good-natured thunder from the clear heaven Will certainly untie it Beo bezobli£an zavezljaj Po vedrom nebu se krece Jednako se svom snagom klati Vezan unakrst zelenim konopcem I tako svoj korak priprema Jednako s mukom pada Na ravnodu^no nebesko tie I tako u mestu koraca • ^ ^ Vj.se njega cuti jedna zvezda , w . r Nize njega cuti druga zvezda Desno od njega mudruje staro sunce Levo od njega bunca mlad mesec v , ' » Sto se jednom vec ne smiri Dobri grom iz vedra neba Svakako ce ga odvezati The final poem in the cycle, "The Last Rope" ("Poslednj V * 1 1 1 uze"), marks the complete transition from microcosm to macrocosm, and seems to indicate a hopeful new transition as well: A fat gaudy rope Crawls between the constellations And can scarcely get through At each starry crossroads It ties itself a knot To remember the paths Its endless end It ceaselessly draws Out of the blue womb of heaven It crawls between the constellations Towards the very heart of the world And never gets tangled Sareno debelo uze Puzi izmedtu sazveZ&a I jedva moZe da prode Na svakoj zvezdanoj raskrsnici Vezuje sebi cvor Sve puteve da zapamti Kraj svoj beskrajni Neprestano izvla^i Iz modre utrobe neba 438 Puzi izmedu sazveZda Prema samome srcu sveta I nikako da se zamrsi The metaphor of the rope as an umbilical cord being drawn from the "blue womb of heaven" designates, of course, the poet’s cosmic rebirth; the constellations, as we shall see in the cycles which follow, symbolize the archipelagos of collective tribal memory which rise up before him as he winds his way to the "very heart of the world." The associations which Popa has masterfully woven together in the symbol of the knotted rope are all rooted in Orientalism. These include the "endless knot" of Buddhism— a symbol of good fortune;the knotted cord used for prayer and counting in various oriental religions and memorialized in the Tao Te China as a symbol of humility and simplicity103' * the "kushti, " the sacred thread of Zoroastrianism104; and the "silver rope"— "sutratma"— of pre-Hindu Vedic tradition which designates the "sacred, inner path which binds the outer consciousness of man (his intellect) with his spiritual essence (the "center" or "silver palace").105 Moreover, the rope's "endless end"— as well as its trek through the celestial environs suggests the medieval Zen text, "The Gateless Gate," which begins with the following lines: The great path has no gates, Thousands of roads enter it 43 When one passes through this gateless gate, He walks freely between heaven and earth.106 Popa, too, walks more freely now, exploring the roads which converge in the "great path." The next three cycles in Secondary Heaven are perhaps the most hermetic in Popa's canon. Using the first person plural, the poet speaks with the collective voice of the Serbs, recounting their historical religious development and quest for spiritual fulfillment. He depicts the overthrow of the pagan pantheon, the advent of Christianity, and the ultimate reinstatement of the native tradition. After the "Sun Father's" death, they look to the "young sun" of Christianity. Finding it lacking, they search out the "old heaven" buried beneath the sacred lime tree, a pursuit which will ultimately lead them back to Dabog in the 'later collection, Wolf Salt. The "secondary heaven, " then, may be interpreted as the authentic, indigenous heaven of collective racial memory that lies buried within; this is suggested by the fact that although the sun is hidden from the group, it is hidden within their own hearts. Popa's recondite symbolism and cryptic allusions in these cycles are, in my judgment, impossible to decipher completely. Many signs are so 440 tightly interwoven that any attempt at exegesis seems, at times, quite futile. Some symbols find references in preceding and/or subsequerr collections, and these can be determined with some degree of certainty; in other cases, however, one can only speculate. The poems in "Dissension" are dialogues between the collective voice of the tribe and a "no thing" ("nulo")— also translated as "cipher"— which seems to be another manifestation of the "beast" encountered in previous collections. Now, however, the symbol has become more complex. For example, it has assimilated the features of various mythological figures of the old pagan Slavic religion. In "A Crowned Apple" ("Krunisana jabuka"), it appears as the negative aspect of the wolf-god who swallows the sun:."Take the sun out of your mouth/Night is burying us alive" ("Izvadi sunce iz usta/Noc nas zive sahranjuje"), the chorus pleads. It assumes other masks as well. When the group demands, "Gather up your thunderbolts/They1 re hatching out under our hearts" ("Pokupi svoje gromove/Sto nam se pod srcem legu"), in "Foster Brood" ("Podmetnuto leglo"), it appears to be addressing Perun; while "Fertile Fire" ("Plodan zar") seems to allude to Svarog, the god of fire. At times, it also seems to suggest the Christian god who has usurped the place of the pagan deities. "Dissension," then, represents not only the clash between the old gods and the new. It depicts, as well, man’s struggle between the forces of good and evil which he must experience in order to give his life meaning. In this respect, the cycle also suggests a dialogue between the conscious and sub-conscious minds. The fact that the beast is called "nulo"— "no-thing," or literally, "zero"— seems to imply that it represents existence itself. It is "zero" because it is a formless mass, the base of origins, and must be shaped by man himself. It has both positive and negative characteristics which seem to indicate the alternatives available to humanity, i.e., the dual aspect of human nature. Hence, the "zero" is both "no-thing" and "all- thing," and since it is the sum total of all possibilities, both good and evil, it must be polymorphous. The conflict which confronts the speaker in this cycle, then, appears to be a multilayered one, and his pleas for relief are met with enigmatic replies which suggest various interpretations. In "Free Flight" ("Slobodan let"), for instance, when he pleads to be released from the tyranny of meaningless existence— a "palace without foundation," he is told that freedom can only be attained by cutting off his wings; while it is 442 possible to interpret this at a national level, it seems to have universal significance, as well: Give us leave to fly away Out of your palace without foundation I've forged you into stars Under the vault of my skull Fly away who's stopping you Give us leave to perish Each flight brings us back to the palace Got you there my birds Cut off your wings And your flight will be free Pusti nas da odletimo Iz tvog dvora bez temelja U zvezde sam vas kovao Pod svodom svoje lobanje Odletite ko vam brani Pusti nas da propadnemo Svaki nas let u dvor vraca Tu sam vas ptice &ekao Odrezite sebi krila Slobodan da vam bude let There is a profusion of mythical and folkloric imagery in the cycle, "Imitation of The Sun." The first poem, "Death of The Sun Father" ("Smrt suncevog oca"), suggests the god Svarog, as well as his son, Dabog; it also incorporates the "sleeping hero" myth mentioned in Chapter III, and introduces the symbol of the lime tree: Three paces from the top of heaven From the lime in everlasting flower The old sun stopped 443 Turned red turned green Turned round himself three times And went back to his rising (So as not to die in our sight) They say there is a son and heir By the time he's born big-eyed for us We'll have taught this darkness to shine Na tri koraka od vrha neba Od lipe u vecnom cvetu Staro je sunce zastalo Pocrvenelo pozelenelo Okrenulo se oko sebe triput I vratilo svom ishodu (Na nase oci da ne umre) Kazu da ima sina suncevica Dok se okat i za nas ne rodi Naucicemo mrak ovaj da sija Venerated by the Slavs since ancient times, the lime tree is associated with at least two traditional Serbian customs.107 The first is the institution of the sacred hearth fire, or "living fire"; this practice is derived from that of the ancient divine fire which burned perpetually, and which, according to Marija Gimbutas, is associated with Svarog, the fire-god.108 Lazar’ Lazarovich-Hrebeljanovich describes this ritual practice: Fire is obtained for the family hearth according to a rite and is called the 'living fire.' The ceremony is obtained by the friction of two pieces of dry lime wood and the use of dry tow or punk of the 44 oak tree. Some words of invocation begin the action, but during it, until the sparks appear, no word must be spoken. . . . This ’living fire,* as it is called, is believed to be part of the 'Eternal' Holy Fire. It must not be blown with the mouth, and must never be allowed to die out on the hearth except in case of pestilence or infectious malady.109 The lime tree is also associated with "zapis," a practice which Traian Stoianovich believes may date from prehistoric times. As he indicates, the "zapis"— literally "note" or "inscription"— refers to the talismanic custom of carving a cross in a communal or ancestral tree— generally a lime— to designate it as the sacral center of the community.110 Milan G. Popovich adds that in some parts of Yugoslavia, an oak or larch may be used, and that the "zapis" ceremony usually occurs on "zavetina" ("day of pledges"): The procession goes three times around the tree. Then the priest cuts into the tree the form of the cross. Others from the procession bore into the tree a hole, pour a little wine into the hole and close the hole. The priest says a short service, the whole procession goes again around the tree and proceeds over the fields and meadows to another tree and repeats the same ceremony.111 Hence, the "lime in everlasting flower" in this poem symbolizes the inexhaustible wellspring of vital 445 cultural tradition. The last tercet is instructive in this regard: It reveals Popa's impatience with the messianic prophecy of the "sleeping hero," and implies that cultural affirmation is the task of the living, that is, that it is the responsibility of each individual to actualize the resources of the cultural legacy. The initiation of this task is hinted at in "Clash at The Zenith" ("Sukob u zenitu"). A "blue sun" and a "black sun" are born in heaven's left and right armpits, respectively; this may allude to the traditional myth of the birth of a deity from the side or armpit of the mother which is found in Slavic as well as in other cultures.112 The image may represent the conflict between celestial (blue) and terrestrial (black) forces. However, since both emanate from the celestial region which, in Popa's cosmological schema connotes the uroboros, they may symbolize the dual nature of man. On a historical level, the image suggests the struggle between the Roman and Ottoman empires as well as the dissension between the Western and Eastern factions of Christianity which resulted in the Great Schism of 1054 and the subsequent establishment of the Roman and Byzantine churches. The "golden tripod" is a very interesting image. On the one 446 hand, it seems to represent the Christian trinity, even alluding to the three major Christian religions of Catholicism, Protestantism, and Orthodoxy which "set out in three directions." However, given the concentration on national themes which begins to emerge in this collection, together with the fact that in Popa's poetry, any given symbol can and usually does imply its antipode, as well, the "golden tripod," like the "Wise Triangle" noted above, is most likely a prototype of the lame wolf-god: A blue sun was born In heaven's left arm pit A black sun was born In heaven's right arm pit The blue one climbs the black one climbs Towards the tower in the zenith Where desolation now resides We have gone down naked into ourselves We open up the mole hills We whisper the secret name Of our own native sun The golden tripod from the tower Has set out in three directions Rodilo se modro sunce Pod levim pazuhom neba Rodilo se crno sunce Pod desnim pazuhom neba Penje se modro penje crno Prema kuli u zenitu Gde pustog sada stoluje Sigli smo goli u sebe 447 Otvaramo krti£njake Sapucemo tajno ime Svog zaviZajnog sunca Zlatan tronozac i z kule Krenuo je na tri strane The victor of this solar conflict is greeted ambivalently, in "Preparation for A Welcome" ("Pripreme za do£ek"). It is also significant that in Buddhist tradition, upon arrival at Nirvana, the Bodhisattva is greeted with the phrase, "Welcome and farewell": We set up a gate Of our flowering bones At the way into heaven We spread half our soul Up one slope of heaven We devise a table Of our petrified hands At the very top of heaven We spread half our soul Down the other slope of heaven We build a bed Of our leafy heart At the way out of heaven We do all this in the dark Alone without the help of time We wonder if these are really Preparations for a welcome Or only a farewell Podizfemo kapiju Od svojih rascvetalih kostiju Na ulazu u nebo Prostiremo pola duSe Uz jednu padinu neba 44 Smizfljamo trpezu Od svojih skamenjenih dlanova Na samom vrhu neba Prostiremo pola du£e Niz drugu padinu neba Gradimo postelju Od svoga raslistalog srca Na izlazu iz neba Radimo sve ovo/ u mraku Sami bez pomoci vremena Pitamo se jesu li to stvarno Pripreme za do$ek H i samo za ispracaj "Midnight Sun" ("Ponocno sunce”) depicts the failure of humanity in general and of Serbdom in particular to actualize its potential, but on another level, it may also represent the shortcomings of Orthodox Christianity. From a "black egg," a sun— presumably a black sun— is hatched. The egg is the alchemical symbol of the athanor— the alchemical oven in which lead is transmuted into gold— and thus signifies transcendence. In this case, however, the transcendence countermands the implied promise of spiritual fulfillment. Growth is arrested as everything’becomes fixed, contained in the "gold," i.e., in the unfulfilled promise of meaningful human existence. In the Christian interpretation, this containment could allude to the juridical and doctinal constraints of the Church; moreover, the image also suggests the lavish, often 449 gold-laden interiors of Byzantine churches. At all levels of interpretation, the "sun" seems to represent human potential for good which, when left unactualized, becomes "a tombstone/On our living heart": From a huge black egg A sun was hatched to us It shone on our ribs It opened heaven wide In our wretched breasts It never set But it never rose either It turned everything in us gold It turned nothing green Around us around that gold It changed into a tombstone On our living heart Jz golemog crnog jajeta Izleglo nam se neko sunce Sijalo nam je na rebrima Otvorilo je nebo £irom U grudima nasfim sirotim Zahodilo nije uop^te Ali ni ishodilo nije Pozlatilo je u nama sve Ozelenilo nije ni^ta Oko nas oko toga zlata U nadgrobni nam se kamen Na %i vom srcu pretvorilo "Imitation of The Sun," the final poem in the cycle, incorporates the folktale mentioned earlier, "The Golden Apple and The Nine Peahens"; the "heart of one of us" may refer to the character of the prince who goes in 450 search of the golden fruit. It may also signify Christ, or by extension, Saint Sava, who figures prominently in Earth Erect, the subsequent collection. It is also possible that it represents the poet himself, who has returned to the "burnt-out heaven" of native traditions: The heart of one of us rose High into the burnt-out heaven It moved off along the sun's path Overgrown with iron weeds And it set behind the charred horizon We waited in vain for it to return With the young apple-bearer Or at least with twelve fiery branches Since then we all carry Our hearts on a heavy chain Fastened to a faithful rib Izgrejalo srce jednome od nas Visoko nasred zgarisfta neba Krenulo je sunZevom putanjom Zaraslom u gvozdeni korov I za£lo za cadavi zrenik iekali smo uzalud da se vrati Sa mladim jabukonoscem Ili bar sa dvanaest ognjenih grana Od tada svako od nas nosi Na te^kom lancu svoje srce Vezano za jedno verno rebro The symmetrical oppositions are interwoven so ingeniously here that it becomes impossible to separate them: If the "apple-bearer" represents the folktale prince, the "twelve fiery branches" would then symbolize 451 the old pagan religion based on the twelve houses of the zodiac, or as in the celebration of the Saturnalia— known as the Brumalia in Byzantium— the twelve "birthdays of the sun," which, after the advent of Christianity, became the twelve days of Christmas. However, if the apple-bearer designates the messianic Christ, the "twelve fiery branches" would seem to refer to the apostles. The "faithful rib," in that case, would suggest Adam's rib in the Christian creation myth, or could signify fidelity to the memory of Saint Sava. The poems in the cycle, "Schism," are also dialogues between the collective voice of the tribe and "no-thing." Now, however, the group appears to have the upper hand in the confrontation; although it has been abandoned at the bottom of the "emptied lower cauldron," and in the second poem of the cycle is left with only "A Cake of Ashes" ("Kolac od pepela"), it demands that the "no-thing" search it out "through the ears" of the lower and upper cauldrons. The image of the cauldrons which Popa uses here— and which also appears as a logo for Secondary Heaven— seems to refer to the Hermetic directive, "as above, so below," as Ivan V. Lalic believes, adding that the paraphrase, "as on the inside, so on the outside," would also be apt in this case113' and in the same vein, Alexander feels that the image 452 signifies "the meeting of heaven and earth, yin and yang, and other similar cosmic pairs.114 The image of the "crossed daggers," which appears elsewhere as "crossed knives," is an extremely recondite allusion in Popa's poetic schema, but its usage in other poems indicates that it may represent the sign of the cross: Are you still keeping my fire That I left you You left us A stale cake of ashes Have you unlocked the sign Of my gate on the crust We have unlocked the sign Of your crossed daggers Are you eating the golden Sunflower within it Your cake has eaten our hands As we were breaking it. Jfuvate li jo£ moj &ar Koji sam vam ostavio Ostavio si ti nama Bajat kola& od pepela Jesti li otklju&ali znak Moje kapije na kori Otklju£ali smo mi znak Tvojih ukr^tenih bode£a Jedete li suncokret Zlatan u sredini skriven Kola& nam je tvoj pojeo Ruke dok smo ga lomili 453 The sunflower, a familiar image in the Yugoslav countryside, is a complex symbol in Popa's work. However, the fundamental heliotropic nature of the sunflower warrants consideration here: The sunflower always turns toward or "looks for" the sun, and in so doing, often destroys itself, literally "strangling" in its turning. In Popa's schema, the Serbs are also following a sun, but that sun— the light of which will give meaning to human existence, or on another level, which is the Christian promise of redemption and eternal life— has been elusive. Its fire is quickly reduced to ashes and consumes even as it is consumed. In other poems, the sunflower implies oriental references such as the Hindu "mandala," the symbolic wheel which represents "samsara"; the third eye of Shiva; and the "Golden Flower" of Taoist alchemy which Jung found so fascinating.115 These sources are hinted at in the manifestation of "The Fiery Sunflower" ("Ognjeni suncokret") which is realized independent of divine intervention, thus signifying the group's determination for self-actualization. Popa's use of "kolo" ("wheel") rather than "krug" ("circle") strongly suggests an association with the mandala symbol: Whence comes at the top of your spine The dancing circle of fiery tongues 454 We were playing tunes on our shinbones It formed of itself Whence comes in the midst of your circle The scorched many-eyed field We were slapping our thighs It began to glow hot of itself Whence comes your hidden sunflower Whole unbroken uneaten We found it on our shoulders In place of our red-hot head Otkud vam na vrhu kicfme Kolo ognjenih jezika Svirali smo u cevanice Ono se samo sastavilo Otkud vam usred kola £e%eno mnogooko polje Pleskali smo se po bedrima Ono je samo zasijalo Otkud vam skriveni suncokret Ceo nerazlomljen nejeden Na$li smo ga na ramenima Umesto usijane glave The fires of the "old heaven" are rekindled in the cycle, "The Lime Tree in The Heart," which marks the onset of the third or reintegrative phase of Popa's development. In Vladimir Ka2fic?'s view, the search for meaningful existence is fulfilled in "The Suffering of The Golden Tripod" ("Stradanje zlatnog trono^ca") which depicts the triumph of the native pagan faith.116 When the tripod, which appears to represent the lame wolf-god 455 here, digs out "three graves," the group celebrates in a "sun dance"— "kolo" or "wheel" denotes the Serbian circle dance, thought to have its origins in ancient sun-worship117 : A golden tripod limped Around our hidden heart And with its leg dug the darkness We were afraid it might dig Under the lime tree in the heart It was certainly trying to dig up someone Who had already sat on it Or someone who would yet sit on it It limped around the buried secret Counted over its legs And dug itself out three graves We danced the sun dance Around the lime tree in the heart Hramao zlatan tronoXac Oko na£eg pritajenog srca I nogom kopao mrak Bojali smo se da ne kopa I pod lipom nasred srca Hteo je svakako da iskopa nekog Ko je na njemu vec sedeo Ili nekog ko ce tek sedeti Hramao je oko zakopane tajne Prebrojao svoje noge I tri rake sebi iskopao Zaigrali smo suntfevo kolo Oko lipe nasred srca And hope and determination are ignited in the fire kindled from "The Lime Tree in the Heart," the last poem 456 in the cycle. In this text, the native tradition is "dug out" from beneath the roots of the lime tree. This will yield a "young sun" who will enable the group to give meaning to life. But they themselves must actualize this meaning; thus, they take the initiative to make a fire from the wood of the lime tree: A flowering lime tree in the heart Beneath the lime a buried cauldron In the cauldron twelve clouds In the clouds a young sun We dug for the cauldron through the heart Dug out the twelve clouds The cauldron fled with the sun From one depth to another We gaped into the last depth Deeper than our own life We threw up the digging We cut down the lime to warm ourselves Our heart was cold Lipa cvetna nasred srca Pod lipom kotao zakopan U kotlu dvanaest oblaka U oblacima mlado sunce Kopali smo za kotlom po srcu Iskopali dvanaest oblaka Kotao je be£ao sa suncem Iz jedne u drugu dubinu Buljili smo u poslednju dubinu Dublju od ro<Tenog Zivota Digli smo ruke od kopanja Posekli smo lipu da se ogrejemo Hladno nam bilo oko srca 457 This fire is consecrated in the perfect circle of "Heaven's Ring, 1 1 the final cycle of this volume. Mihailovich writes that Secondary Heaven "signifies that [Popa's] poetic thought has completed a circle. By way of the universe he reaches his final destination--his own self."118 This completion is nowhere more apparent than in this cycle. The tone of these poems is solemn and decisive, as in the poem, "Heaven's Ring," when the poet commits himself to the restoration of the "ancient shine" of the lost ring, i.e., the illuminating light of native tradition. The ring also suggests the symbol of the golden ring which figures in various Serbian epic poems119: Ring no one's ring How did you get lost How fall from heaven somewhere Rather everywhere than somewhere Why did you at once marry Your old your ancient shine To your young emptiness They have forgotten both you And their wedding night Since then your shine has taken to drinking Your emptiness has run to fat You are lost again Here is my ring finger Settle down on it Prstene niciji prstene Kako si se izgubio Kako s neba pao negde Vi§e svugde nego negde Za£to si odmah ven£ao Stari svoj prastari sjaj S mladom svojom prazninom 458 Zaboravili su i tebe I svoju svadbenu noc Sjaj ti se otad propio Praznina ugojila Ti si opet izgubljen Evo ti domali prst Skrasi se na njemu As Popovich confirms, Serbian folk wisdom holds that at birth, every person receives his or her own star, and when that person dies, the star falls to the earth.120 Thus, in "Fugitive Stars" ("Zvezde izbeglice"), the final poem in this cycle, as Popa prepares to set out on his pilgrimage to the heartland of the Serbian "mindscape, " he invokes the blessing of the ancestral stars: You looked at each other stars Stealthily so heaven shouldn't see You meant well You were misunderstood Dawn found you cold Far from your hearth Far from the gate of heaven Look at me stars Stealthily so earth shouldn't see Give me secret signs I will give you a cherrywood staff And one of my wrinkles as path And one of my lashes as guide To bring you home 459 Pogledale ste se zvezde Krisom da nebo ne vidl Misllli ste dobro Razumele se naopako Osvanule ste hladne Daleko od ognjlsta Daleko od kapije neba Pogledajte mene zvezde Krisom da zemlja ne vidl Dajte ml znakove tajne Dacu vam vlsnjev stap I putanju jednu moju boru I vodllju jednu trepavicu Kucl da vas vrate The third developmental phase of Popa's poetry is most clearly illustrated in the collections, Earth Erect (Uspravna zemlja) (1972) and Wolf Salt (Vucia so) (1975), in which national themes are reintegrated in fresh, innovative poetic treatments. Earth Erect contains five cycles: "Pilgrimage" ("Hodocasca"), "Saint Sava's Spring" ("Savin izvor"), "The Blackbird's Field" (""Kosovo polje"), "The Tower of Skulls" ("Cele-Kula"), and "Return to Belgrade" ("Povratak u Beograd"). Wolf Salt comprises seven cycles: "The Worshipping of the Lame Wolf" ("Poklonjene hromome vuku"), "The Fiery She- Wolf" ("Ognjena vu£ica"), "Prayer to the Wolf Shepherd" ("Molitva vu£jem pastiru"), "The Wolf Land" ("Vucja zemlja"), "Hymn to the Wolf Shepherd" ("Pohvala vucjem pastiru"), "The Lame Wolf's Tracks" ("Tragovi hromoga vuka"), and "The Wolf Bastard" ("Vucje kopile") . 460 Popa's spiritual journey through his native land provides the common, unifying theme for the five interrelated cycles in Earth Erect. Although this volume is concerned with historical and religious themes, it is not patriotic poetry in the conventional sense, that is, it does not simply recall and glorify— and thus further diffuse— events and figures of the past. Rather, it expresses them in the perspective of the ancestral continuum discussed in Chapter II, and as noted, this perspective extends beyond the family and applies to the national or "tribal" body as well. Hence, in the Serbian mindscape, there is a constant interpenetration of past, present and future. In this way, myth becomes what Paz calls "a floating reality": "A past always susceptible to being today . . . always ready to be incarnated and to be again."121 The Serbian does not so much look back at the past as it looks out on him: It is the projection of his world. In the national psyche, events and figures of the past appear as a network of scattered signs, each of which is a mnemonic nucleus of accretive cultural associations; these nuclei constantly advance and recede, radiating with psychically-charged meaning, the totality of which cannot be expressed or perhaps even conceived of in objective reality. Earth Erect attempts to realign them 461 in the contemporary consciousness by creating a detemporalized, despatialized zone in which they can be reexperienced in a fresh, immediate way, free from the preconceptions and circumscriptions which the flow of cultural development has imposed on them. Thus, they are stripped of the membrane of their familiar, banal associations, and are able to relay their otherwise inaccessible authentic reality. "Pilgrimage" is the first cycle in Earth Erect. It consists of seven poems, the first of which, also entitled "Pilgrimage," establishes the focus of the entire volume. This poem also contains the first explicit reference to the wolf-god, whose character becomes increasingly important in this collection: I go with my father's staff in my hand My burning heart on the staff My footsteps murmur the letters That the holy road writes out I trace them in the sand with my staff Before sleep At every hospice Lest they be wiped from my memory I am still far from guessing Their meaning But they look like the constellation Wolf 462 I'll have something to fill my nights If I get home safe and sound Hodam sa ocevim stapom u ruci Sa upaljenim srcem na stapu Stopala mi sricu slova Koja mi sveti put ispisuje Crtam ih Stapom po pesku Pred spavanje Na svakom konacistu Da mi se iz secanja ne izbrisu Daleko sam jos od toga Da ih odgonetnem Za sada mi na vucje sazvezde lice Imacu cime da ispunim noci Ako se ziv i zdrav kuci vratim^'l In 1958, Popa visited Mount Athos, the ancient citadel of Eastern Orthodoxy, where he attended a seminar on Serbian medieval poetry. The remaining six poems in this cycle were apparently inspired at least in part by that visit. Each one takes as its subject one of the many famous Orthodox monasteries sprinkled throughout Yugoslavia. Founded in 1198 on Mount Athos, "Hilandar" ("a thousand mists" from the Greek "hilioi"— "thousand"— and "antara"— "fog" or "mist" or "storm."), although located in Greece, is the oldest surviving Serbian monastery. Its name derives from the legend that it was once saved from an enemy attack by a thick fog which arose suddenly and enveloped the would-be 463 invaders; in gratitude, the monastery was named "Hilandar."123 A huge library of valuable medieval texts is housed on the site, and it is also the repository of numerous religious artifacts. One of these is an icon, now darkened by time, of the "Bogorodica" ("Mother of God” or literally, "God-Birther"); in addition to two painted hands, the icon also has a third silver hand attached to it which is used for religious offerings.124 This icon is the subject of "Hilandar," the second poem in this cycle: 0 black three-handed mother Reach out one hand to me Let me bathe in the magic ocean Reach out a second hand Let me eat my fill of the sweet stone Reach out your third hand to me Let me sleep in a nest of verses I've come in from the road Dusty and famished Longing for a different world Reach out three small tendernesses Before a thousand mists fall on my eyes And I lose my head And before they cut off all your hands 0 black three-handed mother Crna majko Trojerucice Pruzi mi jedan dlan Da se u carobnom moru okupam Pruzi mi drugi dlan Da se slatkog najedem kamenja / 464 1 treci dlan mi pruzi Da u gnezdu stihova prenocim Prispeo sam s puta Prasnjav i gladan I zeljan drugacijeg sveta Pruzi mi tri male neznosti Dok mi ne padne hiljadu magli na oci I glavu ne izgubim I dok tebi sve tri ruke ne odseku Crna majko Trojerucice The tone of the poet's entreaty is solemn but intimate and reflects the sense of "homecoming" with which the Serbian worshipper approaches the deities. The mood of the poem seeks to amplify the inherent mysticism of the Eastern Church, that is, to recover the total reality of the "sign" which exists at a sub-conscious level in the national mindscape; it bespeaks the "otherworldliness" of Orthodoxy discussed in Chapter II, and for the Orthodox, the icon represents the threshold of that other world. Moreover, because of the "double faith" of Serbian Orthodoxy, the image represents not only the mother of the Christian god, but also her pagan ✓ prototypes, the goddesses Mokos ("moist one") and Dodola ("rain maker") (also known as "Perperuna" in some parts of Serbia), who are suggested here in Popa's "magic ocean." An abrupt shift of mood occurs in the fifth stanza with a reference to the threatening outside world. Yet even here, Popa succeeds in refreshing 465 objective historical reality by interweaving the image of ”a thousand mists" in a personal, immediate context. "Saint Sava's Spring," the second cycle in this volume, is based on Saint Sava, the founder of Hilandar and the patron saint of the Serbs. Prince Rastislav (Rastko) Nemanjic, born 1175, was the youngest son of Stephan Nemanja. As a youth, Rastko was drawn toward religious asceticism, and in 1192 abandoned his father's court for the solitude of Mount Athos where, as a monk, he took the name Sava. In 1207, he returned to Serbia in order to create an autonomous Serbian Orthodox Church independent of the Patriarchate of Constantinople, and in 1219 became the first Archbishop of Serbia. Saint Sava died in 1235 in Trnovo, Bulgaria, and was initially buried there in the Church of the Forty Holy Martyrs, but in 1237, his body was returned to his native land and interred at the monastery of Mileseva. After his death, Saint Sava became a legendary figure and a source of inspiration during the long years of Ottoman rule. In 1594, in retaliation against the frequent Serbian uprisings, the Turks exhumed his remains and burned them on a pyre in a field near the Belgrade suburb of Vracar. The site, abundant with lime trees, is known as "Vracar Polje" ("Apothecaries' Field"), and a great cathedral dedicated 466 to Saint Sava is now being erected there.125 Writing about Saint Sava, Stoianovich assigns him a pivotal role in the "sleeping hero" myth, maintaining that, "Serbians looked forward to the messianic return of Saint Sava— historically, the thirteenth century princely founder of a Serbian archbishopric, but mythically, an ancestral hero or archetype."126 As a result of this mythical transformation, the figure of Saint Sava has assumed a protectorate aspect; as the guardian of the Serbs, who traditionally identify themselves with the totemic wolf- god, he is perceived as the wolf-shepherd. Traditionally portrayed with his wolves and his white horse, he is, as Stoianovic confirms, mythologically linked to the "kouros" figures of "Green George" and Saint George.127 "Saint Sava’s Spring" is also the title of the first poem in the cycle; using the metaphor of Saint Sava's curative springs, Popa invokes the mystical power of this heroic figure of the Serbian past as a source of cultural regeneration: Clear eye in the stone Opened for always By the staff's fourfold kiss With sleepy green eyelashes The grass both hides and uncovers The cold transparent truth At the bottom of this water Shines the crystal wolf-head With a rainbow in its jaws 467 To wash in this water Heals all pain of death To drink of this water All pain of life Clear eye in the stone Open for all Who leave their black teardrop here Bistro oko u kamenu Otvoreno zasvagda Zetvorostrukim poljupcem i?tapa Sanjivim zelenim trepavicama Trava i skriva i otkriva Studenu providnu istinu Na dnu ove vode Sija biljurna vubja glava Sa dugom u celjustima Umivanje ovom vodom Leci od svake smrtobolje Gutljaj ove vode Od svake zivotobolje Bistro oko u kamenu Otvoreno za svakoga Ko e m u svoju suzu ovde napusti In Popa's scheme of things, it appears that Saint Sava is more alchemical adept than Christian archbishop. The healing waters of the spring establish the poem's theme of spiritual transformation, and the symbol of the stone reinforces it, suggesting, of course, the alchemical Philosopher's Stone and the concomitant transmutation or liberation of elemental properties which it effects. In Yugoslav folkloric tradition, stones are frequently used 468 in oaths as well as in curses; they are also a means of transformation: Transgressions are rectified by transferring them to stones.128 The image of the eye in the stone refers back to Popa's earlier image of the quartz pebble with its simultaneous qualities of opacity and translucence; moreover, the quartz pebble also implies an association with its crystal variant, a substance frequently employed in French surrealist texts to express the transparency of matter. Popa draws on this same association in the image of the "crystal wolf- head, " which symbolizes the fountainhead of cultural consciousness. In its jaws, the wolf carries a rainbow. In mythology, the rainbow serves as a bridge between seen and unseen realities, and connotes communication with the gods, as in the Greek myth of the goddess Iris, who acts as intermediary between mortals and the Olympian pantheon.129 Perhaps even more pertinent here, however, is the alchemical significance of the rainbow; in this context, it symbolizes the mobilization of latent cosmic forces, and as Eliphas Levi instructs, a thorough understanding of its function is essential in order to complete the "Great Work."130 Thus, the rainbow of the wolf-god in this poem represents the latent, unactualized cultural potential of the Serbs— the vision of completed being. The "black teardrop" seems to be an obvious symbol of the suffering and deprivation of the national body. However, in alchemy, black is equated with prime matter, and signifies the first of four stages in the alchemical process; the second stage— the minor initial transmutation— is designated by the color white, while red signifies the third stage— the passion- and, of course, gold is the fourth and final stage.131 In "Saint Sava" ("Sveti Sava"), Popa draws a playful, benevolent portrait of the wolf-shepherd: Around his head fly bees And form a living halo In his red beard Strewn with lime flowers Thunder and lightning play hide-and- seek Round his neck hang chains And twitch in their iron sleep On his shoulder his cock blazes In his hand his all-wise staff sings A song of cross-roads To his left flows time To his right flows time He strides over dry land Escorted by his wolves Oko njegove glave lete pcele I grade mu zivi zlatokrug U ridtoj mu bradi Zasutoj lipovim cvetom Gromovi s munjama igraju zmurke 0 vratu mu verige vise 1 trzaju se u gvozdenom snu 47 Na ramenu petao mu plamti U ruci £tap premudri peva Pesmu ukr§tenih puteva Levo od njega te£e vreme Desno od njega te£e vreme On kora£a po suvom U pratnji svojih vukova In many cultures, the bee is a symbol of regeneration and this association holds true among most Slavic peoples.132 The swarming nimbus about the saint's head suggests creative activity as well as divine unity. The lime flowers which appear in the poem refer not only to the traditional folkloric symbol of the lime tree, but to the lime trees of Vracar Polje. The image of thunder and lightning alludes to Perun. In the Christian pantheon, Perun’s role was assigned to Saint Elias, who was designated "The Thunderer" ("Gromovik"); Saint Elias is believed to have a sister, "Fiery Mary" ("Ognjena Marija"), who acts as advisor to her brother and has charge of the lightning.133 Hence, in Popa's poem, brother and sister play hide-and-seek. The "iron sleep" of Saint Sava's chains alludes to the myth of the "iron mountain" mentioned previously, and connotes the uncultivated seed of Serbian consciousness that lies dormant in the heart of the iron mountain of the past; in Popa’s alchemical terms, as we shall see in the subsequent cycle, it represents the raw, unactualized 471 "human iron" which awaits transmutation into "honorable gold." The "all wise staff" which Saint Sava carries indicates that this transmutation is imminent in its "song of cross-roads." "Saint Sava's Pastoral Work" ("Pastirstvo svetoga save" describes this transmutative process: He tends his white stone flock On the green hillside He helps each stone In the inherited red cave To give birth Wherever he goes His flock follows The hills echo with stone footfalls He stops in a yellow Unapproachable glade Milks the stones one by one He gives the thirsty wolves Thick stone milk to drink ■ Shimmering with the seven colours of the rainbow Strong teeth and secret wings Grow with the stone milk v’ Cuva belo kameno stado Na zelenom obronku Pomade svakom kamenu U nasledtenoj crvenoj pecini Da se porodi Kud god krene Stado za njim ide Tutnje brda od kamenih koraka Zastane na proplanku Zutom bez prilaza Kamen po kamen muze 472 Poji zedne vukove Gustim kamenim mlekom Sto se u sedam duginih boja preliva Jaki zubl i tajna krila Od kamenog mleka rastu It appears that Saint Sava is now the stone-shepherd as well as the wolf-shepherd, but in fact, his two flocks are one in the same. In the stone lies the timeless, eternal reality of the wolf, i.e., the Serb; Saint Sava nurtures that reality by "milking" the stones and offering the "thick stone milk" to the "thirsty wolves," an image which is enhanced for the native speaker by the association in Serbian folklore of stones as a source of nourishment.134 The chromatic sequence of the poem suggests a parallel in alchemical procedure. The "black teardrop" noted earlier indicated the first step in this procedure; the "white stone flock" and the "inherited red cave" signify the second and third steps, respectively (Popa's chromatic pattern also often includes green, as in the "green hillside" in this poem. Green signifies the physiological world in alchemical precepts, but L^vi points out that the athanor is sometimes described as a hill, which implies the color green 135). But the transmutation is not yet quite complete; the "yellow unapproachable glade" may seem to allude to gold, but as Cirlot indicates, yellow generally designates the illumination of the intuitive 473 or psychic faculty.136 The milk which is discharged in the psychic environment of.the "yellow glade" shimmers "with the seven colors of the rainbow," that is, it is in a state of final preparation. The transmutation cannot be completed, however, until the milk is ingested by the wolves; it is they who ultimately must fuse the seven rainbow prisms into "secret wings." In subsequent poems in the cycle, the wolves continue to seek out Saint Sava as a source of transformation and renewal, and he always responds; he bathes them in the "holy ancestral metal," forges them new iron backbones, and ties their paws to the "fixed stars." Finally, in the last poem, "Saint Sava at His Spring" ("Sveti Sava na svome izvoru"), the hoped for "new constellation" seems within reach; like Aaron's staff, Saint Sava's, too, promises to burst into bloom and regenerate the land: He looks At his third eye in the stone He sees in the impartial water His pillaged coffin Full of ripe big-bosomed pears He sees his wolf-head And on its brow the sign Of the promised new constellation He sees his flowering staff And his land now happily fertile In the flushed buds 47 He closes two eyes And looks with the third eye in the stone Gleda u kamenu Svoje treSe oko Vidi u nepristrasnoj vodi Svoj poharani civot Prepun zrelih sisatih krusaka Vidi svoju vu£ju glavu I na 6elu ispisan znak Novog obeCanog sazve£da Vidi svoj procvetali stap I svoju srecno oplodenu zemlju U zajapurenim pupoljcima Dva oka zatvara Trecim okom u kamenu gleda "The Blackbird's Field" ("Kosovo polje”) refers to the tragic battle of 1389 mentioned earlier. The Serbs were decisively defeated by the Turks, and the Serbian leader, Knez (Prince) Lazar, met his death there. Throughout the years, the battle on the Blackbird's Field became a symbol of the tragic past for Serbs everywhere, and is still commemorated annually on Saint Vitus Day ("Vidovdan") (In 1989, on the 600th anniversary of the battle, 2.3 million Serbs from all over the world attended memorial services on the field). Many legends have sprung up about this catastrophic turning point in Serbian history, and in this cycle, Popa has skillfully woven many of them together into his characteristically complex poetic fabric. 475 "Supper on the Blackbird’s Field" ("Vecera na kosovu polju") depicts the scene which is described in various Serbian epic poems based on this historical event. On the day before the battle, the Serbs start out for the Blackbird's Field; in the evening, they set up their tents by the Marica river and take time to rest and dine together: All sit at table transparent And see the stars in each others' hearts The crowned one breaks and shares out Their golden past And they eat it He pours into their white peony goblets Their ruby future And they drink it Across their knees under the table Their swords are growling quietly In the platters on the table Is reflected the evening sky And in the sky the end of tomorrow's battle A blackbird flies down On to the crowned one's right hand And begins his song Svi sede providni za stolom I vide jedan drugome zvezdu u srcu Venconosac im lomi i deli Njihovu zlatnu pro^lost I oni je jedu Sipa im u putire belih bozura Njihovu rujnu buduSnost I oni je piju 47 Na kolenima pod stolom Macevi im tiho reze U cancima na stolu Ogleda se vecernje nebo I na nebu kraj sutraSnjeg boja Na desnu ruku venconosca Slece kos i za£inje pesmu Folkloric tradition holds that before the battle, Saint Elias appeared as a gray hawk carrying a dove on its back; the dove was actually a letter from the mother of Christ asking Knez Lazar to choose between a heavenly crown and an earthly one. The Serbian leader willingly chose an honorable death rather than become a vassal of the Turks; thus, he is addressed as the "crowned one." The white peonies which Popa mentions are legendary; after the struggle, the flower-covered field was stained with the blood of the Serbian dead, and it is said that since that time, the peonies have bloomed in the same scarlet hue. Used here in conjunction with the "golden past" which is broken and shared like bread, the peonies are incorporated into the image of a sacramental offering. The blackbirds, too, are sympathetic; tradition relates that they carried the sad news of the defeat to the loved ones of the fallen Serbs. Images which appeared in the previous cycle are incorporated and refashioned throughout this cycle. 477 "The Battle on the Blackbird's Field" ("Boj na kosovu polju") is a rich example of this cumulative technique: Singing we ride over the field To encounter the armoured dragons Our most lovely wolf-shepherd His flowering staff in his hand Flies through the air on his white steed The crazed thirsty weapons Savage each other alone in the field From the mortally wounded iron A river of our blood streams out Flows upward and streams into the sun The field stands up erect beneath us We overtake the heavenly rider And our betrothed stars And together we fly through the blue From below there follows The blackbird's farewell song Jasemo pevajudi poljem I susret oklopljenim zmajevima Nad prelepi vucji pastir S procvetalim stapom u ruci Na beleu nebom leti Pobesnelo zedno oruzje Samo se nasred polja ujeda Iz smrtno ranjenoga gvozda Reka na£e krvi izvire $ $ i Tece uvis 1 uvire u sunce Polje se pod nama uspravlja Sustizemo nebeskog konjanika I svoje zvezde verenice I letimo zajedno kroz plavet Odozdo nas prati Oprostajna pesma kosa 478 Writing about the Serbian epic tradition, Svetozar Koljevic comments that "the whole epic landscape of Serbo-Croat heroic singing was coloured by the tragic awareness that in order to live one must be prepared to die."137 And Popa's poetry reflects that tradition. The earth stands erect and human destiny is fulfilled only through the purification of blood sacrifice. Now, as "The Blackbird's Mission" ("Kosovo poslanstvo") demonstrates, the "mortally wounded iron" can be transformed into gold: The blackbird dries his blood- drenched wings At the fire of red peonies Before him the field stretches out Inscribed with molten human iron Transmuted into honourable gold Grass holds sway between the letters And falls them into line As it wills The blackbird wrests the field From the hands of the four black winds And rolls it up from midday to midnight At midnight he flies over the sky Bears off in his beak somewhere he knows where His green scroll Kos krila oro^ena krvlju susi Na vatri crvenih bozura 479 Pred njim se siri polje Ispisano vrelim ljudskim gvozdem Pretopljenim u cestlto zlato Trava caruje medu slovima I njihove redove Po svojoj volji prestrojava Kos otlma svoje polje Iz ruku cetiri crna vetra I savija ga od podneva do ponoci U ponoc nebo prelece I odnosi u kljunu nekud on zna kuda Svoj zelenl svitak The "Tower of Skulls" cycle relates the events associated with the period of the First Serbian Insurrection (1804-1812). During the centuries of Turkish domination, numerous Serbian uprisings occurred. These rebellions had little impact, however, until the nineteenth century. In 17 99, the relatively beneficient Turkish leader, Mustafa Busatli, Pasha of Belgrade, was slain by his janissaries, who subsequently assumed control. Under the rule of these "Dahijas" (a Turkish honorific), the Serbs were increasingly persecuted, and efforts to suppress their revolts were intensified. However, this "reign of terror" only fueled the Serbs' determination to overthrow the Turkish yoke. Under the leadership of Dorde Petrovic, popularly known as "Black George" ("Crni -Dorde" or "KaradorcTe" — "kara" denoting "black" in Turkish), who figures prominently in this cycle, the Serbian forces organized and initiated a 480 series of episodic battles collectively referred to as The First Insurrection. One of these clashes occurred at the hill of £egar, near Nis, in southern Serbia on 19 May 1809 (o.s.). The insurgents were overwhelmed by the Turkish forces, and grasping the hopelessness of the situation, the commander, Stephan Sindelid, blew up the ammunition depot, destroying his own troops as well as the Turks. To commemorate their victory, the Turks built a tower— still standing— near Nis in which they embedded the skulls of the Serbian dead.138 The devastation of this tragic episode is forcefully expressed in the sensual imagery of "Dirge" ("Zapevka"): They did not give you to the unbraided waters They refused you to the bareheaded barrows I wash your bones in blood I wrap you in my eyelids I plough my face it's all I have You stepped over the threshold of heaven I follow you red poppies with barefoot lips My deserted flesh is maddened It abandons me I abandon it I smash my breasts what use are they to me The fresh track of your teeth leads me From rock to rock from star to star Leads me from one circle into another 48 Vodama vas raspletenim nisu dali Humkama vas gologlavim odvili U krvi vam kosti mijem U o6ne vas kapke povijam Lice orem ni£ta vise nemam Prekora6ili ste prag nebesa Usnama bosim sledim vam bulke Pusto meso ludi na meni Napusta me napustam ga Grudi razbijam sta ce mi vise Vodi me zivi trag vasih zuba Od stene do stene od zvezde do zvezde Vodi me iz kruga u krug During the years of the Insurrection, the Serbs looked to Russia for military support. This support was withdrawn, however, when in 1812, in order to concentrate exclusively on the Napoleonic threat, Tsar Alexander concluded the Treaty of Bucharest with the Ottomans. Lacking support, after a series of defeats, Black George fled to Austria in 1813. By the time he returned in 1817, the sultan had granted provincial authority and the title of Prince to his rival, Milos Obrenovic, the leader of the Second Insurrection (1813-1815). Fearing that Black George’s new plans for revolt would undermine his position, Milos conspired to have Black George murdered in his sleep and his head sent to the pasha.139 "The Death of Black George" ("Smrt Crnoga Dorda"), with its allusions to the 482 myth of the "sleeping hero," is based on this tragic betrayal: They cut off his head as he slept Bore it away to the city of the king cur And threw it to the whelps When he wakes he'll go after it A black handkerchief in his left hand And a black rose in his right His wolves will ride out to meet him On black horses With black pennons They'll carry his head On crossed black flutes Bound with widows' black braids His head will shine Crowned with black beams Of the black sun When he wakes Na spavanju mu odsekli glavu Odneli je u grad cara psa J bacili je paMcadi Kada se probudi poci ce po nju Sa crnom maramom u levoj I crnom ruzom u desnoj ruci U susret ce mu izici Kurjaci njegovi na crnim konjima Sa crnim zastavama Nosice mu glavu Na ukrstenim crnim frulama Vezanim crnom kosom udovica Glava ce mu sijati Krunisana crnim zracima Crnoga sunca Kada se probudi 483 In the Slavic languages, "black" and "magic" are etymologically related, having the same "car (n)" root, and that relationship is skillfully exploited in this poem. The rich "blackness" of Popa's imagery, enhanced by the rhythm and repetition of the poem, creates an impression of magic ritual. Beyond its obvious connection with Black George, this blackness also suggests the interrelated images of earth, earth mother, and sleeping hero. In Serbian folklore, associations with the earth consistently emphasize its blackness, and this holds true for Serbian epic poetry, as well. Moreover, the earth is generally characterized as feminine; Stoianovich notes the preponderance of "secret names" for the earth in Serbian riddles— "Mama," "druga" ("girl friend"), "gospa" ("mistress"), "neva" ("bride"), etc.140 Furthermore, the chromatic and sexual designations are often linked, as in the recurring appellation, "Black Mother Earth." The perception of the earth mother as a black goddess is common to many mythological systems; the Indian Kali, the Greek Melaina, and the Yoruba Odudua are some examples. The reasons for this are not difficult to fathom. Black soil is fertile soil, and in the primitive world, as Stoianovich points out, it was perceived as magic141; hence, blackness itself acquired this magical quality. 484 The sleeping hero myth of the Serbs reflects this same view: The hero was envisioned as a swarthy man who was believed to be reposing in a cave, that is, in the dark womb of the Earth Mother. The psychic texture of Popa's poem provides a medium in which the sign— in this case, the figure of Black George— takes root and radiates in the substratum of the reader's consciousness, bringing all of these associations to the fore, the color black acting as the binding agent. In the last poem in this cycle, "Song of the Tower of Skulls" ("Pesme Cele-Kule"), the tower is likened ("zameniti" means to "make into" or "exchange for") to a "great-eyed sunflower": For the great-eyed sunflower you gave us Blind stone your unface And what now monster You made us one with yourself With the emptiness in your empty poison-tooth With your dock-tailed eternity Is that all your secret Why now flee into our eye sockets Why hiss with darkness and sting with horror Is that all you can do That's not teeth chattering it's the wind Idle at the sun's fair We grin at you grin up at heaven What can you do to us 485 Our skulls are flowering with laughter Look at us look your fill at yourself We mock you monster Zamenilo si nam okati suncokret Slepim kamenom nelicem svojim I £ta sad 6udo Izjednacilo si nas sa sobom S prazninom u svom praznom zubu trovacu S kusom svojom ve<5no£cu Je li to sva tvoja tajna Za£to nam sad u o<$ne duplje bezis Za£to tamom sikces i grozom palacas Zar je to sve ^to ume^ Ne cvokoSemo mi vetar to Besposleni na va£aru sunca Kezimo ti se kezimo do neba Mozes li nam £ta Rascvetavaju nam se lobanje od smeha Gledaj nas nagledaj se sebe Cikamo te cudo The cycle "Return to Belgrade" relates the joyful homecoming of the pilgrim; he greets the familiar landmarks of the "white town" ("beo" is "white" and "grad" is "city" or "town"), and meets familiar figures of the past. The tone of the poems in this cycle is sometimes playful, sometimes exultant, the verses often spilling over with tenderness and enthusiasm. The sense of freedom and renewal is almost tangible; the past's tragic veil has been lifted, its demons exorcised, and its sanctity recovered. The uncultivated seeds of cultural potential have been impregnated with a deeper 486 understanding of the past which will imbue the present with new meaning and nurture a vision of the future. The first poem is also entitled "Return to Belgrade"; it describes the poet's reentrance into the city. The "cross of water" refers to the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers, which occurs at Belgrade; the "three wolf-spoors" allude to the lame wolf aspect of the wolf-god which figures in the subsequent collection; and the "river of paradise" is the Danube. The "Sun Mother" (literally "sun-birther") may be a cryptic reference to the Hyperborean Leto, who bore Apollo and is associated with the wolf cult; the metaphor of the "skirts" of sun-rays, however, is an image which bears a remarkable resemblance to a Serbian idol of the Great Goddess cited by Neumann142: This far to this cross of water Three wolf spoors have led me I washed my face in the river of paradise Dried it on the skirts of the Sun Mother Bending over the steeples I planted my father's staff In the clay on the bank To burst into leaf among the willows I turned towards the great gate Open above me in the zenith I didn't know whether the white town Was coming down from the clouds into me Or was growing from my womb into the sky 487 I came back from the journey To share out the ripened stones from my bundle Here on the city square Dovde do ovog vodenog krsta Tri su me vu£je stope dovele Umio sam lice u rajskoj r e d Obrisao ga o skute suncorodice Nadvijene nad tornjevima Zasadio sam o<5ev stap U glinu na obali Da medii vrbama prolista Krenuo sam ka velikoj kapiji Otvorenoj nada mnom u zenitu Nisam znao spu£ta li se beli grad Iz oblaka u mene H i mi uz utrobe u nebo raste Vratio sam se s puta # • V' » Da sazrelo kamenje iz zavezljaja Ovde na trgu razdelim In "The Upper Fortress" ("Gornja tvrdava"), Popa pays homage to the fifteenth-century despot, Stephan Lazarevic (popularly called "Stephan the Tall") (1374-1427). The son of Knez Lazar, Despot Stephan wrested Belgrade from the Hungarian invaders in 14 02 and installed himself as ruler. At his direction, the monasteries of Manasija and Kalenic were erected, and the fortress walls of Belgrade rebuilt. He is perhaps most famous, though, as the author of "Slovo ljubavi" ("Word of Love") (1409), a lyric poem addressed to his 488 critics, and it is this poetic side of Despot Stephan which Popa emphasizes in his poem: You open wide your arms you the Tall Before all the gates of the white town You welcome the seer sources The blind sun-shrines the wailing rivers And the widow mountains You feed them out of your hand With dew gathered each morning From your verses You join together the surviving syllables Metals plants and beasts Into the first word of love And you build The last impregnable rampart Of your fortress in the air ✓, , ✓ S i n s ruke Visoki Pred svim kapijama beloga grada Docekujes izvore vidovnjake Suncomolje slepice reke narikace I planine udovice Hranis ih sa dlana Rosom skupljanom svakog jutra Sa svojih stihova Spajas prezlvele slogove Ruda bilja i zverinja U prvo slovo ljubavi I gradis Poslednji neosvojivi bedem Svoje tvrctave u vazduhu Folkloric tradition holds that the forces of light converge in the "Fearless Tower" ("Neboj^a kula") 489 on the banks of the Danube, and that each night, they confront the forces, of darkness in order to bring about a new day. Popa weaves this legend into the poem of the same name: All day you look at your naked reflection In the river of paradise You turn around And reveal to the white town Your eight stone thighs All night you fly through the sky And fight black fires For the sun's inheritance At dawn you're shining on the bank again Flocks of torch-bearer doves Remove the traces of blood From your eight faces You fear no one But your father the thunderer Po ceo dan se gola ogledas U rajskoj r e d Okreces se oko sebe I otkrivaS belom gradu Osam svojih kamenih bedara Po celu noc letis nebom I s crnim se ognjevima bijes Za suncevo nasledte U zoru opet na obali zracis s / ^ ^ Cete golubova luconosa Uklanjaju tragove krvi Sa osam tvojih lica Ne boji£ se nikoga Do roditelja gromovnika 490 The theme of renewal is apotheosized in the Phoenix-like imagery of "Belgrade," the last poem in this cycle. On its way to the Black Sea, the Danube— in Popa's cosmology, the "fourth river of Paradise"— wanders along the northern edge of Belgrade, and the point at which it meets the Sava is popularly held to be the "marriage" of the two rivers: White bone among the clouds You arise out of your pyre Out of your ploughed-up barrows Out of your scattered ashes You arise out of your disappearance The sun keeps you In its golden reliquary High above the yapping centuries And bears you to the marriage Of the fourth river of Paradise With the thirty-sixth river of Earth White bone among the clouds Bone of our bones Bela si kost medu oblacima Nice£ iz svoje loma£e Iz preorane humke Iz razvejanog praha NiceS iz svoga nestanka Sunce te cuva U zlatnom svome civotu Visoko nad lavezom vekova I nosi te na ven£anje Setvrte rajske reke Sa tridesetsestom rekom zemaljskom 491 Bela si kost medu oblacima Kost kostiju nasih Wolf Salt, the last of Popa's collections to be discussed here, is, in terms of cultural value, perhaps his greatest poetic achievement. Noting the solemn tone which characterizes many of these poems, Hughes describes them as "wolf-psalms."143 But they evoke a sense of celebration, as well. The cycle frequently takes on the flavor of an ancient "sabor"— a tribal conference— complete with wolf skins and drums. The innovative use of shapeshifting— and the extent to which it is developed— is unlike anything in modern poetry. It is at once the final destination and the point of departure of Popa's poetic odyssey. He has travelled the continuum of recorded history, and that journey has brought him to the threshold of that lost "green time" for which there is no written record; its only imprint exists in the shadowy substrata of collective memory. Popa crosses the threshold and finds in the sign of the old silver wolf the "white seed" and the "black howling" from which his own words are shaped. But this volume is not simply a tribute to the wolf-god; it is a directive to the modern Serb: Since the wolf is a projection of the Serb himself, by singling out the wolf-god, Popa implies a complete independence from and rejection of any form of divine intervention; like the 492 self-sufficient wolf, the Serb must struggle alone, without aid or interference, to determine his fate and fulfill his cultural legacy. Wolf Salt contains seven cycles of untitled, numbered poems, and each cycle depicts a different aspect of the wolf, i.e., Serbian heritage. In the first cycle, "The Worshipping of the Lame Wolf," the lame wolf represents the modern Serb, crippled by the "trap" of his tragic fate, his "toppled image" "masked in mud." The speaker, who appears to be Saint Sava, the wolf shepherd, but is also the poet himself, approaches the lame wolf with "an iron sheep" and "a garland of irises"— the traditional flower of Perun144; he rouses the old god, entreating him to arise from his old disgrace and share his wonder-working'powers: (4) Turn your face on me Lame wolf And inspire me with fire from your jaws That in your name I may sing In our ancestral lime-tree tongue Inscribe on my brow with your claw The heavenly signs and runes That I may grow to be the interpreter of your silence And bite my left hand That your wolves may bow to me And acclaim me their shepherd 4 93 Turn your face on me Stop staring at your toppled image Lame wolf Skreni pogled prema meni Hromi vu&e I nadahni ne ognjem iz &eljusti Da propevam u tvoje ime Pramaternjim lipovim jezikom Ispi£i mi kancom na celu Nebeske crte i reze Da stasam u tuma<$a tvoga cutanja I ugrizi me za levu ruku Da mi se poklone tvoji vukovi I da me za pastira izvi'&u Skreni pogled jprema meni I ne bulji vise u sruseni svoj kip Hromi vuce145 Popa was born in the province of Vojvodina in the northeastern part of Yugoslavia which borders on Rumania, and in the following poem, the influence of his Rumanian— or Vlach— ancestry is apparent in the mention of the "three wonder-working hairs," an allusion which derives from a Rumanian folktale146: (6) Let me approach you Lame wolf Let me pluck Three wonder-working hairs From your three-cornered head Let me touch with my staff The star on your brow the stone on your heart And your left and right ears 494 And let me kiss Your wounded godly paw Cushioned on a cloud Let me approach you Don't frighten me with a sacred yawn Lame wolf Daj da ti pridtem Hromi vu&e Daj da ti i££upam Tri cudotvorne dlake Iz trouglaste glave Daj da ti stapom dodirnem Zvezdv na 6elu i kamen na srcu I levo i desno uvo I daj da ti poljubim Ranjenu bozansku sapu Naslonjenu na oblak Daj da ti pridem I ne pla£i me svetim zevanjem Hromi vu£e In the last poem in this cycle, the poet bids the lame wolf to return to his lair until his transformation is complete. In the meantime, he promises to visit him in the realm of dreams ("san" means both "sleep” and "dream"), but it is also an implicit admonition against "sleep" lest the "lair" be destroyed: (7) Go back to your lair Lame wolf And sleep there Until your coat changes And you cut your new iron teeth 495 Sleep until the bones of my ancestors Blossom and branch out And break through the earth's crust Sleep until your lair quakes And falls in on you Sleep until your tribe From the other side of heaven Wakes you with baying Go back to your lair I will visit and tend you in your sleep Lame wolf Vrati se u svoju jazbinu Hromi vuce I tamo spavaj Dok ti se dlaka ne promeni I dok ti ne niknu novi gvozdeni zubi Spavaj dok se kosti mojih predaka Ne rascvetaju i razgranaju I probiju zemljinu koru Spavaj dok ti se jazbina ne zatrese I na tebe srusi Spavaj dok te tvoje pleme S one strane neba zavijanjem Ne probudi Vrati se u svoju jazbinu Pohodicu te i dvoriti u snu Hromi vuce "The Fiery She-Wolf" is the Serbian land, the primal Serbian mother who, through the centuries, has been defiled by foreign invaders— "dogs"— and forced to "make bread of embers," but who has always "put herself 496 together again." Covered with sun pollen, her image suggests an her association with Dabog: (1) The she-wolf lies In heaven's foothills Her body a live coal Is overgrown with grass And covered with sun pollen The mountains in her breast Rise menacing And fall forgiving Through her veins rivers howl In her eyes lakes flash In her measureless heart Metallic ores melt from love On the sevenfold fire Wolves play over her back And live in her crystal womb To their first and from their final howl Vucica lezi U podnozju neba Telo od zive zeravice Obraslo joj travom I pokriveno suncevim prahom Planine u njenim grudima Pretedi se diZu I prastajudi spustaju Kroz njene zile urlaju reke U ocima joj jezera sevaju U njenom nepremer-srcu Rude se tope od ljubavi Na sedmostrukom ognju Vukovi se igraju na njenim ledtima I Zive u biljurnoj njenoj utrobi Pre prvog i posle poslednjeg urlika 497 The third cycle,"Prayer to the Wolf Shepherd," as well as the fifth cycle, "Hymn to the Wolf Shepherd," approximates medieval liturgical forms. Depicting the nadir of the wolf-spirit, it is a tribal plea for deliverance. Using the first person plural , Popa portrays the wolves as abandoned and exhausted; left with only the "echoes of our howling," they must continue to pursue the "newborn red stone" to the end of the world. They implore the wolf shepherd to intercede with the "father unfather" so that he will cease "begetting and impaling us/With the sickle that hangs between his legs"; and beg him to return them to "the constellation/Of the Great Wolf," that "crystal womb" of the mother. Popa creates a primal atmosphere fraught with danger and a desperate dream of vengeance: (2) Beat us to death or accept us As we are tattered maimed And headless We pray to you wolf shepherd Clothe us in the hides Stretched over the beaters' drums Arm us with the paws Made into handles Of hunters' knives Plant in our jaws the teeth Strung in necklaces Of bedworthy bitches Adorn our necks with the heads Nailed up on the walls Of all-knowing watch-towers 498 We pray to you wolf shepherd Dotuci nas ili nas prihvati Ovakve odrane obogaljene I obezglavljene Molimo ti se vucji pastiru Odeni nas u kozu Razapetu na dobosima hajkaca Naoruzaj nas sapama Preradtenim u drske LovaSkih nozeva Zasadi nam u vilice zube Nanizane na ogrlicama Kucki krevetusa Ukrasi nam vrat glavom Prikucanom na zidu Sveznajucih osmatra£nica Molimo ti se vu£ji pastiru But the dream is ultimately a wish for transformation and ascent: (5) Don't leave us here alone To chase up and down Over our lolling tongue We pray to you wolf shepherd Visit us too in our dreams As you do the old silver wolf So we can devour you We pray to you wolf shepherd Fill our bellies With your eloquent flesh Tasting of the great grey cloud We pray to you wolf shepherd Dissolve in our blood Your fragrant wisdom All made of the salt of salts 499 We pray to you wolf shepherd Ne ostavljaj nas ovde same Da jurimo gore dole Po ispla^enom svom jeziku Molimo ti se vucji pastiru Pohodi i nas u snu Kao srebrnog starinu vuka Da te prozderemo Molimo ti se vucji pastiru Napuni nam utrobu Rebitim svojim mesom Sa ukusom sive oblacine Molimo ti se vubji pastiru Rastvori u naSoj krvi Mirisnu svoju premudrost Svu od soli nad solima Molimo ti se vucji pastiru The longing to devour the "great grey cloud" and to be imbued with the "fragrant wisdom" suggests the transubstantiation of the Christian Eucharist, but also recalls the ritual communal sacrifices of the early Slavs.I47 The "salt of salts" refers literally, of course, to a salt lick, but salt is also a preservative which can aid in the perpetuation of the cultural heritage. Furthermore,- it has a recondite meaning which applies to the entire collection of Wolf Salt poems. As L^vi instructs, alchemical doctrine posits three universal forces: spirit, the plastic mediator, and matter. The first is represented by sulphur; the second 500 by mercury; and the third by salt "because of the fixed salt which remains after combustion, resisting the further action of fire."148 Hence,the "salt of salts" is the indestructible prime matter from which the modern Serb emanates; and Wolf Salt is the fixed immutable, the absolute essence which remains as a result of the process of poetic combustion and transformation carried out in the previous verse collections. "The Wolf Land" expresses the dual nature of the wolf-spirit. It is a transitional passageway in which the "sunny land" hovers between salvation and annihilation. The poems are structured as a dialogue between father and son, i.e., between the ancestral spirit and his contemporary descendent; poems 1, 3 and 5 are the son's questions and the remaining three are the father's replies. The son cannot distinguish in the ritual gestures of the wolf whether he will "steal" or "rescue" the land: (1) Father I cannot see our sunny land The wolf is wreathing her up to the sky With his black howling He seems to be pulling her up By her very roots Together with her golden heart And his own bruised one 501 He senses an untimely death His own or hers Or the death of the three-headed sun above her Does he fear for himself father Or for her the sunny one Ne vidim oce zemlju nasu suncanu Vuk je urlikom svojim crnim Do neba obavija Iz korena je samog £ini mi se kida Zajedno na njenim zlatnim I svojim pomodrelim srcem Predoseca preranu smrt Svoju H i njenu Ili smrt troglavog sunca nad njom Strahuje li za sebe oce Ili za nju suncanu The father’s replies are enigmatic: (2) My son I see our land asleep The wolf is licking her cheeks With his fiery tongue he enlightens her And she smiles in her sleep As if burning at the stake He casts his grey shadow over her And she ages in her sleep As if drowning beneath the ash Is he preparing my son To swallow her as she sleeps Or only making sure She is alive not dead Vidim sine zemlju na£u zaspalu Vuk joj obraze li£e Ognjenim je ozaruje jezikom I ona se u snu smesi Kao da gori na lomaci 502 Sivom je zaklanja senkom 1 ona u snu stari Kao da tone pod pepelom Priprema 11 se sine Da je proguta zaspalu Ili samo proverava Je li ziva ili mrtva The last poem in the cycle depicts the land as a sacrificial lamb which is transformed by the wolf's light; the last stanzas imply that the matter of salvation is determined at least in part by the wolves themselves and the degree of intensity with which they desire it: (6) Through the wolf's ribs my son I see our promised land She has the form of the Easter lamb The wolf's heart gives her light In the crimson sea Either she was swallowed long ago And now is neither alive nor dead Or she is just ready For a second birth It depends on the wolf's hunger And on our guiding star Not on anything else my son Kroz vucja rebra sine Zemlju naSu zavetnu vidim Oblik uskrsnjeg ima jagnjeta Vu£je obasjava je srce Uspred rujnoga mora Ili je vec davno progutana Pa nije vi£e ni Ziva ni mrtva Ili je tek sada spremna Za drugo rodtenje Od vucje to zavisi gladi I od na£e zvezde vodilje Ni od £ega drugog sine "Hymn to the Wolf Shepherd" is a cycle of resurrection. Through their own efforts, the wolves have thrown off their skins and left their muzzles "rusting in the rain."; "A maiden lime tree has grown, "she-clouds/Are peacefully lambing; and "thunderbolts are making love." The wolf shepherd’s staff has been unearthed, and on it, his flock flies up to meet him: (5) Rejoice 0 red shadow Over-arching our joy Rejoice 0 only tooth mark On the round world's belly Rejoice 0 thunderous word In the jaws of no-time Rejoice 0 black howling Above the endless snowy oblivion Rejoice 0 lighted smile In the heart of the dog-darkness Rejoice 0 golden remembering Growling over our bones Rejoice 0 wolf shepherd Raduj se rida senko Nagnuta nad na£om radoscu Raduj se jedini ujedu Na trbuhu zemljinog sara Raduj se gromoglasno slovo Usred celjusti nevremena Raduj se crni urlice Nad beskrajnim sneznim zaboravom 504 Raduj se upaljenl osmehu U srcu pasjeg mraka Raduj se zlatno pamcenje Nahvatano na na£im kostima Raduj se vucji pastiru Now it is the lame wolf— the modern Serb— who heals himself. In "The Lame Wolf’s Tracks," the beaters carry him away on the "pole of shame"; "All believe he is dead." But the lame wolf takes the axe which has been "driven into the hairy cloud," kisses its oaken body— both the axe and the oak are emblematic of Perun— "and cleaves himself/Into two living halves." One half quickly "flies up to heaven," but the other half settles on the earth, where it flies around the sky with a "great black eagle" and drinks dew from her beak— an allusion to the folk hero, Kraljevic Marko.149 Then the lame wolf flies below the earth on a gusle, the ancient Serbian one-stringed instrument traditionally used by epic singers; the gusle is generally constructed from maplewood and in its handle may be carved a horse-head, a stylized snake devouring its tail, or some other folk motif: (3) On a burning gusle The lame wolf flies below earth He whips its belly with the bow And fondles Its string in flame 505 With his teeth he scrapes from its neck The marks of dog bites He gnaws its wooden horse-head And with the maplewood pap he dressed The wound on his right front paw He spurs it on with his three good paws Heads it towards the howling That comes from the heart of earth Under him the gusle whimpers Spits out fire And swallows up the darkness Na zapaljenim guslama Hromi vuk pod zemljom leti Gudalom ih siba po trbuhu I miluje Po zici u plamenu Zubima im struze s vrata Znake psedih ujeda Glode im drvenu konjsku glavu I saZvakanom javorovinom oblaze Ranu na desnoj prednjoj sapi Mamuza ih ostalim zdravim sapama I usmerava ih prema urliku Sto se iz srca zemlje cuje Gusle pod njim je£e Bljuju vatru I gutaju pomrcinu "The Wolf Bastard" is the modern Serb. On the one hand, he is the product of miscegenation as a result of the centuries of domination by foreign invaders. But he is also the beneficiary of a rich cultural legacy; in Alexander's estimation, the wolf bastard represents "an 506 amalgam of all the forces to which the Serbs are heir— the creative power of the land, the spiritual powers of the Wolf Shepherd, and the elemental powers of the primitive god."150 Written in the first person singular, the cycle expresses the poet's determination to fulfill his poetic mission— "to discover the metal/My chain is forged from." The foreign invaders and gods— the "dogs"— bark, demanding obeisance, but the wolf bastard stands his ground: (1) You bark That I should cover myself with my ears Tuck my tail between my legs And clear out of here You bark That I should fall on my knees before you Beat my head on the ground And crawl off on all fours Back to where I was born You bark bark That I should crawl backwards And lick up all my father's tracks Which showed me the way here You bark bark bark That I should stuff my fist in my mouth Bite off my tongue And stick it in my belt 507 Lajete Da se pokrijem usima Podavijem rep mecTu noge I bistim se odavde Lajete Da padnem na kolena pred vas Udarim glavom o zemlju I cetvoronoSke otpuzim U mesto rodenja Lajete lajete Da puzim natrabke I polibem sve obeve tragove Koji su me ovamo uputill Lajete lajete lajete Da pesnicom sebi zapusim usta Pregrizem jezik I zadenem ga za pojas He resolves to defer to his wolf ancestry and to "sing without ceasing"; the "field of fire" alludes to the Apothecaries' Field mentioned earlier: (2) Without asking your leave I go on being born as before From wolf-flowers I am suckled by the shade of the old she-wolf That you beat to death with stone testicles Her and her cubs together I talk to myself On the profaned field of fire Which over-arches the confluence Of memory and foresight I sing without ceasing 508 For fear I might be left alone Among you until death And after Ne moleSi od vas dopustenje RacTam se kao i dosad Iz vucjega cveca Doji me senka stare vu£ice Koju ste kamenim mudima dotukli Zajedno s njenim vu£icima Govorim sam sa sobom Na obesvecenom ognjenom polju Nagnutom nad stavama Secanja i predvidanja Pevam bez prestanka Od straha da ne ostanem sam Medli vama do smrti I posle nje The wolf bastard searches for his "true father" in the lair in which he has "fallen into." The "valley bitten out of my foot" refers to the folktale, "How the Sun Was Stolen," in which God directs an archangel to "steal back" the sun which the fallen angels carried with them out of heaven; in the process, the archangel loses a part of his foot.151 The "poor sun-stealer," then, is the Christian god: (3) I go on a search for my true father Who cannot be born without me I search for him In the lines of his face Scattered over the lair I have fallen into 509 In the valley bitten out of my foot Inherited from him Poor sun-stealer In the tall weeds Sprung up between the syllables Of his name I search for him And so my whole life passes Here on this field of fire Idem u potragu za pravim svojim ocem Koji ne moZe bez mene da se rodi Tra%im ga U crtama njegovog lica Rasutim po jazbini U koju sam upao U dolini odgrizenog mog stopala Nasledenog od njega Ubogog kradlj ivca sunca U visokom korovu Izdtikalom Izmedtu slogova Njegovog imena Trazim ga I u tome mi sav zivot Ovde na ognjenom polju protice With the "great grey cloud" as guide, he forges "old iron/And scraps of moonlight" on an anvil "drenched with dew/Black in the morning green at noon/Red in the evening," while wolf cubs watch and learn. Accompanied by his wolves, he goes down into the city and with his teeth, wrenches the "crossed knives"— the sign, apparently, of the usurper Christian god— from the 510 towers. Still, the "barking" of the false god can be heard, but it is now only grist for the poetic mill: (7) You bark That my reason has dropped to my rump And grown overnight Into a tail of ill—omen You bark That my thoughts have changed Into grey bristles And pierced all the pores on my skin You bark bark That my words smell Of human flesh burnt at the stake And of the white seed of my long-tailed god You bark bark bark That out of my throat comes A familiar bloodthirsty howl Which I call a song Just you bark Lajete Da mi je pamet sisla u straznjicu I preko nodi izrasla U zloslutan rep Lajete Da su mi se misli pretvorile U sivu dlaku I probile sve pore na kozi Lajete lajete Da mi r e d zaudaraju Na ljudsko meso splajeno na 511 lomaci I na belo seme mog repatog boga Lajete lajete lajete Da mi iz grla izlazi Poznati krvozedni urlik Koji ja nazivam pesmom Lajte vi samo The barking, i.e., the futility, the transience, the eternal human drama of existence, is transmuted into poetry, into one poetic circle after another. Together, these rings of individual meaning form a great "kolo" or wheel of signs— not unlike the mandala— which seems to replicate the circular sweep of life itself. Ultimately, the poetry of Vasko Popa is not meant to be understood, but entered and experienced. If his poetry seems inaccessible, it is because certain things in life are inaccessible. They can't be wholly comprehended, nor explained in factual, denotative language. Popa is confounding because human existence is confounding. Neither can be reduced to a molecular structure. To regard his poetry as a system of linguistic and philosophical signs and symbols, or as a collection of prescriptive devices, threatens its sacrality, its total reality. It threatens, that is, precisely that quality which makes his poetry mythic. The reality it reveals is approachable only so long as 512 one remains in the environment of the poem, but it cannot be borne out of that environment in its entirety. All one can hope for are fragments of meaning— "a bump/Or a second nose or a third eye"; the mythic filament remains in the poetic fabric, held fast in the other world of the poem. And as Popa himself indicates, the only means of access is the poetry itself: They ask you what your poem means. Why don't they ask the apple tree what its fruit— the apple— means? If it were able to speak, the apple tree would answer them, in its own way: 'Bite into the apple and you will see what it means!1. . . After all, what does an apple mean? Why doesn't anyone answer you? Your poem means the secret which was conceived somewhere within you and ripened there, and when it ripened, you pronounced it in syllables of your own tongue. If you knew what that secret meant, you would not have labored so much, helping it to be born in the sun, among people and among clouds. It is for the others, not for you, to answer the question whether one can find out the secret or only experience it, whether one can master it or only submit to it, whether one can open it or only be enjoined in it, to become its prisoner. You look for your poem which ran from your hand, you listen, you rest a little, or at least you think that you rest, and you let it go, your poem, to answer alone all of the questions, you let it alone be its own answer. You are the only one who can speak about your poem as a reader, because you are the first reader of your poem. But this in no way means that you are the most authoritative or best reader. 513 Among those who ask you what your poem means, there are certainly many more intelligent, more experienced, and more impartial readers than you. Pltaju te dta znadi tvoja pesma. Zadto ne pitaju drvo jabuke dta znadi njen plod— jabuka? Da ume da govori, drvo jabuke bi im, po svoj prilici, odgovorilo: 'Zagrizite u jabuku pa dete videti dta znadiI’. . . Uostalom, dta znadi jabuka? Zadto ti niko ne odgovara? Tvoja pesma znadi tajnu koja se negde u tebi zadela i tamo sazrevala, i kada je sazrela, ti si je u slogovima svoga jezika izgovorio. Da si znao dta znadi ta tajna, ne bi se ti toliko trudio pomaduci joj da se porodi na suncu, medu ljudima i medu oblacima. I na drugima je, ne na tebi, da odgovore na pitanje da li se tajna mode saznati ili samo dodiveti, da li se mode osvojiti ili joj se mode samo podledi, da li se mode otvoriti ili se mode samo pristati da se u njoj bude njen zatvorenik? Gledad za svojom pesmom koja ti je odetela iz ruke, dutid, odmarad se malo, ili bar mislid da se odmarad, i pudtad nju, svoju pesmu, da■sama odgovara na sva pitanja, pudtad je da sama bude svoj sopstveni odgovor. Ti jedino moded da govorid o svojoj pesmi kao ditalac, jer si ti prvi ditalac svoje pesme. Ali to nikako ne znadi da si ti i najmerodavniji i najbolji ditalac. Medu onima koji te pitaju dta znadi tvoja pesma, ima svakako mnogo umnijih, iskusnijih i nepristrasnijih ditalaca nego dto si ti.152 514 Endnotes for Chapter IV ^■Rene Wellek and Austin Warren, Theory of Literature (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1977) , p. 31. 2 Dennison Rusinow, The Yugoslav Experiment: 1948-1974 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), p.19. 3 Yugoslavia subsequently adopted "The Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia" as its official name, and November 29, 1943 as the official date of its founding since it was on that date, in the Bosnian city of Jajce, that the Anti-Fascist Council of National Liberation of Yugoslavia (AVNOJ), led by Josip Broz Tito, declared itself to be the provisional government of Yugoslavia. See, for example, Rusinow, pp.26-31. 4 The crux of the Soviet-Yugoslav conflict was based on what Stalin perceived to be the willful inde pendence of the Communist Party of Yugoslavia. In denying Stalin's accusations, President Tito, in his now famous letter of April 14, 1948, declared, "No matter how much each of us loves the land of socialism, the USSR, he can, in no case, love his own country less." Subsequently, the Yugoslavs refused Stalin's demands that the matter be resolved by the Cominform, and further, refused to attend the Cominform session which met in Bucharest in June, 1948. In a formal resolution at that session, the Cominform members condemned the Yugoslav Communist Part and demanded the dissolution of the Yugoslav regime. See, for example, Rusinow, Chapter II. 5 Paul Engle and Hualing Nieh Engle, fore ward, Contemporary Yugoslav Poetry, ed. Vasa D. Mihailovich (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1977), p.vi. ^Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans-. Maria Jolas (New York: The Orion Press, 1964), p. 4 . 515 7 Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966), p.119. 8 Michele Carrouges, Andre Breton and the Basic Concepts of Surrealism, trans. Maura Prendergast (University, Alabama: University of Alabama Press, 1974), p.l. 9 J.T. Shaw, "Literary Indebtedness and Comparative Literary Studies," Comparative Literature: Method and Perspective, ed. Newton P. Stallknecht and Horst Frenz (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1973), p.92. "^Vuk Krnjevic, "Pristup pjesnistvu srpskih pjesnika XX veka," Knjizevnost, 11 (1984), pp.2023- 2033. Krnjevic not¥s a-third-^tendency--lyricism— but concludes that inasmuch as the lyric poetry expresses universalization and positive objective statement, it most closely approaches the intellectual tendency. ^Vasa D. Mihailovich, "The Poetry of Miodrag Pavlovic," Canadian Slavonic Papers, Vol. 20, No. 3 (1978), p.358. 12 Aleksandar Petrov, "In the Stream of Time: Contemporary Serbian Poetry," P.E.N. Literary Quarterly, Vol. 1, No. 2 (1965), p.63. 13 In Thirty Years of Yugoslav Literature: 19 45- 19 75(Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1978), Thomas Eekman writes that "Pavlovic's poetry, unlike that of many post-war Serbian poets (including Vasko Popa), is virtually independent of the dominant in fluence of surrealism; it bears an intellectual, cere bral imprint, manifesting an erudite mind" (p.201). ■^Bachelard, pp.67-72. 15 / Bogdan A. Popovic, introduction, Pesme by Vasko Popa (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1968), pp.18-19. ^Octavio Paz, On Poets and Others, trans. Michael Schmidt (New York: Seaver Books, 1986), p.68. 516 17 Sources consulted for the discussion of the oriental influence in Popa's work include the follow ing: A.K. Coomaraswamy, Hinduism and Buddhism (New York: Philosophical Library, 1943); Mircea Eliade, Yoga: Immortality and Freedom (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970); Geoffrey Parrinder, ed. World Religions: From Ancient History to the Present (London: The Hamlyn Publishing Group, Ltd., 1983); Huston Smith, The Religions of Man (New York: Harper and Row, 1965); Alan Watts, The Two Hands of God: The Myths of Polarity (Toronto: Collier-MacMillan Canada, Ltd., 1969); and Heinrich Zimmer, Philosophies of India, ed. Joseph Campbell (New York: Pantheon, 1951). 18 Watts, op. cit., p.60. 19 Ted Hughes, introduction, Vasko Popa: Collected Poems, trans. Anne Pennington (New York: Persea Books, 1978), p.7. 20 Aleksandar Petrov, afterword, Pesme by Vasko Popa (Belgrade: Beogradski Izdavacko-Graficki Zavod, 1978), p.196. 21 Andre Breton, Signe ascendant (Paris: Gallimard, 1968), p.12. 22 Carrouges, p.94. 23Ibid., p.90. 24Ibid., p.88. 25 Gloria Orenstein, The Theater of the Marvelous: Surrealism and the Contemporary Stage (New York: New York University Press, 1975), p.155. 26 Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Harcourt Brace and World, 1959), p.95. 27 . . Huizinga, pp.2-4. 9 8 Ibid., pp.4-5. p.9 . ^Ibid., pp.17-18. 30Ibid., p.127. 3"*"Ibid . , p. 119 . 3 2Ibid., pp.129-130 . 33 Smith, op.cit., pp.82-85. 34 Huizinga, p.5. 33Vasko Popa, Urnebesnik (Belgrade: Nolit, 1979) Watts, pp.14-15. 37 Popa, Urnebesnik, p.8. 38_ . / , n Popovic, p.10. 3^Eliade, pp.93-94. ^Vasko Popa, "Pesma" from "Zapisci o pesnistvu," Kora (Belgrade: Nolit, 1969), p.125. 41 Hughes, p.7. 4 2 The number seven is one of the most sacred of numbers. In Amulets and Superstitions (London: Oxford University Press, 1930), E.A. Wallis Budge observes that the number seven has always held a special significance for a wide variety of cultures, including Indian, Persian Sumerian, Babylonian, Assyrian, Egyptian, Teutonic, and Celtic, among others (p.433). In The History of Magic, trans. Arthur E. Waite (Los Angeles: Borden Publishing Company, 1948), Eliphas Levi writes that in Cabalism and alchemy, seven is the "crown of numbers, uniting 518 the triangle of idea to the square of form" (p.52) . See Ronelle Alexander, The Structure of Vasko Popa1s Poetry (Columbus: Slavica Publishers, Inc., 1985) for a detailed discussion of the significance of numbers in Popa's work. 43 ✓ Charles Simic, introduction, The Little Box by Vasko Popa, trans. Charles Simic (Washington, D.C.: Charioteer Press, 1970), p.ix. 44 Alexander, p.15. Comparing this feature of Popa's poetry with what Roman Jakobson has described as "simultaneous synthesis" in certain poetry, Alexander observes that relationships of simultaneity occur in at least two ways in Popa1s poetry: "Between levels, they are seen in the fact that a single seg ment can function both as a boundary marker (denoting the periphery, or the edge of something) at one level and as part of the integral center (denoting the absence of periphery) at another. Within a single level, they are seen in the fact that a single segment can be marked both as peripheral (denoting the edge of a unit) and initial (denoting that the majority of the unit is that which follows and not that which has preceded)." 45 Hughes, p.4. 46 . ' Popovic, p.23. 47 * Charles Simic, introduction, Homage to the Lame Wolf: Vasko Popa— Selected Poems 1956-1975 by Vasko Popa, trans. Charles Simic (Oberlin: College Press, 1979), p.12. 4 8 Andre Breton, Arcane 17 (Paris: Sagittaire, 1947), p.35. 49 Alexander, p.13. 50 Ibid., p.28. In this context, Alexander feels that Popa’s first collection, Kora (Bark), "sets the stage"; the second collection, Nepo^in-Polje (Unrest-Field), "introduces the theme of conflict"; 519 the third collection, Sporedno nebo (Secondary Heaven)," "presents a self-contained drama of conflict in the form of a cosmogonic myth"; the fourth collection, Uspravna zemlja (Earth Erect), "presents similar dramas of conflict., but places them specifically within the context of recorded Serbian history"; the fifth collection, Vu3ja so (Wolf Salt),"relates the dramatic elements of Serbian history and cultural identity in the form of a primitive myth"; the sixth collection, Zivo meso (Raw Flesh), "incorporates elements of the dramatic conflicts related in previous books, as if to verify their authenticity from a personal point of view [by using the persona of] an individual Serbian man living in a particular place and time"; and the seventh collection, Kuca nasred druma (The House on the Highroad), which focuses on twentieth-century themes, reinforces the six previous volumes and completes the opus by reintroducing, in each of its seven cycles, "an element characteristic of the book whose order in the opus corresponds to that cycle's order in this seventh book." Of Popa1s eighth collection, Rez (The Cut), Alexander believes that it "signalled a new and different line of expression"; this was apparent not only in the poetic content, but in the format, as well, which was markedly different from the previous seven volumes. Alexander also comments on Popa's extensive use of the number seven, noting that it creates "a structure of asymmetry," which can be observed at the cycle, collection and opus levels, "one element [poem, cycle or collection] can be set off as the center of the structure, in that the surrounding elements form opposing pairs [first and seventh, second and sixth, and third and fourth], but the- central element stands alone" (p. 23). To her assessment of the overall structural design of his opus, it might be added that Popa's three anthologies, Od zlata jabuka (The Golden Apple), Urnebesnik (The Noisemaker), and Ponocno sunce (Midnight Sun), may be considered part of the opus in a referential context since each one focuses on one of the three main elements of Popa's poetic vision: folkore, humor, and surrealism, respectively. 51 Daniel Weiss, The Critic Agonistes (Seattle: University of Washington, 1985), p.50. 5 2 Petrov, introduction to Kora by Vasko Popa, op. cit., p.8. 520 53 All English translations of Popa's poetry are taken from Vasko Popa: Collected Poems, trans. Anne Pennington, op. cit. 54 All original poems m this section are taken from the 1969 edition of Kora, op. cit. 55 Popa's depiction of the "blue vault" of space here seems to suggest the representation of space found in The Tibetan Book of the Dead in which Bhagavan Vairochana (The Lord of Space) is depicted in his androgynous form as a terrifying, blue light which is "the aggregate of matter resolved into its primor dial state." The god embodies the unity of the cosmos--Dharma-Dhatu--and offers refuge from the destructive forces of the Bardo--the realm between death and rebirth. See The Tibetan Book of the Dead, trans. Francesca Fremantle and Chogyam Trungpa (Boston: Shambhala, 1987), pp.41-42. 5 6 Petrov, introduction to Kora, p.8. 57 "The Golden Apple and the Nine Peahens" recounts the tale of a king who has a golden apple tree, the fruit of which mysteriously disappears every morning. One by one, the king's three sons try to solve the mystery. At last, the third one succeeds. He finds that the fruit is being carried off by nine peahens, who are actually young maidens. One of the peahens climbs into the young prince's chamber and remains with him through the night. In the morning, she leaves two golden apples— one for the prince and one for his father, the king. In some versions of the story, the prince's two brothers become jealous and drive off the peahens, and he then goes in search of and finds his lost peahen love, but not, of course, before engaging in numerous adventures. "Real Steel" is the story of a merciless villain who is ultimately destroyed by an enterprising young prince. "Real Steel" first appears in the story when the prince opens the door of a for bidden room and finds him seated on a chair in the center of the room, completely bound in iron up to his knees and elbows, and secured by four iron chains fastened about the neck and extending to each of the four corners of the room. Both of these folktales appear in English in Woislav M. Petrovitch's 521 Hero Tales and Legends of the Serbians (New York: Farrar and Rinehart, 19 34) . 5 8 In A Study of Balkan Civilization (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1967), Traian Stoianovich refers to the myth of the' iron mountain (p.43); and in Some Tribal Origins, Laws, and Customs of the Balkans (New York: AMS Press, 1979), Mary Edith Durham dis cusses various superstitions related to iron (pp.298- 302) . 59 Carrouges, p.60. ^Petrov, introduction to Kora, pp. 11-15. 61Ibid., p.13. ^Bachelard, p.161. ^Eekman, p. 192. 6 4 The image appears on one of the Bogomil tombs at Radimlja in Bosnia-Hercegovina. The Bogomils were a heretical religious sect which spread throughout the Balkans in the tenth century and exerted considerable influence until they were outlawed by the medieval Serbian ruler, Stephan Nemanja, in the twelfth century. Bosnia became the center of Bogomil activity. A branch of the Paulician sect of the Manichaeans, the Bogomils espoused a religion which combined certain Christian doctrines with those of Mithraism— especially the Mithraic sun cult. See, for example, D. Obolensky, The Bogomils (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1948), and Sir Steven Runciman, The Medieval Manichee (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955). ^See Appendix "A" for background of pagan Slavic deities. 66r, . , Weiss, p.51. 6 7 Carl Gustav Jung, The Essential Jung, ed. Anthony Storr (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983) , pp.186-187 . 522 See Appendix "A" for details of this ritual associated with the god,.Svantovid. Also, in "Slavic Mythology," Funk and Wagnalls Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology and Legend, 2 Vols., ed. Maria Leach (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 19 50), Roman Jakobson mentions the "prophetic role of the horse in the divination ceremonies of the Northwestern Slavs" (Vol. 1, p.1027). 69 Petrov, introduction to Kora, pp.20-23. "^Heinrich Zimmer, The Philosophies of India, ed. Joseph Campbell (New York: Pantheon Books, 1951), p.303 . 71 J.E. Cirlot, A Dictionary of Symbols, trans. Jack Sage (New York: Philosophical Library, 1983), p.288 . 72 . The uroboric symbol of the snake devouring its tail is the logo of Popa’s second collection, Nepo^in-Polje. It is also a common motif on the gusle, a one-stringed Serbian instrument on the neck of which is usually carved a popular folk design such as the snake symbol or, more commonly, a horse's head. 73 Vasko Popa, Od zlata jabuka (Belgrade: Nolit, 1978), p.232. ^Smith, pp.134 and 153-55. 75 Herman Hesse, The Glass Bead Game, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (New York: Bantam Books, 1972), p.411. V 6 Erich Neumann, The Origins and History of Consciousness, trans. R.F.C. Hull (New York: Pantheon Books, 1964), p.15. 77 Compare, for instance, with the following traditional folk poem: 523 Na vrh brda vrba mrda A na vrbi cuci cvorak Vrbina je kora tvrda A £vorkov je zivot gorak Vrba inora da se mrda Jvorak mora da se cuva Da ga s vrbe i sa brda Kakav vetar ne oduva 7 8 Joseph Campbell, The Hero with A Thousand Faces (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973), pp.109- 116 . 79 ' f The Death of the Jugovic Mother" ("Smrt majke Jugovica") is a medieval epic which relates the sorrow of a mother whose husband and nine sons have perished in the battle of Kosovo. When two ravens returning from the field of battle carry to her the hand of a dead hero, she recognizes the gold wedding ring on it as that of her youngest son, Damjan. Filled with anguish, she cries out: My dear hand, my green apple! Where did you grow, where were you torn away! Here in my lap you grew, And were torn away on the plain of Kosovo! Moja ruka, zelena jabuko! Gde si rasla, gde l'si ustrgnuta! A rasla si na kriocu mome, ustrgnuta na Kosovu ravnom! See, for instance, Marko the Prince: Serbo-Croat Heroic Songs, trans. Anne Pennington and Peter Levi with introduction and notes by Svetozar Koljevic (London: Duckworth, 1984), pp.24-26. In addition, green apples are generally associated with death in Serbian folklore; they are carried to funerals and are often laid in/on graves. 8 0 See Appendix "B" for background of the wolf cult. 81 Neumann, The Origins and History of Consciousness, p.18. 524 ^^Campbell, p.280. 83 f Miodrag Pavlovic, Osam Pesnika (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1964), p.239. 84 . ' - | j - Popovic, p.15. 8 5 f The illustration was done by Duifan Ristic according to the poet's direction and features the Gnostic symbol of the uroboros. 8 6 Raja Yoga is one of the four ways of Yoga, the other three being Jnana Yoga, Bhakti Yoga, and Karma Yoga. All promise enlightenment, but each presents a different path to that goal. Jnana maintains that knowledge is "the way to God"; Bhakti emphasizes love; Karma stresses work; and Raja or "Royal" Yoga promotes psychological awareness through eight exercises or steps. The first step is comprised of five abstentions against: injury, lying, stealing, sensuality and greed; and the second step directs five observances of: cleanliness, contentment, self-control, studiousness and contemplation of the divine (See, for example, Eliade's Yoga, Smith, or Zimmer, all cited above). The poems in "Games" appear to correspond to these abstentions and observances— discounting the poems, "Before Play," "Between Play," and "After Play." 8 7 All original poems in this section are taken from Popa's Nepocin-Polje (Belgrade: Nolit, 1980) . ^Pavlovic, p. 244 . 89 . 1 Popovic, p.13. 9 0 Edwin Morgan, "Vasko Popa," East European Poets (Walton Hall, Milton Keynes: The Open University Press, 1976), p.15. ^Cirlot, p.31. 9 2 See, for example, Durham's comments on "bone- reading," pp. 274-279 . 525 93 Paul Reps, ed., Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, trans. Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki (New York: Anchor Books, n.d.), p.xiv. 94 Cirlot, p.313. 95 Budge, op. cit., pp.326-327. 9 6 x Anna Balakian, Andre Breton: Magus of Surrealism (New York: Oxford University Press, 197.1), pp.253-254. 97 / Pavlovic, p.24 2. 98 Cirlot, p.94. 9 9 « - Andre Breton, Nadja, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Grove Press, 1982), p.160. ■^^Aleksandar Petrov, "Ironic Mythopoeists," Relations, No. 5/6 (1978), p.35. ^^All original poems in this section are taken from Popa's Sporedno nebo (Belgrade: Nolit, 19 80). 10 2 The "winged pipe" suggests, as well, a refer ence from Hindu tradition: the flute of Krishna which causes the birth of the world. ^~*The relevant passage is from Chapter LXXX: Bring it about that people will return to the use of the knotted rope, Will find relish in their food, And beauty in their clothes, Will be content in their abode And happy in the way they live. From Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, trans. D.C. Lau (Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1985), p.142. ^^Smith, p.38. 526 10 5 Cirlot, p.275. ■^^Reps , p . 88 . The Histories (Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1974), Herodotus also mentions the use of the lime tree in the divination rituals of the Scythians (p.29 2). Hence, the association of the lime tree and magical power could easily have been assimilated by the Slavic "Scythian Farmers"; this is made all the more likely by the fact that Slavic religious nomenclature bears a striking resemblance to that of Iranian religious terminology. This influence is noted by Jakobson, op. cit., for instance, who provides numerous examples and comments that in cases of such borrowings, "the direction is from Iranian to Slavic" (p.1025). 10 8 Marija Gimbutas, The Slavs (London: Thames and Hudson, 1971), p.162 109 Lazar Lazarovich-Hrebel]anovich, The Servian People: Their Past Glory and Their Destiny (New York: Charles Scribner and Sons, 1910), p.77. ^■^Stoianovich, pp. 38-39. ^■^^Milan G. Popovich, "The Religion of the Ancient Slavs and the Features of It Which Survived in the Christianity of the Serbs," diss. , University of Pittsburgh, 1939, pp.246-257. 112 In Mythology of All Races, 13 Vols. (Boston: Marshall Jones Company, 1918), Jan Machal writes that a mythic birth from the side or the armpit of the mother is common to many Slavic cultures, usually in association with the household god ^"domovoy"). Among the Czechs, this deity is called "Setek," and is believed to be born from an egg which has been carried for nine days^in the armpit; the same holds true for the Slovak "Skrata" and the Polish "Skrzatek," the only exception being that no length of time is specified (Vol. Ill, pp.244-245). Carl Gustav Jung and C. Kerenyi, writing in Essays on A Science of Mythology: The Myth of the Divine Child and the Mysteries of Eleusis (Princeton; Princeton University 527 Press, 1973), trans. R.F.C. Hull, report that the Vogul god, "The Man Who Looks at the World," was born from his mother's right armpit (p.30). In addition, Lao Tzu was said to have been born from his mother's armpit, and according to Mahayana Buddhists, Gautama Buddha entered the world similarly. ^^Ivan V. Lalic, "Poezija Vaska Pope," Knjizevnost, Vol. 4, No. 25/50 (1970), p.329. 114 Alexander, p.33. 115 See, for example, Richard Wilhelm, trans., The Secret of the Golden Flower: A Chinese Book of Life, commentary by C.G. Jung (New York: Harcourt Brace and Company, 19 3 2). In addition, in An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols (London: Thames and Hudson, 1978), J.C. Cooper reports the sunflower is: (l)a traditional Chinese symbol of longevity and magical powers--this would be compatible with the oriental influences in Popa's work; (2)emblematic of the sun god Mithra— associated with Bogomilism; and (3)a symbol of Clytie who became a sunflower when rejected by Apollo— also a sun god and linked to the Arcadian wolf cult (p.164). 116 ^ / Vladimir Kazic, Poezija i poetika Vaska Pope (Belgrade: Graficar, 1972), p.132. 117 Durham, p.13 2. 118 Vasa D. Mihailovich, "Vasko Popa: The Poetry of Things in A Void," Books Abroad, Vol. 43, No. 1 (1969), p.27. 119 The symbol of the ring is used, for example, in "The Death of the Jugovic Mother," mentioned above, and in "The Kosovo Maiden," both of which are included in Pennington and Levi's collection, op. cit. 120 Popovich, p.230. 121 Octavio Paz, The Bow and the Lyre, trans. Ruth L.C. Simms (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1956), p.51 528 122 All original poems in this section are taken from Popa's Uspravna zemlja (Belgrade: Nolit, 1980). 123 For a historical background of Mount Athos and the Hilandar monastery, see, for instance, Mateja Matejic, The Holy Mount and Hilandar Monastery (Columbus: Hilandar Research Project, 1983). 124 Tradition relates that the "third hand" was affixed to the icon by Saint John of Damascus (8th c.), whose own hand was cut off by the Turks. After pray ing to the icon, his hand was restored, and out of gratitude, he added a silver hand to the icon. Later, it was presented, to the Patriarch of Constantinople, who subsequently made a gift of it to the Serbian State. During the Ottoman occupation, fearing the plunder of religious relics, it was transferred to Hilandar; popular belief holds that the Serbs packed the icon on the back of a donkey, and the donkey miraculously found its way to Mount Athos and delivered it to the monastery. 125 For biographical information on Saint Sava, see, for example, Mateja Matejic, Biography of A Saint (Columbus: Kosovo Publishing Company, 19 75) . 126 Stoianovich, p. 145. 127 Ibid., p.10. 128 Durham cites several instances of the use of stones in superstitions, oaths, etc., pp.282-284. 129 Ins is also associated with the Arcadian wolf cult: When Leto was about to give birth to her twins, Iris was sent to Eilithyia— the goddess of birth— to induce her to help Leto during her labor. Hence, the rainbow may signify a facilitating agent. 130 ^ The relevant passage from Levi is as follows: "The magnetic state and polarisation of the heavenly bodies results from their equilibrated gravitation about the suns, which are the common reservoirs of their electro-magnetism. The vibration of the quin tessence about the common reservoirs manifests by 529 light, and the polarisation of light is revealed by- colours. White is the colour of the quintessence; this colour condenses towards its negative pole as blue and becomes fixed as black; while it condenses towards its.positive pole as yellow and becomes fixed as red. Thus centripetal life returns from red to black, following the same path. The four intermediates or mixed hues produce with the three primary colours what are called the seven colours of the prism and the solar spectrum. These seven colours form seven atmos pheres or seven luminous zones round each sun, and the planet which is dominant in each zone is magnetised in a manner analogous to the colour of its atmosphere. In the depths of the earth, metals are formed like planets in the sky, by the particular influences of a latent light which decomposes when traversing certain regions. To take possession of a subject in which the metallic light is latent, before it becomes specialised, and drive it to the extreme positive pole--that is to say, to the live red--by the help of a fire derived from the light itself— such is the secret in full of the Great Work" (pp.364-365) . 131^* 1 4 - Cirlot, p.6. 132 In The Goddesses and Gods of Old Europe (London; Thames and Hudson, 1982), Marija Gimbutas records that images of the Great Goddess in the shape of a bee have been found throughout Central Europe, and that, in fact, some of the earliest examples have been unearthed at archaeological sites in present-day Yugoslavia (p.184). 13 3 / Machal mentions this appellation (p.295). Petrovitch discusses the association of Perun with Saint Elias, and cites the folk song, "The Saints Divide the Treasures" ("Sreci blago dijele"), in which the Christian saints are assigned the personae and duties of the various pagan gods-(p.15, pp.195-197). "Ognjena Marija" is distinct from Mary, the mother of Christ in the song; she may be a vestigial figure of the neolithic Great Mother— "ognji^te" means "center hearth." Popovich also refers to this folk song; in addition, with regard to the appellation of "Gromovik" for Perun, Popovich notes that as late as the nineteenth century, werewolves were exorcised by reading over the grave of the person thought to be a werewolf from a book called "The Thunderer" (p.226). 530 One such example is "Li^anka" ("Young Girl from Lika"), a folk song from Lika, a region in northern Yugoslavia where the land is very poor and rocky: Tell me young girl. Tell, dear one, which town you are from that made you so beautiful. I compare you with the most beautiful flower. A Li^anka my mother bore me. On stones I was fed. Nature made me to be so beautiful and dear. V . s/ Kazi mem djevojcice mlada. Kazi mila iz kojeg si grada sto te tako ucinilo Ijepom. Poredim te sa najljepsim cvejetom. Li^anka me makja rodi. Na kamenu odhranila. Priroda je ucinila da sam tako ljepa mila. In addition, Popa's poem may also allude to a Rumanian folktale, "Why Does the Wolf Run After the Devil? or The Story of God, the Devil and the Stone," cited.in M. Gastner's Rumanian Bird and Beast Stories (Wiesbaden: Lessing-Druckerei, 1967), pp.84-85. In the story, God tricks the devil into being devoured by a stone which then turns into a wolf. 135t . , Levi, p.164. ■^^Cirlot, pp.54-55 . 137 ' Svetozar Koljevic in notes, Pennington and Levi, p.1. 13 8 For a discussion of this tragic encounter at Nis, see, for example, W.A. Morison, The Revolt of the Serbs Against the Turks (Cambridge! Cambridge University Press, 1942), or Petrovich or Temperley, both cited above. 531 139 Leften G. Stavrianos relates this incident in The Balkans Since 1453 (New York: Rinehart and Company, Inc., 19 58), pp.246-250. toianovich, p. 8. 141t, . , - Ibid., p .7. 142 In The Great Mother: An Analysis of the Archetype, trans. Ralph Manheim (New York: Pantheon Books, Inc., 1955), Erich Neumann includes a plate of a clay Bronze Age Goddess figure unearthed in Yugoslavia (Plate 20). The statue has long, flowing skirts, and Neumann notes that "its mouth and breasts are geometrized and represented by a starlike or sunlike symbol" (p.124). The statue was housed in the National Library in Belgrade, but lost during World War I. However, it is possible that Popa has seen surviving pictures of it, and is familiar with it (A copy of this plate is included in Appendix "C"). Moreover, although there is no female sun deity in the Slavic pantheon, the proliferation of sun symbols in various parts of Yugoslavia suggests that the sun cult is very ancient in that area. This appears to be substantiated by Durham*s discussion of sun symbolism (pp.101-131). 143 Hughes, p.8. 144 The word for "iris" in Serbo-Croatian is "perunika." Popa seems to identify the lame wolf with both Perun and Dabog here, as well as in other poems in this collection. 145 All original poems in this section are taken from Popa's Vucja so (Belgrade: Nolit, 1980) . 146 The story is called "Why the Wolf Is Ferocious or The Story of God, Saint Peter, and the Devil," and is found in Gastner, op. cit., pp.79-81. In it, when the devil scratches his head, he inad vertently pulls out three hairs which he puts between the wolf's eyes. They light up his eyes and make him look fierce, and it is from these hairs that the devil's fire was put into the wolf's eyes. 532 Gastner also includes another story, "Why Do the Eyes of the Wolf Glow and His Hair Bristle or The Story of the Wolf, God, and the Devil," in which the devil throws three of his hairs at the wolf to keep it from running after him; since then, the wolf has thick bristles and his eyes glow in the dark (pp.82-83). Kulisic et al. observe a similar folk belief involving three wolf hairs in the Serbian folk tradition (p. 82) . 147 Citing Procopius, in The Slavs, Gimbutas writes of these sacrifices which were made to Perun: "The cock was a frequent victim; the bull, bear, or he-goat was slaughtered only on great occasions. The animal is slain in order to be eaten, for he is filled with the holy manna of his patron god, made manifest in his whole living body. He is killed and eaten communally so that the group as a whole will be strengthened" (p.166). In addition, Herodotus mentions the blood drinking ritual of the Scythians (p.291). 148t • Levi, p.361. 149 / Kraljevic Marko was a fourteenth-century prince of Prilep, which is located in the present- day Yugoslav republic of Macedonia. Although Marko was in fact a Turkish vassal, this fact is largely glossed over in the numerous folktales which recount the fantastic adventures of this larger-than-life hero. In one of these tales, Marko is wounded in battle and a black eagle comes to his aid, bringing him cool water to drink from its beak. In another version, the bird is a gray hawk. This tale is included in Pennington and Levi's collection, and can also be found in Clarence A. Manning, Marko, The King's Son (New York: Robert M. McBride and Company, 1932) . ^^Alexander, p. 45. 151 This folktale can be found in Durham, p.142. 15 2 Popa, "The Secret of the Poem" ("Tajna Pesme") from "Notes about Poetry" ("Zapisci o pesni^tvu"), Kora, pp.131-132. Popa's attitude toward poetry recalls the whole oriental philosophical tradition: 533 "If you want to know what Buddhism is, practice it!" It calls to mind particularly the words of the Japanese poet, Basho: "Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise, you impose yourself on the object and do not learn. Your poetry issues of its own accord when you and the object have become one— when you have plunged deep enough into the object to see something like a hidden glimmering there. However well phrased your poetry may be, if your feeling is not natural--if the object and you are separate— then your poetry is not true poetry but merely your subjective counter feit" (cited by Philip Sherrard, The Wound of Greece: Studies in Neo-Hellenism (London: Rex Collings, 1978), p.110. 534 Chapter V More Signals from the Homeland 535 Let us sing and remember ourselves, others have forgotten us. — Miodrag Pavlovic 536 One of the most appealing features of the surrealist phenomenon is its flexibility, a point which Breton insisted upon from the very beginning. Commenting on the flexible, dynamic nature of surrealism, J.H. Matthews comments that although he advocated certain modes of poetic inquiry, Breton did not limit, and on the contrary, encouraged new methods of "prospecting the surreal."1 This theoretical position fostered a variety of styles among the French surrealist poets, and Serbian surrealism reflects a similar diversity. While the synthesis of archaic and modern elements which characterizes Serbian surrealism is basic to the poetry of all of the post-World War II poets addressed in this study, it has been articulated according to each poet's own unique aims and sensibilities. One of the most innovative applications is found in the poetry of Miodrag Pavlovic, who subjects surrealist imagery to a lucid, erudite intellectualism. i / t Pavlovic's intellectual orientation has been widely recognized by literary critics, and is frequently attributed to Western literary influences, particularly to the national literatures of America and England. Vasa Mihailovich observes in his work "a distinctly Anglo-Saxon way of conceiving, writing, and appreciating poetry,"2 and notes— as do other critics— the specific 537 influence of T.S. Eliot. Surrealism, then, provides a refreshing counterpoint to this cerebral approach, often resulting in a striking interplay between psyche and nous. Despite this intellectual approach, however, Pavlovic, like the other surrealist poets discussed here, incorporates many indigenous folkloric, mythological, historical and religious themes, and it is evidence of the vitality of the Serbian cultural tradition that in styles so diverse, these elements persist. Thomas Eekman has taken note of this fact, observing that "notwithstanding his universal aspect and his interest in Greek antiquity, [Pavlovich] is primarily a Serbian and Yugoslav poet."3 While the primary concern of this discussion is the isolation and identification of these surrealist and national elements in Pavlovich's work, in addressing these issues, it will be necessary to examine the intellectual aspect of his poetics, as well. Although a comprehensive analysis of this intellectualism would prove unwieldy for the present study, it must be considered to some degree in order to demonstrate the way in which it functions in concert with the surrealist and national features in his poetic schema. Therefore, in examining Pavlovic's poetry, I will focus on the following inquiries: First, what is the nature and extent of Pavlovic's 538 intellectualism? And second, what is the function of surrealism against this intellectual background? Although the constraints of the present study necessarily restrict the scope of my analysis, I believe that it is nevertheless possible to address the first inquiry I have indicated, i.e., the nature and extent of Pavlovich's intellectualism, with some measure of success. I say this only because I believe that the intellectual element in his poetry is not predominant, that is, that it functions in harmony with the other features of his work. Acknowledging the "long-standing romantic tradition" which dominated Serbian letters prior to World War II, Mihailovich writes that "Pavlovic was one of the first . . . to lead Serbian poetry away from romanticism toward a more disciplined, analytical, and intellectual approach."4 The word "approach" warrants particular attention here, for I believe it can be shown that it is his poetic approach as distinct from his poetic vision which constitutes Pavlovic's intellectualism. This approach is manifested in the consistent emotional restraint, analytical detachment and meditative tone which characterize his verses. In addition, there is also a quality of judicious 539 earnestness in his work which the reader finds reassuring. Pavlovic regards poetry as an arena of philosophical analysis in which the poet must be an objective but humane witness to the human continuum. Focusing on figures and events— both historical and mythical— which have shaped civilization, he meditates on their historical and cultural consequences, on the psychological and spiritual impulses which they embody, and on the moral dilemmas they imply. While maintaining a convincing objectivity, he assures us that we are a part of all of this, and that we, too, can survive and perhaps even triumph over the adversities of the human condition. In doing so, he proffers the wisdom of the ages in a concrete, immediate way which assists in daily life. This assistance, as Ljubomir Simovic* confirms, is one of the primary aims of Pavlovic's poetry: [I]ts subject matter is the everyday moment of human history, and in that moment, it will be not only a more or less beautifully shaped subject, but a wellspring of meditative actions, a court, the opposition, realization, and most of all, an aide in our assigned task.5 Thus, with quiet gravity, by identifying the timeless, universal parallels in the broad sweep of human existence, the poet makes contemporary existence coherent. 540 "A Beheaded Prince Remembers" ("Posecen knez se seca") will serve as an initial example of Pavlovic's approach. This poem also gives some indication of the relationship between Pavlovic's intellectualism and the national element in his poetry: In order to effectively and credibly address the matter of cultural consciousness, he assumes the role of a detached but not hostile inquisitor, carefully scrutinizing and weighing all possible aspects— both negative and positive— of the theme at hand. This objective, restrained approach enhances the national themes he addresses by demythifying, and consequently, humanizing them, and in fact, it is interesting to note that as Pavlovic's intellectual approach developed, his treatment of national themes increased. The present poem is based on the figure of the medieval Serbian hero, Knez (Prince) Lazar, discussed in previous chapters. Here, Pavlovic contemplates the significance of Knez Lazar's destiny and objectively examines the consequences of his death in the Battle of Kosovo: At my shining goatskin the Asian cavalry lunged like an avalanche of sand. From the hill the people saw the blade at my neck and the dove in flight behind it. I was beheaded and the dove caught in my throat, from my shoulders the blood flowed down to the church. 541 Bells rang out from the Atlantic seas and they carried my head to the south and to the north from the top of.spears to the top of the cupolas. Others searched for it amidst the stars as if it were an island and found it in the springs where our native words gurgle with the water. Bravely I bore death, but what kind of virtue was there in that? My neck remained like a dry tree stump in the field. A forerunner, they said of me, but with death I outstripped my word and is it really a virtue to set out along the fairer side of suffering with words unsaid?^ Na sjajnu moju kostret ustremila se konjica azijska ko usov peska. Sa brda je narod video se&ivo na mome vratu i goluba u letu za njim. Pose<5en bih, i golub mi zastade u grlu, crkvi se s ramena slivala 'krv. Zvona su zvonila s atlantskih mora, a glavu su moju nosili na jug i sever, s vrha kopalja na vrhove kubeta. Drugi su je trazili prema zvezdama kao da je ostrvo i nalazili je u kladencima gde s vodom rodne r e d grgolji. Hrabro sam podneo smrt, no kakva je u tome vrlina? Ostade vrat moj ko suvi panj u polju. Prete£a, reko^e mi, no smrcu sam i rec svoju pretekao, a zar je vrlina to sa recima neiskazanim niz lepsu stranu stradanja otici?7 542 It will be remembered that according to folk tradition, before the Battle of Kosovo, Saint Elias appeared to Knez Lazar in the form of a gray hawk carrying a dove on its back, and asked him to choose either an earthly crown or a heavenly one, and that the prince chose the latter. Tradition also holds that Saint Elias commanded Knez Lazar to erect a church at Kosovo so that the Serbian warriors could take the sacrament of holy communion before going to their deaths in battle; hence, the image of blood "flowing down to the church" has a concrete as well as an abstract reference. The sound of bells "from the Atlantic seas" is an allusion to Serbia's role as a political scapegoat; it refers to the countries of Western Europe which were the ultimate aim of the Ottoman invaders, and which were spared as a result of the Turks' preoccupation with the reorganization and administration of Serbia and other vanquished Balkan territories. A more positive consequence of these tragic events is also acknowledged here: The mythical transformation of Knez Lazar's death by both medieval and modern poets who memorialized him in the rich "springs" of their native language.8 The poet confronts two main issues in this poem: (l)the validity of Knez Lazar's sacrifice— that is, the "virtue" of his voluntary martyrdom, and by extension, 543 of the Serbian "cult of martyrdom," as well; and (2)the validity of the Christian church which served, in part, to inspire it. In his critical approach to this legendary hero, Pavlovic challenges the authority of cultural and religious tradition. However, he does not question national institutions because he wishes to divest them of their sacrality, but rather, because he is earnestly trying to discover the breadth and depth of the total reality of the theme at hand. In Pavlovic's view, there is an integral relationship between cultural and personal identity; hence, it is only by asking, "Who and what are you?" that he can answer the more immediate question, "Who and what am I?" Pavlovic's intellectualism cannot be interpreted as intellectualism in a strictly Western sense. While it is true that in his objective, intellectual poetic approach, he can be likened to a number of Anglo-Saxon poets, his vision of the world and of the function of poetry in it is quite different from theirs because Pavlovic's is an essentially Eastern world view. This difference in poetic vision can most readily be observed by comparing the cultural and psychological bases of Pavlovic's treatment of two important thematic elements, self-identity and the 544 perception of time, with those of his Anglo-Saxon counterparts. As-noted in previous chapters, Oriental cultures, or as in the case of Serbia, cultures which have assimilated Oriental values, tend to view self- identity as an actualization or becoming of the self. In this becoming, cultural tradition serves as a guideline, providing a broad spectrum of moral and spiritual examples which indicate what is attainable and what is of value within that culture. Hence, the actualization of personal identity is inextricably linked to cultural identity. In Serbia, this interdependent relationship has been reinforced considerably by the cultural suspension which resulted from the long Ottoman occupation. Writing about Greece, which suffered a similar fate' under the Ottoman hegemony— and whose literature, as I will illustrate in the following chapter, has much in common with that of Serbia— Phillip Sherrard acknowledges the influence of the Oriental element in Greek culture, and further, observes a similar response toward the matter of identity: [T]he question of identity in Greece has a specific dimension that makes it in many ways even more compelling than it is in other western 545 countries. This dimension is what one might call the ethnic dimension. If I am English or French, for instance, I am probably not particularly concerned with what it means to be English or French. I tend to take my Englishness or Frenchness for granted, and my search for identity is something in which I am engaged apart from ethnic categories. But for Greeks this is not the case: their search for identity tends in the first instance to take the form of an immense preoccupation with the question of what it means to be Greek. They cannot take their quality of Greekness for granted; and the result is that the discovery and exploration of Greece as the embodiment or personification of the values of hellenism is or tends to be a necessary and quite conclusive stage in the discovery and exploration of their personal identity.9 Sherrard attributes this interdependence of personal and cultural identities and the Greek's preoccupation with it to the centuries long imposition of various "artifical and alien creeds and images,” first by the Ottomans, and following the Greek War of Independence (1825), by the European West. Consequently: [The Greek] looks back and realizes that for the last 150 years or so his country has been sailing largely under foreign colours and in the name of foreign, non-Greek ideologies. He looks further back, before the western takeover, to see if he can discern himself in the mirror of the past, and what he confronts is a time-span of some 546 four hundred years in which to all intents and purposes he hardly appears on the stage of history at all: his presence is an absence, another loss of identity, of identity as a Greek, since, in a nutshell, for all these centuries there is no Greece. This means in effect that for the last 550 years, if not more, the modern Greek has possessed no historical identity, no country even that he can recognize unmistakably and unambiguously as his own.10 With the exception of the "western takeover," which it did not experience to any significant degree until the last few decades, and then, not to the same extent as that of Greece, Serbia's socio-political history for the past 500 years has been very much the same as that of Greece. Accordingly, just as a strong need to affirm what is authentically Greek developed in modern Greece, so, too, a similar development occurred in Serbia, and this is reflected in the national literature. Therefore, in the modern era, one of the main tasks of Serbian writers has been the reaffirmation and revalorization of indigenous cultural elements. The assimilation of foreign elements, on the other hand, has been minimal and highly selective. This is not to imply that the Serbian writer does not address universal issues; he does, but from a specific cultural 547 perspective, and it is this perspective which emerges in Pavlovic1s poetry. In contrast, Western man— and the Anglo-Saxon man in particular— does not evince the same urgent need to affirm his ethnicity, and as Sherrard notes, is more apt to simply take it for granted. Certainly it does not bear on the development of his personal identity to the degree that it does in a country such as Serbia where the natural progress of cultural development was for so long impeded by foreign invaders. In England, for example, or in America, the development of national identity has not been hindered to any significant degree by foreign interference, and these societies have been relatively free to develop their own cultural traditions. Furthermore, Western man. tends to regard the development of his personal identity as a construction rather than an actualization of the self. His concept of identity is that of a search "to find himself," as the ubiquitous cliche illustrates, and in carrying out this search, he freely investigates and adapts new values and ideals from a variety of sources— both domestic and foreign--according to his personal sensibilities. Consequently, these values and ideals tend to be merely accumulated rather than internalized, and this accumulation is based upon the individual's 548 needs rather than those of the social body. Tocqueville observes this phenomenon in American society, noting that although democracy liberates from the authority of tradition, it eliminates, as well, its wisdom; hence, tradition is reduced to mere information. He also points out that extreme individualism is endemic in such a society since, in the absence of a common tradition, each citizen creates his own.11 The notion of tradition in this type of society, then, remains flexible and relatively undefined. This holds true generally in the West, and particularly in Anglo-Saxon cultures which have an essentially pragmatic view of existence. In these cultures, although tradition is of considerable value, it signifies not so much the tradition of specific cultural values as it does the tradition of universal human values, that is, of abstract Western values rather than those of a particular ethnic heritage. Andrei Simic comments on this attitude in American culture: In opposition to more traditional cultures such as those of Greece, Chile and Yugoslavia with their numerous and mutually exclusive moral fields, contemporary American society tends to ideologically stress a more universalistic value system, institutionalized in both law and folk ethos.12 549 When values are embraced only ideologically, that is, without any immediate purpose or application, there is little appreciable internalization of them. Consequently, the path toward identity frequently becomes what Ananda K. Coomaraswamy characterizes as "a rudderless voyage”: East and West are at cross purposes only because the West is determined, i.e., at once resolved and economically 'determined' to keep on going it knows not where, and it calls the rudderless voyage 'Progress.'^ The identity which the Westerner ultimately develops, then, tends to be an amalgamation of unrelated elements which he has drawn from a wide range of diverse sources and assimilated at a relatively superficial level of consciousness. Hence, in literature he addresses universal themes, but generally from a highly abstract, often fragmented point of view. The disparity between the breadth and depth of his poetic vision occurs because it lacks focus; it lacks, in effect, a foundation. There is also a great difference in the perception of time between Eastern and Western cultures . As I discussed in Chapter II, Eastern cultures are polychronic, whereas in the West, the monochronic time 550 system prevails. In addition, Eliade's definition of a "modern” culture— as opposed to his "archaic" or "traditional" model— also discussed earlier, can, as Eliade indicates, be applied to most Western societies, and certainly to those of England and America. It will be recalled that according to this definition, modern man is dominated by profane, historical time and views his zone of existence within that temporal continuum as finite and irreducible. It is this monochronic, wholly historical vision of time, then, that is expressed in the literature of Anglo-Saxon cultures. In regarding the past, the poets of these cultures generally situate themselves in the present, frequently only as nostalgic, disengaged observers of the past. Hence, their poetry tends to intensify the temporal division between past and present. Pavlovic^, on the other hand, is grounded in a polychronic culture, a culture which, as previously noted, adheres to the "archaic" or "traditional" model indicated by Eliade. Characteristic of such cultures is the tendency to internalize history and myth, and it is this tendency toward internalization which is expressed in Pavlovic's poetry. He is not simply an overseer, but a participant who recognizes himself in every age and in every human situation. Thus, his poetry evinces a refreshing immediacy and an extraordinary sense of 551 engagement. He is not looking back at the past, but rather, peering out from it. This difference in the angle of vision is definitive: Whereas the Anglo-Saxon poets express an oppressive sense of displacement and alienation in the present, and a melancholy longing for the perfection and nobility of the past, Pavlovic bridges this temporal gulf through the poetic act. He accomplishes this through the personae of his poems who act as intercessors for humanity, which must traverse the wire of memory so tenuously strung between past and present. Through his personae, the boundless diversity and ultimate unity of the human procession is revealed; they are the directional markers along the mnemonic roadway which delivers the conscious, historical self to its sub-conscious, eternal self, to its "other." Thus, the contemporary, individual voice is not diminished but enriched by the past, as it resonates in the timeless collective voice of the human spirit. In effect, the past serves the present in its "becoming." This difference in perspective is not so much a matter of poetics as it is one of cultural orientation, and it is this cultural factor which identifies Pavlovic as a Serbian poet. Unlike the Western poets who view history as a finite, linear passage of time beyond their grasp, the Serbian poets derive from a culture which, as I have 552 discussed at length in Chapter II, sustained and was sustained by a view of existence which is characterized by a constant interpenetration of temporal zones— past, present and future— and which is, in effect, timeless and regenerative. Such a view engenders a sense of accessibility to and participation in all time, both sacred and profane, and gives the Serb a sense of place and purpose, that is, an identity in terms of eternal time, and thus provides a spiritual wellspring. It is this unique temporal perspective as manifested in Pavlovic's poetry that enables him to create what Bernard Johnson terms a "humanized view" of history and myth.14 And it is precisely this view which distinguishes Pavlovic from his Anglo-Saxon counterparts. In even the most cursory examination of modern English-speaking poets such as Auden, Pound and Eliot, it is immediately apparent that one of the dominant themes in their verse is the dissolution of civilization in the modern era. All of these poets seem to be amplifying in one way or another the stark vision of the future which Yeats expressed in 1920 in "The Second Coming": 553 Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;15 This theme of spiritual disintegration and displacement is echoed again and again— frequently in form as well as in content— in modern British and American poetry. It is present in the sterile atmosphere of Eliot's dry, disjointed landscapes, in Auden's ever increasing condemnation of modern society's complacency, and in Pound's perplexing collage poems in which literary and artistic allusions are strewn about like precious relics, often without any apparent connection. It continues to be a constant feature, as well, in more recent verse— in the lecture-poetry of John Cage, for instance, in which he asks the telling questions: "Do we have a mythology?/Would we know what to do if we had one?"16 For all of these poets, "the center cannot hold" because it has been gradually and insidiously eroded away by what Yeats called "all our scientific, democratic fact-finding heterogeneous civilization."17 The post-Renaissance West is by definition a spiritually disengaged civilization, and this disengagement is perhaps most clearly illustrated in modern American and British poetry. These poets are the logical issue of the compulsively pragmatic, highly industrialized, 554 pluralistic societies from which they sprang, societies which have long eschewed the intuitive in favor of the intellectual faculty, the imaginative impulse in favor of scientific inquiry, and the spiritual wisdom of the past in deference to the convenient materialism of the present. F.R. Leavis writes that the "rich disorganization" of Eliot's "The Waste Land" accurately depicts the situation of modern Western civilization, which has been dramatically affected by the intermingling of cultural traditions and the continuous and often disorienting changes brought about by the Machine Age— conditions which, it should be noted, were perhaps most apparent in early twentieth-century America and England: The result is a breach of continuity and the uprooting of life. This last metaphor has a peculiar aptness, for what we are witnessing today is the final uprooting of the immemorial ways of life, of life rooted in the soil.18 In societies which have fallen away from "the immemorial ways of life," away from "the soil," traditional values are readily discarded in favor of a seemingly endless array of new moral and philosophical propositions, and the social covenant— at best, a tenuous and rather 555 nebulous entity— is regularly subjugated to the needs and desires of the individual. Lacking a common, continuous, unifying ethos, such societies are soon handicapped by a profound sense of "disconnectedness," and as Sherrard argues, ultimately discover that they have sustained a tragic cultural loss: It is in ages and places, and in societies, for which the over-riding authority of a particular religious tradition ceases to be effective, that the emphasis shifts and man finds himself confronted by the question of his identity without the traditional guidelines. What now tends to happen is that he is faced with dozens of alternatives, dozens of images, often conflicting and each claiming his recognition of its superiority. This is roughly what has happened in our own age in Europe, or in the West generally, though under the influence of the West it is now happening practically everywhere else as well. The authority of the particular religious tradition— in the case of the West, the authority of the Christian tradition— in which man's nature and his place in the universal scheme of things were clearly articulated, has broken down, and in its place various other theories, which generally regard man' as a more or less self-contained and autonomous being, compete to fill the gap. Thus, in the West, there are the theories of Darwin, or Marx, or Freud, or of countless other philosophers, scientists, psychologists and even sociologists. All these anthropologies jostle for attention. The result is that man— modern man— now finds that his ancestral universe, his spiritual 556 cosmos, has been shattered into a thousand fragments and that he is left helpless and disoriented, the victim of the most terrifying psychoses. With no clear image of what or who he is, he is pulled this way and that by these conflicting theories.19 However, Sherrard continues, in their attempts to come to terms with these problems, Western writers have often only succeeded in exacerbating them further by elevating spiritual vacuity to a sort of pseudo-sacred level: No longer able to live inwardly, in an inner spiritual dimension which is reflected in the environment it creates around itself, the soul is inevitably projected outwards, handed over, defenceless and unconscious, to the world of things, the world of sensation and nervous stimulation; and as a substitute for the life it has lost it flings itself into this world and alienates its being within it. The only real way out of this situation is for the soul to reverse direction, to turn in on to itself and to try to reconquer its lost spiritual cosmos from within. This above all should be the task of the poets. But instead of trying to do this, many western poets over the last hundred odd years have tended to do the opposite. They have tended, almost willfully one feels, to embrace their psychoses, to cultivate them with an obscure delight and terror— it was Baudelaire who spoke of 'the cultivation of one's hysteria with delight and terror.' They have in fact surrendered to what [Odysseus] Elytis calls 'the seductive appeal of suffering, the idolization of 557 what is slightly sick, the exhibitionism of despair.'20 This "exhibitionism of despair" is certainly evident in Eliot; indeed, it is the mainspring of his entire opus. It is completely absent in Pavlovic's work, however. Using the example of Eliot as a basis of comparison, I will try to illustrate two fundamental differences between the two poets, differences which I believe are rooted in their divergent views of self- identity and time as discussed above. First, Pavlovic's world view is essentially hopeful. His objectivity and emotional restraint are matched only by his purposeful direction and his profoundly humanistic view of existence. This deep optimism is apparent even in his treatment of the most tragic themes, such as, for instance, "Lament for Smederevo" ("Oplakivanje Smedereva"), which recounts the Ottomans' taking of the only remaining Serbian fortress on the Danube in 1459; the fall of Smederevo destroyed the last hope of an independent Serbian State: We are left without a city and without laws, the city fell. We don't know where our land begins, but its end is everywhere. The fortress walls with our names have fallen, the river carried them away. 558 Armies and travelers pass by us, but no one comes toward us. There will be no more beautiful cities in our land. We wish for long nights and deep forests where there is sight without eyes. Let us sing and remember ourselves, others have forgotten us. Let the law of the constant heart reign beside the fallen city. Ostadosmo bez grada i bez zakona, grad je pao. Ne znamo gde nam poc^inje zemlja, a svuda je kraj. Zidine s imenima nasim pado£e, reka ih odnela. Vojske i putnici preko nas prolaze, niko da k nama dode. Nece vise lepih gradova biti na zemlji nasoj. Noci duga£ke zelimo i sume duboke gde ima vida i bez o£iju. Da pevamo i da se sami sebe secamof drugi su nas zaboravili. I zakon trajnog srca neka vlada kraj srusenoga grada. Despite the crushing defeat, hope is nevertheless implied in the "law of the constant heart,"21 and purpose, as well, in the directive to "sing and remember ourselves." If Pavlovic's intellectual orientation creates a certain measure of disciplined detachment in 559 his tone, it does not necessarily connote a lack passion. On the contrary, there is a feeling of genuine concern and hope in Pavlovic's writing which extends to all of the human race. If his emotional restraint tends toward depersonalization, it is not because he lacks faith in humanity, but because that faith must not be allowed to impede his moral objective, which is to determine as clearly as possible what the terms of reality actually are. Although Mihailovich feels that the depersonalization in Pavlovic's poetry seems to echo Eliot's theory of poetry as "an escape from emotion," he also acknowledges that: [Pavlovic] is not devoid of emotions; they are hidden and subjected to the main objectives of his poetry. . . . Thus, in his efforts to depersonalize poetry, Pavlovic keeps the individual in the background while interceding passionately on his behalf.22 Indeed, Pavlovic's verses reveal a spiritual vigor which is wholly absent in the bleak tedium of Eliot's arid landscapes. Unlike Eliot, he does not envision existence as a series of'disjointed, aimless sojourns through one "unreal city" after another, but rather as the "hunger of beginning" in a city which is always "arriving," and he affirms, "I have hope for this city" ("The Defense of Our City") ("Odbrana naSeg grada"). 560 Secondly, Eliot's "exhibitionism of despair" is primarily a result of his profound sense of disconnectedness from both past and present. Pavlovic1s work does not evince this same sort of alienation, however, and this illustrates an essential difference in his poetic vision. This difference can be accounted for in large part by the poets' respective cultural orientations. Eliot reflects on the past with dry precision, dredging up the glories of antiquity- mythical as well as historical— only to further delineate the spiritual "waste land" of the present. Pavlovic, on the other hand, meditates on the past in order— in Sherrard's terms— to "reconquer the lost spiritual cosmos from within," "reading" it as if it were some essential codex which provides the only means of coming to terms with contemporary existence. The distinction here between poetic reflection and poetic meditation is crucial: "Reflect," it should be noted, is derived from the Latin "reflectere"— "to bend back"-- while the Latin root of "meditate" — "meditari": — is related to the Old English "metan"— "to measure." Reflection suggests distance, finality and even distortion, whereas meditation implies immediacy, continuity and exacting, purposeful comparison. Octavio 561 Paz has succinctly delineated this conceptual difference: Reflection is an extreme and total process: the word turns upon itself and denies itself a meaning in the world, to denote only its own meaning and thus to annul itself. We owe to poetic reflection some of the cardinal texts of modern Western poetry, poems in which our history is at once assumed and consumed: negation of itself and of traditional meanings, an attempt to establish another meaning. In contrast, he continues, poetic meditation is "not an abyss but a bridge": Meditation: mediation. The word expresses the distance between what I am and what I am being; at the same time, it is the only way of transcending that distance. By means of the word my life is arrested without pausing and sees itself seeing itself; by means of it I catch up with myself and pass myself by, and contemplate myself and turn into someone else--another mvself who taunts my misery and in whose taunt my entire redemption is summarized. It is this matter of identity, i.e., the actualization of that "other self," and the recognition that it is somehow related to "redemption," which impels Pavlovic's poetic. This vision diverges radically from Eliot's. Eliot is an exile from the past. He seems to regard the past as a remote, inaccessible chain of historical 562 events to which he has no authentic claim. The great achievements of past civilizations only serve to emphasize the disintegration and triviality of the modern world, a world which mocks those achievements with its interminable banality and inertia. Time itself— the abundance of it— overwhelms and disturbs him. This is evident in the impotent persona of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," whose despair is largely the result of what he conceives to be the hostile, suffocating, vacuous presence of time: And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.24 and in the sheer weight of these lines from "Burnt Norton": Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable.25 563 What Eliot expresses here is the antithesis of Pavlovic*s concept of time. In spite of his condemnation of it, however, Eliot's identity remains inextricably bound to the modern world he so decries. He attempts to escape— to transcend— that identity through the invocation of myth and history, resorting, in "The Waste Land," to an imposing range of sources which includes everything from Biblical texts, The Grail Legend, Dante, Shakespeare, Ovid,. Baudelaire and Nerval, etc. to the Upanishads and esoteric birdlore.26 The sheer number of symbols creates what Marjorie Perloff calls "a reverberating echo chamber of meanings."27 Yet none of these echoes quite suffices for a human voice, and in the end, the many borrowings simply do not ring true. Though a unique and perhaps brilliant attempt at symbolic collage, "The Waste Land" nevertheless gives the impression of a contrived piece of work. It is a work of poetic reflection rather than one of meditation, an artful perusal of the past rather than a considered entreaty to it, a panoramic enumeration of the long relinquished "immemorial ways of life" rather than a genuine contemplation of a vital cultural heritage. But art is more than intellectual exercise. Comparing the modern Greek writers's treatment of myth with that of 564 his Western counterpart, Kimon Friar observes that "there is a vast difference in the use of such myths and motifs," and cites the disparity of cultural foundations: [Western] authors have come into the Greek tradition by conscious education and application, by an attempt, in the Western world at least, to touch deep sources which have permeated their civilizations. Poets, of which Eliot and Pound are the most obvious examples for the English-speaking world, use classical myth with great sophistication and dexterity, but as elaborate attainments mixed with borrowings from many other traditions. Although their poems display a rich foilage of fruit and flowers in a many-branched tree, it seems in danger of toppling because the plant is not deeply rooted. The difference is that between tradition attained by application and education and that suckled through the bloodstream by racial memory in an indigenous environment of landscape and inscape. The Western world has made Greek myth part of its culture, but only the Greek himself, of whatever time, may use it with validity, not as the trappings of an outmoded religion, but as symbols still alive in the memory and emotions of its people.28 The integrity of self-identity in a culture which attains to tradition through "application and education" must, of necessity, be present to a lesser degree than that of one in which tradition has been "suckled through 565 the bloodstream by racial memory," and this cannot help but bear on the literature of that culture. America has attempted to remedy this lack of a native culture through geographic expansion— formalized in the Doctrine of Manifest Destiny— and technological advancements— accelerated by the momentum of the Industrial Revolution— and, through the principle of the "melting pot," has popularly parlayed its cultural deficit into a sociological asset. For a time, these maneuvers were viewed as successful. However, the current resurgence of racism and the staggering crime rate in the United States— which Joseph Campbell flatly attributes to the fact that "America has no ethos"29— seem to indicate that grand ideals and technological accomplishments do not necessarily constitute a culture, sadly bearing out William Carlos Williams' judgment that the present cultural vacuum is only the wholly predictable outcome of America's Puritan origins: The Pilgrims, they, the seed, instead of growing, looked black at the world and damning its perfections, praised a zero in themselves,30 Williams was one of the American avantgarde group of writers and artists who recognized the implications of a cultural void and attempted to address it directly by 5 66 exploring indigenous themes in bold, fresh forms and techniques; keenly aware of what Dickran Tashjian terms "the social and artistic lacunae in their lives. . . . They needed to create a social fabric for themselves in which they might develop— invent? discover?— a cultural design."31 The author of "The Waste Land," however, like so many Anglo-Saxon poets, attempts to construct a poetic edifice on the "zero" of his Puritan ancestors, and while he no longer finds it necessary to damn the world's perfections, he does readily appropriate them at will. Despite his lavish effort to overcome his rootless, modern urban American origins, he is nevertheless very much what his materialistic, heterogenous society has conditioned him to be: a consumer of history and myth, and a clearinghouse of cultural fragments.32 In contrast to Eliot, Pavlovic approaches the past with a deep sense of connection because he has internalized his ancient heritage. This internalization has been greatly facilitated by his awareness of eternal time. Pavlovic's cultural orientation has fostered a concept of time which is regenerative; hence temporal barriers are easily annulled. Consequently, Pavlovic is attuned to the deeper reality of eternal time, and as he demonstrates in "Balkan Itinerary" ("Balkanski 567 putopis"), that acuity is an essential element of his poetic vision: Go slowly through small churches not asking the way, greet the wooden hands of saints drenched in blood and milk, look at the quivering of white snakes beneath the arches of the mosques adjust your time to the wall clocks of eternity, bow low beneath the midnight bells transparent and heavy like stars they fall on your helmet, in the forest of tall roses sit down with the great craftsmen let them reshape your face with a gentle chisel. Then to the mountains! To the goblets of giants filled with ice and the frozen balconies of mist Then turn around and look below at the coursing of mad forests and beasts more savage than the wind, there are no people on that desolate horizon, nor tall buildings, no one has arrived here yet, nothing has yet been created here, no gathering of voices, nor of rivers! All you have seen in the Balkans has been only a vision— boats on the dark seas of first beginning. Polako idi kroz male crkve ne pltajuci za put, pozdravi se s drvenim rukama svetaca ogrezlim u krv i mleko, gledaj u svodovima d$amija drhtanje bellh zmija, podesi svoje vreme po kucnim satovima ve£nosti, sagni se pod ponocnim zvonjavama bistrim i te^kim kao da ti zvezde gadaju na slem, u sumi velikih ruza posedi s majstorima neka ti neznim dletom promene Ilk. Onda u planine! Do divovskih £asa punih leda 1 studenih cardaka magle. Tad se obazri 1 pogledaj dole te trke ludlh suma 1 zveri besnje od vetra, na pustosnom vidlku naroda nema ni vitkih zdanja, jo£ nlko tu nije stigao, jos ni£ta tu nije stvoreno, ni sabor glasova, ni reke! Sve sto si video na Balkanu behu samo privid— lade na mrkoj pucini prapocfetka. It is this recognition of eternal time, then, which gives Pavlovic' ready access to the past, and ultimately, to the actualization of his own identity. As noted in Chapter II, the ancestral continuum is not so remote a thing to the modern Serb; it is his primary moral reference. The Serb is immediately involved in this continuum, and considers himself obligated to contribute to its preservation and constructive evolution. For it is through his participation in it that the "other self" attains to being, and that the "redemption" which Paz speaks of can be achieved. Thus it is incumbent upon Pavlovic not merely to exalt the past, but to strive to give it concrete definition in the present, that is, not merely to consume, but to enrich it in an immediate, personal way, since in the Serbian context, it is only by affirming cultural 569 identity that the total identity of the individual can be actualized. In this effort, since history and myth constitute a living, integral part of his cultural tradition, Pavlovic incorporates numerous historical and mythical themes, and his treatment of these themes reflects this sense of obligation to and participation in the cultural continuum. In "The Thessalonika Brothers" ("Solunska braca"), for instance, he acknowledges the cultural contribution of Cyril (also known as Constantine) (827-869) and Methodius (815-885), the two Greek missionaires who, using the Slavic Glagolithic alphabet created by Cyril, translated various religious texts in order to educate the Slavs and facilitate their conversion to Christianity.33 The main point of the poem, however, is contained in the final lines, which is really an exhortation to the Slavs to make a like contribution: Like two inseparable greyhounds Going out among the Slavs to hunt them in twin nets, with the wind they set out from Thessalonika two Dioscura, up the hillsides of an unknown people who sing and curse a lot but speak little And readily they see how the Balkan sleeps with full stomach and long nails and everything itches him, in his hair forest fires and fallow fields, Asiatic horses fly across his ribs, in his lips flutes like long spears. Here through the black walnut of the Balkan skull the brothers pass like shadows and cosmopolitans beneath their epitrachelion, they go through caves where human fish struggle, touching from the inside temporal veins sizzling like a horse's rump and on the right they hear what the Bulgarians plot and on the left how the Serbians bicker, but they, the Greeks, gentle and Cyrillic, embrace two revolving stars, they bring into order the gifts of words dark green like marine plants, of barehanded ascensions, from village to village they offer their hearts like salt and yeast for the Slavic dough Moonlight. In the forest the vilas echo they say the alphabet and count the words, the lights of the Meander pass through the branches and follow ancient satraps of meaning as they sow signs for the sleepy tribe and open springs of milk with the sky. What will the Balkans give in return, wars or a fresco? Kao dva nerazdvojna hrta zadtose medT Slovene da ih love u blizana£ke mre£e, po vetru su posll Iz Soluna dva Dioscura,- uz obronke naroda neznanih £to mnogo pevaju i psuju a malo slove. I lepo vide kako Balkan spava s punlm trbuhom, noktiju duglh i sve ga neSto svrbi, u kosi mu £umski poSari 1 ugari, azijski konji lete preko rebra, u ustima frule duga&ke kao koplja. Tu kroz crni orah balkanske lobanje prolaze braca kao senke pod epitrahiljem 1 kosmopoliti, idu kroz pecine gde se batrga covecija ribica, dodiruju iznutra slepoocne Sile vrele kao konjske sapi 1 £uju desno Sta kuju Bugari i levo kako se svacTaju Srbi, a oni, Grcif krotki i cirilski, zagrljene dve prevratne zvezde, nose u naruSju darove slova, tamno zelena ko primorsko bilje, anabaza golorukih, od sela do sela nude svoje srce kao so i kvasac za slovensko testo. MeseSina. Odzivlju se vile u lesu, kazu Azr 1 glagole broje, svetlosni meandrl idu preko granja i prate arhisatrape znanja kako seju znake za sanjiva plemena i nebom otvaraju izvore mleka. St a 11 ce Balkan da uzdari ratove 11 fresku? This poem does not evoke nostalgia for, but rather, the mobilization of one's cultural resources. Combining history with myth, in this poem, Pavlovic uses the legend of Castor and Pollux as a metaphor for the brothers from Thessalonika. Various aspects of the Dioscura are interwoven throughout the poem: The Dioscura were revered by mariners— as suggested by the nets the brothers carry to hunt "human fish," as well a by their "gift of words/dark green like marine plants"- and equestrians— the temporal veins, and by extension the mind, are likened to the energetic, spontaneous 572 nature of the equine (Moreover, the ancient Slavs, like their Scythian neighbors, were reputed to be skilled horse breeders and riders34)— and, of course, the constellation Gemini— the "two revolving stars"— is named for them. Pavlovic^ creates a primordial world, whose inhabitants are characterized as savages who possess a powerful but unarticulated imagination and an abundance of raw, unchanneled strength and energy. Into this wild, dark, enclosed world, the brothers bring the Hellenic light of knowledge, which, as Pavlovic alludes to here, had its first origins in Asia Minor near the mouth of the Meander river in cities like Miletus (the birthplace of Thales, Anaximander, and Hecataeus), Epheseus (the birthplace of Heracleitus), and the island of Samos (the birthplace of Pythagoras). With this light, the Slavs will discover not only the Christian god, but the world and themselves as well, for the brothers are cosmopolitans as well as clerics (The epitrachelion, one of the most essential vestments of the Orthodox clergy, is the stole worn by priests without which they are forbidden to perform any rituals). The apostles "sow signs" and "open springs of milk," but what will the Slavs make of these gifts? Will they cultivate and harvest these signs? Will they squander the milk of the skies? The poem infers an 573 obligatory moral imperative to actively assume responsibility for the cultural heritage with which one has been entrusted. Such an imperative can be met through the awareness that cultural heritage, however rich, retains its vitality only through the conscious, consistent efforts of the individual to express and build upon it in daily life, only insofar as each generation strives to nurture and actualize its total cultural worth. Furthermore, it implies that if that imperative is evaded, culture becomes mere artifact, and any show of reverence for it or for those from whom it emanates is reduced, in effect, to nothing more than an empty homage to fossilized ideals. This concept of history is diametrically opposed to Eliot's. Whereas Eliot invokes history and myth as a static display of cultural accomplishments in an effort to transcend his individual identity, Pavlovic's portrayal is dynamic; he defers to history and myth in order to affirm, that is, to meditate on what, by virtue of his cultural heritage, is his implicit total identity. For him, such themes represent the moral and spiritual pillars of that cultural heritage. They provide the eternal behavioral models upon which, as Eliade asserts, the archaic or traditional man patterns his life: 574 What does living mean for a man who belongs to a traditional culture? Above all, it means living in accordance with extrahuman models, in conformity with archetypes. Hence it means living at the heart of the real since . . . there is nothing truly real except the archetypes. Living in conformity with the archetypes amounted to respecting the 'law,' since the law was only a primordial hierophany, the revelation in illo tempore of the norms of existence, a disclosure by a divinity or a mystical being.35 When Pavlovic examines the destiny of one such archetype in "Epitaph for the First Slav Poet" ("Epitaf slovenskog prapesnika"), which takes as its theme the tumultous transition from pagan to Christian religious authority, one senses his desire to fulfill the prophecy of this racial ancestor: Because of our old songs in this new faith I'm called a heretic and a devil. They plucked out the ancient melodies like weeds to strengthen their church, and they hated me! I passed into misery, and was buried in darkness, they dream I am a magician, but I didn't rise from the grave! Nor do I arise now when they awaken me— is it the last judgment or what— into my gnawed ears they shout: Arise pagan and gather up your body! And where can I find it, I ask, it's not so easy to remember the body frame in this mind shattering din. Angels, put away your trumpets, stop trampling my grave with your spurs you heavenly warriors! I'm staying where I am in the soil of my own tongue, I won't be judged by your legal councils nor thrown out beneath the open skies on the cold sleeve of eternity. Let others go before their god, my hole is good for me, the earth is like a rune and bones secretly bear fruit in singing Zbog starlh naSlh pesama u novoj me ovoj veri otpadnikom 1 vragom nazvase. Stare su napeve kao burjan trgali ne bi 11 crkva tvrde 1m stajala, 1 mrzell su na mene! U bedni minuh, po mraku sahranjen, ko carobnjaka me snevaju, ne ustah ja Iz groba! Nl sada ne ustajem kad me bude— strasni sud li je, sta 11 je— kroz progrlzene u£l ml vi£u: Ustani nekrste 1 telo svoje pokupl! A gde da ga nadem, pi tarn ja, zar je lako setltl se telesne grade u buci koja ru£l lagume lobanje. Otklonlte svoje trube andell, mamuzama ne gazlte po humci mojoj vojnlcl nebeskl! Ja ostajem gde sam u zemljl jezlka mog, necu da ml se na va£lm saborlma sudl, nl da me pod otvorena nebesa baclte na hladno re£eto ve£nostl. Drugl nek Idu bogu na Istlnu, meni je moja rup6aga dobra, zemlja je ko runo 1 kostl u potaji pevanjem se plode. 576 Implicit in the younger poet's lines is his wish to "conform" by emulating the archetypal model, that is, to imbue the myth with new relevancy through concrete, immediate expression. It is up to Pavlovic to hear the song of the bones and translate it into meaningful, contemporary speech— to make them "bear fruit"— which will validate the ancestral spirit. He must salvage the old poet’s "ancient melodies" and decipher them, and considers it his obligation as a poet to do so. He must dig into the "rune" of his native soil and fertilize it once again with his own songs, for only in that way will he be able to realize his personal and cultural identity. In other words, he must "visit" the ancestor in order to confront himself (The fact that Pavlovic regards him as an ancestor is emphasized by the noun "prapesnik"— literally, "protopoet"— used in the title; since the prefix "pra" is used primarily to indicate familiar relationships such as "prababa"— "greatgrandmother" and "pradeda"— "greatgrandfather," etc., this noun choice lends a certain intimacy to the atmosphere of the poem). For it is only through earnest meditation of and deference to these eternal, or to use Eliade's term, "extrahuman" models— the only "truly real" sources of mor^l and spiritual direction— that Pavlovic can hope to affirm his own total individual 577 identity. But such an endeavor is of value only if these models have been internalized, that is, only in a culture in which tradition has been "suckled through the bloodstream by racial memory." Having provided what I hope is a clearer understanding of Pavlovic1s intellectualism, I can now turn to my second inquiry: The function of the surrealist element in Pavlovic's poetry, and its relationship to his intellectual approach. As I have tried to show in previous chapters, Serbian culture, like other archaic or traditional cultures, is still very cognizant of its essential cosmic links. Consequently, the Serb has maintained an unusually fertile and accessible psychic field, which cannot be entirely suppressed even when the forces of the nous are brought to bear against it. Indeed, this imaginative wellspring motivates and supports much of his intellectual activity, and has provided a rich storehouse of archetypal and mythical patterns and images which for centuries have found literary expression in Serbian folk tales, poems, songs, proverbs, etc. In this psychic field, the authentic self reigns, timeless and pristine, carrying out its intercourse with the cosmos unimpeded by the limitations 578 and restraints of the conscious mind. Here, reality is ordered by the sub-conscious or "whole" self which Jung associates with the dream world: The dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and secret recesses of the soul, opening into that cosmic night which was psyche long before there was any ego-consciousness, and which will remain psyche no matter how far our ego-consciousness may extend. For all ego-consciousness is isolated: it separates and discriminates, knows only particulars, and sees only what can be related to the ego. Its essence is limitation, though it reach to the farthest nebulae among the stars. All consciousness separates; but in dreams we put on the likeness of that more universal, truer, more eternal man dwelling in the darkness of primordial night. There he is still the whole, and the whole is in him, indistinguishable from nature and bare of all egohood.36 This authentic self constantly seeks expression. In the dream world, it speaks to us about the conditions of the psychic field in which it resides, using patterns and images that we have come to regard as archetypal or mythical, and which, in the atmosphere of the dream, seem to us to be the essence of its wholeness, but in the light of day, appear altogether incoherent and uninterpretable. Since, in the Serb, the psychic field is highly accessible, the need to express the images presented there is all the more urgent, and this urgency 579 has engendered a certain propensity or impulse for thinking and expressing himself in archetypal or mythical terms (It is significant that the word "san," which means both "sleep" and "dream" in Serbo-Croatian, is etymologically related to the Sanskrit "san," meaning "whole" or "entire"). Serbian folk literature has traditionally provided an effective outlet for this expression, reconciling, and indeed, enhancing these apparently incongruous images in a myriad of imaginative stories, riddles, spells, etc., and in this way, translating the cosmic discourse of the psychic field into functional terms that aid in everyday life. Contemporary Serbian writers have evinced this predisposition for mythic or cosmic expression in what Kadic identifies as the "cosmic tendency" in modern Serbian literature.37 The surrealist process is also an efficacious means of expressing this tendency: The aim of surrealism is to reach the supreme point, and in this effort, it seeks to penetrate the psychic field and "deliver" the conditions of that field through the vehicle of the image. Hence, surrealism has been readily adapted by modern Serbian poets for whom the conditions of the psychic field readily rise to the surface in any event. They have used the surrealist 580 image to express what for them is a natural impulse toward the cosmic.. And this is the case with Pavlovic*. Two distinct "ways" of surrealism are reflected in Pavlovichs poetry. The first occurs in his early verse which is concerned primarily with the trauma and anxiety of the war. This surrealist treatment conforms closely to the French model. Later, beginning with his third volume, he evinced a more objective, intellectual poetic approach, and the surrealist element which had been predominant in his first two volumes became much more subtle, subjected now to the poet’s analytical aims. While any attempt to determine the cause of this radical modification in his style would be necessarily speculative, the development of Pavlovic's poetry does provide some clues. "Apocalypse is a poetic idea," writes Pavlovic^, and he continues: Through poetry and prophecy, the intuition has come down to us that the world must have its own end, that existence ends in non existence, that above being rises non-being, that the final phenomenon of God as the highest reality provides proof of the unreality of everything we considered indisputably real.38 581 This vision of apocalypse is borne out in the poetic atmosphere of Pavlovicrs first two verse collections 87 Poems (87 Pesama) (1952) and Pillar of Memory (Stub secanja) (1953), although it is somewhat attenuated in the latter volume. Mihailovich concurs that the "predilection for the bleak, almost tragic side of life" is most apparent in these two collections.39 Written during the post-World War II period, these poems depict the sense of "unreality" which lingers in the poet's psyche even after the war's end. Human integrity has been shattered by the chaos, destruction and darkness of that time, and a profound sense of disorientation permeates all human activity and thought. Of these first two volumes, Simovic^ writes: Nothing in that darkness is perceived whole, everything is only torso and fragment, everything except that terrible and complete annulment.40 Even the title, 87 Poems, with no unifying theme, reflects this sense of fragmentation and disorientation, and it is apparent, as well, in the structure and themes of these early texts. Brief aphoristic bursts of motion, they have perhaps been most accurately described by Aleksandar Petrov as "a rigorously controlled chain of tense explosions."41 With syntax so truncated that, 582 as SimovicT remarks, in some cases, they present not sentences, but remnants of sentences, these poems mirror the overwhelming disorder and destruction of the war- torn physical world in images which are composed of incongruous juxtapositions of objects and events the poet has experienced in that world. The dominant theme, as Johnson notes, is "that irrational fear of imminent but unforeseeable disaster which was the traumatic legacy of war for [Pavlovicfs] generation."42 "Whirlwind" ("Vihor") is representative of the poems in 87 Poems: I awake over the bed a storm Ripe cherries fall into the mud In the little boat disheveled women cry for help A whirlwind of malicious fingernails chokes the dead Soon nothing will be known about that Probudim se nad krevetom oluja Padaju zrele vi£nje u blato U &amcu zapomazu ras£upane zene 583 Vihor zluradih noktiju davi mrtvace Uskoro o tome ni Sta se nece znati This poem is also typical of the entire collection in that it bears all the earmarks of a surrealist text in the conventional French style. There is no apparent attempt at subject unity; the flow of images seems to be spontaneous or "automatic." The poem reveals hallucinatory images (stanzas 1 and 3), and in fact, the entire poem evokes the impression of a hallucination or a nightmare. In the second line of the poem, the absence of a verb is also characteristic of the French surrealist poets who, in an effort to place emphasis on the nouns as well as to engage the reader, frequently used simple verbs or omitted the verb altogether. In this same vein, the lack of transition words in the poem— with the possible exception of "Soon" in the last stanza— is also indicative of the French model since transition words were thought to hinder the reader's flexibility in interpreting a poem. A negation of elementary physical properties is implied in the first stanza in which a storm erupts not in the heavens, but indoors "over the bed." Finally, the last stanza seems to imply a hidden term: Why is it that "nothing will be known"? Does it indicate a negative or a positive outcome? Is it because society tends to suppress its moral transgressions? Or is it because the poet feels that he will soon be able to put the horror of this nightmare behind him? This kind of elliptical ending also a regular feature of surrealist texts. Although the title infers some degree of subject unity, "Death of A Hen" ("Na smrt jedne koke") also adheres in large part to the surrealist technique A bound hen hangs by a leg from a cloud without a head Blood in the toilet bowl Hand in hand two knives play on the piano Feathers in a cushion will exonerate our unfledged necks Koko^ka vezana za nogu vlsi iz oblaka bez glave Krv u klozetskoj solji Ruka uz ruku dva no$a sviraju na klaviru Perje u jastuku oprostice na£im goluZdravim vratovima as does "Suicide" ("Samoubica") A meadow of blood flows from this hand 585 A blinded bird sings of flowers The misunderstanding of man with his image Suicide the scraping of steel the raking-up of blueness Livada krvi te$e Iz ove ruke Oslepela ptica peva o cvecu Nesporazum coveka sa svojim likom Samoubistvo grebanje £elika zgrtanje plavetnlla43 These poems sustain, as well, the theme of impending apocalypse. In the last poem in the collection, however, the oppressive atmosphere is somewhat alleviated as the mood shifts to one of tentative optimism with the poet's pronouncement that "Hope should be found again" ("Treba ponovo pronaci nadu") in the poem of the same name, an excerpt of which follows: Hope should be found again and the leaf with the root on the sacred mound of the region, the gates to the city should be closed and we should protect ourselves against a new dragon. Hope should be found again. 586 The road should be found again and the earth's invitation and the breath's direction, at the crossroads yellow fruit should be picked, to stop the knee with a sudden stroke and yearning for wings, to turn onto the road. Treba ponovo pronaci nadu 1 list sa korenom na humci kraja, treba zatvoriti kapije na gradu i braniti se protiv novog zmaja. Treba ponovo pronaci nadu Treba ponovo pronaci put i poziv zemlje i pravac daha, na raskrsnici plod treba uzbrati %ut, kolenu hitrom ostaviti maha i Seznuci za krilima, krenuti na put. After all of the depressing images of corpses, wounds, shadows, blood, skulls, etc. which pervade the preceding poems, this last poem seems to indicate a catharsis, as if having purged himself of these horrors, the poet now wants to get back to the business of living, to find "the road" once again. As the following lines demonstrate, this road was already hinted at in "An Overburdened Face" ("Opterecen lik"): On a head without hair a pillar stood up with its wide step Na glavu bez kose stao je jedan stub svojim sirokim stopalom 587 The image of the mind as a "pillar" here infers strength, stability and direction, and it becomes the focus of the second collection. It is the mind, i.e., rational thought, analytical contemplation, and human memory itself which give the "breath" its "direction" in that volume; it is the intellect that will serve as the "step" out "onto the road." Thus, even in this first collection, the intellectualism which has become the hallmark of Pavlovic's poetry is indicated. Overwhelmed by the brutal, disjointed unreality of the post-war environment, Pavlovic" found in surrealism a most efficacious literary mode: It allowed him to accurately depict the incongruities which constantly confronted him in the external world. Through poetic witness, he was able to come to terms with the unreality of that world and ultimately, to allay his fear of it. Thereafter, however, with the analytical approach typical of a diagnostician— Pavlovic" holds a degree in medicine— he began to move toward conscious control, order and restraint. Pavlovic's first "way" of surrealism, then, provided him a means with which to express and transform inner anxiety into art. Thus, the poetic act became both testament and therapy, a phenomenon which, as Czeslaw Milosz observes, characterizes much of twentieth-century poetry: 588 [W] e do not seem to commit an error if we hear a minor mode in the poetry of our century. I suspect that a poet writing in another mode would be considered old-fashioned and accused of living in a fool's paradise. Yet it is one thing to live in a limbo of doubt and dejection, another to like it. Certain states of mind are not normal, in the sense that they turn against some real, not imaginary, laws of human nature. We cannot feel well if we know that we are forbidden to move forward along a straight line, if everywhere we knock against a wall that forces us to swerve and to return to the point of departure, in other words, to walk in a circle. Yet to realize that the poetry of the twentieth ' century testifies to serious disturbances in our perception of the world may already become the first step in self-therapy.44 Although the sense of disorientation and despair of 87 Poems is still present in Pillar of Memory, it is decreased in intensity and the poems in this collection are generally more hopeful in tone. In "The Defense of Our City" ("Odbrana na£eg grada"), for instance, Pavlovic1 speaks of the "arrival of this city" ("dolazak ovog grada"), and repeatedly declares, "I have hope for this city" ("Ja imam nade za ovaj grad"); the "city" here refers to Belgrade, but symbolizes human existence as well. There are also differences in the form of these poems. They are somewhat longer, the subject unity is more consistent (Some poems are, in 589 fact, poetic cycles), and the images tend to be less surrealistic. The most striking development of this collection, however, is its dominant theme: The intellect as salvation. In Part IV of "A Cry Should Be Repeated" ("Krik treba ponoviti"), Pavlovic" writes, "The spark of reason/the most human of all humanities" ("Iskro razuma/najcove£nija od svih cove£nosti"); in Part II of "Variations on the Skull" ("Varijacije o lobanji"), "The skull/the sword of nature/the only raft on the black river" ("Lobanja/mac prirode/jedini splav crnoj reci"), and in Part IV , "the book beneath the skull resembles a key" ("jer knjiga pod lobanjom lici na klju£"). Clearly, Pavlovic has sighted "the road." After the publication of his Anthology of Contemporary English Poetry (Antologiia savremene engleske poeziie) (1956) in collaboration with Svetozar Brkic", Pavlovic’s poetic style changed even more dramatically. The intellectual approach and structural developments which were introduced in Pillar of Memory were far more definitive in his third book, Octaves , ✓ (Oktave), published m 1957. With this volume, Pavlovic established, in its fundamental form, the analytical, erudite poetic style which has since characterized his work. Simovic notes this turning point in Pavlovichs 590 poetics, and delineates the stylistic developments evidenced in the poems in this collection: Broad, dense verses, gathered in masses of great stanzas, full of metaphors, widely developed images and scenes, rich complete perspectives, and even joyful associations with painting and the pastoral, . . . they demonstrate a change in structure in Pavlovic's poems, a change in lexicon and tone; the poet speaks calmly, his sentences, in comparison with the sentences in 87 Poems, indeed take on a baroque richness: they are no longer fragments, no longer that quick first impression, stated expressively; sentences are weighty, taking up the space of several broad verses, filling up an entire series of attributes, with inserted sentences, packed full of images and commentaries on those images.45 As Octaves indicates, Pavlovich's interest in and study of Anglo-Saxon poets apparently fostered a new stylistic approach, one which perhaps accomodated his poetic aims and his personal temperament more effectively. Pavlovich's primary concern in this volume is the quest for human identity— "On the crest of the desert the starry choir is asking me: who are you?" ("Na grebenu pustinje zvezdani hor me pita: ko si?"), he writes in "Ulcinj"— and as Simovic indicates: 'Who are you?' means in fact: what is civilization? What is culture? What is Greece? What is Christianity? What is Europe? 591 Byzantium? Romantic and Gothic churches? Balkan monasteries? The State? Authority? Morality? Creation?, etc.46 Surrealism aided Pavlovic in bringing these questions to the conscious level. It helped him to "make the soul monstrous," as Rimbaud puts it; now he would step back to consider, analyze and "cultivate" it: The first study for a man who wants to be a poet is the knowledge of himself entire. He searches his soul, he inspects it, he tests it, he cultivates it. . . . But the soul has to be made monstrous. . . . One must, I say, be a visionary, make oneself a visionary. The poet makes himself a visionary through a long, prodigious and rational disordering of all the senses.47 Octaves initiates the "second way" of surrealism in Pavlovic's poetry. From this point forward, the surrealist element becomes more subdued, but it is never completely discarded. In his subsequent collections— and Pavlovic has proven to be a prolific poet48— surrealist images continue to emerge, albeit with less frequency and subjected to the philosophical aims of the poem. Their function is no longer limited to the expression of what the poet once perceived as the threatening "unreality of everything"; his second treatment is clearly more innovative and diversified. Although it is now a more subtle, controlled component 592 of his poetry, surrealism continues to be for Pavlovic* one of the most cogent means of expressing the ineffable terms of human existence. Earlier I noted the presence of a natural impulse toward mythic or cosmic expression in Serbian literature. In his early poetry, Pavlovic uses surrealism extensively to satisfy this impulse. In his later work, this impulse is still present and is still expressed through the surrealist image. It no longer dominates, however; rather, its task is now custodial. It seems to function as a safeguard, a defense mechanism, the purpose of which is to stubbornly assert and to alert us to the irrepressible cosmicity of all things: In Pavlovic's poetry, as we have seen, the nous restrains the psyche to a great degree; this intellectual approach enables him to penetrate the mythical identity of the poetic object— particularly figures and events of historical and/or religious significance— and to demythify it. By "demythification," I mean specifically the partial— for it can never be entire— penetration and divestiture of the mythical identity which the poetic object has assumed in the cultural consciousness. But signalling from the psychic field is the mythic or cosmic impulse; it is there to remind of the ultimate cosmicity of the 593 object, and to insure that that authentic mythic dimension is not lost. In his complete scrutinization of the object, Pavlovic evidences a moral obligation to report, without exception, all of his findings, that is, to record the total reality, or in Jungian terms, the "whole" of a given theme. And given Pavlovic's cultural orientation, this "whole" must, of necessity, include a mythic dimension; this is apparent in his view of the relationship between myth and history: Myths are the grammar of poetic thought, the grammar of imagination. But their form also coincides with a grammar of human behavior, with a syntax of historical situations and events. Myth-images rise to the surface from the depths of the collective unconscious and semi conscious, they also emerge from the subconscious of historical events, in the preconscious and subhistorical upsurges of the human masses; in the behavior of human groupings from a family right up to the state. It has always seemed strange to me that historians have not been bolder in their approach to the investigation of historical archetypal events in addition to their so rudimentary hypotheses of the cyclical nature of history.49 Saturated as they are with their ineffable cosmic essence, these "myth-images" cannot be translated in concrete, dictionary terms. The surrealist image, however, like the language of myth, is organic, and 594 allows the poet to acknowledge the authentic cosmic properties of the object even while laying bare the outer layers of its mythical identity. Pavlovic's application of surrealism, though limited, is nevertheless very effective in achieving this aim, particularly in his treatment of historical themes. The reader may recall, for instance, the following images from previously cited poems: "the dove caught in my throat/from my shoulders the blood flowed to the church" ("A Beheaded Prince Remembers"); "We wish for long nights and deep forests/where there is sight without eyes" ("Lament for Smederevo"); "bow low beneath the midnight bells/transparent and heavy" and "in the forest of tall roses/sit down with the great craftsmen/let them reshape your face with a gentle chisel" ("Balkan Itinerary"); "in his hair forest fires and fallow fields/Asiatic horses fly across his ribs" and "Here through the black walnut of the Balkan skull/the brothers pass like shadows" ("The Thessalonika Brothers"); and "bones secretly bear fruit in singing" ("Epitaph for the First Slav Poet"). All of these examples are representative of Pavlovic's "second way" of surrealism. These images do not represent reality; they are pure images which present their own realities. 595 Such images are relatively constant in Pavlovic^ s poetry, and in combination with his intellectual approach, they can be very arresting, even startling. Suddenly, in a rather discursive, conventional poetic atmosphere, one erupts, then another, and perhaps another— the discourse of the psychic field breaking through, alerting us to its presence, and reminding us that it, too, is a part of the "whole." Frequently, this results in an interplay of psyche and nous which is both engaging and refreshing. It occurs with varying degrees of intensity, and can be very subtle. Such is the case in "Prince's Daughter Embroidering" ("Kci kne^eva veze"). The subject of this poem is Olivera, the daughter of Knez Lazar; her father, it will be recalled, was slain in the Battle of Kosovo. The Turkish leader, Sultan Murat, also perished there, and it was actually under the leadership of his son and heir, Bajezid, that the Ottoman forces prevailed. After the battle, Bajezid made many humiliating demands upon the defeated Serbs; these were primarily of a political and/or economic nature. However, one of the worst of Bajezid's acts of effrontery involved what was clearly meant as a symbolic gesture of submission: He demanded Olivera for his harem. And in a desperate effort to placate the Turks, 596 her mother, Princess Milica, acquiesced and sacrificed her daughter.50 Pavlovic's poem depicts Olivera in a moment of quiet contemplation as she attends to her embroidery work: What our men were not able to save can I really hope to salvage? What a miserable leader I am exiled beneath the Moslem chador mute and alone! The meadows ran with flowers beneath the monastery walnut trees where I walked with my mother before my winter husband led me away. I live among the shepherds of the underworld: the towers here are high and there are many armies and precious green stone and the white-teethed children hotly suckle their mothers' breasts. All empires are the same and suns and sight without sun. And no one gave me gold to embroider my words. So my womb has come to an agreement with the underworld, but before the spring of fruit are long ages of waiting. With a candle at night I wander through my roots,— to whom there in the distance, at the cave's exit will the morning of my blood dawn and when, and in what tongue? v V I Sto muzevi nisu mogli da spasu zar ja da spasavam? Jadan li sam vojvoda pod nekrstov cador izgnana nemusta i sama! 597 Cvetne behu livade pod oraslma manastirskim gde hodlh sa materom svojom pre no £to me odvede mu£ moj zimski. Medu 'Sobanima podzeml ja $ivim: kule su ovde visoke i vojske mnoge i drago kamenje zeleno i deca belozuba zarko u prsa majke svoje ljube. Sva carstva su ista i sunca, i vid bez sunca A zlata mi niko nije dao da re£i svoje izvezem. Evo se utroba moja sa podzemljem slo%ila, a do proleda ploda dugi su vekovi £ekanpa. Sa svecom po noci krstarim kroz svoje korenje, — kome li 6e tamo u daljini, na izlazu pe6ine jutro moje krvi da svane i kada, i na kome jeziku? Pavlovic's portrayal of Knez Lazar's daughter as being exiled in the underworld suggests the myth of Persephone. This is apparent even in the first stanza— the Greek goddess, it may be recalled, was said to have been abducted while gathering flowers on the plain below Mount Etna in Sicily. In Olivera's case, however, her springtime will not be realized for "long ages." Initially, the tone of the poem is conversational, the flow of thoughts alternately tinged by youthful resentment and melancholy. As the heroine reflects on her miserable fate, however, she becomes progressively 598 more contemplative and her perspective becomes more mature. The first two stanzas are rather direct descriptions of her physical environment and her emotional situation. Although the imagery is colorful and sensual— the walnut trees and flowers, the green stone, the white teeth of the Turkish children— the language is not metaphorical. The tone and character of the poem begin to shift in the third stanza, however, when the princess bemoans the fact that she has no gold with which "to embroider my words." This may refer to the shroud embroidered with gold which Princess Milica is said to have placed over Knez Lazar's body and which has been preserved as an article of veneration at the monastery of Syrmia in Slovenia51; or it may be an allusion to one of the epic ballads of Kossovo in which a young Serbian girl who is administering to the wounded is given a veil of golden threads as a keepsake by one of the Serbian warriors.52 Olivera, however, has no tangible evidence of her past; she has only her memory. In the fourth stanza, a further shift occurs. Now she is no longer in the finite world, but in the depths of eternal time, where the "cave" of the womb leads to the threshold of the subconscious, the region of collective memory where, "with a candle at night I wander through my roots." This image, set against the otherwise very 599 direct poetic language, is startling. Suddenly, the enclosed, finite atmosphere of the poem dissolves: There is hope, and the possibility of a "morning of my blood" which will redeem the princess' tragic destiny. Now, the world opens up beyond the chador, beyond the high towers and forbidding armies, beyond the fourteenth century. In the light of the candle, Olivera searches out her descendants, not only the children of her womb, but of her spirit. The wealth of associations which this image evokes refreshes the entire meaning of the poem and imbues its symbolic heroine with a new dimension which is at once human and archetypal. When there is a more liberal application of surrealist imagery, the play of psyche and nous increases as well. One final example- will illustrate this technique. Because of the common Byzantine heritage— and the common experience of the Ottoman hegemony— Pavlovic views Greek culture as being inextricably woven into his own, and like other Serbian poets, he frequently turns to Greek historical and mythological themes. In "A Guard Before Athens" ("Stra^ar pred Atinom"), using the persona of an ordinary, everyday man to facilitate demythification of the events he wishes to portray, Pavlovic considers the demise of ancient Greek civilization: 600 I came to this shore to hear a treatise about beauty. There aren't any. The pebbles are still bristling with a presentiment of transformation, and the trees shrink back overcome with modesty after the great words. I went back to the town to find the wise men and their conclusions, the fish met me and we set out together. The streets of the sea and of the town led to the same feast. On the dining table are slices of sun transparent and cold. At the gate I keep watch, who is changing all of this? I raised up my arms to check on the sky: I touched the breast of a huge bird which had died, but not fallen to earth. Through its eye I saw ships which sailed in a circle; the ancient style of burial sails. Which day of creation is today? The chair on which I sit sinks in the sand beneath the burden of the town in my fist. I guard it like a little water in the palm with a few words, to deliver it tomorrow to someone even more mute. But they love man all the more in the depths of the sea. DoJfao sam na igalo da cujem besedu o lepoti. Nema Ih. Sljunak je jo% najezen pred slutnjom preobrazaja, i drvece se sman^uje obuzeto skromnoscu posle vellkih red. Posao sam natrag u grad da pronadem mudrace i njihove zakljucke, ribe su me susrele pa krenusmo zajedno. Na istu gozbu vode ulica mora i grada. 601 Na trpezi su kri^ke sunca providne i hladne. Bdim na kapiji, ko to sve menja? Digao sam ruke da proverim nebo: dodirnuo sam grudi pti£urine koja je izdahnula, a nlje pala na zemlju. Kroz njeno oko video sam brodove £to plove u krug; starinski nacin sahrane jedara. Koji je dan stvaranja danas? Stolica na kojoj sedim propada u pesku pod teretom grada na mojoj saci. Cuvam ga kao malo vode na dlanu sa malo re£i, da ga predam nekom jos nemustijem, sutra. A coveka sve vi£e vole u dubini mora. Three poetic realities are disclosed here: (l)The persona is witness to cataclysmic events; (2)the significance of these events eludes and bewilders him; and (3)despite his confusion, he senses that there is something of value and permanence here which he must preserve. These three points are consistent throughout Primeval Milk (Mleko iskoni), the collection from which this poem is taken. Of this volume, Simovic writes: Pavlovic depicts the agony and apocalypse of Greece, and the disappearance of those great principles, great ideas and great horizons which the ancient Greeks managed to reach. . . . In the destruction of Greece [and the Greek gods] was born the idea that man himself can become god, and he will accept with a sense of the fullest rights the designation of a deity, but in addition, will cease to be 602 human. Thus, this apocalypse of Greece is the introduction to a long period of decadence.53 Such earth shattering events cannot be depicted in wholly discursive language, for they are, from Pavlovic's point of view, "historical archetypal events." Hence, in order to translate the "myth-images" which emerge from these events and express their cosmic significance, Pavlovic enlists the surrealist forces. Initially, the language of "A Guard Before Athens" is fairly direct. The persona's tone is matter- of-fact; he states his reason for travelling to Athens and expresses dismay because his journey has apparently been in vain. Although he senses that some calamitous change has occurred, he doesn't grasp its significance, and undaunted, sets out "to find the wise men and their conclusions" who, he hopes, can explain these events. At this point in the poem, the temporal and spatial boundaries of reality dissolve. The fish join him; is he in the sea now or on dry land? We don't know because "the streets of the sea and of the town" merge into the same "feast." But what is this "feast"? It seems to infer a transformational state in which the life of the sea and the life of the town are conjoined: The sea, in its formless, fluid state represents primordial matter; 603 and it is from this matter that humanity— the town— originated, that is, from which it was transformed. Now, the town is experiencing another sort of transformation. The symbol of the fish— which Pavlovic uses in other poems as a positive, regenerative force— suggests the "worlds dissolved or [worlds] yet unformed" of the cosmic fish which J.E. Cirlot mentions,54 and thus reinforces the impression of transformation: the fish "meet" the persona, that is, their paths merge. In the town, the sun— emblematic of Apollo, who has fallen with the other Olympians— is portioned out, but now has little substance or power. Now there is a subtle shift back to conscious reality as "at the gate," in a confused aside, the guard wonders, "who is changing all of this?" He tries to discover some clue in the sky, but finds only a huge, dead bird— perhaps an owl, the bird of wisdom sacred to Athena. Moreover, as Cirlot points out, the owl, a night bird, is also symbolic of the dead sun "which has set below the horizon and which is crossing the lake or sea of darkness."55 In its eye, he sees a ring of burial sails, suggesting the death of someone of great stature. Again there is an attempt to summon order out of this chaos when he asks, "Which day of creation is today?" The chair— that which is man- made— begins to sink beneath the "burden" of Athenian 604 culture, and he must preserve this cultural legacy— as precious as "a little water in the palm"— "with a few words" so that it can be passed on tomorrow to those who are even more bewildered than he— the future generations. The last lines are somewhat ambiguous because one of the terms of the image is hidden, that is, "they" are not identified. The sea may pertain to the collective subconscious here, but the lines seem to imply, again, the transformative powers of the sea: Formless itself, it "loves" that which lacks definition, i.e., man without a moral and/or philosophical code, and can therefore be readily absorbed and reconstituted. This poem illustrates the modified surrealist technique discussed in previous chapters herein. There is clearly a conscious presence weaving in and out of these lines, and Pavlovic does maintain subject unity. The poem is narrative, and it reflects little compression (although it should be noted that Pavlovic's most recent volumes do seem to indicate a return to his earlier, highly compressed style). But it also evidences many typically surrealistic features. The imagery is sensual and generally concrete. There are abrupt shifts in tone— from conversational to formal and vice versa— which give the impression of spontaneity rather than of preconception. Although narrative, at 605 times the poem becomes more a series of images linked by association: "feast"-"dining table"-"slices of sun"- "sky"-"bird." And these images create a psychic atmosphere which imbues the entire poem with a sense of hallucination. Generally, words seem to be creating visual images rather than merely describing them, which, as Jean-Pierre Cauvin notes, is characteristic of surrealist poetry. Furthermore, he writes: Language affects, and is affected by, its practioners. It must be allowed to function, to signify its own desires. T.S. Eliot's observation that the modern poet's job is 'to force, to dislocate if necessary, language into his meaning,' if subjected to surrealist scrutiny, is susceptible to some dislocation of its own: in a surrealist image, it is language itself that forces and dislocates meaning.56 From this point of view, Pavlovic seems to have much more in common with the surrealists than with Eliot. Admittedly, Pavlovic1s canon includes poems in which the surrealist element is completely absent. But I believe I have presented a rather fair sampling here, and as the reader can see, the majority of them do reflect the surrealist presence at least to some degree. Does this limited surrealist application make Pavlovic a surrealist poet? Perhaps not. But does it not infer 606 about him something beyond the "intellectual" label which has constantly been applied to him? Beyond language itself, what Pavlovic* indisputably does share with the surrealists is their primary philosophical aim, what Ferdinand Alquie refers to as the "quest for being": In Breton and in authentic philosophers is found the same truth, the same fidelity to man-as- interrogation, man as question. Dogmatism gives way to quest for being.57 The phrase "man-as-interrogation" precisely describes Miodrag Pavlovic's poetic stance. Indeed, self-inquiry is the alpha and omega of his poetic world, the inner voice calling, "Who are you?" But his quest includes a national as well as a personal dimension, and this additional dimension also presents additional poetic and philosophical demands. If, in his innovative efforts to accomodate those demands, he has been able to avail himself of the surrealists' methods, that is to the credit of surrealism, but if, in the process, he has been able to discover new directions for "prospecting the surreal," that is, moreover, to the enrichment of surrealism. 607 Evidence of the surrealist influence may also be observed in the work of other Serbian poets of the post-war period. These poets have adapted certain surrealist elements according to their own individual poetic sensibilities and requirements, resulting in some very innovative variations of the French model. At least two of these examples do bear comment here. Ivan V. Lalic is a prose writer as well as a poet. In addition to several collections of poetry, he has also published essays and literary criticism, and is an accomplished translator as well.58 Like Pavlovic/ he is generally regarded as an intellectual poet. He, too, is concerned with myth and history, and he also approaches these themes in an objective, meditational style. However, the surrealist presence has also been apparent throughout the course of Lalic7's poetic development, although perhaps to a somewhat greater degree in his first few volumes. In surrealist poetry, fire is one of the most pervasive images, for two reasons. First it symbolizes transformation and transcendence: That which is touched by fire is never left unchanged. This is exemplified by the essential role which fire plays in the alchemical process. Second, the image of fire embodies the 608 elemental dialectic of polarity; it is the heart of opposites. As Gaston Bachelard writes: Among all phenomena, [fire] is really the only one to which there can be so definitely attributed the opposing values of good and evil. It shines in Paradise. It burns in Hell. It is gentleness and torture. It is cookery and it is apocalypse. It is a pleasure for the good child sitting prudently by the hearth; yet it punishes any disobedience when the child wishes to play too close to its flames. It is well-being and it is respect. It is a tutelary and a terrible divinity, both good and bad. It can contradict itself; thus it is one of the principles of universal explanation.59 For similar reasons, fire has also been a constant image in Lalic's verses, and he has frequently used surrealism to express the contradictory associations which the image of fire evokes in the sub-conscious mind. One of his earliest, and in my judgment, most well wrought collections, Melissa (Melisa), provides an excellent example of this in a poem which is the first of "Four v Psalms" ("Cetiri psalma"): I will build you an earth From water light and clear as your breath, From the bright dust of the highways, from the fire Breathed into the frozen flesh of roses, From the demolished blood of the air, 609 From the nourishing ashes of dream, from the roots Of dismembered hopes, from the quicksand of time And from the enormous voices which are of no use To the deaf and dumb winds of death. I will build you an earth; a clear plain With a mountain that grows out of shimmering orchards, Gracious, like a movement in a beautiful dream; With a sure breath, like a glassblower Who, in front of the fire, recalls a beauty Which he hasn't learned, I will build a homeland for your unyielding endurance The homeland to which you have a right.60 Stvoricu ti zemlju, Od vode lake i cfiste kao tvoj dah, Od svetle prasine drumova, od vatre Udahnute u smrznuto meso ru£a, Od razorene krvi vazduha, Od hranjivog pepela sna, od korenja Posecene nade, od zivog peska vremena I velikih glasova koji su nepotrebni Gluvonemim vetrovima smrti Stvoricu ti zemlju; jednu cistu ravnicu Sa planinom sto raste iz svetlucavih vocnjaka, Skladno, kao pokret u lepom snu; Jednim odlucmm dahom. kao levac stakla i * . ' K o j j . se, pred vatromf priseca lepote Koju nije nauciof i / v Stvorucu zavicaj za tvoju neranjivost Na koju ima% pravo.61 610 Here, although it is not emphasized to the degree that we have noted in Popa, the principle of symmetrical opposition is nevertheless present, and is used in conjunction with the same type of incongruous juxtapositions which regularly occur in surrealist verse. Initially, it is the vital, life-sustaining fire which is drawn into the icy petals of the rose, an image which also suggests the union of elements that appears so often in the fire imagery of the French surrealists such as Breton's "a high flame lying in the snow" ("une haute flamme couchee dans la neige"), for example, or Philipe Soupault's "The fire is like snow" ("Le feu est comme la neige")62 (Compare also Lalic's "The taste of snow melted on the flame of your skin" ("Ukus snega rastopljenog na plamenu tvoje koze") from "Love" ("Ljubav") in this same collection). The destructive aspect of fire is also represented in the depiction of the sub-conscious dream world reduced to ashes; in this image, however, the two aspects are resolved in the incongruous pairing of "nourishing" and "ashes," a concretization of Bachelard's "terrible divinity." A similar image occurs, as well, in Breton's description of consciousness as "the only kiss that can be recharged from its own embers" ("le baiser le seul qui se recharge de sa propre braise").63 The transcendence suggested in 611 both of Lalic's images is reinforced further on in the poem in the typically surrealist contradiction of the glassblower who, through the transformative vehicle of fire, remembers something he has never known. A similar contradiction involving fire occurs in the image of the "will/Condensed into a lump of flame that doesn't burn . . . An ancient will that drives me to summon/Unknown memories"("volja/Sabijena u grumen plamena ?std ne plamti . . . Prastara neka volja Sto goni me da zazivam/Secanje nepoznato") from "Star"("Zvezda") in this same collection. Both of these contradictory images of memory "unlearned" or "unknown" signal the eruption of the surreal; it is the subconscious spilling over into conscious reality, sending out a signal from the eternal core of being, a signal which sends a strange shudder of recognition across the wall of the flesh so that, in Breton's words, "In the shadow we again see a precious terror."64 Time is a frequent theme in Lalic?'s poetry, and his view of time is clearly linked with the collective subconscious. As Jovan Hristic explains: [Lalic"] doesn't see time only as an eternal Heraclitan flowing, but also as a series of Parmenidian constants: In other words, he sees history both as a current which doesn't return, and also as a series of crucial whirling points which 612 pull us into the depths and into meaning.65 That this view is motivated in large part by the Serbian awareness of an ancestral continuum is evident in the first of four poems entitled "Voices of the Dead" ("Glasovi mrtvih") also from Melissa: Voices of the dead. They are not dead voices. Who hears The voices of the dead? Rain on the bronze doors Of morning. The freshness of a wild garden that guards nightingales In the cobweb of roses. I was that emptiness between its lines, I was on the shore of a river, lost for days, hours, It's all the same, because it is time outside this time, And the river is wide. The river from the blood of ancestors. How to swim along its current? Who has reached its mouth? 0 dead ones, on the shore I found a house. Without a top, Abandoned in a hurry. And a thin tuft of smoke Entangled in gray fog that becomes thicker. A house unfinished. Then winter began, A window frightened by the strength of a storm awoke me. Voices of the dead, they are not dead voices. Who hears them? Glasovi mrtvih. To nisu mrtvi glasovi. Ko £uje Glasove mrtvih? Ki^a na bakarnim vratima Jutra. Svezina divljeg vrta £to cuva slavuje 613 v*, v , U pauc±ni ruza. Bio sam prazma lzme&h redaka, Bio sam na obali reke, izgubljen danima, satima, Svejedno, jer to je vreme izvan ovog vremena, A reka je Sziroka. Reka od krvi predaka. Kako da plivam uz tok? Ko je stigao do usca ? O mrtvi, na obali nadoh kucu. Bez slemena, NapuStenu u zurbi. I tanak pramen dima Upreden u sivu maglu sto postaja£e gusfca. Kuca nedovrsena. Onda je pocela zima, Probudio me je prozor uplasen snagom oluje. Glasovi mrtvih, to nisu mrtvi glasovi. Ko ih £uje? In waking reality, the poet muses about the "voices of the dead," which he clearly distinguishes from "dead voices." They are the voices of the ancestors which repose in the collective subconscious and which he intuits through the senses— in the sound of rain, or in the fresh scent of a "wild garden." The garden indicates a shift to the psychic atmosphere of the dream world, for as other poems in this collection confirm, the garden is a metaphor for the domain of the subconscious— "This is the wall, Melissa, the garden is beyond the wall" ("Ovo je zid, Melisa, a vrt je iza zida"), he says, in "Wall" ("Zid"). It is also at this point that two levels of interpretation emerge. In that garden, the voices of the ancestors are preserved 614 clearly— like the resonant song of a night bird in a "cobweb of roses." Listening from the other side of the garden, his hearing diffused by the body's wall, he compares himself to the empty spaces between its strands. But on another level, that is, in terms of cultural identity, this "emptiness" also implies the lack of definition which he, the young descendant, feels in relation to the imposing personalities of the ancestors. Standing by the river of their blood, that is, of eternal time— "time outside of this time"— he longs to swim its current. On the shore, there is a house with no roof— literally "peak"— which represents the potential source of infinite possibilities. Again, this image may be interpreted on two levels: as the sub-conscious domain of the ancestral continuum; and as the historical cultural base. Hence, it has been abandoned, left unfinished because each ancestor contributes to its construction until death forces him to give up his efforts; and on the cultural level, because the Ottoman hegemony thwarted the natural flow of cultural development and prevented the completion of those technical and artistic endeavors initiated during the medieval period. The onset of "winter," then, infers the advent of old age; and on the cultural level, it may be interpreted as a metaphor for the Turkish 615 occupation. Moreover, the word "winter" here signals the transition to waking reality as well, for it is a winter storm which "frightens" the window, causing the poet to wake up. When he does, however, he reiterates the first words of the poem, perhaps even more certain now, after his dream experience, that the "voices of the dead" indeed "are not dead voices." This poem effectively illustrates in symbolic terms the ancestral continuum as the Serbian conceives it, and it is further enriched by the second level of interpretation it poses: The speaker has ancestors who exist in his inner world and who have a vital message to impart. The subconscious is his line of communication with them. His desire to plunge into the atemporal "current" of their existence (enhanced by the fact that in Serbo- Croatian, life does not "go on" or "pass by" but "flows"— "te£i") indicates his readiness to listen to them, to be directed and guided by them, and ultimately, to be shaped by them in some measure. The further construction of the "house" which they began is now his responsibility. It is his moral obligation to work toward its completion. In the "voices of the dead" which "are not dead voices," Lalic/ discerns the "inexhaustible nature of the murmur" to which Breton responded66; and the inner landscape that he describes 616 is the same plane of existence which Breton refers to when he says, "It is living and ceasing to live that are imaginary solutions. Existence is elsewhere."67 The "murmur" of Lalic^' s inner landscape, however, is frequently amplified by the presence of the historical, religious, mythological and folkloric figures indigenous to it. In "The Dark Country" ("Tamni vilajet") from Act (£in) (1963), he explores the same "current" which he discovered in "Voices of the Dead" through the perspective of a well known folktale68: The murmur is ground like pebbles In a long tunnel, the thud of cracked hooves, We grasp at voices and at shoulders In the darkness of a final land; drops of light float by, Tiny lamps sustained by the thin oil of memory, more of them We ride beneath roots, beneath years, We share a meal of bitter poppy with hungry shadows, Far away, at the exit, our faces frighten us ; Here somewhere all roads intersect Before the final separation, and the track of the beast mingles With the track of the angel in the terrifying serene center: Who drops back will regret it, Who goes on will regret it. Zamor je kao £ljunak izmrvljen U dugom tunelu, topot napuklih kopita, Za glasove se hvatamo i za ramena U tami potonje zemlje; 617 promicu kapljice . svetla, • ^ r i ^ i Zizak hranjen tankim uljem secanja, drugi, Jasemo ispod korenja, ispod godina, Delimo obrok gorkog maka sa gladnim senkama, Plase nas lica na^a, daleka, na izlasku; Ovde negde seku se svi putevi Pre kona£nog razllaska, 1 trag zveri se me£a Sa tragom anCtela u straUnom spokojnom sredi^tu: Ko zaostane kajace se, Ko produzi kajace se. In this poem, the "dark country" of the folktale becomes a metaphor for the subconscious; the "precious stones" which the horsemen feel underfoot in the tale are transformed here into the sound of pebbles being ground by horses' hooves that crack as the riders clatter over them, a sound that represents the discourse of the subconscious— the "murmur." In the "final world" of sub-conscious reality, "memory" provides the only illumination. In its "drops of light," the poet descends through time, and in an allusion to the Battle of Kosovo, he shares there "a meal of bitter poppy" with the "hungry shadows" of ancestors.69 It is there that opposites are reconciled— "track of angel" with "track of beast"— in the very center— the surrealists' "supreme point." And in language that closely follows the text of the folktale, the poet warns that he who does not continue toward the center will regret it, and he who 618 does will also regret it. For though it is tragic to turn away from the lucid "whole" reality of the subconscious, it is also tragic, once having glimpsed it, to exist thereafter within the inadequate, partial reality of conscious existence. The role of the subconscious in the quest for cultural identity is apparent as well in Lalic's treatment of history and myth. In "Orpheus on the Ramparts" ("Orfej na bedemu"), he describes the poetic process in archetypal terms: I'm already on the other side, Already in my native land, in the unravelling of roots, Already I'm straightening up, I recognize the corridor— Circular pathway, terrifying and complete Vec sam na drugoj strani Vec u zavi&aju, u raspletu korenja, Vec se uspravljam, prepoznajem hodnik— Putanjo kruzna, stra^na, savr^ena And, as he writes in "Mad Prophet" ("Jurodivi"), it is in this corridor "that memory returns things to their source: The bird remembers the wave On which its flight was conceived, And form remembers formlessness The tongue remembers voices Hovering with pollen Over the line of the first shore, And ice remembers the flame Where it resided, mingled With the rose, the eye, the rain, And all this buzzes and murmurs Under this rigid dome, Where echoes collide Ptica se seca talasa Gde joj se pokret za<$eo, Oblik se seca bezlicfja, Jezik se seca glasova Sa polenom zalebdelih Nad crtom prve obale, I led se seca plamena Gde boravljase pomesan Sa ruzom, okom, kilfama, A sve to zuji, mrmori Pod ovim tvrdlm kubetom Gde sastaju se odjeci These indistinct "echoes" can be concretized, howeve in cultural symbols. These symbols act as constants which lend definition to and impose meaning on the pristine world evoked in sub-conscious memory. Moreover, they elicit an emotional response; hence, "Kalemegdan,"70 the struggle to remake the world is motivated by love: And from here the world can begin— From this knot of fires, from this red lump Dug up from the air like septic history From an untreated wound, Here from this point which I fix Toward stars the color of bullets, the color of love 620 I odavde moze da po£ne svet— Iz ovog £vora vatre, iz ove ri&e grudve Iskopane iz vazduha kao iz rane Nezaceljene, septicna istorijo, Iz ove ta£ke koju evo odre&ujem Prema zvezdama boje metka, boje ljubavi This loving battle for meaning is expressed again in "Ra^ka" (Raska, it may be recalled, was the center of the medieval Serbian state), where "weapons of love/are forged in darkness, like descendants" ("se oruzje ljubavi/Kuje u mraku, kao potomstvo"). And as Lalic" writes in "Homeland" ("Zavicaj"), it is love that is the ultimate message of the subconscious realm as well: I was putting together a homeland, piece by piece, From signals which caught up to me like justice, From the other side, where love's motive is unimportant And love is essential Sastavljao sam zavicaj, deo po deo, Od znakova koji me sustizu kao pravda Sa druge strane, gde je povod ljubavi nevaZan A ljubav nasusna Citing the "abundance of metaphors, 'the daring and original symbols, and the whole series of unexpected associations," Predrag Palavestra writes that Lalic's poetry discloses "unprecedented dimensions of words capable of presenting an entirely new reality."71 The similarities between this "new reality" and surreality 621 occur too frequently to be ignored. Certainly, Lalic" has modified the surrealist method according to his own poetic aims. But the basic surrealist premise— to deliver the forces of the subconscious into conscious reality, to make the unseen seen, to arrive at the "supreme point"— is a consistent factor in Lalic*' s poetics. He, too, is straining toward the "terrifying, serene center." In applying that premise, he has adapted the surrealist image in a way which has simultaneously confirmed its authentic poetic efficacy and extended the range of its expressive capabilities. Finally, the work of one other poet should be noted here. Branko Miljkovic is in many ways a very different poet than the others discussed in this chapter. Before taking his own life, at the age of twenty-seven, Miljkovic completed four volumes of poetry.72 In commenting on these volumes, literary critics generally note that there is a definite intellectual presence in Miljkovic's verse and that he evinces several symbolist tendencies— particularly in his often abstract diction, indefinite symbolism, flowing syntax and rather regular use of rhyme.73 However, there is also unanimous agreement that the surrealist influence is a salient factor in his work; critics cite the incongruous images and startling 622 associations as well as the cosmic character of his verse.74 Hence, there is a certain degree of uneveness in Miljkovic's poetry; whereas the symbolist or surrealist element may be dominant is some poems, in others, both of these are represented. He differs in other ways, as well. His themes are more limited, and are often connected either with death or with his fervent faith in the poetic vocation; his range of tone is extreme, varying from almost childlike whimsy to gloomy languor; and although he incorporates indigenous historical, mythological and folkloric elements, they are generally subjected to his more personal philosophical concerns. Writing about the authenticity of poetic sources, Paul Eluard comments: It is his hope or his despair which will determine for the watchful dreamer— for the poet— the workings of his imagination. Let him formulate this hope or despair and his relationship with the world will immediately change.75 In the case of Miljkovic, the poet's world view appears to be the result of the formulation of both hope and despair, cultivated simultaneously and with equal zeal. Not surprisingly— in view of his suicide— one of the prevailing themes in Miljkovic*s poetry is his rather 623 obsessive preoccupation with death. Side by side with this, however, is his constant insistence on the validity of the poetic experience and his absolute faith in the expressive power of poetry to transcend concrete, finite existence. But Miljkovic does not view these two themes as antithetical because he rejects the finality of death as well as the reality of concrete existence. Both, he believes, are illusions. Death is a transition which delivers us from the meaninglessness of ephemeral life to another, higher plane of existence, and like death, the poetic act also transports to another level of existence. Hence, it is not only a means of negating death, but also a parallel experience which, in effect, simulates death. Consequently, the impulse toward despair and the impulse toward hope often merge ambiguously in Miljkovic*' s poetry. He is hopeful insofar as his attempts to attain to that other level of existence through the poetic act are successful, and despairing because ultimately, he is bound to concrete reality and therefore prevented from ever completely achieving his goal. He expresses this position in "Ballad" ("Balada"): Eagles within peck at me. I stand Chained to a rock that doesn't exist. With stars we have signed the fraudulence Of an invisible night, all the darker. 624 Remember That fall into life as proof of your live embers. When ink ripens into blood, everyone will know That to sing and to die are the same.76 Orlovi, Iznutra kljuju me. Ja stojim Prikovan za stenu koja ne postoji. Zvezdama smo potpisali prevaru Nevidljive noci, tim crnje. Upamti Taj pad u zivot ko dokaz tvom zaru. Kad mastilo sazre u krv, svl ce znati Da isto je pevati i umirati.11 Furthermore, another key element of Miljkovic^'s poetic vision is disclosed here: the influence of the subconscious on the poetic act, represented here as "eagles" that beset the poet from within— indistinct signals from the psychic plane attempting to "peck" their way through to the "rock" of concrete, conscious reality. The critical role of the subconscious in . . * Miljkovic's poetics is apparent throughout his work. It is the inner discourse which, in Breton's terms, provides "palpable proofs of an existence other than the one we think we are living."78 And it is the urgent desire to translate this discourse which impels the poetic act. Miljkovic frequently alludes to the sub conscious realm. In "Requiem," he writes: the world is divided by a human skin into two parts and two and two equals one when the last night falls jer svet je podeljen Ijudskom kozom na dva dela a dva i dva su jedan kad padne poslednja noc 625 In "The Expulsion of Doubt" ("Odbacivanje sumnje"), he is even more explicit; here, the marvelous shadows of the sub-conscious world have been dispersed by the "heavy shadows" of conscious reality: Heavy shadows of some world fell Products of a tedious hill and of evil tidings It's late to doubt that which is in our consciousness The words of a whole life have stolen us. The failing net of love and quivering illusions Have placed me in a more intimate region Where the word has the validity of fate and of the subconscious Where the shadows are marvelous and objects are small. What is that which hides at the bottom of my poem? Nekoga sveta te^ke sene pale Robe napornog brega i zlih vesti Dockan je da posumnjamo u ono sto je u na£oj svesti Celoga %ivota reSi su nas krale. Neuspela ljubavi oka i varke uzdrhtale U jedan kraj mnogo prisniji me smesti Gde re's ima vrednost sudbine i podsvesti Gde su velicanstvene senke a stvari male £>ta je to ^to se u dnu pesme krije? Obviously, the rarefied atmosphere of this poem is more indicative of the symbolist rather than the surrealist influence in Miljkovic's work. However, it is offered 626 here only to illustrate the crucial position of the subconscious in his overall poetic vision: Conscious existence is oppressive; its "heavy shadows" forbode evil; it imposes the "words of a whole life," i.e., meaninglessness. Only in the sub-conscious realm are words accorded their true cosmic value— the essential meaning which "hides" in the heart of the poem. In other poems, Miljkovic takes a more direct route to the subconscious. "In Praise of Plants" ("Pohvala bilju") is one such example. Plant images, as Cirlot points out, are always "expressive of the manifestation of the cosmos and of the birth of forms."79 Here, then, the poet explores his cosmic links with the natural world. This poem is actually composed of five separate sections. In the first section, the poet’s tone is emotional, and rather whimsical, overflowing with admiration and gratitude to the botanical kingdom which sustains man and delivers to him the bounty of the earth— represented here as the "black lock for which there is no other key except plants" ("Iz erne brave za koju nema drugog klju£a osim bilja"). In the third section, the tone is more restrained, and the work of the plants is portrayed in images which reveal a definite surrealist imprint: 627 They construct the world before its obviousness before the first day Birds blossom on the branches people induce tree trunks from clay and take from there a heart that resembles the rose One stvaraju svet pre njegove o£iglednosti pre prvoga dana Cvetaju ptice na granama ljudi od gline otvaraju stabla i uzimaju otud srce slicno ruzi This type of imagery increases in the fifth and final section, as the poet's awareness of his own cosmicity intensifies: I know your root But from what seed does your shadow sprout Vegetal beauty long unseen in the seed's distance You found under the earth my head without a body that dreams a true dream Stars lined up in a pod All that is created with song and sun Between my absences and your vegetal ambitions the night Which makes me seem needed even when I'm gone Green microphone of my underground voice, elder tree! You shoot up out of hell because there's not another sun below the earth 0 plant where are your angels that resemble insects And my blood that binds oxygen and time Ja znam tvoj koren Ali iz kojeg zrna senka tvoja ni£e Biljna lepoto dugo nevidljiva u semenci udaljena Na^la si pod zemljom moju glavu bez tela £to sanja istinski san Zvezde pored&ne u mahunu Sve Mto je stvoreno pesmom i suncem 628 IzmedXu moje odsutnosti i tvojih biljnih ambicija noc Koja me $±ni potrebnim i kada me nema Zeleni mikrofonu moga podzemnog glasa v zovo Sto nice£ iz pakla jer nema drugog sunca pod zemljom 0 biljko gde su tvoji andeli sli£ni insektima 1 moja krv sto vezuje kiseonik i vreme From under the earth the plant delivers to the poet his "head”— that is, the source, the core of his being, the "true dream" of primordial, cosmic night. Even when he is away from it, he senses the plant’s strained ascent— its "vegetal ambitions"— and that he is "needed," that he is involved in it somehow. He perceives the eruption of the plant on the surface of the earth as the articulation— the "microphone"— of his own inner voice. But this voice is also a source of anxiety to him because he is prevented from hearing it clearly, separated from it as he is by "a human skin"; hence, it emanates from "hell." The ascent of the plant, however, is celestial, attended by angel-insects. The final line suggests a sort of ultimate cosmic merger between plant and animal in the image of "the blood that binds oxygen and time." This seems to be indicative of the symbolic value which Cirlot assigns to the image of blood, that is, that in terms of chromatic and/or biological order, because it is red, blood "represents the end of a series 629 which begins with sunlight and the color yellow, the intermediate stage being the color green and vegetable life."80 Moreover, on another level, blood— as we have noted in other Serbian poets discussed here— symbolizes the eternal time of the ancestral continuum and implicitly, the personal and/or collective subconscious. Although Miljkovic's poetry does not reflect the predominance of historical, mythological and folkloric elements that we have seen in other poets represented here, they are nevertheless present, but frequently subjected to the main theme at hand, and Miljkovic's attempts to incorporate these indigenous thematic elements are generally very effective. The main theme of "Chronicle" ("Hronika") is death and regeneration, but it is expressed here through a cultural icon (The "Tower of Skulls," it will be recalled, is associated with the defeat of the Serbian forces at Nis* in 1809). This poem presents rather concrete imagery, a well defined sequential structure, and the folkloric form, all of which serve to provide an effective counterbalance for the images of death and decay: On the first day the birds died off and snakes and winds settled in their nests On the second day the fish came out of the water and the empty water drained out 630 On the third day the forest set off for the town and the town was nowhere On the fourth day it built a tower of skulls from skulls and gnashing On the fifth day the forest gathered the headless corpses by the river On the sixth day a little fire lovingly resembled the sun On the seventh day the angels did not begin singing On Monday the eighth day the bird of ashes began to sing for the first time and the wall started speaking Prvoga dan a pomrese ptice i zmije nastani^e gnezda i vetrove Drugoga dana ribe izadose iz vode i voda ote<5e prazna Trecega dana %uma je posla prema gradu a grada nigde Cetvrtoga dana sazidase cele-kulu od lobanja i %krguta Petoga dana £uma je skupljala kraj reke obezglavljene le^eve Sestoga dana malo vatre zaljubljeno nalik na sunce Sedmoga dana ne zapeva^e andeli Osmoga dana u ponedeljak prvi put zapeva ptica od pepela i zid progovori. Since the growth of a forest tends to obstruct the sun, in many mythologies, forest and sun are viewed as opposing forces which symbolize darkness and light, respectively.81 Therefore, what is depicted here is a drama of mythical proportions in which the forces of darkness— the forest--are ultimately defeated by the forces of light— the sun. This victory is reinforced when Miljkovic? extends the numerical sequence of the Biblical creation myth to include an eighth day. The number eight traditionally symbolizes renewal and 631 regeneration; according to J.C. Cooper, the number eight signifies Paradise regained, which is the goal of the spiritual initiate who is obligated to pass through the seven stages or heavens in order to arrive at the eighth or final stage, the condition of grace.82 From this viewpoint, Miljkovic's poem may be interpreted as a carefully crafted metaphor symbolizing the process of cultural suspension and revival: First the world is destroyed; everything is stilled, muted— it is a static world of death and decay. The powers of darkness— the Turks— prevail. But on the sixth day, after the Serbs have assembled at the river, the sun tenuously reemerges. This sequence of events suggests that it is the unity of the Serbs that has drawn out the forces of light— particularly when one considers that for centuries, the rallying cry of Serbs all over the world has been "Samo Sloga Srbina Spasava" ("Only unity will save the Serb[s]"). Then, on the eighth day, when the bird rises from its ashes, the wall of the tower--which represents the repository of cultural tradition and the frozen energy contained therein— is also regenerated, through the spiritual striving of the modern Serb. The treatment of indigenous elements in "Chronicle" illustrates Miljkovic's potential capability for creative poetic expression. It must be admitted, 632 though, that in other poems, these elements are occasionally subjugated in the extreme, particularly when Miljkovic is preoccupied with death, as he so often is in such cases, the symbolic significance of the indigenous element is sometimes diffused and its associative value deflected. However, it is difficult to determine the developmental direction that Miljkovic’s poetry would have taken had he lived long enough to reach his artistic maturity. But judging from the body of work he left behind— and particularly the last two collections, which contain some of his finest poems— he did appear to be moving toward a progressively higher level of poetic precision and meaning in his work. Despite the brevity of his poetic career, he contributed significantly to modern Serbian literature, or to borrow Miljkovic's own phrase, he did indeed manage to make the wall ’ ’speak." Endnotes for Chapter V 633 Matthews, Toward the Poetics of Surrealism (Syracuse, Syracuse University Press, 1976), pp.69-70. 2 Vasa D. Mihailovich, "The Poetry of Miodrag Pavlovic,1 1 Canadian Slavonic Papers, Vol. 20, No. 3 (1978), p.358. 3 Thomas Eekman, Thirty Years of Yugoslav Literature: 1945-1975 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1978), p.202. 4 Mihailovich, p.358. 5 . ✓ . Ljubomir Simovic, introduction, Velika Skitija i druge pesme by Miodrag Pavlovic (Belgrade: Srpska knjizevna zadruga, 1972), p.viii. ^Unless otherwise noted, all translations of of Pavlovic's poetry are my own. 7 Unless otherwise noted, all original poems of Pavlovic are taken from his collection, Velika Skitija i druge pesme, op. cit. g The reference to "springs" may allude to the folk legend which instructs that after the battle, Knez Lazar's decapitated body was found by a young Turkish boy who wrapped it in a cloth and carried it to a nearby fountain where it remained for forty years. Subsequently, some travelers stopped to drink from the fountain and Knez Lazar’s head appeared to them, and then quickly rejoined its body. On hearing about this, a great number of priests and dignitaries assembled at Kosovo and asked Knez Lazar where he wished to be buried. He answered that he wished to be buried at ✓ Ravanica, the monastery he had erected near Cuprija, and so he was (His remains were subsequently trans ferred to the monastery of Vrdnik in 1683, and then again to the Orthodox Cathedral in Belgrade during World War II; in 1989, in honor of the 600th anniver sary of Kosovo, they were taken on a circuitous route throughout Serbia for various religious services). This legend is described in the epic ballad, "The Finding of the Head of Prince Lazar" ("Obretenije glave kneza Lazara"). 634 9 Philip Sherrard, "Odysseus Elytis and the Discovery of Greece," Journal of Modern Greek Studies, Vol. 1, No.2 (1983), p.272. 10Ibid., pp.273-274. "^Alexis de Toqueville, Democracy in America, trans. George Lawrence, eds. J.P. Mayer and Max Lerner (New York: Harper and Row, 1966), pp.498-499. 12 / Andrei Simic, "Interpersonal Relationships Among the South Slavs: Problems in Cross-Cultural Perception," Serbian Studies, Vol. 4, No. 4 (1988), p.41. 13 Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, Am I My Brother's Keeper? (New York: Books for Libraries, Inc., 1947), p.67. 14 . / Bernard Johnson, introduction, Miodrag Pavlovic: The Slavs Beneath Parnassus, trans. Bernard Johnson (London: Angel Books, 1985), p.22. 15 William Butler Yeats' "The Second Coming" from Modern Verse, ed. Oscar Williams (New York: Washington Square Press, 1972), p.184. 16 John Cage, Silence (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1961), p.42. 17 W.B. Yeats cited by A.N. Jeffares A Commentary on the Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1968), p.148. 18 F.R. Leavis, "The Waste Land," T.S. Eliot: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Hugh Kenner (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1962, pp.89-90. 19Sherrard, p.271. 2°Ibid., p.277. 21 This may also be inferred from the fact that m ancient times, the work "zakon" had a double meaning and connoted "faith" or "religion" as well as "common law"; see, for instance, Milan G. Popovich, 635 The Religion of the Ancient Slavs and the Features of It Which Survived in the Christianity of the Serbs," diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1939, p.55. 2^Mihailovich, pp.363-364. 23 Octavio Paz, On Poets and Others, trans. Michael Schmidt (New York: Seaver Books, 1986), pp.204-205. 2^T.S. Eliot, Collected Poems: 1909-1962 (New York: Harcourt Brace and World, Inc., 1970), p.4. 25Ibid., p.175. 2^See "Notes on 'The Waste Land'" in Eliot, op. cit., pp.70-76, for a review of sources. The "Notes" also provide some indication of Eliot's own penchant for triviality and banality; in note 357, for instance, he explains a reference to a hermit- thrush mentioned in Part V of the poem: "This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush which I have heard in Quebec Province. Chapman says (Handbook of Birds of Eastern North America) 'it is most at home in secluded woodland and thickety retreats. . . . Its notes are not remarkable for variety or volume, but in purity and sweetness of tone and exquisite modulation they are unequalled.' Its 'water-dripping song' is justly celebrated" (p.74). 27 Marjorie Perloff, The Poetics of Indeterminacy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), p.16. 2 8 Kimon Friar, introduction, Modern Greek Poetry (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1973), pp.119-122. 29 Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers, The Power of Myth (New York: Doubleday, 1988), p.8. 2^William Carlos Williams, The William Carlos Williams Reader (New York: New Directions, 1966),p.342. 31 Dickran Tashjian, William Carlos Williams and the American Scene, 1920-1940 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), p.10. 636 32 * Insofar as Pavlovic's intellectualism is con cerned, rather than Eliot--or any Anglo-Saxon poets, for that matter--a. more logical, and I think more fruitful comparison could be made with another writer of the 1920s, the Greek poet, Constantine Cavafys (1863-1933). In his extensive, innovative treatment of history and myth, Cavafys occupies a place in Greek literature similar to that of Milutin Bojic in Serbian letters. Unlike Bojic, however, Cavafys evinces a very objective, analytical, meditational approach to history, much like that of Pavlovic. In addition, his poetry also reflects the same sense of immediate in volvement with the past that we find in Pavlovic, and as a result, no doubt, of the Eastern element common to both of their cultures. Jovan Hristic draws a simi lar parallel in his introduction to Ivan V. Lalid's Izabrane i nove pesme (Belgrade: Srpska knjizevna zadruga, 1969); noting that much of Cavafys' poetry is concerned with the history and culture of Alexandria, where the Greek poet lived most of his life, Hristic points out that his use of Alexandrian themes can be compared to the Byzantine presence in modern Serbian poetry— in Bojic, and more recently, in Pavlovic and Ivan V. Lalic (pp.xi-xii). While a comparison of Cavafys and Pavlovic is beyond the scope of this study, it is nevertheless important to note the similarities between them here in view of the fact that Cavafys' historical style subsequently influenced many of the Greek surrealists who will be discussed in the follow ing chapter, and more so, because of the commonalities which exist between them and their Serbian counter parts . 33 Although Christianity first came to the Balkans in the seventh century (641-642), it was not widely accepted until 879, at the time of Cyril and Methodius' mission. 34 See, for example, Marija Gimbutas' The Slavs (London: Thames and Hudson, 1971), pp.18 and 40-43. 35 Mircea Eliade, The Myth of the Eternal Return or, Cosmos and History, trans. Willard R. Trask (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974), p.95. 3 6 Carl Gustav Jung, The Collected Works, 17 Vols., trans. R.F.C. Hull (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), Vol. X, p.304. 637 37 f Ante Kadic. From Croatian Renaissance to Yugoslav Socialism (Hague: Mouton, 1969), p.194. 38 r Miodrag Pavlovic, "Apocalypse Is A Poetic Idea," Serbian Literary Quarterly, No. 4, Winter 1986, p.83. 3 9 Mihailovich, p.3 64. 4 0„ . . / Simovic, p.vm. 41 Aleksandar Petrov, "Neo-Surrealist Poets," Relations, No.5/6 (1978), p.73. 42 Johnson, p.15. 43 f Miodrag Pavlovic, 87 Pesama (Belgrade: Nolit, 1952), p.40. 4 4 Czeslaw Milosz, The Witness of Poetry (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1983), p.17. 45 . . / Simovic, p.xn. 4 6 Ibid., p.xiv. 4 7 Arthur Rimbaud, "Letter to Paul Demeny," Illuminations and Other Prose Poems, trans. Louise Varese (New York: New Directions, 1957), p.xxx. 48 t Pavlovic has published several poetic collections. These include: 8 7 Pesama (87 Poems)(1952); Stub se^anja (Pillar of Memory)(1953); Oktave (Octaves)(1957); Mleko iskoni (Primeval Milk) (19 62); Velika Skitija (Great Scythia) (1969); Nova Skitija (New Scythia) (197 0) ;Svetli i tamni praznici (Light and Dark Holidays) (1971) ; Hododarje (Sacrificial Procession) (1971); Velika Skitija i druge peme (Great Scythia and Other Poems)(1972); Zavetine (Pledge Days) (1976); Karike (Links) (1977); Zlatna zavada (Golden Discord)(1982); and Poezija (Poetry) (1986). 4 9 f . Miodrag Pavlovic, "Myth and Poetry," cited by Johnson, p.18. 638 50 For an account of these events and Bajezid's reign, see Nevill Forbes and Arnold J. Toynbee, D. Mitrany and D.G. Hogarth, The Balkans: A History of Bulgaria, Serbia, Greece, Rumania and Turkey (New York: AMS Press, 1970), pp.97-99; or George Ostrogorsky, History of the Byzantine State, trans. Joan Hussey (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1957), pp.486-495. 51 Paul R. Radosavljevich, Who Are the Slavs?: A Contribution to Race Psychology, 2 Vols. (Boston: The Gorham Press, 1919), Vol. I, p.529. 52 The epic referred to is "The Kosovo Maiden" ("Kosovka Devojka"). In it, the hero,Milan Toplica, gives the maiden a veil of gold, saying, "By this veil and by my name remember me." This epic can be found in English in Anne Pennington and Peter Levi's collection, Marko the Prince: Serbo-Croat Heroic Songs (London: Duckworth, 19 84). 53^ . t Simovic, pp.xiv-xv. 54 J.E. Cirlot, A Dictionary of Symbols, trans. Jack Sage (New York: Philosophical Library, 1983) , p.107. 55Ibid., p.247. 56 Jean-Pierre Cauvin, introduction, Poems of Andre Breton, trans. Mary Ann Caws and Jean-Pierre Cauvin (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982), pp.xxvii-xxix. 57 „ Ferdinand Alquie, The Philosophy of Surrealism, trans. Bernard Waldrop (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1965), p.122. 58 ? Lalic's poetic collections include the follow ing Bivsi de<*ak (The Former Boy) (1955) ; Velika vrata mora (The Great Doors of the Sea) (19 58) ; Melisa (Melissa) (1959) ; Argonauti i druge pesme (The Argo nauts and Other Poems (19 61) ; Vreme, vatre, vrtovi (Of Time, Fire, Gardens)(1962)1 £in (The Act)(1963); Krug (The Circle) (19 68) ; Izabrane i nove pesme (Selected and New Poems) (1969) ; and Strasna mera (Passionate Measure)(1984). 639 59 Gaston Bachelard, The Psychoanalysis of Fire, trans. Alan C.M. Ross (Boston: Beacon Press, 1964), p.7. 6 0 Unless otherwise noted, all translations of Lalic's poetry are my own. 61 Unless otherwise noted, all original poems of Lalic are taken from his Izabrane i nove pesme (Belgrade: Srpska knji^evna zadruga, 1969). 62 ^ Andre Breton’s "L'Air de l'eau" from L'Air de 11eau (Paris: Cahiers d’Art, 1934), p.34; and Phillipe Soupault's "Georgia" from Twentieth-Century French Poetry, ed. Paul Auster (New York: Random House, 1982), pp.224-225. 63 - • Andre Breton, Selected Poems, trans. Kenneth White (London: Jonathan Cape, 1969), pp.94-95. The referenced lines are: I draw my riches from the fissures in the rock where the sea Hurls its orbs of horses mounted by howling dogs Where consciousness is no longer bread in its royal robe But a kiss the only kiss that can be recharged from its own embers Je prends mon bien dans les failles du roc Ik ou la mer Precipite ses globes de chevaux montes de chiens qui hurlent Ou la conscience n’est plus le pain dans son manteau de roi Mais le baiser le seul qui se recharge de sa propre braise 64 Andre Breton, Manifestoes of Surrealism (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1972), p.40. ^Jovan Hristic', introduction to Lalic's Izabrane i nove pesme, op. cit., p.xiv. 6 6 Breton, Manifestoes, p.30. 67Ibid., p.47. 640 6 8 The folktale, also entitled "The Dark Country" ("Tamni Vilajet"), is as follows: Once upon a time, there was a king who came with his army to the end of the world, and went into the dark country, where you can't see anything. He left the foals of the mares he had with him on the other side, so the mares would be certain to lead them back. When they went into the dark country and were moving through it, they kept feeling small stones under their feet. Something called out from the darkness, "He who takes some of these stones will regret it." Some of them thought, "Well, if I regret it, why bother?" Some thought, "Well, why not take one, at least?" When they came out of the dark, they saw these were precious stones. Those who took none regretted they hadn't taken any; those who took some regretted they hadn't taken more. From Vasko Popa, The Golden Apple, trans. Andrew Harvey and Anne Pennington (London: Anvil Press Poetry, 1980) , p. 23. 69 It will be recalled from the previous chapter that according to folk legend, since the defeat at Kosovo, the white poppies on the field have bloomed red. 7 0 Kalemegdan is the medieval fortress in Belgrade which overlooks the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers. 71 Predrag Palavestra, Novi Jevanctelisti (Sarajevo: Svjetlost, 1968), pp.98-99. 7 2 / Miljkovic's four published volumes are: Uzalud je budim (I Wake Her in Vain)(19 59); Smrcu protiv smrti (Death Against Death)(in collaboration with Branimir Scepanovicf^ 1959) ; Poreklo nade (The Origin of Hope) (1960); and Krv koja svetli (Blood Which Shines) (published posthumously in 1961). 73 See, for instance, Palavestra, cited above, 641 pp.63-67. Also, Sveta Lukic reports in Contemporary Yugoslav Literature (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1972) , that Miljkovic was involved for a time in 1956 with a group of young Belgrade poets who wished to begin a neosymbolist movement; this movement, however, never materialized (p.82). 7^See Petar Dzadzic's exhaustive, illuminating study of Miljkovic*s poetry in his long introduction to his collection of Miljkovic's poetry entitled Pesme (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1965). 75 Paul Eluard, "Poetic Evidence," Surrealism, ed. Herbert Read (London: Faber and Faber, 1936)., p.173. 7 6 Unless otherwise noted, all translations of Miljkovic's poetry are my own. 77 Unless otherwise noted, all original poems of Miljkovic" are taken from Pesme, op. cit. 7 8 Breton, Manifestoes, p.163. 79Cirlot, p.259. 8°Ibid., p.29. 81 See Cirlot, for example, p.112. 8 2 J.C. Cooper, An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols (London: Thames and Hudson, 1978), p.118. Cooper also reports that eight signifies the pairs of opposites in oriental philosophies, and that it is the magic number of Hermes Trismegisthus. 642 Chapter VI A Parallel Quest: Surrealism in the Greek Alphabet 643 Surrealism was the only school of poetry which aimed at spiritual health. --Odysseus Elytis 644 Now I would like to ask the reader to shift his attention away from Serbia for a moment, and turn southward in the direction of the Hellenic world. My purpose for doing so is to demonstrate that the type of surrealist synthesis discussed in the preceding chapters is not limited to Serbia, and that a similar form has developed independently and nearly simultaneously in the poetry of modern Greece. Although an in-depth analysis of the rich, complex nature of Greek surrealist poetry is beyond the scope of this study, it is my intention in this chapter to present a brief overview of Greek surrealism in which I will describe the events that led to its introduction into Greek letters and comment on some of its main proponents. I believe that this overview will give the reader at least some indication of the structural and thematic elements common to both the Serbian and Greek surrealist forms. Modern Greek culture finds many commonalities with that of Serbia. First, as in the case of Serbia, there is a strong oriental element in Greek culture, which results in a quality that Odysseus Elytis terms the "special sensibility that characterizes Eastern peoples."1 Elytis feels that the past neglect of this oriental element and its consequent diffusion by the 645 deluge of Western influences has resulted in a vigorous effort to affirm it today in artistic life, and in Greek life generally.2 Second, the Greek, like the Serb, appears to be very much aware of his links to his ancestors, and according to Kimon Friar, views them as a vital force in his daily life. The dead, Friar observes, are perceived as "a living reality": Death and the dead for the Greeks are primarily continuous experiences in life rather than portals to immortality or damnation. . . . For most Greek poets, the dead are . . . the great ancestors of the race . . . who periodically must be visited in moments of crisis, as by Odysseus in the depths of Hades, that out of the accumulated wisdom and historical insight they might guide us in our 'contemporary sorrow.13 Third, Eastern Orthodoxy has played a significant role in the cultural life of Greece, fostering, as in the case of the Serbs, a comparatively holistic world view. The "double-faith" of Greek Orthodoxy also promotes a mystical relationship to the natural world, which is perceived as being imbued with sacrality.4 Moreover, as Philip Sherrard points out, the Christianity of the Greeks is rooted in an indigenous metaphysical tradition: [Greece] never lost her traditional roots. These roots . . . went back 646 through Byzantium to the great metaphysical tradition of the ancient world, in its Orphic and Pythagorean form. Of this tradition, the Greek people's tradition was a survival, fragmentary but genuine. This is not to say that Christian Byzantium played no part in the formation of the cultural life of modern Greece. On the contrary, it played a central part. Rather it is to say that in the Christian myth of Byzantine Greece were enshrined in the main the same principles as those of the Orphic and Pythagorean tradition.5 Fourth, as a result of the Ottoman occupation, the Greeks also experienced cultural suspension. As in the case of the Serbs, the natural course of their cultural development was arrested; they, too, were prevented from participating in the Western Renaissance, and they, too, fell into a long period of economic and cultural deprivation. But this lack of exposure to Western influences had a similar effect on the Greeks as that which we have noted in the Serbs: Because of their isolation from the West during the centuries of Turkish rule, the Greeks, too, averted to a great degree the forces of Western rationalism and materialism. This enabled them to retain a view of the world which, as Sherrard explains, expresses "the whole of themselves": Greece . . . never had any Middle Ages, as we understand them, or any Renaissance, as we understand it, or an Age of Enlightenment. That 647 elevation of the reason over the rest of life had not taken place. Greece had not gone through the debauchery of rationalism of which the modern western world is the product. Her people had not known the split between mind and instinct, head and heart, and the consequent paralysis of man's emotional life. On the contrary . . . the Greek people had remained for centuries very close to the earth on which they lived and as a result, the irrational, chthonic aspect of their nature was stronger than their capacity for form and order. Their life was founded not on a part of themselves, as is that of the western rationalist, but on the whole of themselves. Their character was much more a direct expression of the forces of nature than the product of any self- conscious training or control. Hence their extreme ego- centeredness; hence, from an external point of view, the disorder and inconsequence of their life; hence, too, their spontaneity, naturalness and sincerity: what they did was not the result of premeditation or reflection but simply the breaking forth of the original life-stream itself. This life-stream is neither good nor bad; it has no moral character at all; it is essentially amoral. It is as likely to be destructive as creative, brutal as considerate. It simply xs., pure energy which in itself has no purpose other than to break forth and whose nature is entirely blind and selfish. That in fact, where Greece is concerned, its breaking forth was not always blind or selfish but, as in the case of the War of Independence, was directed towards definite and communal ends, was due to that vitality which enabled the Greek 648 people to project their deepest aspirations in the form of a myth to which the individual could dedicate his life.6 The aspects of Greek culture which Sherrard describes are indicative of what Elytis terms the "mystical Greek tradition,"7 an all-embracing tradition which seeks to realize the divine unity of the cosmos, and which completely contradicts the rationalistic world view which has long prevailed in the West. Therefore, the literary and artistic trends engendered by the post- Renaissance view of the world, though compatible, perhaps, in certain isolated aspects, simply could not accomodate the entirety of such a tradition. Surrealism, however, with its emphasis on the reconciliation of opposites, its unshakable faith in the authenticity of the subconscious, and its veneration of the irrational, intuitive element in human nature was a wholly compatible vehicle of expression for this mystical tradition. Indeed, Breton himself indicates that surrealism is an extension of it: "The Surrealist voice that shook Cumae, Dodona, and Delfi is nothing more than the voice which dictates my less irascible speeches to me."8 There is yet one other common factor which contributed to the development of both Serbian and Greek 649 surrealism, but it is one which takes on an additional dimension in the case of the Greeks. As I discussed in the previous chapter, for the Greek as for the Serb, personal identity is inextricably linked to cultural identity. In both cases, this is primarily a result of the cultural suspension which occurred during the centuries of Ottoman rule. For the Greek, however, the problem of self-identity has been exacerbated by other factors as well. Although the Greeks won their independence from the Turks in 1830, nearly a century before the Serbs,9 it was, in fact, only a nominal independence. The Allied Powers which had negotiated her independence— England, France and Russia— soon thereafter set about "taking over’ 1 the political course of the new Greek state. In February of 1833, they installed Prince Otho, son of Ludwig I of Bavaria, as King, a move which completely contradicted Greek tradition— particularly since, as king, Otho, a Catholic, became the lawful head of the Orthodox Church of Greece— and subsequently attempted to implement their often conflicting political and philosophical views in an effort to mold Greece into what they conceived to be her true classical image.10 This image, however, was entirely alien to the modern Greek whose "primitiveness" utterly confounded his classically educated European 650 benefactors. Sherrard reports that the increasing number of Europeans who visited Greece during this period and who brought with them "that artificial image [of Greece] enshrined in the classical tradition," were shocked to find that the flesh and blood Greek they encountered was not rational, was not enlightened, had little formal knowledge of his glorious ancestors, and subscribed to a form of Christianity which represented "practically everything that was non-classical, obscurantist, barbarous, and of the Dark Ages."11 Hence, since the modern Greek did not conform to his "classical image," the only thing an enlightened well- meaning Western rationalist could do was impose that image upon him. Consequently, the Western takeover led to a further crisis of identity for the Greek, one which, as Sherrard points out, had profound psychological effects: [T]he constitution of the new Greek state, as well as its educational and other systems, were crucially influenced by west European models. In short, the framework of values, morals, principles, purposes, as well as their corresponding institutional forms, to which the newly-born nation and its inhabitants were required to adapt themselves, was shaped quite decisively in accordance with western prototypes. In this respect, it was alien to the Greek way of life that had been effective up to the time of the liberation; and the Greek people found themselves in an almost schizophrenic situation in which they had to give their adherence to and to mould their thoughts and actions on a prefabricated structure of ideals, philosophical, social, political and cultural, so much at odds with their own native traditions. . . . As a result of all this, the living face of Greece tended to be obscured beneath a patchwork of artificial and alien creeds and images that the modern Greek— primarily the urban educated Greek, not the people of the countryside, though naturally the latter could not be entirely exempt— was persuaded in one way or another to accept as relating to his ideal identity as a Greek. In fact it did nothing of the kind; and his acceptance of it initiated a process of self-estrangement or loss of identity of quite alarming dimensions, one that has had equally alarming consequences in virtually every sphere of Greek life. It is this that explains why the search for personal identity tends to be so intertwined in Greece with the search to discover what it means to be Greek, to discern the values of true Greekness, and to reveal the living face of Greece.12 The appeal of surrealism, then, as Elytis explains, was two-fold; it had the capability to counteract the artificial image which the West had imposed upon Greek civilization, and it could serve the quest to discover the "living face" of Greece in a way that was wholly compatible with the mystical tradition in Greek culture 652 I and my generation . . . have attempted to find the true face of Greece. This was necessary because until then the true face of Greece was presented as Europeans saw Greece. In order to achieve the task we had to destroy the tradition of rationalism which lay heavily on the Western world. Hence the great appeal of surrealism for us the moment it appeared on the literary scene. Many facets of surrealism I cannot accept, such as its paradoxical side, its championing of automatic writing; but after all, it was the only school of poetry— and I believe, the last in Europe— which aimed at spiritual health and reacted against the rationalist currents which had filled most Western minds. Since surrealism had destroyed this rationalism like a hurricane, it had cleared the ground in front of us, enabling us to link ourselves physiologically with our soil and to regard Greek reality without the prejudices that have reigned since the Renaissance. The Western world always conceives of Greece in the image created by the Renaissance. But this image is not true. Surrealism, with its anti- rationalistic character, helped us to make a sort of revolution by perceiving the Greek truth. At the same time, surrealism contained a supernatural element, and this enabled us to form a kind of alphabet out of purely Greek elements with which to express ourselves.13 Furthermore, the Greeks also shared with the French surrealists the common aim of linguistic innovation. As Anna Balakian confirms, Breton perceived 653 the surrealist adventure as a revolution of language itself: [In] La Revolution Surr£aliste, he stated that the principal aim of its founders was to raise the French language from the abject insignificance and stagnation to which it had been reduced under the influence of successful but mediocre authors like Anatole France. Five years later, in his second manifesto, he once more contended that the chief activity of surrealism was in the field of verbal construction, and that social and political questions were of secondary concern. In Entretiens (1952), considering surrealist activities in retrospect Breton again asserted that their purpose was ’essentially and before all else' to put language in 'a state of effervescence.’14 The Greek poets were also concerned with the purely linguistic aspect of surrealism. For them, however, the problem of language took on more specific dimensions. The "language question," as it is commonly referred to in Greek studies, has long been a source of conflict for Greek writers. The main issue of this conflict involves the use of the two modern Greek linguistic forms: "demotiki" or demotic, the popular language of the people; and "katherevousa," the purist tongue. Contemporary katherevousa was first conceived in its rudimentary form by the writer and literary scholar, 654 Adamantios Korais (1748-1833). In developing katherevousa, Korais sought to effect a happy medium by adopting a base— lexical, grammatical and syntactical— of "koine" or Common Greek (derived from classical Attic Greek, koine was regarded in Korais' time as the purist form), and incorporating much of the modern lexicon of demotiki. Katherevousa is a highly condensed language; it has a wealth of abstract words and presents a rather exacting grammatical and syntactical structure. Demotiki, on the other hand, is periphrastic; it is richer in concrete words and has a more flexible structure. Eventually, although demotiki remained the spoken language, Korais' katherevousa became the formal literary language and demotiki the language of folk literature. The division was also political: Partisans of katherevousa tended to be upper-class conservatives, while the more liberal lower classes championed demotiki. Greek poets of various origins, however, have experimented with demotiki.15 The first to popularize it was an aristocrat, Dionysios Solomos (1798-1857), whose innovative use of it in combination with classical poetic forms established demotiki as an accepted literary language. Subsequently, the poetry of Constantine Cavafys (1863-1933) marked a further victory for demotiki. Relying primarily on demotiki while 655 selectively incorporating elements of katherevousa, Cavafys created poetic portraits of historical figures and events which speak to the native reader in the tone and flavor of contemporary, daily life. Both Solomos and Cavafys made strong impressions on the Greek poets of the twentieth century, for their poetic experiments tested the limits of the language and gave some indication of the possibilities of the language. In the 1930s, the young poets who were concerned with the language problem saw that surrealism with its emphasis on the concrete would enhance the demotic; and it offered, as well, an infinite variety of exciting linguistic possibilities in which various Greek forms— liturgical and dialectical forms, classical Greek and koine as well as katherevousa and demotiki— could be combined to express the rich, multi-faceted voice of the Greek spirit. Hence, in its methodological as well as its philosophical premises, surrealism offered these poets the only school of poetry which could accomodate and which promised to fulfill their poetic aims. Although it may seem somewhat ironic that the remedy for the westernization of Greece was itself a product of the West, it is not really so strange since the aim of surrealism was to discredit those same Western rationalist trends which had fostered a 656 distorted view of Greek culture for so long. Moreover, French literature had been the dominant influence in Greek letters since the early part of the nineteenth century, and particularly after the advent of the French symbolist movement, one of whose main proponents, Jean Moreas (Yiannis Papadiamantopoulos) (1856-1910), was, in fact, a transplanted Greek. Additionally, some of the future Greek surrealists had resided in France where they were personally involved with Breton and the surrealist group there.16 Upon returning to Greece, they began to experiment with the French surrealists1 methods in ways that would enhance their own native language and culture. In contrast to the segmental development of surrealism in Serbian letters, the Greek surrealist movement which first emerged in the 1930s has followed a sequential course of development. This course was first indicated in 1933 with the publication of Poems (novnuaTa), the first poetic collection of Nicolas Calas (Nikos Kalamaris) (b.1907), who also used the pseudonyms Nikitas Randos and M.Speiros.17 Calas is a transitional figure in the surrealist movement. Throughout the 1920s, the prevailing trends in Greek poetry had been the symbolist and decadent modes, but this era was effectively brought to a close with the suicide of 657 Kostas Karyotakis (1896-1928), the last and most talented representative of the ennui-ridden "Damned" generation. While Calas’ poetry retains some of the abstraction and lassitude characteristic of the symbolist and decadent trends, these are often juxtaposed with vivid, concrete imagery and a conscious, aggressive attempt to restructure reality by positing images in a wholly unfamiliar context. The poet's refined demotiki interspersed with phrases in katherevousa enhanced this effect. As Z.I. Siaflekis observes, Calas' aim is to disorient rather than to soothe the reader: For Calas, art leads to catharsis, through a process of surprises, wherein sensation reaches paroxysm. The process of catharsis frees the passions and the symbolic interpretation abolishes the obstacles. In this way, art [according to Calas] 'is not, as some would like, an exercise in tranquility, but an exercise in action; art does not tranquilize but arouses and frees the capabilities which had been laid aside.'18 This technique is evident in poems such as "Secondo il Color": In summers, in the evening I am often deceived and construe faded appearances which hurriedly march along the dusty streets for sepals of deep blue eyes. These eyes that resemble violets a tight bouquet [made] from an abundance of violet-colored flowers.19 658 T a Ka^oKaipia, to ppa5o auxva am xiepai Kai eK&apPavco £e0copiaapeveg o\\req nox) PiaoTim paSi^ouv 7cavoo axodg aKoviajievooq 5popoo<; yia 7cepiav0ia Pa0\)yaXa^cov paxicsv. Ta paxia ao ra tcoo poia^ave ae peve^eSec; a < | > ijct6 |I7c o ' oketo ano atyQova peve^eXi tanAooSia.20 and "Villa Asphodela": In flowerpots hairs would be planted to remind with their color with their rhythm, of the hair of the few heads that I happened to truly love. Daily I would water them with sea water carried in my palms. peaa ae y/Uxaxpe^ 0a xav (jmxepeva paAAia kov va 0opi^oov pe xo xpG3pa xoog pe to po0po Toog rnv Koprj xtDv Xvycov K £ c ()a ^ G 3 v tzov eXaxe aXr\Qivd va epcoxeuBGi Ka0rjpepiva 0a to; rcoxi^a pe ©ataxaaio vepo pexa^eppevo pea* axiq 7taXape<; poo 21 Another important innovation of Calas' was what Mario Vitti terms the "'discovery1 of the Aegean as a stage for poetry."22 This is apparent in poems such as "Santorini" or "Boatman" ("BapKapr^") , for example, which mark the introduction of the theme of the sea as a symbol of Greek consciousness, a theme which will subsequently be expanded and enriched by the future surrealists, and indeed, by Greek poets generally. But perhaps Calas1 greatest contribution to Greek surrealism was in the role of impresario. He translated the French surrealists, wrote critical essays and polemics explaining and defending the aesthetic value of surrealism, and tirelessly promoted the surrealist cause.23 Moreover, Calas' commitment to surrealism also included social and political dimensions. He believed that the essentially revolutionary nature of surrealism could be applied as a model for social and political as well as for artistic life, and that such a model could inspire a new, more progressive era of human thought and development. This broad perspective made him a pivotal figure not only in the development of modern Greek poetry, but in the advancement of Greek culture in general. Drawing a parallel between the role of Calas in Greece and that of Vladimir Mayakovsky in Russia, Vitti indicates that beyond his contribution in terms of the inroads he made in the service of surrealism, Calas' must be acknowledged, as well, as the only poet of the Greek avantgarde who played a part in the social struggle of his era.24 The new surrealist direction in Greek poetry which Calas ushered in was in fact a revival of the indigenous, mystical poetic tradition, the seeds of which had long lain dormant in the Greek subconscious 660 and would now be refertilized by the plastic medium of the word in its most authentic manifestation. Although his view of the surrealist movement is, on the whole, somewhat ambivalent, Andreas Karandonis’ assessment of the new poetry affirms the reemergence of this ancient, mystical element. Whereas the contemporary poetry which preceded it was relatively easy to analyze, the new poetry, he writes, presents a disconnected, unexpected series of images, "as in a dream": And among these images, and together with these images are heard phrases like signals, like prophecies, like momentary confessions, like half disclosed secrets.... In the new poetry, Pythia found once again many of her lost rights, and perhaps this is among the most significant accomplishments of the new poetic expression. . . . [This new poetry] requires . . . a virgin primitiveness, that is, a child-like mind and an ecstatic soul which, not having any sophistication, practices and develops, and comes into mystical contact with the poetic object.25 The first practitioner of this new poetry, and the most orthodox of the Greek surrealists in that he adhered very closely to the French model was Andreas Embirikos (1901-1975), whose poetic development, Elytis contends, did not merely follow but coincided with the development of surrealism in France; and further, Elytis 661 believes that Embirikos actually preceded Breton in the discovery of objective chance.26 While in the context of the present study Embirikos is of marginal significance since his poetry does not explicitly reflect the presence of a national element, he is important to the development of surrealism in Greece in that he was the first poet to apply the surrealist method in Greek letters— in this sense, a parallel may be drawn between Embirikos and the Belgrade Group of the 1930s in Serbia. Moreover, Embirikos' preoccupation with the natural world, and particularly with the sea and the sun, implies a national dimension in his work and prefigures the thematic development of the mediterranean landscape as a metaphor for Greek consciousness in the poetry of the later surrealists. In 1935, Embirikos jolted the Athens literary / scene with the publication of Blast Furnace ( •Yyamuivos) ■ The erotic nature of the poetic texts in this collection and the exclusive use of automatic writing in combination with katherevousa earned for the author the reputation of a scandalous madman. But as Vitti observes, Blast Furnace proposed a new cosmos and freedom from the "burden of the past."27 And, as its title implies, this volume effects that freedom through a process of poetic combustion. The poems of Blast 662 Furnace generally reflect the French concept of the surreal. Embirikos elevates erotic love, but in a wholly innocent, guiltless way. He finds natural power in the elements of the physical world where every object and act reveals an authentic cosmicity in what the poet terms the "flux of becoming"; Elytis writes that one of Embirikos' most consistent poetic traits is his ability to consecrate and transform even the smallest particle of matter so that it recovers its original, idiosyncratic purity.28 He achieves this through the juxtaposition of incongruous images, word association, and semantic dislocation which aborts or, to use Yiorgis Yiatromanolakis' expression, "ruptures" the logical action of the words. His technique is to present clusters of images which intermingle within the environment of the poem— the title of the poem may also represent a cluster or part of a cluster. The unfamiliar configurations of these clusters create a series of breaks or ruptures in the logical progression of the poem. The poetic tension derives from these clusters in which, through this series of ruptures, an intensification or combustion occurs which results in the eruption of associated meanings or "auras" of the words within that cluster. As Yiatromanolakis explains: 663 The logical coherence of the poems of B la st Furna.ee. depends on the amount of divergence from the syntactical relationship of the components of speech. The more violations of regularity, the more disturbed the surface of the poetry, and the stronger they 'propose' the ruptures of the 'untamed' words or phrases, the more difficult it is for us to obtain the total idea or image of the poem. This, however, does not mean that the spiritual event which takes shape and continues out of the obscurity of the poem is interrupted, as the continuities in their course will easily show us the physical and verbal formulas. If, on the other hand, the ruptures of antisemasiological words and phrases are few in the poem, then the image or 'theme' of the poem presents itself more clearly.29 ft This technique is evident in "Light on a Whale" (" < P G 3 c ; £7Ul <|>CxXaivaQ") , which is characteristic of the automatic texts in Blast Furnace; the image cluster which occurs in "the fishscales of a cylinder-bearing dove of long trajectory" is a good example. In addition, this poem reflects Embirikos' frequent practice of beginning with a concrete image— in this case, woman— and projecting increasingly surrealist images on to it, resulting in a statement of universal truth: The original form of woman was the braiding of two dinosaur necks. After that, times changed and woman also changed shape. She became smaller, somewhat more fluid, and more suited to the two-masted (in some lands three- masted) ships which sail above the calamity of life's struggle. She herself sails upon the fishscales of a cylinder- bearing dove of long trajectory. Epochs change and woman in our time resembles the chasm of a fuse. *H apxiKTi |io p < |)T i x rjc ; yuvaiKoq t^to t o x G 5 v Xaipcsv 5\>o 5eivoaa\)pcov. * E k t o t e aXkafyxv 01 Kaipoi Kai aXXa^e ayrjjia rat r\ yuvaiKa. *EYive mo piKprj mo pe\)axT] mo evapjioviapevri pe xa SiKaxapxa (g e p£piK£<; ytopEc; xpiKaxapxa) Kapapia k o x > nXeow etcovco ano xt) Gi)|i<|>opa xr\c; PiorcaXrig CH juX££i £7iavco G x a Xenia evoq KoXiv5po<t)opo'o 7C£piGX£pioo paKpa<; S^kt^. Oi etcoxei; aAAa^ouv Kai r\ yuvouKa xrfq E Tto yrjc; \xaq poia^Ei joe %ao\\.a 0p\)aM.i8o<;.30 In Hinterland ( ’EvSoycopa) (1945), Embirikos* second collection, the poet writes in a controlled free verse and somewhat formal demotiki, a style which he maintained in all of his subsequent poetry.31 His thematic material, however, remained very much the same The constant renewal of life and the creativity of becoming; the hidden magic of the natural world— particularly in the play of light and sea; and the sanctity of eros, which in his later poetry becomes a pure creative force in itself. Embirikos is a poet of lyrical optimism, joy and hope, love and light. Embirikos' influence is readily apparent in the sensual, light-soaked poetic landscapes of his life 665 long friend, Odysseus Elytis (Odysseus Alepoudhelis) (b.1911). Elytis' poetry first appeared in 1935 in the literary periodical Nea Grammata. and over the course of the next few years, he contributed several more poems to that journal. Nearly all of these were collected in his first volume, Orientations ( npooocva-toXicnxoi), issued in the latter part of 1939. Since that time, Elytis has proven to be a prolific writer. In addition to several poetic collections, he has also published translations, critical articles on both literature and art— Elytis is a painter and art critic as well as a poet— essays, reviews and commentaries.^2 From the outset, Elytis was recognized as a great poetic talent. When he made his debut in Nea Grammata. he was warmly and enthusiastically received by Athens literati. According to Karandonis, "He was the one poet everyone was waiting for . . . even the critics of modern art."33 His popularity resulted from his imagniative use of surrealist imagery to express native themes within traditional poetic structures. Using a demotic base with some purist words and expressions as well as his own neologisms, Elytis' rich poetic language bears the authentic imprint of the "Y?tCDO07i}iaOTTl£" ("language-shaper"). 666 It is with good reason that Elytis is so often referred to as the "poet of the Aegean." He depicts a protean world of sun, sea and love, a world which is in a constant state of renewal: "Whatever I love is born continuously/whatever I love is always found at its beginning" ("*6, t l ayan® 'y e w ie x a i a S ia K O ic a /O , x i aycnzm p p ia K e x a i OXT|v a p x r | xoaj 7 c a v x a ") , he writes.34 And although it is expressed through the mode of the surreal, this world is consistently and decidedly Greek. As Edmund Keeley notes, "[Elytis'] surrealism is always rooted in a literal native landscape that is identifiable within the poem."35 But this is not simply nature poetry: This landscape speaks to the poet's senses with "purely Greek elements" in the language of the "mystical Greek tradition," and it is his task to decode its revelations. "For Elytis," writes Friar, "whatever is natural is holy, and the five or more senses are sacred portals to an earthly as well as to a celestial paradise."36 This paradise is Elytis’ archetypal "third world" of the imagination, formed from elements of both East and West, at the "omphalos of the Aegean."37 And, writes Sherrard, it is with this raw material of the Aegean that Elytis expresses his essential vision of Greece: The third world— the Greece of the imagination— is not simply a 667 representation or description in poetic language of the natural beauty of Greece, nor are the images of his poetry merely metaphors through which his experiences of the natural Greek world may be communicated to others. . . . [Bjehind Elytis' poetry stands a vision of things— a vision of Greece— that is practically the reverse of what we [in the West] have been persuaded to submit. According to this vision, it is the imaginative reality that takes precedence over their material and outward appearance. It is as rhough each thing in the external world— each thing that we perceive through the senses— has its equivalent or analogue, as Elytis prefers to call it, in the inner world; and it is the sight or experience of things in the external world that awakens, or brings into consciousness, their corresponding images that are always present within us in a latent state. In the inner world, the things that we perceive or experience through the senses are transmuted by means of these images into psychic energies. And this continual metamorphosis of the world of the senses in the light of the imagination not only resolves apparent dissonances in that world, so that things that outwardly, as objects, appear to have little or no relationship are seen to be intimately connected and even identified; it also allows us to overcome the dualism between the world of the senses and what is called the supranatural world by revealing to us the numinous or the mystical aspect of things that all too often is hidden from our sight. Mere description, which leaves things as they appear to be to our senses, so far from representing reality, actually distorts it. But seeing things as Elytis would ask us 668 to see them— by referring them back anagogically to their archetypes in our inner world— enables us to elevate the world of the senses to 'a level that is sacred,' as he puts it, and to 'sanctify the perception.'38 In Elytis' first two collections, Orientations. mentioned above, and Sun the First fHXlOc; O (1943), this vision is concentrated on the Greek landscape which, as Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke points out, has the peculiar ability of evoking a timeless world: The Greek landscape irrevocably includes Time. Time and space are not separated, not polarized. What the eye sees and the mind knows are so close they almost touch, to the point that the age-old split between object and subject is in a way obliterated.39 Elytis expresses this timelessness in fluid, sensual lines full of dazzling light and liquid color, which depict an enchanted, halcyon world of perpetual summers the guardian of which is the magic sign of the sun; it is a world where naked, sunburnt children wrapped in "cold, salty seaweed" and with light "trembling" between their teeth, cavort among the olive trees and vineyards and frolic "in the music of the grass," while "lemon trees water the pollen of summer" and the wind tosses "its feelings like foam/Unknown and blue," a world where even the night is drenched in light as the "gold sword 669 of Orion" scatters "Dust from the dreams of young girls/Fragrant with mint and basil." In these early poems, Friar observes: Elytis created a 'countryside of the open heart' where the innocent sky turns to serenity, where every moment is a sail that changes color, where the footsteps of time resound in the deep, and he inhabited this dream landscape with metamorphosed boys and girls, mythical maidens with floating hair and translucent bodies, 'seablue to the bone,1 who bring in their hands an innocence as though from another world, making the invisible visible, reshaping objects according to the heart's desire, exposing the secret mystery of common things in an innocence of fused sensations where the ideal cannot be separated from the material.40 "The Mad Pomegranate Tree" ( "CH Tp£XXr| po5ia") gives some indication of the way in which Elytis makes the "invisible visible." In Greek folklore, the pomegranate traditionally symbolizes fertility and power.41 Here, as it "battles the cloudiness of the world," the pomegranate tree symbolizes hope, joy and the triumphant, mad daring of all that which opposes the forces of "evil black darkness" as it bursts into bloom at the close of summer ("August fifteenth" refers to the Greek Orthodox holiday of the Dormition of the Mother of Christ — "*HKoi|ir|<Ji(;T T | ( ; ©eoTOKOV"— which traditionally 670 marks the end of summer), taunting the oncoming winter with its giddy frolic of light, movement and color. Hence, as the following lines reflect, the mad pomegranate tree makes manifest the mood of the day which, as Elytis indicates with an epigram, is "an early morning question of caprice a perdre haleine”: In these all-white courtyards where the south wind blows Whistling in vaulted chambers, tell me is it the mad pomegranate tree Which leaps in the light scattering her fertile laughter With the willfulness and whisperings of the wind, tell me is it the mad pomegranate tree Which jostles the dawn with newly born foliage Opening high its colors with a shudder of triumph? When on the plains where all-naked girls awake And harvest clover with their blond arms Wandering around the edges of their sleep, tell me is it the mad pomegranate tree Which unsuspectingly puts the light in their verdant baskets Which floods their names with the singing of birds, tell me Is it the mad pomegranate tree that battles the cloudiness of the world? In petticoats of April first and in the cicadas of August fifteenth Tell me, that which plays, that which rages, that which entices Shaking from out of dread its evil black darkness Pouring out into the bosom of the sun intoxicating birds Tell me, that which opens its wings on the breast of things 671 On the breast of our deepest dreams, is it the mad pomegranate tree? Z ’ aweg xiq Kaxaarcpe^ avXbq okov <|)toa o voxxac; £<t>x)pi£ovxa<; ae 0otaoxe<; Kapapeq, rceaxe pox) eivai r\ xpeMj} poSia Uov aKipiaei oxo < ( > G 3 < ; aKopm^ovxaq xo K a p 7 c o < |> o p o yekio xrjq M e avepox) rceiapaxa Kai \jn0x)piapaxa, Tteaxe pot) eivai r\ xpeMJi poSia Uov arcapxapaei pe <J>x)M*coaiec; vioyewrixec; xov op0po ’Avovyovtag oXa xa xpcopaxa yrr\Xa pe piyo<; 0piap|3ox); *rOxav axoxx; Kaprcoxx; kov £x)tcvox3v xa o^oyopva t Kopixaia 0epi£ox)ve pe xa £av0a xoxx; xePl0C x°c xpi<|>x>AXia rx)pi^ovxa<; xa rcepaxa x C 5 v mvcov xoxx;, rceaxe pox) ^vai h xpeM.it po5ia nox) pa£ei avx)7X07cxri pea* axa %A,copa rcavepia xovq \ xa < ( > G 5 x a Ilox) ^exei^i^ei ano KeXarjSiapotx; xa ovopaxa xoxx;, 7ceaxe pox) f t * • S \ / l v —• Eivai r| xpeMn po5ia kov pa^exai xr] ax)vve<J)ia xox) Koapox); Le peao<})ox)axava 7ipcoxa7ipiXia<; Kai ae x^ix^i>aa SeKaTcevxaxryooaxox) Ileaxe pox), aoxrj kov m i£ei, aoxt] kov opyi^exai, avxx\ kov ^e^oyiaCei Tiva^ovxac; a / xri popepa xa KaKa paxSpa aKoxaSia v / « Sexx)vovxaq axouq K o p < |> o x x ; xov rjXiox) xa pe0x)axiKa 7iox)Xia 672 lleaxe poi), auxri rcou avovyEi xa <()xepa axo axr)0o<; x G 5 v rcpaYpaxcov Zto orrjOo^ x05v |3a0iG5v oveipcov pa<;, eivai r\ xpeX^ri poSia; 42 The fierce determination in this poem is also characteristic of Orientations and Sun the First. It implies overcoming and independence on a national as well as on a cosmic level, as in the concluding lines of "The Wind that Loiters Among the Quinces" ("At)XO^ 0 CC£p(X£ icoi) xa^epei pea* oxig kuS cdvieg") : Let it be clear: No one will tell us our fate . Let it be clear: We ourselves will tell the fate of the sun. •'Eva Kai 5i)o: x t j poipa pag Sev 0a xrjv rcei mvevag. •f Eva Kai 8i)o: xrj poipa xou i^Xiou 0a xrjv 7ioupe epeTq.43 In addition to the Greek landscape itself, . other indigenous elements can also be identified even in these early volumes. These are religious— such as the reference to the church holiday in "The Mad Pomegranate Tree"; mythological— in "Helen" ("EXeVT|"), for example, V _ / and in "Shape of Boeotia" ("Mopc})rj XTjqBoicoxiac;") ; historical— a reference to Bouboulina, a heroine of the Greek War of Independence in "Sailor Boy in the Garden" ( "NaDXaKl XOl) 7ceplPoA.lOD") ; and folkloric— in "Age of Blue Memory" ( "HMKia IT|£ Y^a\)Krj£ ODpTJO Tl^") , "immortal water" 673 > ? \ ( " O C B O C V O C T O v e p oH) alludes to an ancient legend which instructs that anyone who drinks from the river Styx will become immortal,44 and in "Melancholy of the Aegean" ( A iy a iO 'O ") , "speechless water" > ' v ("a|llA,T\TO v e p o ") relates to a folk custom associated with the June 24th holiday of John the Baptist in which a young child must silently fetch water in a large jar from a village well. When she/he returns home, each of the other village children places some personal article in the jar and it is then covered with a red cloth and set out beneath the night sky. The next morning, as the articles are removed from the jar, prophecies are made about their owners.45 The intoxicating, brilliant sun of idyllic youth in Elytis 1 first two collections is transformed into the penetrating, crystalline light of suffering and redemption as the poet comes of age in his third volume, Heroic and Eleaaic Song for the Lost Second Lieutenant of the Albanian Campaign TipcoiKO K a i rcevQifio y ia to y y c q ie v o a v Q m o ^ O Y a y o (1945) . in this work, which depicts the universal soldier as a mythical Adonis figure, we begin to understand what Elytis means when he says of his poetic technique, "I kept the mechanism of mythmaking but not the figures of mythology."46 The Sona is actually one long poem consisting of fourteen 674 numbered parts, each of varying length and verse form; each one presents various sub-themes, all of which are linked together by the main theme of sacrifice and redemption. Each section also constitutes a step in the sequential tension of the poem, culminating in the resurrection of the hero. The work was inspired by Elytis' experience in World War II. When, on October 28, 1940, Mussolini demanded that the Greek premier, John Metaxas, allow Italian troops to occupy certain Greek territories, Metaxas flatly refused (The event is still commemorated yearly as the national holiday of "Ohi" or "No" Day on October 28th). Greek troops were mobilized, and as a reserve officer, Elytis was immediately called up and sent to the front lines of the Greek-Albanian frontier. In a letter to. Friar, he relates how, in the horror of that experience, the seed of his poem took root: [W]ith an order in my pocket, I set out to meet my new army unit at the front somewhere between the Akrokeravnia Mountains and Tepeleni. One by one, I abandoned the implements of my material existence. My beard became more and more unkempt. The lice swarmed and multiplied. Mud and rain disfigured my uniform. Snow covered everything in sight. And when the time came for me to take the final leap, to understand what role I was to play in terms of the enemy, I was no longer anything but a creature of slight substance who— exactly 675 because of this— carried within him all the values of material life stressed to their breaking point and conducted to their spiritual analogy. Was this a kind of 'contemporary idealism'? That very night it was necessary for me to proceed on a narrow path where I met repeatedly with the stretcher- bearers who with great difficulty tried to keep in balance the heavily wounded whom they were bearing to the rear. I shall never forget the groans of those wounded. They made me, in the general over-excitement of my mind, conjure up that 'it is not possible,' that 'it cannot otherwise be done,' which is the reversion of justice on this earth of ours. They made me swear an oath in the name of the Resurrection of that brave Hellenic Hero, who became now for me the Second Lieutenant of the Albanian Campaign, that I would advance into battle with this talisman of my lyrical idea. . . . Nothing further remained for me but to fulfill my vow, to give form to the Second Lieutenant of the Albanian Campaign on multiple levels woven together with the traditions of Greek history, but also involved- -in particular— within and beyond death, in the Resurrection, the Easter of God.47 The dramatic progression from apocalypse to salvation creates the dialectical tension of The Song. Now the Greek landscape is no longer a place of beauty and happiness; now, "Fruits spit out their seeds" and "Earth hides her stones" as the land plays out the drama of apocalypse in which the dark forces of evil— the Italians--vie with the forces of light— the Greeks: 676 (I) There where the sun first dwelt Where time opened with a virgin's eyes Now agony stoops with bony hands Plucks and smothers the flowers against her one. by one; In ravines where the waters have stopped flowing Songs fall down from starvation of joy; Monk-crags with cold hair Silently cut the bread of desolation. •Ekei k o v 7upa3Ta emxoiKouae o rfXiog Uov pe xa paxia piag rcap0eva<; avoiye o Kaipog T co p a r\ a y to v ia aKu<j)XT| pe % ep ia K O K K a k ia p iK a niavei Kai oprfvei eva-eva xaXoDtan&ha endvco trig M e V axig %apa§peg o k o v xa vepa axapaxrjaav ’Ano Axyib %apag Keixoovxai xa xpayouSia Bpa%oi Ka?io7Epoi pe Kpoa paAAia Kopoi)ve <nco7 cr|^oi xfjg eprjpiag xov apxo.48 The body of the slain hero lies in utter stillness, his battle cape scorched, and between his eyebrows, a bullet hole— the "fingerprint of fate": (IV) He resembles a garden from which the birds have suddenly fled He resembles a song which they gagged in the darkness He resembles an angel's clock which stopped Just as the eyelashes said "Goodbye" And wonder turned to stone... 677 And in this way the eternal sun suddenly deserts the world! Moia^ei |i7 ia£e<; too ion tyoyocv a^a(j)va xa novikia M o ia ^ e i x p a y o tS i kov t o <t>ipcoaav p e a a oxr\ a K o x e iv ia Moia^ei poX.oi ayyeX> o\) tcou eaxaparnae M o ^ iq eiTcave « 7 E ia 7 i a i 5 i a » x a / p a x o x a iv o p a Ki r { (XTiopia p a p p a p c o a e Ki o r(kioq o Tcavxoxivoc; excn p£pia<; xov K o a p o ! In Part V, the sun is accused of betrayal. The mother who mourns her son acquires an archetypal dimension as nall mothers wonder where her child is.” There is also an allusion to ritual sacrifice as the young lieutenant’s comrades "bite into bread and it drips blood." In the following section, the hero is eulo'gized: At his birth, "The mountains of Thrace bent down and spat on him/Once on the head, once on the _ / V „ \ — chest, and once amid his wailing" ("ZiO)\j/ave x a powa XT^ ©paicrjc; K a i xo (jjx ix ia v e /M ia axo Ketjxxta, p ia axov KopcjK), p ia p e a a axo K^apaXOO")— alluding to the Orthodox baptismal in which the godmother/father must spit on the child three times in order to exorcise the devil. And later, as a young man, he made love with "bitter-orange girls" and danced 678 with "white-poplar brides/Until dawn heard him and spilled light into his hair." The turning point in the action of the poem occurs in Section VIII; the sun is told to "find another road" in order to save his pride, and to bring "from the gardens of the brave young men/The rosebushes where his spirit moved/The rosebushes where his breath played" ( "MoV^epxe arco 7 C £ p ip o ? t£ < ; x rjc ; m ^rjK apiaq/Tic; poScovieg o t z o v t \ \ | f\>xT\ t<n> <xva5e\)e/Ti<; po5covie<; 6710*0 *n avaoa too eitai^e") . This tone of determination intensifies into an all out call to arms in the following section. This part of the poem includes several mythological references— to Persephone, Achilles, Odysseus, etc.— as the modern Greeks are exhorted to emulate the bravery and daring of their ancient ancestors. Elytis calls for "new hands" and "new feet" in order to join in the "pentozali" (a Greek folk dance) "of the angels." And just as we have noted previously in the poetry of the Serbs, there is an explicit invocation here to the ancestral continuum of the collective subconscious as a source of guidance and regeneration when the poet instructs that it is in sleep and communication with the "Euboeans of dream" that his countrymen will be able "To find new hands, feet, eyes/Blood and speech" with which to wrestle down Charon "on the marble threshing floor." 679 In the last five sections of The Song, the mood is one of steadily increasing exhilaration and spiritual triumph. The Fascists are taken away in a "black cloud," we are told, because: (XI) They did not have behind them a life of fir trees and cold waters Of lamb, wine, rifles, rods, and a cross of vine twigs They had no grandfather of oak and of raging wind No mother who slew with her own hands And no mother's mother who with naked breast Gave herself dancing to the freedom of Charon! Zcotj 5ev e i/a v jriaco zovq p’ ekaxa K ai pe Kpi)a vep a M* a p v i, Kpaox K ai xoix|)£Kia, pepya K ai Kkr\ paxoaxao po Uokkov 5ev eT /a v ano 5pu k i an* 9 f M opyiapevov avepo i • •............ Mocva Tioi) va *%ei acjxx^ei pe xa %epia xr|<^ pava pava<; 7 cou pe xo pu£i yupvo Xopeoovxa<; va SoGei axT) Tteoxepia xoo Xapoo! The oak, of course, is emblematic of Zeus. The "mother's mother" is an allusion to the women of Souli, who, during the War of Independence, rather than be captured by the Turks, danced to their deaths, one by one, off the edge of a cliff, each one holding a child 680 in her arms (A monument was thereafter erected at the site to commemorate the mothers4^) . The transfiguration of the hero occurs in Section XII as "He ascends alone and drenched in light/So drunk from the light that his heart shows through" ("AvejW vei povaxog koci ota&aprcpog /Tooo mcop^oq arco < | > G 3 < ; nox> ^aivexai rj KapSia xoo") . The tone is jubilant, bulding to the ecstatic lines of the final section of the poem: (XIV) Now the dream in the blood beats faster The world's truest moment signals: Freedom, In the darkness, Greeks point the way: FREEDOM For you the sun's eyes will fill with tears of joy In the distance crystal bells ring out Tomorow, tomorrow, tomorrow: the Easter of God! Tcopa XTorcaei too yprjyopa x’ oveipo pea* axo at pa Too K o a p o u fj m b acoaxri a x iy p rj arj p a iv e i: 'EteoGepia^ c,EXX,r|ve<; pea axa aKoxeiva 5eixvot>v xo Spopo: E A E Y 0 E P I A H a aeva 0a 5aicpbaei arco yapa o r\k\oq MaKpia x' tvtcoov Kaprcaveg ano KpoaxaXXo Aopio, aSpio, aopio: xo riaaxa xob ©eoo! 681 The rich mixture of historical, religious, mythological and folkloric elements in The Song is consistent throughout Elytis' poetry. The apotheosis of this technique is his lyrical masterpiece, Worthy It Is (Toak£iov Eoxi) (1959), which interweaves a historical and mythical recounting of the microcosm of Greece with that of the macrocosm of the universe: "This small world, the greatt" as Elytis says. In this work, the mosaic of indigenous elements occurs on a much more elaborate scale. Although time prevents me from addressing this poem here, it should be noted that it is an epic work which incorporates innumerable native themes and linguistic forms— liturgical, folkloric, classical, etc. (The title itself is taken from the Orthodox liturgy and is also the name of a famous icon housed at Mount Athos).50 As is the case with much of Elytis' poetry, the philosophical orientation of Worthy It Is is toward the depolarization of human values. As Keeley notes: The pervasive theme of the poem is that the measure of man's humanity resides in his ability to hold opposites in just relation, his ability to survive as neither angel nor devil, sensualist nor saint, but as something beyond the two, something that can assimilate both.51 682 Divided into three main parts— "The Genesis," "The Passion," and "The Gloria"— the poem is a racial history, a tribal myth, a national drama of such imposing complexity and spiritual richness that Friar calls it the "New Testament of the Greeks."52 In his "Testament," Elytis narrates the the epic of the Greeks, tracing their history from the dawn of creation, recounting the glories and injustices of the past— both ancient and modern— and finally, consecrating the obstinate endurance and spiritual triumph of the race in a long hymn of praise: "Worthy is the price paid." In this book, surrealism fulfills its promise of "spiritual health," as once again, just as in the Serbian example, its original premises are plunged into the new depths of a specific cultural milieu and emerge enriched. As Elytis writes: Once again I took the shape of my homeland Among the rocks I flowered and grew And the blood of killers I repay with light Far away Mother, my Rose Everlasting Tng 7 taipi5ag poo naXi o|ioico0r|K a Meg axig neTpeg a v0io a K ai peydc^cDoa T G 3 v <t>ovioE8cov to aijia pe < j > G 3 g ^ercXripcovco MaKpivri Mrjxepa Po5o poi) X^uxpavxo53 After Elytis' lyrical, modified application, surrealism began to enjoy a wider acceptance and respect 683 in Greek literary circles. With the appearance of Nikos Engonopoulos1 (1910-1985) collection, Don’t Speak to the Conductor (M n v o fiite u e e i< ;x o v o5nyov) (1938) (The title derives from the signs commonly found in trolleys and buses in Greece), however, surrealism once again became a subject of contention and ridicule. As Christopher Robinson remarks, if Embirikos was the "father of surrealism," Engonopoulos was its "enfant terrible."54 Recalling that period, Karandonis reports that Engonopoulos was, from the very beginning, "a surrealist revolutionary" whose militant stance would have pleased Breton; embracing the "extreme left of surrealism" when the movement was tending toward the right, this poet and painter55 had the misfortune to enter the surrealist arena just as "the sweet and soothing surrealist star of Elytis was beginning to steadily rise, making many friends for the new poetry."56 Engonopoulos' poetry does not conform to the type of surrealist synthesis which is the concern of this study. His texts have steadfastly reflected a great measure of fidelity to the French model.57 Some of his earlier poems are even written in French. In its frequent eroticism and theatricality, his poetry is reminiscent of the often flamboyant early style of the French surrealists, although the mixture of demotiki and katherevousa which Engonopoulos uses lends to his work certain formality, as well. While he does incorporate indigenous elements from time to time, the national dimension is not a regular feature in Engonopoulos1 work. He is generally more concerned with the delineation and affirmation of universal rather than specifically Greek values and truths. The following lines from "Eleanora" ("E^£COVOpa"), from this first collection, typify this concern for universal identity. Woman, in this poem, is stripped of her femininity and becomes instead a symbol of the universe, a repository of all sorts of elements and objects (The reader may also recognize the similarity between this poem and Breton's "Free Union" ("L1Union libre"), a similarity which Engonopoulos says is coincidental58) : (front view) her hair is like cardboard and like a fish her two eyes are like a dove her mouth is like civil war (in Spain) her neck is a red horse her hands are like the voice of the dense wood her two breasts are like my painting her belly is the story 685 of Vethandros and Hrisanda the story of Tobias the story of the ass of the wolf and the fox her sex is acute whistlings in the calm of noon her thighs are the last shimmerings of modest joy of steam rollers her two knees Agamemnon her two adored small feet are the green tele phone with the red eyes / •/ (7tpoa0ia o\jn$) f - - * r t x a jia k k ia e iv a i o a v %apxovi / / * K ai a a v \j/ap i x a 8do xt|<; p a x ia eTvai a a v e va jcepiaxepi / t to a x o p a T T JQ e?vai a a v xov ep.<|n)X.io 7 c6?xpo (arrive Ia 7 ia v ia ) o X aipoq zr\q eTvai eva kokkivo aXoyo xa x^piot xr|<^ r e iv a i ' ' / a a v xn (jxovrj TOO 7TUKV01) S aaoix; x a 800 vr\q axr]0Ti e iv a i 686 aav tt| £ c o y p a (|> iK T i jj.0d f\ Koi?iia vr\q eivai * e f T| la x o p ia xoo Be>.0av5poi) Kai xr\q Xpoaavx£a<; r \ ibxopia too) TcoPia il laxopia xov yai8apoo xo\j Xdkod Kai xr\q aXamov $ xo fyvXo X T J Q T eivai o£ea atfrupiypaxa peaa axrj ya^rivrj xotf peariiiepioi) 01 prjpoi xr|<; eTvai o i xeXevxaTeq ava^ap7ce<; rr\q aepvn^ xap a g xGJv o8oaxpcoxr|pcov x a 8oo xr|c; yovaxa *o Xyapepvcov x a 5oo xr|<; Xaxpeoxa p iK p a 7io5ia *5 " t * e iv a i xo rcpaaivo xxiXe(f)co- / / / V O |I£ xa KOKKlVa p a x ia59 In the second part of the poem, it turns out that Eleanora is also part kerosene lamp, part plow, part fish glue, part lightning, part seahorse, part pine tree, part elevator and the "eyeglasses of the sea." 687 Engonopoulos' aim of universal identity prevails even when he does use native Greek elements. This is evident in his long, patriotic poem, Bolivar: A, GEggk Pc?em (MrcoXiftap: eva zXXt\viko 7tovr)|ia) . This poem diverges somewhat from Engonopoulos' usual poetic style, and in fact, upon its publication in 1944, it was warmly received by critics like Karandonis who felt that its more rationalistic, symmetrical structure indicated a return to a "simple, almost classical concept of poetry" for the poet.60 Despite this divergence, however, and despite its designation as "A Greek Poem," Bolivar retains Engonopoulos* characteristic universal focus: The subject of the poem represents not only the nineteenth-century South American revolutionary, but all freedom-loving heroes who have ever engaged in the common struggle for liberty. In the first section of the poem, the name of Bolivar is linked with that of Odysseus Androutsos, one of the heroes of the Greek War of Independence. In the second section, the poet recognizes the presence of Bolivar in various Greek and South American geographical locales, and declares, "Bolivar, you are as beautiful as a Greek!" Bolivar is declared to be the son of other Greek revolutionary leaders, of Maximilien de Robespierre, and of Lautreamont, and is also hailed as the father of the 688 poet himself. Hence, the national dimension is diffused by its subjugation to the poet's aim of creating a generic heroic character. Furthermore, although Engonopoulos incorporates many historical, mythical and folkloric elements in the poem, they are generally used so explicitly that they frequently seem to be embellishments rather than integral parts of the text. For instance: With your rifle slung over your shoulder, with your chest uncovered, with your body full of wounds, And you sat completely naked on a low rock, by the sea's edge, And they would come and paint you in the customary [colors] of Indian warriors, With lime, half white, half blue, so that you might appear as a remote chapel on the shore of Attica, Like a church in the neighborhoods of the Tataoulans, like a palace in a deserted city of Macedonia. Bolivar! I call your name as I lie stretching out on the summit of Mount Ere, The highest peak of the island of Hydra. From here the view extends enchantingly to the islands of the Saronic Gulf, to Thebes, And far below, beyond Monevasia to great Egypt, Even as far as Panama, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, Haiti, San Domingo, Bolivia, Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Uruguay,Paraguay, Ecuador, And farther still to Mexico. 689 / /> t * ~5 > * f ' / ^ M e to vtoo<})£ki axov copo avapxrjpevo, pe x a axrjG ia ^eoK£7 ca, pe tic; Xapcopaxiei; yiopaxo to Koppi aoo , K i em B o a o u v o^oyupvoc; ae Ttexpa xap'HX'n, ax' aK poG aX aaai, i / | |^ t ? t K i epxovxav Kai a e p a < J > a v pe xig aovriBeiec; xtnv rcoXepiaxffiv *Iv6iavcov, M*aapeaxr|, ptaove aa7ipo, piao yaXa^io, yia va ({javxa^riQ aa pripoKK^rjcn ae^ p iyiaX i xffq XxxiKffq Lav eKK^rjcria axi£ yeixoviec; x G J v Taxaoi/Xcov, coaav avaxxopo ae 7io^r| xrj^ MaKe8ovia<; epBpiKn. MrcoXiPap! Kpa£co x5 o v o p a aoo ^arctaopevog axrjv Kop<jyn too Poovoo’fepe, Tr|v iao Kop^ xffq vriaooVSpag A 710 5 C 3 t\ 0ea eKxeivexai payeoxiKri pexpi x G 5 v vt|acov too XapcoviKOO, xrf 0rjPa, M e x p i Ke*i Kaxco, 7 iep a arc* %r\ M o v e p a a ia , t o xpavo M ia ip i, 9 AXXa Kai pexpi too Ilavap a, xrjq TKooaxepa^a, x f y J g NiKapayKOoa, xo$ fovxoopa'c;, tt^ Xirn<;, too Xav NxopiyKO, xr\q BoXipiac;, xfjq KoXoppiac;, too riepoo, xffq Beve^ooe^ac;, xffg Xi^rfg, TT\q i\pyevxivfjq, tx\ < ; Bpa^iXiaq, Qopooyooari, riapayooaii, too Iarjpepivoi), 'AKopr| Kai too Me^iKOo.61 Although Engonopoulos is an important figure in the overall development of the surrealist movement in Greece, in view of his adherence to the French model and the lack of a strong national presence in his work, his poetry appears to fall outside the guidelines of the unique Greek surrealist pattern which subsequently developed and which is the focus of the present study. 690 Nikos Gatsos (1911-1986) is perhaps the most truly surreal of the Greek .surrealist poets discussed here. Having written in one night his only poetic collection, Amoraos rXpopyoc;). an automatic text in six parts, in 1943, Gatsos stopped writing poetry and devoted himself instead to translating and lyricism, writing popular songs for the music of various Greek composers, a turn of events which both angered and saddened Greek writers and critics. One can only speculate about the reasons for Gatsos' withdrawal from literary life. However, perhaps his subsequent silence was only a part of his often irrational sense of humor, perhaps he only "forgot" to write poetry, just as, according to Nanos Valaoritos, Gatsos, upon being mobilized during World War II, picked up his rifle and gear, then went home and promptly forgot he was in the army.62 The title of the poem itself is somewhat of an enigma. Amorgos is, in fact, an island in the Aegean. However, Gatsos claims that his poem has no connection with the island.63 Despite the fact that Amoraos is Gatsos' sole contribution to Greek surrealist poetry, it is nevertheless generally regarded as a significant one. Vitti comments that Gatsos' innovative combination of surrealism and folkloric speech opened many new poetic directions which subsequent poets eagerly followed.64 691 Karandonis also praises Gatsos, citing his simple yet rich, "liquid” demo.tiki, his ability to absorb and hellenicize foreign elements, his naturalness and lack of fanaticism, and his unique talent for awakening the "intoxication of the race" by drawing mystically from folk traditions.65 Written in demotiki— except for the brief Part V, which is formal katherevousa— Amoraos contains various verse forms; Parts I, II and VI are in free verse, while Part III is composed of six quatrains and Part IV is written in prose. Composed during the German-Italian occupation, Amoraos is a lyrical gesture of resistance against the dark brutality of that time. It is a dialectic between the chthonic forces of the foreign invaders and the familiar, inspiring figures and events of Greek consciousness. In each section of the poem, the persona wavers between ruin and salvation, until finally, by summoning the forces of the collective Greek spirit through images of the Greek landscape, history and legend, he achieves spiritual transformation. Using surrealism to bring these native images to the surface, Gatsos creates a poetic environment which, as Tasos Lignadis writes, "has the seal of indigenousness. 1,66 Moreover, the manner in which these images erupt seems to replicate the flow of sub-conscious thought, imbuing 692 the poem with a diaphanous dream-like quality. Likening Amoraos to chamber music in which Greek ballads and legends are fused in "a strange, arresting and elegaic manner” of "quiet lamentation," Friar observes that despite the extremely illogical relationships of the images, the reader is constantly "teased by the possibility of sense or relevance where relations between seemingly unrelated parts seem gradually to be unraveled, like luminous plateaus slowly rising out of a mist-enshrouded mountain range."67 The opening lines of the poem evoke an atmosphere of devastation and stagnation. The Greeks are depicted as shipwrecked refugees who carry "their homeland bundled in their sails"; they sleep "tamely like dead game." But the poet rouses' them, addressing them as "brave young men," and urging them to "come out naked by the rivers/To sing the Barbary coast": And don't laugh and don't cry and don't re joice And don't tighten your shoes vainly as though you were planting plane trees Don't become DESTINY Because the cross-eagle is not a closed drawer Kai jit] yek&q K a i firiv xXcnq m i \ x r [ %aipecai Mr\ a(j)iyyEig a 5 im xa 7 ta7 couTcna c o d aa va (froTeDeig 7ikaTavia Mr) yiveaai n E n P Q M E N O N ITaxi 8ev eivai o axaDparjioc; eva KXeiapevo aDpxapi6 8 693 The "cross-eagle" refers to the imperial emblem of Byzantium, the spirit of which, as the poet implies, lives on in the hearts and minds of the people. The call to arms intensifies in the second section of the poem as the poet invokes the ancestral heroes of the past : I know that on your lips the thunderbolt has written his name I know that in your eyes an eagle has built its nest But here on this wet bank there is only one road Only one deceptive road and you must pass over it You must plunge into blood before time overtakes you And cross over to the other side to find your comrades once again Flowers birds deer To find another sea another tenderness To seize by the reins the horses of Achilles Instead of sitting there dumb, rebuking the river Stoning the river like Kitso's mother. To £epco 7 cavG) ax a xei?aa aoo eypaxj/e o Kepauvo^ x' ovopa xoo To £,epco peaa axa paxia c o d exxiae eva q arjxoc; X T) <j)cota,a XOD M a eStD gxt)v oxxrj xr)v Dyprj povo evac; 5popog D7 cap%ei Movo evaq 5popo<; amxri^cx; Kai T tp ercei va xov 7tepaaei<; npejiei axo aip a va PoDxrjxxeiq Ttpiv o Kaipoq ae 694 7cpo<t>Taaei Kai va 5iapei<; avxircepa va ^avappelq xou<; / ODVTpO<j>OD<; GOD ^AvQrj jcoiAia eXapia N a Ppeiq jiiav a^A.rj GaXaaaa jiiav akXr] anaXoavvr\ N a maceiq ano xa Xoupia xov y\%i>tXea x* akoya *Avxi va Ka0eaai poDprj xov 7 ioxapo va pa^coveic; Tov Tcoxapo va ^iGoPoXeTg orcax; rf pava xoi3 K ix c o d . "Kitso's mother" alludes to a folk song about a Greek guerilla fighter, Kitso, who was captured by the Turks. As the enemy was about to hang her son, Kitso's mother tried to reach him, but found that her way was blocked by a swift river. In the song, she scolds the river, pelting it with stones and pleading with it to turn back its course so that she can cross over to save her son.69 The entire third section of the poem is based on a "miroloi,” or folk lament, entitled "In the _ t V . j. V Courtyard of the Embittered" ( " L x o d 7llKpajlEV0D XT|V a\)ATj") • As the following quatrains (2 and 5) illustrate, Gatsos uses surrealist images which evoke horror and revulsion in the first four stanzas in order to counterbalance what Lignadis calls the "sweetness" or "softness" of the two final stanzas70: In the courtyard of the embittered night doesn't set Only the foliage vomits a river of tears When the devil passes to ride the dogs And ravens swim in a well of blood. 695 And if you thirst for water we will wring out a cloud And if you hunger for bread we will slay a nightingale Only a moment waits for the rue to open For the black sky to glow and the mullein to flower. / « » V V f * Lxot> mKpapevou t t | v auto] 5e pacntevei rj w%xa Movo ^epvav 01 <|)i)XXcoai£<; eva 7coxajj.i SaKpua *'Oxav Tcepvofei o Siafiotax; va Ka|}aXr|a£i xa g k v X i o l Kai xa Kopaiaa KoXi)|i7cav a* eva 7 criya5i p* aipa. Ki av 0a 8i\j/aaeig yia vepo 0a axi\|/oope eva auvvepo Ki av 0a neivdceiq yia ycopi 0a acjKx^oope eCa arj8ovi M o v o K a p x e p e i p i a a x iy p ri v ’ a v o i^ e i o 7ciKpa7cr|yavoc; N* aaxpayei o paupog oopavb<; va Xoo?iot)5iaei o (jjX.oVoq. Section IV begins as a prayer for regeneration as the poet summons the waters to awaken "from the root of the pine" and refresh the earth. But the passage soon becomes prophetic for Gatsos is concerned with other roots, as well, the ancestral roots of "immortal origins" which he posits in the East: There is an immortal rock upon which a human angel once wrote his name in passing and a song which no one yet knows, neither the giddiest children nor the wisest nightingales. It is locked now in a cave on Mount Devi in the valleys and ravines of my forefathers’ land, but when this angelic song opens and hurls itself against ruin and time, the rain will 696 suddenly cease and the mud will dry, the snows will melt on the mountains and the wind will sing like a bird. . . . Oh comrades, perhaps the memory of our forefathers is a deeper consolation and a more valuable companion than a handful of rosewater. cYm xpxei p i a 7cexpa aBocvarn nov kcxtiote nepaaxiKoc; evaq dv0p(omvo<; dyyeXog eypaye x5 ovo p a xoo iizdvco xtjq k i e v a xpayooSi 7iob dev xo ^epei obcopa k o vek; odxe x a m b xpeXa rcaiSia o m e x a m o ao<J>a x, a rj5 o v ia . Evvai KXeiapevrj xcopa ok p ia a rn iX ia xoo Poovoo Nxepi p e a a oxig XayKaSieg K a i a x a <j)apdyyia xrjc; 7 iaxpi)cfj(; poo yt\q p a oxccv a vo i^ ei Karcoxe koci xivaxxeT ev a v x ia axr) <j)0opa K ai axo xpovo adxo xo dyyeXiKO xpayooSi 0 a 7ia\|/ei ^acjjviKa r| Ppoxb K ai 0 a axeyvaxjoov o i Xaoneq xa X io v ia 0 a Xicoaoov a x a p o o va 0 a KeXarjSrfaei o avepoq. . . . Ila iS ia facoq ^ pvrfpr) xG3v rcpoyovcav v a e iv a pa0oxeprj rcapriyopia K ai m b 7ioXoxipri aovxpo<|>ia arco p ia %ooV<x p o 8 o a x a p o . Section V also invokes the ancestral continuum, listing in an almost ceremonial tone, the "tokens" of "immortal origins" which man has passed on to his descendants; among these are the "snowdrifts of celestial reptiles," "gazes of hyacinths," and "ashes of underground wells." In the end, it is this ancestral spirit which enables the modern Greeks to transcend their fate. In the final section of the poem, the shipwrecked are 697 saved. This passage teems with activity: As a ship full of heroes sails into sight, those on shore cannot contain their joy; children giggle, birds sing, bees frolic, and bells ring out while the many-colored hankerchiefs of Kalamata— a region in the Peloponnesus known for its hand-woven goods— flutter in the breeze. Shepherds' flutes signal a new morning and an old forgotten windmill "mends its ravaged sails with a needle of dolphin bone." In the background, those who "watch with unwavering eyes and serene faces" from the "highest mountains" seems to suggest the ancestral presence. Again, there are various historical and folkloric allusions; these create meeting places— points of interpenetration between past and present— wherein the temporal chasm between ancestors and descendants is dissolved. "Is it Kalivas or Levendoyiannis (heroes of the War of Independence) fighting the Turks?" asks the poet, "Or is it the people of Mani in a skirmish with the Germans?" Here the generations are indistinguishable from each other. The poem provides a temporal nexus which negates the authority of concrete reality, enabling their spirits to commingle. And this commingling is perhaps, in the final account, the very source of the immortal origins which the poet is seeking, not so much "an angelic song which no one yet 698 knows," as it is a multi-faceted epic of flesh and blood which is in the constant process of composing itself. In contrast to Gatsos, Yiannis Ritsos (b.1909), the last poet to be discussed here, has proven to be the most prolific of modern Greek writers, and perhaps of all modern writers anywhere— his three-volume Poems: 1930-1960 (noirjpaxa: 1930-1960) alone runs 1500 pages and contains only a selection of his work. In addition to innumerable poetic collections, his voluminous oeuvre includes poetic dramas, dramatic monologues, and translations in several languages.71 Ritsos made his literary debut with the collection Tractor (TpCXKTep) in 1934, but it was the long epic poem, Epitaohios fETtixapiog) (1936) , which established him as a major poet. Although the surrealist presence has been a consistent feature in his work throughout his literary career, Ritsos is not considered to be an exclusively surrealist poet. Various critics have noted that in addition to surrealism, there is a strong element of existentialism in his work as well as traces of realism and even the grotesque. Therefore, despite the early date of his first publication, because Ritsos is somewhat of a hybrid and technically not part of the mainstream development of Greek surrealism, I have 699 chosen to deviate from the established chronological order of this discussion and address his poetry last. Virtually all of Ritsos1 poems are written in one of the two extreme forms basic to his canon: (1)very short, highly compressed texts of 10-15 lines which focus on a specific concrete situation; and (2)long, discursive poems of epic length which address broader, more abstract themes such as loneliness, freedom, etc. Both forms are characterized by very concrete diction, surrealist imagery, and ironic, often oblique symbolism and meaning. Three major modes can also be identified in Ritsos' poetry; Peter Bien describes these as: (l)the evocation of daily, contemporary Greek life; (2)the treatment of history and myth; and (3)a combination of these two modes in which the deliberate confusion of the contemporary with the historical and/or mythical results in a fusion of past and present. Bien adds that this third mode, "where apparent simplicity and apparent lucidity coexist with mystification, complexity, even nightmare," is most typical of Ritsos' work.72 \ Yiatromanolakis believes that Chronicle (XpQVlKO) (1957) indicated the poet's first attempt to apply this technique to an exclusively Greek theme: Chronicle . . . is the first great poem of Ritsos in which the sense of memory of the remote past breaks through (in whatever form) and the ancient Greek tradition is located within the '[modern] Greek space and the present.'73 By imposing contemporary details on mythical characters together with allusions to ancient Greek and Christian traditions, Ritsos achieves what Keely describes as the "mutilation and sometimes the transformation of past gods and heroes by the violent dislocations of contemporary history.74 It is this third mode, then, which is of particular interest to the present study since Ritsos relies on surrealist techniques in order to accomplish the negation of temporal and spatial dimensions necessary to achieve the fusion of historical eras. Accordingly, my discussion of Ritsos' poetry will concentrate on this mode. In addition, I have further narrowed the focus by limiting my discussion to selections from the dramatic monologues, for three reasons. First, although this mode is evident in the shorter as well as the longer poems, it is in Ritsos' dramatic monologues that it is most crucial and most effective— it is significant that the collection of monologues published in 1972 was entitled Th^ Fourth Dimension (TexapTT] 5iaOTaOT|) . Second, with few 701 exceptions, the monologues are all based on indigenous mythical and/or historical themes, and therefore, are of twofold significance from the standpoint of this study. Third, although the monologues have received little attention from critics, in my judgment, they constitute one of the most important achievements in modern Greek literature: by innovatively using surrealism in conjunction with myth, Ritsos has managed to recover the authentic human forms of the ancient past and make them accessible once again as a living part of Greek culture. As Victor Sokoliuk suggests, the monologues create a discourse between the living and the dead which valorizes all historical eras: The heroes of Yiannis Ritsos acquire the ability to see the world in a contemporary diachronic dimension, that is, in other words, to confront it not only in the horizontal plane of today's time, but also in its vertical mythological-historical cross-section. In this way, they acquire the ability to come into contact with the objective, eternal, and for this reason, just laws of the universe. The 'fourth dimension' of Ritsos is not the dimension of the past within the contemporary-era; it is not the knowledge of the present through that which has passed, but the discovery of that common element which brings into fellowship and unites all the historical epochs. Because of this, it is not happenstance that in his model of the universe, the past is not amalgamated with the present, but 702 constitutes a separate 'corridor' which communicates with the 'corridor' of the present only through the 'ladder' (that is, through mythological models). . . . In this way, in the footprints of the ancient Greeks walks the Byzantine, and behind him the fighters of the Friendly Society [a group of European Greeks who championed the War of Independence]. And they blend into one person. . . creating a sense of 'endless mutual support between the dead and the living.'75 Observing that the monologues "illustrate some of the most noteworthy ways in which modern Greek literature comes to terms with the past," Marianthe Colakis agrees that Ritsos has made myth "culturally important once again."76 Rae Dalven sums up the meaning of the monologues: [Ritsos] returns to the ancient legends to provide precedent for the suffering of his own times, to dissolve time and space, to add perspective to these legends, but above all to fill his reader with a sense of historic pride in the past, a greater realization of its proximity, its relationship to the present and to the future.77 To date, Ritsos has published fourteen dramatic monologues.78 They vary in length, ranging from approximately 1000 to 2000 lines. In those which have mythological themes, there are several consistent characteristics: (l)Each one is preceded by a prologue 703 which indicates time, place, setting and characters; (2)each one begins in present time, moves through various indefinite temporal zones, and returns to present time; (3)each one deals with the events behind the scenes rather than with the main drama; (4)each one presents an inversion of the ancient myth which reveals its negative aspect/s; (5)each one meets the requirements of the myth— Clytemnestra kills Agamemnon, etc.; (6)details of contemporary history are intermingled with the myth; (7)Christian and pagan traditions are intermingled with the myth; (8)personal and autobiographical elements of the poet are intermingled with the myth; and (9)each one is followed by an epilogue which informs the reader of the consequences of the monologue.79 Each monologue also presents three levels of meaning: (l)the literal--in terms of the myth itself; (2)the autobiographical— in terms of the poet's own life; and (3)the metaphorical— in terms of Greek civilization and history. Keeping in mind that all of these interpretations are possible and valid, in the interests of time, I will limit my discussion to the metaphorical only. The Dead House (TovEKpo onvzi) (1962) is the first monologue in which Ritsos treated a mythical theme. The sub-title states that it is the "imaginary 704 and authentic story of a very ancient Greek family."80 The dead house itself represents the Greek past. The family, we soon discover, is the House of Atreus; the only remaining members are two sisters, one of whom "had been mad and imagined that their house had moved to ancient Thebes, or rather, Argos." In the prologue, a visitor arrives with a message from "their uncle abroad— their father's brother," who, we are told later, resides in Sparta. The older sister, who is apparently Elektra, receives him; the other sister is never seen, only heard shuffling about in her slippers. Neither of the sisters is clearly identified, however, and indeed, we often feel that it could be Iphigenia as easily as Elektra speaking. Just as Ritsos confuses temporal and spatial dimensions, he also confuses the.personalities of his characters so that they, too, retain a certain obliqueness and universality "We don't know how to manage this house," Elektra tells the visitor, "We can't bear to sell it— we've spent a whole life here— and this is the place of our dead." She tells him that the heavy things, i.e. the burdens of the classical past, have been stored away: We've locked up the heavy furniture on the floor below,also the heavy carpets and the velvet or silk curtains, 705 tablecloths, embroidered napkins, crystal, china, ours and those of the dead— all mixed up together. And even so we haven’t settled down. Of course, we've gotten rid of superfluous movements, pointless tidying, futile efforts for an order impossible to achieve, for an inapplicable organization. Ta fieyaXa StmzXa xa k X £ ig o c |1£ g t o kcxtco Ttaxcopa, t o 1810 K a i ta p a p ia xakia K a i Ta pEkovSiva r \ pETa^cora 7 ta p a7 t£TaGpaTa, Tpa7ie^o|iavTr|ka, KEVTTjTa TtETGetaKia, Kpucrcakka, G e p p iT G ia , 8i r a pag K ai p a £ i TG3 v TieOapevcov— o k a avocKaTa K l Ot>T£ v a 7 CEiq 7 C t 3 5 < 5 k ' e t g i TiG D ^aG apE . A7iakkaxxT|Kape ojtoxjS'nTiOTE arco Kivr|G£iq 7i£piTT£^, a v o r iT a G DyopiapaTa, f / p a ta ic n x ; kotcoix;, y ia p i a T a ^ n aKaTo'pGcorri, y ia p i a ave<})appooTn * f opyavcoG rj. Later in the poem, these "heavy things" will be used for firewood. Free now of artifice and embellishment, the house has begun to resonate in a "terrifying, delicate way" : Every shadow in the depths of the mirror, every grinding of the small teeth of woodworm or moth, extends infinitely up to the most delicate fibrous vessels of the silence, up into the veins of the most unlikely illusion. Heard distinctly are 706 the hammering of the loom of the tiniest spider, down in the basement, among the jars, or the sawing of the rust in the handle of the cutlery and suddenly a big thump in the lower entrance hall when a piece of worn felt peels off and falls as if an ancient, beloved building collapses. KaGe aKia axo paGog xo\5 KaGpe^xrj, icaGe xpi^ipo an xa piKpa Sovxia xo\j £oXo<|>ayoD rj xoi) aKopob, cruvexi^exai arcepavxa $g x o c X£7cxoxaxa, ivoEiSrj’ ayyeia xfjg aico7rrig, c o g peaa axig < j> X £ p e g xf\q 7 c io amGavrig 7tapaia9r|ar|(g ’ AKouyexai EbSiaKpixa o xzvnoq an* xov apyaXeio xrjq 7 n .o piKprjq apaxvrig, K axco axa urcoyeia, avapeaa axa Kiom ia, f( xo rcpiovi xffg aKoopiag axo %£pi xtDv |j.axaipo7nf po wcov ki a£a<(>va o peyag yS o o rco c; axov k o T x c o 7ipo0a>.apo oxav lira Koppaxi c x tc o ^ucojuEvq xaoxa ^ekoAAocei Kai nz$T£\ aa va yKpepi^exai eva apxaio, ayanTipevo Kxipio. There remain in the house traces of the true past which reposes in the collective subconscious; these can be discerned in the "holes that are covered up": by repairs, new plasterings and whitewashings, but always open a little further, a little deeper, in memory. a n 9 x ig e 7 c i8 io p 0 c o a e ig , x a K a i v o o p y i a a o p a v x i a p a x a k i a a p e a x c o p a x a , p a 7 r a v x o x e a v o i x x e g , m o p e a a , m o p a G i a , a x r i pvrfpri. 707 Reminiscing about her childhood, Elektra recalls the big kitchen— the "kingdom of the maids"— like an entrance to the underground, where, amidst the "towers of unwashed dishes," the "bones of mythical animals," and the "alchemy of vegetables, meats, fruits and fishbones," oracles poured forth out of the steam from the pots while soldiers with "lice in their undershirts" and "underground tunnels and collapsed stars in their eyes" sang and joked with the women in the evenings. She remembers weddings, christenings, messengers coming and going, the industry of the house. She remembers, too, the homecoming of her father, who returned from Troy with "a wound in the center of his forehead/like a new, marvelous eye from which death looked out." After that, the family was abandoned, she recalls, "cut off from the world" by "a red river" that encircled the house. The marble stairs continually sweated blood until the cleaning women had to give up the mopping. Even passers-by kept their distance, "but they wouldn't cross themselves." The house fell into disrepair. But after some time, the numinous erupted, slowly and gradually, like a "vein of music": That vein of music was heard everywhere; and you don't know why you are happy, what happiness is; you only discern 708 things which you never noticed or saw before, delivered now from their weight. * ' * ^ 'n * ' 5 ' — e k e iv t i T| <j>A£pa rj jio D a iK r i o c k o d y o x o v rcavxo 'o , k i ouxe ^£peig yiaxi *ocn e'dx'oxntjievcx;, x i’ v a i fj euToxia 8iaKpiv£iq c » / povaxa E K E IV O C 7 1 0 1 ) 7 C O T £ 5eV KpOOC&q KI 0$T£ El&q a7caX>wayji£va cooxoao an* xo Papog xo\)g. Reflecting on this, all at once Elektra feels "Bitterness, hope, guilt and memory" being dispersed in the air which is filled with "the chirpings of thousands of invisible birds, and time is indifferent, a stranger." For a moment, it seems to her that the tragedy of the past was only an illusion. The long forgotten sense of harmony and domestic tranquility of her childhood fleetingly returns once again, permeating the house: Agamemnon has gone out hunting, Clytemnestra sits embroidering, and Iphigenia "rides the stone lion" in the garden. In the background, there is the sound of the sunflowers as they "move their warm shoulders in the night," and the muffled voice of the maid as she pays the milkman for "mother's bowl of yogurt." "Life after all is so simple. So beautiful." Then suddenly, a rustle of cool autumn air abruptly stirs Elektra from her reverie. Remembering her visitor, she asks him to return again, and sends greetings to her uncle in 709 Sparta. In the epilogue, the visitor ponders all that he has heard. Although he has understood nothing of it, Elektra*s words have filled him with a "magic fright": Something acrid and unsatisfied remained in my mouth. . . . But at the same time, I felt something solid, rich, clean which gave me a peculiar euphoria, which helped me to think with mathematical precision how easily I would overcome tomorrow's difficulties at work, difficulties which until now, had seemed insurmountable. . . . And if nothing else, I had at least learned what I must avoid, and what we must avoid. ^ f . v > ' '/ v Kaxi oxixj)o k i aviKavorcovnxo jio\)|i£ve axo / \ er / >j axopa. . . . K ai o p c o < ;, xaoxoxpova, evicoGa Kaxi axepeo, rcXooaio, Ka0apo, nov poifoive jiiav iSiaixepri etpopia Kai p* exuve va aK£<|>xopai pe pa0rjpaxiKr|v aKpipeia 71000 evKoXa 0a ^ETtEpvooaa xig aopiavec; SvGKoXieq zr\q Sooteiac; poo rcoo c o g xcopa poo <|>aivovxav avo7i£ppXr|X£<;. . . . Ki av o%\ xi7iox akXo, £ixa paGei xoD^axiaxo xi 7ip£7i£i v* a7io({)i)ya) kcxi v* aTio^oyoopE. Why does the visitor feel he will be able to overcome "difficulties which, until now, had seemed insurmountable"? And what is it that "we must avoid"? Out of the corroded, inaccessible figures of antiquity, Ritsos has delivered to the Greeks racial ancestors of human dimensions, and out of the hollowed out, false image of the past which had seemed to be a burden merely 710 to be borne, he has wrested a solid, vital philosophical and moral tradition which can be applied in daily life. But in order to effect that application, the "heavy things," which constitute the weight of "an order impossible to achieve"— i.e., the trappings of the fabricated Western image of Greece— must be identified, isolated and avoided. Only then can the authentic cosmic texture of the past be discerned; only then can the "vein of music" which powers the "loom of the tiniest spider" and carries the song of "invisible birds" be heard. What Ritsos expresses in The Dead House, and indeed, throughout his work, is an essentially cosmic world view: By weaving together various temporal and spatial dimensions, he dissolves the apparent disparities of external reality and reveals their ultimate unity; thus, he is able to penetrate and transform the past so that its "weight" no longer erodes and destroys, but balances and preserves contemporary existence. As the Greek Orthodox Archbishop, Stylianos, points out, this world view reflects the fundamental doctrines of Eastern Orthodox Christianity: The most unshakable evidence as to how much [Ritsos] is an authentic Orthodox Christian poet is found in his sensitivity toward the whole of creation, which he sees and experiences continuously beneath the prism of its antinomic structure. Certainly, judging this sensitivity 711 toward creation superficially, one could misinterpret it as atheistic paganism. However, it is not. If there is a fundamental difference between pre-Christian Greek thought and Orthodox Christian spirituality, it is precisely this: Greek paganism sees the world in its endless tragic recycling, the almost Sisyphian, always within a timeless duration, while Byzantine Christianity experences the same world in the eschatological time and in its antinomic essence, looking forward through the decay and by means of the decay, to its metamorphosis, as all these are dictated by the 'ex- nihilo' creation of the world. . . . In the experience of this antinomicity which, as we have said, the world and life have in their nature, there exists no up and down, large and small, visible and invisible. All the sensible or understandable panorama of creation is saturated by this antinomicity and fills the poet with awe and wonder, leading him in this way to the complete overstepping of the conventional limits of mathematical logic. . . . This vigilance and sensitivity, on the one side, and liberation through the surrealist movement on the other, enable Ritsos to speak unguardedly about everything and in all tones, with the freedom of a lord or a madman, which in the case of the poet, become synonomous, so that he is able to exclaim in a gesture of ultimate liberation: 'My mistress, madness, my freedom.'81 Ismene flap.T^VTl) (1972) amplifies this same vision of cosmic metamorphosis. Characteristically, Ritsos once again explores the sub-text of the main 712 drama; he is not concerned with the already well established valor of Antigone, but instead, explores the humanity of her less glorious sister. Through this depiction, we are able to derive a much more "fleshed- out," realistic picture of both women and of their relationship. And, as in the case of The Dead House, character traits as well as temporal zones are interchangeable; hence, Ismene's personality often seems to reflect her sister's and vice versa. As M.G. Meraklis points out, this confusion of the characters contributes to the establishment of their universality: With the motivation for frequent anonymity— transparent nevertheless— of the heroes, we can observe that with this means is expressed the disposition of the poet to keep the persons— and much more, naturally, their actions, events, etc.— half in the light, half in the shadow, between the past and present, between the subject and the object, in any case within a historical universality.82 The prologue tells us that Ismene is an aging noblewoman who, "though heavily made-up and squeezed into her corset, nevertheless preserves the indefinable charm of a distant, extinguished beauty."83 On a "spring-like late afternoon," a young officer of the guard arrives at the palace and asks to see the mistress. His father has worked on the estate since 713 childhood, and now old and infirm, has sent his son to pay last respects to her, "the last descendant of a large, exterminated family." Ismene greets the young man cordially, telling him to visit her more often. It will relieve the tedium of deterioration, she says, "a slow deterioration, a silent rusting, on the hands and faces most of all": The large clocks on the walls have stopped— no one winds them, and if sometimes I stand before them, it's not to see the time, but my own face, mirrored in their glass V / t v / / Ta jieyaAa poAoyia axo-ix; xoixoug oxapaxr|oav — Kaveig 5ev xa Kotpvxi^ei, >f / / f k i av Kajioxe oxeKojiai pjtpoaxa xo\>q, oev eivai 71a ' O— ' ** v a o C D xrjv copa, fia xo ?5io p.o\) xo 7rpoaco^o, Ka0pe<|)xia|ievo axo yoaXi xoog Even passers-by are few, and then are only "faceless, fleshless spots." She is isolated by the "trench of silence" that surrounds the house. The past is "a long, narrow corridor without skylights," smelling of "eroded time" in which shadowy figures and objects pass by: Sometimes a crystal falls, a nail or the entirely pale hand of an oil painting of a field marshal, or a nosegay of violets from the transparent, delicate hands in a portrait of a young lady— no one bends over to get them; anyway, 714 they're not seen in this soothing stability of the shadow, where everything has passed into the realm of the unexploitable, the inexpressible or of the silence or even of the mice Karcoxe 7 te < j> x e i eva Kpi)aTa?cX,o, p ia rcpoKa r \ to KaiaxA.copo ^epi piaq etaxioypa<j>ia<; axpaTap^ot), r{ pia av0o5eajj.r| peve^e5eg an* xa 5ia<()ava, X£7cxaia0rjTa %epia piaq ^caypa^iapevnq Seonoivaq — Kaveiq 6e OKtfki va xa rcapei |it|te <()aivovxai aXAxoaxe peaa a’ atxri xrjv KaxetvaaxiKrj povipoxr|xa xrjg aKiag, qkov oXa >1 f v > » _ exoov Tiepaaei axrjv appooioxnxa tod aveK|iexa>.X£'i)xo\), xoo aveK^paaxoo 31 — — * v r \ xr\g c n o a m rj^ r \ Kai x G 3 v rcovxiKtDv. The burden of the past is all pervasive: The dead you know always take up so much space— even the small and insignificant ones— they grow all at once, they fill the entire house,you can't find one corner to stand in. Sometimes I stand in front of a mirror to comb my hair. The whole glass is full of their bodies.... On the steps every morning the dusty tracks of the bare, enlarged soles of their feet remained. Oi veKpoi, ^Epexe, * t » * ' </ ' rciavoDve rcavxa rco/a) x o t c o— ooo piKpoi k i • > 9 acrripavxoi— peyataovoov |iejiia<;, yepi^oDv o^oK^ripo xo G 7uixi, Se ppiaKEiq p i a ycovia v a axa0£i<;. 71 t / v . c/ t Karcoxe axeicopai prcpoaxa a evav K a 0 p e < {> x r| 1 ' ' V ' m ^ * yia va xxeviaco xa fia U ia p-ou. To Kp'oaxocA/io 6 X oicX ,T|po eivai yep.axo a 7 c * xo atDpa xot>£. . . . / V / navcD axa GKaXorcaxia ejievav K a 0 e 7 c p c d i xa oKoviapeva xvapia an xa yupva, peyeOoGpeva TieXpaxa xoog. While Ismene recognizes the value of the past as a sort of solace, without a meaningful, contemporary application, it is only hollow gesture, like the erotic desires of those women who project their fantasties onto marble statues: Often, at such times, women embrace statues, kiss their stone mouths, dream that they lie down with them. If you have ever happened to see the lips of the statues moist, it is from the saliva of desolated women. Memory is, certainly, a kind of refuge. But this, too, is exhausted, it needs new representations, even chance ones, even strange ones. 5X)Xva 01 yovaiKec;, xexoieq cSpeq, ayKaXia^oov x'ayaXpaxa, <{)iAo\jv xo rcexpivo Gxopa xoog, oveipeoovxai 7 C G * ; TtA.ayia^oov pa£i xoix;. exo^e rcoxe oaq va 5 eTxe xa xeiArj xtDv ayaXpaxcov [Jpeypeva, eTvai < £ 7 ^ xo oa>ao IpTjpcopevcov yuvaiKG5v. 716 H M-Vn^LTl eivai, pepaia, eva Ka7toio Kaxa^Dyio. *fc )p c o c ; ki aoxri e^avxXiixai, — /v / / *t _ vr[q xp£iaQ o vTai veeq mpaaxaaeiq, eaxco xoxaieq, eaxco £eveq. Ismene characterizes Antigone as a rather shallow, inflexible, self-righteous, repressed and cunning martyr who provoked her own virtuous death in order to achieve a "base immortality." Had she lived, "they would have hated her," but she would have made an exemplary Christian: Bending is, I think, the measure of height. The ever fearful do not have the power (my sister, for instance) to bend down, and their height is only a frozen rigidity. So, then what is their pride? What is their virtue? Oh, my sister regulates everything with a ’must' or a 'musn't,1 as if she were the precursor of that religion of the future which divided the world in two (into the here and beyond), which divided the human body in two, throwing out everything from the waist down. To Xvyiciia evvai 0appG3 xo pexpo xoo ufyoog. Oi rcavxa 4 >opiapevoi 5ev exouv xrj Suvaprj (Ka0coq, Xoyou xapr|, r \ aSe^pri P O O ) V a (JK U V j/O D V , v Vo T * v ' Kai xo o\j/oq xooq eivai pova^a pia 7ia70)pevn * / aicapyia. I l o i a rj 7ceprj<{>cxveia xoix;, Xoikov; I l o i a rj a p e ir j xoug; V Q , a5eX(|)r| p o u p i)0 p i£ £ x a rcocvxa p* e v a 7cpe7cei rj 5eV 7 C p £ 7 C £ l, Xeq k * e ir a v rcpoSpopoq ekeivt|<; tt^ ; fieX^ovxiK ffc; / 0pTiOKeia<; 7cod x ^ p ia e xo v K o o p o a x a 5 u o (a x o v e& d Kai a x o v 7cepa), 7io\) xcap iae t o av0pco7civo ao s p a a x a 5 d o , rcEXCDVxag xo an9x r \ f \ / pecrr| Kai koctg). Ismene hints, too, at her attraction for Haimon, whom she says Antigone largely ignored. She tells the young officer that he resembles Haimon, especially "that dimple in the middle of your chin." Reflecting on the tragic events of her family and the Thebans, she summarizes: The day descended infinitely white, riddled With black crows What was the sense of it, my God, what did they gain? The rest you know. Nothing remained. Only the stone Sphinx on the rock outside the gates of Thebes, indifferent, undistracted— asks no more questions. The futile din was exhausted.Time emptied. An endless Sunday of closed windows. Unbelievably the evenings of summer still water the gardens. A trench of silence— as you said. CH p ep a K a x e p a iv e 9 r > / ~ t v . » / a rc E p a v x a a c u ip ri, o ia x p rix ri jie p a u p a K o p a ia a . 718 ' / / / / ' 3 ( V Ti Kaxo&apocv, 0e poi), n KepSiaav; Ta a X X a xa £epexe. \ 3 / * > < ' f / Aev arcopeive xiTtoxa. Movo rj Tcexpivri Zctjvyya Tiavco \ _ / axo ppaxo e £ c o o c tt’xk; wSkzq xgjv BrjpCDv, a5iapopr|, a7cepia7caaxri— v / ( » / 0 * / oe Gexei Tiia epcoxripaxa. Korcaoe o paxaioq 0opi)|3o<;. *f A8exaae o xpovoq. M ia axeXeicoxri KDpiaicrj pe K?teiajieva 7iapa0Dpa. *A 7 U G X £ D X O xa ppaSia xou Ka^oicaipioi) va tcoxi^odv aKoprj xoix; icrj7 ioD(;. M ia x a < |> p O (; mco 7 rri< ;— okco q evruaxe. Telling the young officer that she wants to give him some things for his father and for himself— "Some of Haimon1s suits" and the new sword he never had time to wear— Ismene asks him to return at midnight and knock on the door seven times. The epilogue states that before retiring for the evening, she asks the Nurse to wind the long-still clock: "And set the pendulum in the hall. We forgot it." At midnight, when the officer knocks, Ismene is asleep. Later, she awakens briefly, gulps some water, closes her eyes again, and smiles. It is not clear whether she has gone back to sleep or whether she has died. But it is the closing line of the epilogue that is most significant: "From the next room the clock is heard." 719 Once again, out of decay and stagnation, Ritsos has wrought new, vital forms and perspectives of human destiny, coaxing out of "eroded time" the fresh, sharp ticking of our contemporary psychic clocks. As he tells us early in the monologue, all the clocks have stopped; their crystals reflect only "a trench of silence." Now, however, we see something more than merely superficial reflections in the crystals of those clocks, we find something more solid than the "dusty tracks" of phantom soles on the mnemonic ladder. Here are men and women with the same human frailties, virtues, desires, sorrows, dilemmas and triumphs that we ourselves must confront in our daily lives. Like old beloved aunts and uncles, they seem to reassure us, and encourage us to "do better," to strive to rectify and to complete, so much as we are able, what they could not. By approaching myth from a fresh, unprejudiced, vantage point, Ritsos has forced us to re-think the past and our relationship to it. And in doing so, he has restored myth to its original function: To help orient the self in the world. As Colakis observes: With the exception of Kazantzakis in his modern Odyssey. no other twentieth-century poet has shown such a sustained interest in re creating the heroes and heroines of classical antiquity in ways that are unexpected yet not inappropriate if 720 we are willing to re-examine the myths with an open mind. He has created a set of complex, reflective characters out of the sometimes scanty materials handed down by antiquity. They are recognizably contemporary yet unmistakably beings of the past. Ritsos can therefore show that myth is timeless without appearing sentimental.84 On the national level, Ritsos1 achievement is significant enough; in the quest for national identity, he has gained more ground than perhaps any other modern Greek poet in the objective of restoring to the Greek people the fullness and completeness of their ancient heritage. But Ritsos1 achievement extends to the universal plane of human destiny and understanding by illustrating to us all that even in the contemporary world— and perhaps even more so, plagued as it is with the threat of instant and utter annihilation— mythic discourse remains one of the most valuable means we possess for making human existence coherent. Throughout the centuries, because of their common cultural influences, and because of the Ottoman subjugation which both experienced, Serbia and Greece, however unwittingly, have developed numerous commonalities of ethos. In addition, as a result of the cultural suspension brought about by the period of foreign domination, both cultures evince a strong need 721 to affirm national identity. As I have tried to show in this discussion, the surrealist form which the Greek poets have developed to accomodate this aim is very similar to that of the Serbian model addressed in earlier chapters. This form has provided the poetic vehicle through which myth, history, folklore and religious symbolism have been revived and expressed not as residual and distant, but as intact and immediate manifestations of the national consciousness. There are differences in flavor and texture, of course, since the two groups have developed according to the particular nature and demands of their respective physical environments, social institutions and traditional occupations. But the similarities, I believe, are far greater than the differences. 722 Endnotes for Chapter VI ^Odysseus Elytis, *Avqlxt& xa-PTia. (Athens: Asterias, 1974), p.226. 2 Ibid., p.427. The submersion of this oriental element and the subsequent effects on Greek literary history and criticism are examined by Gregory Jusdanis in "East Is East— West Is West: It's A Matter of Greek Literary History," Journal of Modern Greek Studies, Vol. 5, No. 1 (1987), pp.1-14. 3 Kimon Friar, introduction, Modern Greek Poetry, ed. Kimon Friar (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1973), pp.126-127. For an in-depth examination of this aspect of Greek culture, see, for example, John K. Campbe11, Honour, Family and Patronage: A Study of Institutions and Moral Values in a Greek Mountain Village (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1964); Ernestine Friedl, Vasilika: A Village in Modern Greece (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1962); and Stilpon Kyriakides, Two Studies on Modern Greek Folklore, trans. Robert A. Georges (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1968). 4 Kyriakides, op. cit., discusses various aspects of the "double-faith" of Greek Orthodoxy. Another excellent background source is John Cuthbert Lawson's Modern Greek Folklore and Ancient Greek Religion: A Study in Survivals (New York: University Books, 1964); see also Charles Stewart, "Hegemony or Rationality: The Position of the Supernatural in Modern Greece," Journal of Modern Greek Studies, Vol. 7, No. 1 (19 89) , pp.77-104. 5 Philip Sherrard, The Marble Threshing Floor: Studies in Modern Greek Poetry (Athens: Denise Harvey and Company, 1980) , p. 235. Kimon Friar also takes note of the "sublimation of Dionysian and Eleusian mysteries" in the doctrine and ritual of the Orthodox Church in his introduction to Odysseus Elytis' Odysseus Elytis: The Sovereign Sun, trans. Kimon Friar (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1974), p.30. 723 g Philip Sherrard, The Wound of Greece: Studies in Neo-Hellenism (London: Rex Collings, Ltd., 1978), pp.61-6 2. 7 Elytis cited by Friar in his introduction to The Sovereign Sun, by Odysseus Elytis, op. cit., p.16. 0 Andre Breton, Manifestoes of Surrealism, trans. Richard Seaver and Helen R. Lane (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1982), p.45. 9 With the fall of Constantmope in 1453, the Turks controlled most of Greece. In their bid for independence, which began as an uprising in the spring of 1821, the Greeks were aided by the negotiatory efforts of the Russian, German, French, and English governments. These efforts were rewarded when, on February 3, 1830, the Turks agreed to accept the inde pendent status of Greece as proclaimed and guaranteed by the allied powers of Russia, France and England in the Treaty of London dated March 28, 18 29. For a back ground of the Ottoman conquest of Greece, see, for example, Leften S. Stavrianos, The Balkans Since 1453 (New York: Rinehart and Company, 1958), pp.282-292. "^The allied powers continued to interfere at least up to the time of the Crimean War (1853-1856). See, for instance, Stavrianos, op. cit.; Theodore A. Couloumbis, John A. Petropulos, and Harry J. Psomiades, Foreign Interference in Greek Politics: An Historical Perspective (New York: Pella Publishing Company, 1976); and Richard Clogg, A Short History of Modern Greece (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980) for an account of this period. ■'■^'Sherrard, Wound, pp. 8-11. Sherrard reports that in a rather desperate attempt to resolve this disparity, some historians of the period--including George Finlay--went so far as to declare that the Greeks were not Greeks at all, but Albanians, the progeny of medieval migratory Slavs who had occupied the land and driven out the true Hellenes; and Kyriakides refutes similar claims made by the Germans just prior to World War II as part of a propaganda campaign against the Greeks (pp.47-48). 724 12 Philip Sherrard, "Odysseus Elytis and the Discovery of Greece," Journal of Modern Greek Studies, Vol. 1, No. 2 (1983), pp.273-274. 13 Odysseus Elytis, Analogies of Light, ed. Ivar Ivask (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1981), p.7. 14 Anna Balakian, Surrealism: The Road to the Absolute (New York: The Noonday Press, 1959) , pp.112-113. 15 For a background of the "language question," see, for instance, Basil G. Mandilaras, Studies in the Greek Language (Athens: Odysseus, 1972); Peter Bien, Kazantzakis and the Linguistic Revolution in Greek Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 197 2); and C.T. Dimaras, A History of Modern Greek Literature, trans. Mary P~ Gianos {Albany: State University of New York Press, 1972). "^Nicolas Calas lived in Paris from 1933-1936, where he met Breton and other surrealists; Calas moved to the United States in 1940, and during Breton's period of exile in New York from 1941-1946, he colla borated with the latter in his efforts to popularize surrealism on this continent. Andreas Embirikos lived in Paris from 1925-1931, and was closely associated with the surrealist group there. Nikos Engonopoulos lived and studied in Paris from 1919-1927. Nikos Gatsos spent approximately eight months in Paris and southern France from 1935-1936. Odysseus Elytis lived in France from 1948-1952, and again from 1969-1971; during these terms of residence, he enjoyed the friend ship of surrealist poets and painters alike.- 17 Calas' literary output has been relatively small. In addition to IIonjuciTa, he published five broadsheets of poems, all entitled simply TeTpa.6to, and numbered I, II, III, IV, and V, between 1933 and 1947; and Foyers d'Incendie (Paris, 1938), a discussion of surrealism which focuses on its psychological and political significance. Most of his poems have been collected in *066 q NLxfixa Paviou (Athens: Ikaros, 1977) . 725 18 r t Z.I. Siaflekis, "NixoX&ou KaAag TiupxaiaQ, £va auYXPOVO ufivuua," Araga^co, No. 120 (19 85), p.45. 19 Unless otherwise noted, all translations in this chapter are ray own. 20 Nicolas Calas, *066c N 1x1 * 1 x01 Pdvxou, op. cit., p. 33 . 21Ibid., p.27. 2 2 Mario Vitti, *IaTOpCa tt\q veoe\\r\v LxfjQ AqyotsxvLag (Athens: Odysseus, 1978), p.351. 23 For a detailed discussion of Calas' literary activities, see, for example, Chapter II in Barbara Lekatsas' "Toward A Mystical Geometry: The Influence of Surrealism on Modern Greek Poetry," diss., New York University, 1985. Lekatsas also examines the poetry of Embirikos, Elytis, Engonopoulos and Gatsos, and includes a brief chapter on Miltos Sahtouris, as well. 24 Vitti, p. 350. Andreas Karandonis, ELaaYQJYO QTn vecoxepri Tiotriari: rOpoo and tt* i ouyxpovti eXXrivtxn (Athens: Papadimas, 1984) , pp.104-106 . 26 » . 0 Odysseus Elytis, 'Avcupopa ax6v * Eutie lp lxo (Athens: Ipsilon, 1980), pp.30-31. In addition to his literary activities, Embirikos had also been trained in psychoanalysis, and from 1934 to 1951, maintained a clinical practice in Athens. 2> 7Vitti, pp.355-356 . 28 Elytis, 'Avacpopd, p.16. 29 * • Yiorgis Yiatromanolakis , JAv6p£ac * Eiute Lptxog : 6 tiptt~)T"Uc too gparca xaC tqO vdaxou (Athens: Kedros, 19 8 3), pp.56-57. 726 ^Andreas Embirikos, noifjUQiTa: *Yi I iiholuivoc/ * Ev5oxcopa (Athens: Galaxia, 1962), p.16. 31 » Embirikos subsequent works include: rpajrnd f| TtpoaamL>tT*i ui^o^Y icx (Writings or Personal Mythology) (196 0) ; *Apyco f j rcAoOe depdcrcaTOU (I'm Late or Voyage of the Balloon) (19 80); * Q 6p6uo£ (The Road) (1974); OKTdva (Octana) (19 80) ; and 'At yeveaC TtdaaL f ] o^uepov ooq aflpiov kolC X$£c (All Generations or Today Until Tomorrow and Until Yesterday (1984). 32 Elytis' works are numerous, but m addition to those cited in the text, his poetic collections include: "EEu Hat uid T&lsic y id tc3v oupavd (Six and One Remorses for the Sky) (19 60) ; T6 uovdvpauua (The Monogram) (1971) ; " "O f\XiOQ 6 fiA,tdTOpag (The Soverign Sun) (19 71); t 6 c p o o t6 6 s v t p o nai f] 6£x.aTr} 6uopcpLd (The Light Tree and the Fourteenth Beauty) (19 71) ; Td poo t o o gpGOTa (The Ro of Eros) Tl9 72) ; Villa Natacha (1973); and Mapia NecpdXri (Maria Nephele) (1978). 33 Karandoms, p. 19 5. "^Elytis, "M£pa otlAtiv^, dx.o|3d6a" ("Burnished Day, Shell") from "HAios 6 TtpcoToq (Athens: Ikaros, 1974), p.14. 3 5 Edmund Keeley, Modern Greek Poetry: Voice and Myth (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), p.133. Kimon Friar, "The Imagery and Collages of Odysseus Elytis," rpt. 1975^ World Literature Today, Vol. 63, No. 2 (1989), p.237. 3 7 Elytis, 'Avoiyxd xapTtd, p.424. 3 8 Sherrard, "Odysseus Elytis and the Discovery of Greece," pp.283-284. 39 Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke, "The Greek Poetic Landscape," Review of National Literatures, Vol. V, No. 2 (1974), p.i8. 727 40 Friar, introduction, The Sovereign Sun, p.10. 41 According to Kyriakides, the ancient nuptial tradition in which the bride crushes a pomegranate under her foot upon entering her new home is still common practice in Greece (pp.91-92). ^Odysseus Elytis, npoaavioAiouoC (Athens: Ikaros, 1987), pp.145-146. 43 Elytis, "HAloc 6 Ttp&TQC, p.27. 4 4 See, for example, Kyriakides, p.100. 45 Friar describes this folk practice in his notes for The Sovereign Sun, p.180; it is also discussed by Stewart, op. cit., p.90. 46 Elytis, Analogies, p.11. 47 Friar, introduction, The Sovereign Sun, p.181. 4 8 v # Odysseus Elytis, ^Aoucx fjpcoiHd nat tl&vOluo y la t6v xau£vo dvOuTioA.oxaY6 the 'AAgavCaQ (Athens: Ikaros, 1981) . 49 Friar, introduction, The Sovereign Sun, p.181. 50 Extensive notes on the text are included in Odysseus Elytis, The Axion Esti, trans. Edmund Keeley and George Savidis (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1980); see also Friar’s introduction and notes in The Sovereign Sun. For a more extensive discussion of the poem, see, for instance, George Niketas, "The Axion Esti of Odysseus Elytis," diss., University of Georgia, 1967. 51 Edmund Keeley and George Savidis, preface, The Axion Esti, by Odysseus Elytis, op. cit., p.xi. 52 Friar, introduction, The Sovereign Sun, p.29. 728 5 3 t Odysseus Elytis, T6 "AElov sotl (Athens: Ikaros, 1977), p.61. 5 4 Christopher Robinson, ’ ’The Greekness of Modern Greek Surrealism," Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, Vol. 7 (1981), p.124. 55 Engonopoulos is an internationally exhibited painter as well as a poet. 5 6 Karandonis, pp.214-215. 57 In addition to the collections cited in the text, Engonopoulos has also published the following: T& nXe iSoKduftaAa xfys aitonfig (The Pianos of Silence) <19 39) ; * EtltcS . TtoiftuaTa (Seven Poems) (19 4 4) ; *H fcniaTpocpfi xfiv uouXifiv (Return of the Birds) (1946); *EAsuctls (Eleusis) (1948); 13 'AxAdvTLxOg (The Atlantic) (1954) ; 'Ev dvBriP^ fcAAricjoC Xoyco (In the Blossoming Greek Language) (1957); and STijv KOt,Aa6a u£ toOq po66veg' (In the Vale with the Roses) (19 7 8) . 5 8 Nikos Engonopoulos, noifiuaxa./ 2 Vols. (Athens: Ikaros, 1985), Vol. A, p.157 (nonjuaxa includes selections from most of Engonopoulos’ collections). 59Ibid., pp.41-42. ^Karandonis, p. 223. 61 Nikos Engonopoulos, nojjJuaxa, Vol. B, pp.12-14. Nanos Valaoritis, "To x^oduop ot6v £ W t)\)Ik 6 OneppeaX lquc3 , " Aua§a^a), No. 120 (1985), p.24. 6 3 Valaoritis reports that the title was another one of Gatsos1 humorous inspirations, "a joke at the expense of some imaginary, ignorant reader who would ask himself what relation Amorgos (the island) has with the poem. Residents of Amorgos became interested, thinking that the poem presented their island, while today, tourists go to Amorgos . . . as to a place of worship" (p.24). On a more serious note, in "Amorgos: Studies of a Poem by Nikos Gatsos," diss., University 729 of Michigan, 1966, Konstantinos Lardas concludes that the choice of title was probably a combination of factors: Gatsos was translating Garcia-Lorca at the time he wrote *AuopydG, and may have subconsciously related the Spanish "amargo" ("bitterness'’) to his poem; additionally, writes, Lardas, Amorgos is the only island name accented on the last syllable as is the name of the poet, Solomos, Gatsos' poetic ideal (p.39) . 64 Vitti, p.372. Karandonis, pp.225-229. 6 6 9 9 9 9 Tasos Lignadis, “Eva (3l(3A.lq y icl x6v Nlkq rKaTao (Athens: Gnosi, 1983), p.97. 6 7 Friar, introduction, Modern Greek Poetry, p.81 6 8 Nikos Gatsos, *AuopY^g (Athens: Ikaros, 1969) . 6 9 See, for instance, Friar's notes on the poem in Modern Greek Poetry, pp.707-70 8. "^Lignadis, p.128. 71 Ritsos works are too numerous to list here--he has published approximately 100 volumes, most of which are poetic collections. For a complete list, the best source is * Acpi£pornoi Qt6v ridvvr) PC too, ed. Athina Kalianesi (Athens: Kedros, 1980), pp.706-742. The monologues, however, are all listed below. 1 2 . . . . Peter Bien, introduction, Yianms Ritsos: Selected Poems, trans. Nikos Stangos (Athens: Efstathiadis Group, 1981), pp.12-13. 73 » Yiorgis Yiatromanolakis, "‘IaTopixi1 ) £n.icpdveia Kai |3d\3oc," Kalianesi, op. cit., p.199. "^Keeley, preface, Modern Greek Poetry: Voice and Myth, p.xvi. 730 7 R Victor Sokoliuk, " ' O u^oq ot6 gpyo too riavvr) Ptiaou," Kalianesi, op. cit., pp.394-396. 7 S Martanthe Colakis, "Classical Mythology in Yiannis Ritsos’ Dramatic Monologues," Classical and Modern Literature, Vol. 4, No. 3 (1984), p.125. 77 . . . . Rae Dalven, introduction, Yiannis Ritsos, The Fourth Dimension: Selected Poems of Yiannis Ritsos, trans. Rae Dalven (Boston: David R. Godine, 1977), p.xxi. 7 8 a The dramatic monologues are: c H oovdia too aeA.nv6cpa)TO£ (Moonlight Sonata) (1956) ; t6 napdPopo (The Window) (I9 60) ; T6 vexp6 oixlti (The Dead House) (1962) ; K&to) cut t6v tax to too Bqovqo (Beneath the Shadow of the Mountain) (1962); <E>iAoxTT^Trig (Philoctetesl (1965) ; 'Op^orjie (Orestes) (19 66); A Egg (Ajax) (1969) ; nepascpdvn (Persephone) (1970) ; * Ayau^uvcov (Agamemnon) (1970); *H *EA.£vr) (Helen) (19 7 2) ; * H fcixiCTTpocpfi ~Tfj£ 'IcpLy£veLac (The Return of Iphigenia) (1972) ; XpuadOeuiQ (Chrysothemis) (1972) ; J Iau^iv~n flsmene) (1972) ; and C5pa (Phaedra) (1978) . With the exceptions of the first two listed here, all are based on mythological themes. 79 Colakis discusses the structure and character istics of the monologues in detail. O f l Yiannis Ritsos, T6 vexpd cttiltl (Athens: Kedros, 1980), p.9. All of the passages from the poem which appear in the text are taken from this volume. 81 Stylianos, Archbishop of Australia, "‘O OriP£UTi*ig too laeyaAeCoo ot6 u^Hpd," Kalianesi, pp.145-148. o o M.G. Meraklis, " *H t^to-Ptr 6LaaTaari too rCa-wri Pltooo," Kalianesi, p.519. 83 Yiannis Ritsos, 'Iajjjjvji (Athens: Kedros, 1979), p.7. All of the passages from the poem which appear in the text are taken from this volume. ^Colakis, pp.129-130. 731 Afterword 732 Following the example of my mentors* the poets who inspired this study, I have been more con cerned here with questions than with answers, and with the implicit rather than the explicit intellect ual and spiritual aspects of the subject at hand. Rather than drawing critical conclusions, I have focused on illuminating some of the numerous possibil ities for poetic and philosophical analysis which intersect in the works examined here. Accordingly, in keeping with that speculative approach, I would only like to express a few brief closing comments. In their individual quests for cultural affirmation, both the Serbian and Greek poets con sidered herein have drawn from the methods of French surrealism, and owing to their similar ethnic tradi tions and aesthetic sensibilities, the two national groups appear to have developed a parallel poetic form. In my judgment, this form, which I have char acterized here as Balkan surrealism, constitutes an enrichment of the surrealist course which Breton originally envisioned in that it expands the original premises of surrealism from the individual sub conscious and the dream world to the broader frontiers of the collective subconscious and myth. This is a literary achievement which I believe is certainly 733 worthy of further study, and it is my hope that other scholars will devote attention to it, and to the poets considered here whose contributions, not only to the development of their respective national literarures, but to the field of comparative literature as a whole have been considerable. In addition to the literary aspect, the poetry discussed here presents anthropological, sociological, psychological, historical, and theological dimensions, as well, and thus provides a rich groundwork for study on several levels. Moreover, it also implies a relationship between the Serbian and Greek cultures which is also deserving of further comparative studies. If, in some modest way, this work generates further research in these directions/ it will have accomplished its purpose. 734 Bibliography 735 Source Material Auster, Paul, ed. Twentieth-Century French Poetry. New York: Random House, 1982. Baudelaire, Charles. 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It is intended only as a basic reference to aid the reader in identifying the allusions to Slavic mythology which occur in the poetry examined in- this study. 1. Dabog: Sun deity. "Dabog" is the Serbian variant of the Russian "Dazbog. 1 1 In Slavic, the name connotes "giving god" ("dati" means "to give" and "bog" is "god") or "giver of wealth" ("bogu" is "wealth"), deriving, no doubt, from the pivotal role which the sun plays in agriculture. Dazbog is also known as (1) "Khors Dazbog," an appellation believed to derive from "Khursid," the Persian personification of the sun, but also linked to the Slavic god, "Khors"; and v. * (2)"Svarozic," which means "son of Svarog," since Dazbog is believed to have been generated by Svarog, the god of fire, and in this context, is also linked with forging and metal-working. In addition to being charged with the celestial fire, Dazbog is the god of the hearth fire, as well. As Dabog, he plays a central role in Serbian mythology. Personified as a lame wolf, Dabog is the god of wolves and, ironically, 760 of small stock. Dabog is recalled in the phrase "daj Bog" ("God grant"), with which modern Serbs often preface statements. 2* Dodola: Goddess of rain and bodies of water. She is vestigially represented in the Dodola Rite, which is sometimes invoked in in the villages in time of drought. In this ceremony, a young girl, usually a gypsy, is wreathed in flowers and tree branches and, thus attired, leads a procession of other young girls through the village, singing and chanting for rain as they go. As Dodola passes from house to house, women and children pour water over her in the hope that rain will soon begin to fall. 3. Kupalo: Playful demon-god identified with fertility and agricultural abundance. Associated with the summer solstice, Kupalo is celebrated in Serbia on the feast day of Saint John the Baptist ("Ivandan") on 7 July (o.s.). The Kupalo rites which occur on that day include outings into nearby woods and fields, the singing of traditional songs, mass bathing ("kupati" means "to bathe"), and prophesying. The prophecies involve jumping over a bonfire; young couples hold hands and jump over the flame, and it is believed that those whose hands remain together will become husband and wife. 761 4. Mokos; Goddess associated with sheep-shearing and childbearing. Although the word suggests the Slavic "mokru" ("moist"), its etymology is not believed to be Slavic. Mokos may be a variant of the "mati syra zeralja" (literally, "mother moist earth") deity preserved chiefly in the Russian folk tradition. 5. Perun: God of thunder and lightning. His name derives from the Slavic "per-"("to strike"). His emblems are the axe and the oak tree; ancient Slavs maintained a perpetual fire of oak wood in his honor. Perun is a very old and powerful god, and may be com pared to the Greek Zeus or the German Thor. Popular belief holds that a person or a tree struck by one of Perun1s lightning bolts acquires magical powers. Perun was regarded as the supreme Slavic deity, and in 988, when the Kievan Prince Vladimir accepted Christianity, he ordered the statue of Perun in Kiev to be demolished, beaten, and thrown into the Dnieper river so as to sufficiently impress upon the people the pagan god's fall from power. In Serbia, Perun survives in the masculine diminutive "Pera," for "Petar" ("Peter") and in the feminine "Peruna," in place names such as "Perunovac" and "Perunice," and in the iris flower, which is called "perunika." 6* Svantovid: Military deity, also known as "Svantovid, "Svantevit," and "Svetovid." A four-headed god whose name derives from the Slavic "svant-" ("holy"), he was worshipped primarily by the Western Slavs, and a huge temple was erected in his honor at Arcona on the island of Rugen. Svantovid was worshipped as the supreme chieftan of the tribe, but was also associated with divination, and rituals were performed in his honor to prophesy the outcome of military as well as agricultural endeavors. One such practice was the sword ritual which was conducted before any battle was undertaken. A white horse which had been conse crated to Svantovid was led through three rows of swords which had been thrust into the ground. If the horse stepped across the swords with his right foot first, it was a good sign; if the left, it forbode defeat. 7. Svarog: God of fire and generator of the sun. His name does not appear to be of Slavic origin, and may be derived from the Indo-European root "svar," which means "burning heat" or "glow." Svarog is associated with forging and metal-working, and in this context, may be compared to the Greek Hephaestus. He is some times represented as a shape-shifter, and one of his incarnations is that of a gray wolf. 763 Veles; God of the herds, also known as "Volos." He is sometimes associated exclusively with cattle— the Serbo-Croatian "vo" ("ox") may derive from his name. After their conversion to Christianity, the Slavs transferred the worship of Veles to Saint Blasius. Veles may be associated with the wolf cult inasmuch as in the Russian tradition he is identified with Apollo, and in the Serbian tradition with Saint Sava. He is preserved in Serbian place names such as "Veles," "Velesnica," and "Velestovo." 764 Sources for the preceding list include Cajkanovic, Cvijic, Durham, Dvornik, Filipovic, Frazer, Gimbutas, R. Jakobson, Kulisic et al., Lazarovich-Hrebelianovich, Machal, Petrovitch, Popovich, Radosavljevich, Stoianovich, and Znayenko, all of which are listed in the Bibliography. 765 Appendix "B" The Wolf Cult 766 The origins of the Serbian wolf cult are obscure, and the information which we do possess about it is extremely complex and convoluted. However, scholars agree that although its importance varies from culture to culture, the wolf is a long established totem among Slavic peoples. It is first mentioned in connection with the Slavs by Herodotus, who describes the shape-shifting activities of the Nevri, a Slavic tribe living north of the Scythians who once a year donned wolf skins and "became" wolves for a few days' time. In modern times, as the folkloric traditions of many Slavic nations attest, the wolf presence has continued to capture the imagination of Slavs. Since it is an ubiquitous image in the modern Serbian poetry included in this study, a brief summary of this unique cultural phenomenon appears to be in order. It is generally accepted by scholars that the wolf totem in its Serbian manifestation is an aspect of Dabog, the sun god. The association of the wolf cult with Saint Sava as a protector of the wolves is also well established in Serbian folkloric studies (the wolf cult is also linked, though to a lesser degree, with Saint George, Saint Archangel Michael, Saint Martin and Saint Trifun). The numerous tales about the wolf totem often involve a sacrifice of some 767 sort, usually a human one, which has been sanctioned by a god or a religious figure, and this sacrifice is always given not to all, but only to one old, lame or v ' otherwise enfeebled wolf. Cajkanovic cites one variant, an old Vlach legend, in which Saint Sava gives a group of wolves permission to eat the sheep which are pas tured in a nearby field. One wolf, however, who is old and weak, says that he cannot walk even that far. Saint Sava looks around and seeing a shepherd, tells the wolf to eat him for dinner instead. Saint Sava then disappears. The shepherd seeks help, but to no avail. The next day, however, all that is left of him is his head. This story, Cajkanovic points out, con tains all of the fundamental elements of the wolf cult: The wolf is enfeebled, he is given the right to make a sacrifice, and that right is given to him by a reli gious figure, in this case, Saint Sava. 9^ / Cajkanovic attributes the detail of the wolf's enfeebled condition to the fact that in myth.and folk lore, a weak or flawed external appearance often con ceals a hidden or unactualized internal power or uniqueness, e.g., a handsome prince may be disguised in the form of a toad or a snake, an ordinary looking orphan girl may turn out to be a lost princess, and a weakling, if sufficiently motivated, may accomplish 768 the boldest and most courageous feats. Similarly, it is possible for Dabog, the lame wolf god, to become the "Tsar" of all the wolves. The sacrificial aspect, he observes, may stem from the fact that in pagan Serbian worship, the wolf was perceived as a demonic and perhaps a godly animal. The association with Saint Sava, too, may be ascribed to ancient religious practices since traditionally, the wolf god was cele brated intermittently throughout the winter period, concluding on Saint George's Day (23 April o.s.). Saint George was originally linked to the wolf cult-- and continues to be among the Russians--but in Serbia, this role was gradually assigned to Saint Sava whose feast day falls in the middle of the winter period on 14 January (o.s.). . V . / * . f Kulisic et al., who concur with Cajkanovic's findings, add that there may be some connection between Saint Sava and Veles, since both are asso ciated with livestock. Moreover, it is also interest ing to note that Veles is sometimes depicted as a wolf. Kulisic et al., also point out the likelihood that Dabog is etymologically linked to Daba, who in the folk loric tradition, was the chief of all the devils, and who was also lame. They mention, as well, that in addition to his associations with wolves and small 769 stock, he is also identified with mining, forging, and metalworking. Although the positive aspect seems to be pre dominant in Serbian culture, there is a negative aspect of the wolf cult: the "werewolf" ("vukodlak"). Popovic writes that, as in other folk traditions, Serbian culture associates the werewolf with solar and lunar eclipses, attributing to it the power to devour the sun or moon. It is believed, he writes, that one can become a werewolf only during the first year following his/her death, and that werewolves usually enter homes in which candles are not lighted for the dead. He also observes that if peasants suspect the presence of a werewolf, they take a white colt to the graveyard as it is believed the animal has prophetic powers and will lead them to the grave of the werewolf. The presence of the white colt may be significant here as it suggests a connection with the horse rituals of Svantovid. Folkloric tradition attests to the con tinuing significance of the wolf totem in Serbian culture. There is a popular belief, for instance, that a child born feet first will be a werewolf. How ever, most of the customs reflect the positive rather than the negative aspect. it is generally believed 770 that wolves are incarnations of the dead, and thus should be regarded with reverence. If an infant is weak or ill, he is given the name "Vuk" (''Wolf") as it is thought that this will endow him with strength and insure his survival. "Vuk" is also the root of f t numerous Serbian surnames--Vuksic, Vukobratovic, Vuksevic^, Vukadinovic, etc. Indeed, the wolf is so prominent a part of the culture that when the Olympics were held in Yugoslavia in 1984, the mascot was "Vu^ko" (diminutive of "wolf"), a cartoon-like char acter. One of the most interesting customs associated with the wolf is that of the "vucare" or "kurjace" (both of which mean "wolf"), which occurs near Christmas time; young men cover themselves with wolf skins and go door to door singing and collecting small gifts as their reward. The wolf cult is not unique to Serbian culture, however, and may be linked to the well known Greek wolf cult which originated in Arcadia in the Peloponnesos. The sources of this Greek cult are at least as complicated and elaborate as the Slavic var iant. However, the basic story is as follows; Lycaon, the king of Arcadia, was visited by Zeus who had dis guised himself as an ordinary mortal. The king offered him hospitality, but suspected that he was a 771 god, and in order to confirm his suspicions, served Zeus a dish made with human entrails— according to some versions, those of one of Lycaon's own sons. Enraged, Zeus turned Lycaon and his sons into wolves, although other versions of the story relate that he took his revenge by destroying Arcadia with the cata strophic flood of Deukalion, or by killing Lycaon and his sons with a thunderbolt. Both Lopez and Grimal comment that the myth may have been devised to justify the human sacrifice practiced in honor of Zeus in Arcadia. It is altogether possible that the Slavic wolf cult may be an extension of the Arcadian one. One may speculate, for instance, that this myth may have been disseminated and found its way into the Nevrian tribe of which Herodotus writes. Herodotus also writes about Lycus, to whom the cult of Lycian Apollo is attributed. Lycus, a priest and seer, was driven from Athens by his brother, Aegeus. Lycus re settled in what is now southeastern Turkey among a people called the Termilae who revered Lycus to such an extent that they renamed their land Lycia. Further more, this reference also provides a connection with Apollo, who like the Slavic Dabog, is associated with both the sun and wolves, but also with shepherding. Moreover, as Lopez points out, his image is similarly 772 contradictory in that he is known both as "wolf-born" and "wolf-slayer," and although he is a patron of shepherds, he can also assume the form of a wolf, as is the case in the Aeneid. Apollo's wolf epithets derive from the legendary shape-shifting of his mother, Leto, who, in order to escape Hera's jealous wrath, took the shape of a wolf for a time. Leto was said to be from the land of the Hyperboreans, a region described by Herodotus as north of Scythia and "beyond the North Wind." Legend has it that after his birth, Apollo went to his mother's homeland and remained there for some time before going on to Delphi. Interestingly, according to Herodotus, the sacred objects venerated at Delos in Apollo's honor were brought there from the Hyperborean land via the Scythians, neighbors of the Slavs. Originally, he writes, the Hyperboreans themselves conveyed the objects to Delos. However, when their messengers did not return, they devised a means of transferring them by a method of relay: Wrapped in straw, the objects were brought by the Hyperboreans to their border, where they were given to the Scythians who in turn, conveyed them to their border and thus they were carried from region to 773 region as far west as the Adriatic. Then, Herodotus continues, the objects were taken south, and the first Greeks to receive them were the Dodonaeans. A connection between the Greek and Slavic wolf cults is, of course, merely hypothetical at this point, and is offered here primarily to give the reader some idea of the myriad of complex possibilities of mythological interpretation. However, in view of the fact that the relationship between the Slavs and the Scythians is well established by scholars, such a connection is, I believe, quite plausible. Further more, as a comparatist working primarily with Slavic and Greek languages and literatures, I cannot help but be struck by one fact which I would like to mention for the benefit of the reader. In Greek, the word for wolf is "likos" ("AuhoQ"), which, of course, bears no etymological similarity to the Serbian "vuk" or the Russian "volk." However, the word "lik" does exist in the Slavic, although, according to Fasmer, its etymology is obscure. "Lik" has a variety of meanings, all of which are associated with the persona: "face"; "image"; "visage"; "appearance"; "countenance”; etc. These connotations seem to suggest that "lik" is a concept which embodies the essence of the self. If so, and if the word is derived from the Greek 774 "likos," it might imply, then, that the essence of the self--at least in the Slavic context— is personified in the wolf image. This possibility is made even more intriguing in terms of Serbian studies inasmuch as although "lik" is common to all Slavic tongues, it is used with the highest frequency in the Serbo-Croatian language. Sources for the preceding background discussion include Cajkanovic, Cvijic, Durham, Fasmer, Filipovic, Frazer, Gimbutas, Grimal, Herodotus, R. Jakobson, S. Jakobson, Kulisic et al., Lazarovich-Hrebelianovich, Lopez, Machal, Petrovitch, Popovich, Radosavljevich, Santillana, Stoianovich, and Zimmerman, all of which are listed in the Bibliography. Appendix Plates 777 List of Plates 1. "Saint Philip and Queen Kandakia’s Eunuch," Decani, 14th century. Source: Rice and Radojcic (See Bibliography). 2. "The Prophet Elias," Gracanica, 14th century. Source: Rice and Radojcic 3. "The Destruction of Sodom," Decani, 14th century. Source: Rice and Radojcic 4. "Dormition of the Virgin," Studenica, 14th century. Source: Rice and Radojcic 5. "The Last Judgement," Gracanica, 14th century. 6. "The Primordial Goddess." Clay figure found in Klicevac, Yugoslavia. Housed in National Museum in Belgrade, but lost in World War I. Source: Neumann, The Great Mother: An Analysis of the Archetype (See Bibliography). 773 dlksmmi feE&* Plate I 780 Plate III 781 Plate IV 782 .r* Plate V T h e P r im o r d ia l G o d d e s s GODDESS Clay. Yugoslavia, Bronze Age Plate VI

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Creator Budisavljevic-Oparnica, Maria (author)

Core Title The archaic roots of Balkan surrealism: A study of modern Serbian and Greek poetry.

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Comparative Literature

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