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Misheard Histories

01 December, 00:00

By Vyacheslav MEDVID
Something strange happened to me the other day. When asked by a Radio Kyiv reporter about my attitude toward certain trends in modern literature, I flew into a long and angry tirade. The more I talked, the more the reporter became uncomfortable. I was going full blast and did not even think that the man could have turned off his recorder soon after I began in that vein. I was very agitated, so it is hard to recall everything I said, things I emphasized, parallels I drew, the metaphors or comparisons I used. It all boiled down to this. Writers are still regarded by many as the bearers of some special knowledge, some extraordinary idea. People still seen them as symbols rather than simple mortals, as exemplary citizens feeling responsible for everything happening (or not happening) to the people and to history. Everyone seems interested in what a given writer thinks about changes in Parliament, investments and the Deputies' ills, the yellow or black race threatening civilization, why that man appears in that newspaper and not this one, why he is still in the Union of Writers. I might as well add that every global subject thus broached inevitably disintegrates into a number of local issues and finally both sides to the conversation find themselves discussing certain people they know. Now this is something risky, given our unheard-of democracy and singularly frayed nerves. Democracy implies a free exchange of ideas, yet a given person exposed to such democracy may well regard unbiased criticism as an attempt to meddle in his private affairs. In other words, having acquired the freedom of expression we at times become even more exacting censors than those under totalitarianism.

Anyway, I was going to recall something from that heated monologue in front of a dead microphone. So what happened? That radio reporter wanted to know what I thought was good and what was bad in our literature. Instead of offering a beautifully worded answer, rich in global approaches, witticisms, and self-irony, dwelling on the diversity of styles, thriving aesthetic trends, etc., I snarled and pounced on the poor guy with my own questions. Why didn't he ask me how I lived these days? What was I writing, when had I been published last? Had he read any of my books? How I had to work? Would my new book be published soon? Sorry, I mean would I be paid for it soon and how much? What did I have for breakfast? Or did I have any breakfast at all? Of course, any of the above questions could be subdivided as smaller yet nonetheless important ones. Hard as you try, you again bump into a specific figure. The minister ordering the publication of books or the President who should have attached priority to book-publishing his program of national development program, and much more.

And so I not only confused that radio reporter, but also offended him, albeit unintentionally. I remember another radio reporter say how good it is to interview poet V. He never broaches global subjects but just shares his poetic visions, how he went from point A to point B, what he saw on the way and how he saw it, and how what he saw inspired him to write such and such a poem or how it left him uninspired. My belated repentance prompts me to say that the writer should quit this serious public game. People have long stopped asking him to share his prophecies and generalizations. He just has to be a visionary and tell sad and funny stories. Just stories. Like this one, sounding almost like a legend. When wheat ears were all over the stem a woman used a stem to wipe her child's bottom. Seeing this, God became angry, grabbed the stem, and beat them both with it. But then a dog barked and a cat mewed. God felt sorry for the animals and left some grains on the stem and that's the way wheat grows now, meaning that we eat cat's-and-dog's bread.

Now what did I tell that one for? I also wonder.

Newspaper output №:

№43, (1998)

Section

Culture