Mid-Summer Forever
In memoriam. I refuse to accept it; I can still see him so very much alive. Yet the fact remains: in two days we will mark the sorokovyny, Ukrainian for the fortieth day after someone's death — and Mass celebrated on that day, followed by a wake, also a very special occasion when abundant food and drinks are served and toasts raised, but without the usual clinking of glasses. Forty days ago we were all stunned by the news of Danylo Husar Struk's passing away. I was fortunate to have known him not only as a penetrating researcher, literary critic, publisher, professor at the University of Toronto, president of the Taras Shevchenko Scientific Society in Western Europe, but also as an extremely generous person who shared his gift with one and all, to the extent of self-exhaustion. Our acquaintance did not last long, yet several meetings sufficed to identify him as that human type which has never failed to enchant me. He was open-hearted, he loved life and the world he lived in; his was a keen skeptical intellect; he had a remarkable sense of humor, always with a touch of irony. He was easy to deal with, a case study in communicability. And all this was innately and most logically combined with a singular working efficiency. Now this is a trait seldom found in today's disillusioned consciousness — I mean love for wine and for work. A mystery known only to the classically clear-cut, vertical — I would even say Confucian — character. I think that Danylo Husar Struk belonged to that singular category of clear-minded and cheerful individuals.
His heartbeat stopped on one of the shortest June nights in Munich where he had arrived to deliver lectures and with far-reaching plans. He was fond of traveling, change of scene, he would not stay long in the same place; he craved fresh impressions, environs, new smells, drinks still untasted. He loved polyphony in all its manifestations. He loved Europe and France of all European countries. France is a country challenging one with countless attractions and temptations, a multitude of cultures merging into a single polity, where every visit means new discoveries made, new wines tasted. The country is densely stratified, saturated with traditions and innovations. And studying France takes a separate science where one has to learn a great deal; only then does one's love for this country become genuine, not just a fleeting infatuation; only then will you love France and be loved in return. At the same time, France is a very “tangible“ country in terms of its architectural ensembles, suburban parks or good old prose writings with its crystal-clear ringing statements. The two — Struk and France — made a perfect match. From now on I will always consider them as a single whole.
I felt this affinity while at Sarcelles, a town not far from Paris, where I was sorry to find myself a belated guest at Oksana and Danylo Struk's home — I would rather call it an orchard boasting sweet cherry, plum trees, and all kinds of exotic southern fruit-bearing bushes. France spells rich summer in the first place, almost tropical heat endured in the shade of luxurious evergreen trees, picnics on azure lawns, bathing in fountains, brief summer showers and a special vibrant air. I could also generalize France as impressionism. Inviting me was Oksana and Danylo Struk's idea. They wanted me to partake of that impressionism. And they succeeded in luring me into the trap. It was their gift for me, for generous people are given to a desire to share something they have with others. They enjoyed sharing, making presents; without doing so their life would be incomplete. They would buy a book, read it, enjoy it, and then they would want their friends to read it and share their enjoyment. And the same applied to music; they enjoyed listening to the tunes they admired with their friends. And they wanted to present the country they loved as a single solid whole, as well as in parts they were sure others would admire: Paris with its scenic suburbs, Normandy with its Calvados, Burgundy with its mostly red wines or Alsace with its mostly white wines. Danylo carried out his intention and stayed in France till his dying day. As for Ukraine, the situation proved more complex; the man made no secret of the fact that he did not want to visit it. Perhaps because of his father thrown into jail in Lviv, in 1941, when the Bolsheviks resorted to atrocities before retreating from the city, giving way to the victorious Wehrmacht. The family could identify his maimed body only by pieces of cloth. Of course, this morbid memory was not the only reason. Rather, the situation that developed later, the grotesque reality, idiocy maintained at the government level, total incompetence, bureaucratic arbitrariness reeking of Sovietism.
He loved a different Ukraine, one he knew from Kalynets' or Chubai's verse, Makarenko's paintings, Soroka's prints. And there are dozens of other names he knew and loved, identifying them with Ukraine. For Ukraine is a separate science, just like France, an inexhaustible source of exciting discoveries. Unlike Ukraine, the French borders are open and there are no thick- headed bureaucrats demanding visas or their equivalent in bribes. By
In memoriam. I refuse to accept it; I can still see him so very much alive. Yet the fact remains: in two days we will mark the sorokovyny, Ukrainian for the fortieth day after someone's death — and Mass celebrated on that day, followed by a wake, also a very special occasion when abundant food and drinks are served and toasts raised, but without the usual clinking of glasses. Forty days ago we were all stunned by the news of Danylo Husar Struk's passing away. I was fortunate to have known him not only as a penetrating researcher, literary critic, publisher, professor at the University of Toronto, president of the Taras Shevchenko Scientific Society in Western Europe, but also as an extremely generous person who shared his gift with one and all, to the extent of self-exhaustion. Our acquaintance did not last long, yet several meetings sufficed to identify him as that human type which has never failed to enchant me. He was open-hearted, he loved life and the world he lived in; his was a keen skeptical intellect; he had a remarkable sense of humor, always with a touch of irony. He was easy to deal with, a case study in communicability. And all this was innately and most logically combined with a singular working efficiency. Now this is a trait seldom found in today's disillusioned consciousness — I mean love for wine and for work. A mystery known only to the classically clear-cut, vertical — I would even say Confucian — character. I think that Danylo Husar Struk belonged to that singular category of clear-minded and cheerful individuals.
His heartbeat stopped on one of the shortest June nights in Munich where he had arrived to deliver lectures and with far-reaching plans. He was fond of traveling, change of scene, he would not stay long in the same place; he craved fresh impressions, environs, new smells, drinks still untasted. He loved polyphony in all its manifestations. He loved Europe and France of all European countries. France is a country challenging one with countless attractions and temptations, a multitude of cultures merging into a single polity, where every visit means new discoveries made, new wines tasted. The country is densely stratified, saturated with traditions and innovations. And studying France takes a separate science where one has to learn a great deal; only then does one's love for this country become genuine, not just a fleeting infatuation; only then will you love France and be loved in return. At the same time, France is a very “tangible“ country in terms of its architectural ensembles, suburban parks or good old prose writings with its crystal-clear ringing statements. The two — Struk and France — made a perfect match. From now on I will always consider them as a single whole.
I felt this affinity while at Sarcelles, a town not far from Paris, where I was sorry to find myself a belated guest at Oksana and Danylo Struk's home — I would rather call it an orchard boasting sweet cherry, plum trees, and all kinds of exotic southern fruit-bearing bushes. France spells rich summer in the first place, almost tropical heat endured in the shade of luxurious evergreen trees, picnics on azure lawns, bathing in fountains, brief summer showers and a special vibrant air. I could also generalize France as impressionism. Inviting me was Oksana and Danylo Struk's idea. They wanted me to partake of that impressionism. And they succeeded in luring me into the trap. It was their gift for me, for generous people are given to a desire to share something they have with others. They enjoyed sharing, making presents; without doing so their life would be incomplete. They would buy a book, read it, enjoy it, and then they would want their friends to read it and share their enjoyment. And the same applied to music; they enjoyed listening to the tunes they admired with their friends. And they wanted to present the country they loved as a single solid whole, as well as in parts they were sure others would admire: Paris with its scenic suburbs, Normandy with its Calvados, Burgundy with its mostly red wines or Alsace with its mostly white wines. Danylo carried out his intention and stayed in France till his dying day. As for Ukraine, the situation proved more complex; the man made no secret of the fact that he did not want to visit it. Perhaps because of his father thrown into jail in Lviv, in 1941, when the Bolsheviks resorted to atrocities before retreating from the city, giving way to the victorious Wehrmacht. The family could identify his maimed body only by pieces of cloth. Of course, this morbid memory was not the only reason. Rather, the situation that developed later, the grotesque reality, idiocy maintained at the government level, total incompetence, bureaucratic arbitrariness reeking of Sovietism.
He loved a different Ukraine, one he knew from Kalynets' or Chubai's verse, Makarenko's paintings, Soroka's prints. And there are dozens of other names he knew and loved, identifying them with Ukraine. For Ukraine is a separate science, just like France, an inexhaustible source of exciting discoveries. Unlike Ukraine, the French borders are open and there are no thick- headed bureaucrats demanding visas or their equivalent in bribes. By
Выпуск газеты №:
№29, (1999)Section
Culture
