I am a writer. Writing books is my profession but it's more than that, of course. It is also my great lifelong love and fascination. And I don't expect that that's ever going to change. But, that said, something kind of peculiar has happened recently in my life and in my career, which has caused me to have to recalibrate my whole relationship with this work. And the peculiar thing is that I recently wrote this book, this memoir called "Eat, Pray, Love" which, decidedly unlike any of my previous books, went out in the world for some reason, and became this big, mega-sensation, international bestseller thing. The result of which is that everywhere I go now, people treat me like I'm doomed. Seriously -- doomed, doomed! Like, they come up to me now, all worried, and they say, "Aren't you afraid you're never going to be able to top that? Aren't you afraid you're going to keep writing for your whole life and you're never again going to create a book that anybody in the world cares about at all, ever again?"
So that's reassuring, you know. But it would be worse, except for that I happen to remember that over 20 years ago, when I first started telling people -- when I was a teenager -- that I wanted to be a writer, I was met with this same kind of, sort of fear-based reaction. And people would say, "Aren't you afraid you're never going to have any success? Aren't you afraid the humiliation of rejection will kill you? Aren't you afraid that you're going to work your whole life at this craft and nothing's ever going to come of it and you're going to die on a scrap heap of broken dreams with your mouth filled with bitter ash of failure?" (Laughter) Like that, you know.
The answer -- the short answer to all those questions is, "Yes." Yes, I'm afraid of all those things. And I always have been. And I'm afraid of many, many more things besides that people can't even guess at, like seaweed and other things that are scary. But, when it comes to writing, the thing that I've been sort of thinking about lately, and wondering about lately, is why? You know, is it rational? Is it logical that anybody should be expected to be afraid of the work that they feel they were put on this Earth to do. And what is it specifically about creative ventures that seems to make us really nervous about each other's mental health in a way that other careers kind of don't do, you know? Like my dad, for example, was a chemical engineer and I don't recall once in his 40 years of chemical engineering anybody asking him if he was afraid to be a chemical engineer, you know? It didn't -- that chemical-engineering block, John, how's it going? It just didn't come up like that, you know? But to be fair, chemical engineers as a group haven't really earned a reputation over the centuries for being alcoholic manic-depressives. (Laughter)
We writers, we kind of do have that reputation, and not just writers, but creative people across all genres, it seems, have this reputation for being enormously mentally unstable. And all you have to do is look at the very grim death count in the 20th century alone, of really magnificent creative minds who died young and often at their own hands, you know? And even the ones who didn't literally commit suicide seem to be really undone by their gifts, you know. Norman Mailer, just before he died, last interview, he said "Every one of my books has killed me a little more." An extraordinary statement to make about your life's work. But we don't even blink when we hear somebody say this because we've heard that kind of stuff for so long and somehow we've completely internalized and accepted collectively this notion that creativity and suffering are somehow inherently linked and that artistry, in the end, will always ultimately lead to anguish.
And the question that I want to ask everybody here today is are you guys all cool with that idea? Are you comfortable with that? Because you look at it even from an inch away and, you know ... I'm not at all comfortable with that assumption. I think it's odious. And I also think it's dangerous, and I don't want to see it perpetuated into the next century. I think it's better if we encourage our great creative minds to live.
And I definitely know that, in my case -- in my situation -- it would be very dangerous for me to start sort of leaking down that dark path of assumption, particularly given the circumstance that I'm in right now in my career. Which is -- you know, like check it out, I'm pretty young, I'm only about 40 years old. I still have maybe another four decades of work left in me. And it's exceedingly likely that anything I write from this point forward is going to be judged by the world as the work that came after the freakish success of my last book, right? I should just put it bluntly, because we're all sort of friends here now -- it's exceedingly likely that my greatest success is behind me. So Jesus, what a thought! That's the kind of thought that could lead a person to start drinking gin at nine o'clock in the morning, and I don't want to go there. (Laughter) I would prefer to keep doing this work that I love.
And so, the question becomes, how? And so, it seems to me, upon a lot of reflection, that the way that I have to work now, in order to continue writing, is that I have to create some sort of protective psychological construct, right? I have to sort of find some way to have a safe distance between me, as I am writing, and my very natural anxiety about what the reaction to that writing is going to be, from now on. And, as I've been looking over the last year for models for how to do that I've been sort of looking across time, and I've been trying to find other societies to see if they might have had better and saner ideas than we have about how to help creative people, sort of manage the inherent emotional risks of creativity.
And that search has led me to ancient Greece and ancient Rome. So stay with me, because it does circle around and back. But, ancient Greece and ancient Rome -- people did not happen to believe that creativity came from human beings back then, O.K.? People believed that creativity was this divine attendant spirit that came to human beings from some distant and unknowable source, for distant and unknowable reasons. The Greeks famously called these divine attendant spirits of creativity "daemons." Socrates, famously, believed that he had a daemon who spoke wisdom to him from afar. The Romans had the same idea, but they called that sort of disembodied creative spirit a genius. Which is great, because the Romans did not actually think that a genius was a particularly clever individual. They believed that a genius was this, sort of magical divine entity, who was believed to literally live in the walls of an artist's studio, kind of like Dobby the house elf, and who would come out and sort of invisibly assist the artist with their work and would shape the outcome of that work.
So brilliant -- there it is, right there, that distance that I'm talking about -- that psychological construct to protect you from the results of your work. And everyone knew that this is how it functioned, right? So the ancient artist was protected from certain things, like, for example, too much narcissism, right? If your work was brilliant you couldn't take all the credit for it, everybody knew that you had this disembodied genius who had helped you. If your work bombed, not entirely your fault, you know? Everyone knew your genius was kind of lame. And this is how people thought about creativity in the West for a really long time.
And then the Renaissance came and everything changed, and we had this big idea, and the big idea was let's put the individual human being at the center of the universe above all gods and mysteries, and there's no more room for mystical creatures who take dictation from the divine. And it's the beginning of rational humanism, and people started to believe that creativity came completely from the self of the individual. And for the first time in history, you start to hear people referring to this or that artist as being a genius rather than having a genius.
And I got to tell you, I think that was a huge error. You know, I think that allowing somebody,one mere person to believe that he or she is like, the vessel, you know, like the font and the essence and the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile, human psyche. It's like asking somebody to swallow the sun. It just completely warps and distorts egos, and it creates all these unmanageable expectations about performance. And I think the pressure of that has been killing off our artists for the last 500 years.
And, if this is true, and I think it is true, the question becomes, what now? Can we do this differently? Maybe go back to some more ancient understanding about the relationship between humans and the creative mystery. Maybe not. Maybe we can't just erase 500 years of rational humanistic thought in one 18 minute speech. And there's probably people in this audience who would raise really legitimate scientific suspicions about the notion of, basically fairies who follow people around rubbing fairy juice on their projects and stuff. I'm not, probably, going to bring you all along with me on this.
But the question that I kind of want to pose is -- you know, why not? Why not think about it this way? Because it makes as much sense as anything else I have ever heard in terms of explaining the utter maddening capriciousness of the creative process. A process which, as anybody who has ever tried to make something -- which is to say basically everyone here -- - knows does not always behave rationally. And, in fact, can sometimes feel downright paranormal.
I had this encounter recently where I met the extraordinary American poet Ruth Stone, who's now in her 90s, but she's been a poet her entire life and she told me that when she was growing up in rural Virginia, she would be out working in the fields, and she said she would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape. And she said it was like a thunderous train of air. And it would come barreling down at her over the landscape. And she felt it coming, because it would shake the earth under her feet. She knew that she had only one thing to do at that point, and that was to, in her words, "run like hell." And she would run like hell to the house and she would be getting chased by this poem, and the whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper and a pencil fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. And other times she wouldn't be fast enough, so she'd be running and running and running, and she wouldn't get to the house and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it and she said it would continue on across the landscape, looking, as she put it "for another poet." And then there were these times -- this is the piece I never forgot -- she said that there were moments where she would almost miss it, right? So, she's running to the house and she's looking for the paper and the poem passes through her, and she grabs a pencil just as it's going through her, and then she said, it was like she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it. She would catch the poem by its tail, and she would pull it backwards into her body as she was transcribing on the page. And in these instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact but backwards, from the last word to the first. (Laughter)
That's not at all what my creative process is -- I'm not the pipeline! I'm a mule, and the way that I have to work is that I have to get up at the same time every day, and sweat and labor and barrel through it really awkwardly. But even I, in my mulishness, even I have brushed up against that thing, at times. And I would imagine that a lot of you have too. You know, even I have had work or ideas come through me from a source that I honestly can not identify. And what is that thing? And how are we to relate to it in a way that will not make us lose our minds, but, in fact, might actually keep us sane?
And for me, the best contemporary example that I have of how to do that is the musician Tom Waits, who I got to interview several years ago on a magazine assignment. And we were talking about this, and you know, Tom, for most of his life he was pretty much the embodiment of the tormented contemporary modern artist, trying to control and manage and dominate these sort of uncontrollable creative impulses that were totally internalized.
But then he got older, he got calmer, and one day he was driving down the freeway in Los Angeles he told me, and this is when it all changed for him. And he's speeding along, and all of a sudden he hears this little fragment of melody, that comes into his head as inspiration often comes, elusive and tantalizing, and he wants it, you know, it's gorgeous, and he longs for it, but he has no way to get it. He doesn't have a piece of paper, he doesn't have a pencil, he doesn't have a tape recorder.
So he starts to feel all of that old anxiety start to rise in him like, "I'm going to lose this thing, and then I'm going to be haunted by this song forever. I'm not good enough, and I can't do it." And instead of panicking, he just stopped. He just stopped that whole mental process and he did something completely novel. He just looked up at the sky, and he said, "Excuse me, can you not see that I'm driving?" (Laughter) "Do I look like I can write down a song right now? If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment when I can take care of you. Otherwise, go bother somebody else today. Go bother Leonard Cohen."
And his whole work process changed after that. Not the work, the work was still oftentimes as dark as ever. But the process, and the heavy anxiety around it was released when he took the genie, the genius out of him where it was causing nothing but trouble, and released it kind of back where it came from, and realized that this didn't have to be this internalized, tormented thing. It could be this peculiar, wondrous, bizarre collaboration kind of conversation between Tom and the strange, external thing that was not quite Tom.
So when I heard that story it started to shift a little bit the way that I worked too, and it already saved me once. This idea, it saved me when I was in the middle of writing "Eat, Pray, Love," and I fell into one of those, sort of pits of despair that we all fall into when we're working on something and it's not coming and you start to think this is going to be a disaster, this is going to be the worst book ever written. Not just bad, but the worst book ever written. And I started to think I should just dump this project. But then I remembered Tom talking to the open air and I tried it. So I just lifted my face up from the manuscript and I directed my comments to an empty corner of the room. And I said aloud, "Listen you, thing, you and I both know that if this book isn't brilliant that is not entirely my fault, right? Because you can see that I am putting everything I have into this, I don't have any more than this. So if you want it to be better, then you've got to show up and do your part of the deal. O.K. But if you don't do that, you know what, the hell with it. I'm going to keep writing anyway because that's my job. And I would please like the record to reflect today that I showed up for my part of the job." (Laughter)
Because -- (Applause) in the end it's like this, O.K. -- centuries ago in the deserts of North Africa, people used to gather for these moonlight dances of sacred dance and music that would go on for hours and hours, until dawn. And they were always magnificent, because the dancers were professionals and they were terrific, right? But every once in a while, very rarely, something would happen, and one of these performers would actually become transcendent. And I know you know what I'm talking about, because I know you've all seen, at some point in your life, a performance like this. It was like time would stop, and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal and he wasn't doing anything different than he had ever done,1,000 nights before, but everything would align. And all of a sudden, he would no longer appear to be merely human. He would be lit from within, and lit from below and all lit up on fire with divinity.
And when this happened, back then, people knew it for what it was, you know, they called it by its name. They would put their hands together and they would start to chant, "Allah, Allah, Allah, God, God, God." That's God, you know. Curious historical footnote -- when the Moors invaded southern Spain, they took this custom with them and the pronunciation changed over the centuries from "Allah, Allah, Allah," to "Ole, ole, ole," which you still hear in bullfights and in flamenco dances. In Spain, when a performer has done something impossible and magic, "Allah, ole, ole, Allah, magnificent, bravo," incomprehensible, there it is -- a glimpse of God. Which is great, because we need that.
But, the tricky bit comes the next morning, for the dancer himself, when he wakes up and discovers that it's Tuesday at 11 a.m., and he's no longer a glimpse of God. He's just an aging mortal with really bad knees, and maybe he's never going to ascend to that height again. And maybe nobody will ever chant God's name again as he spins, and what is he then to do with the rest of his life? This is hard. This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make in a creative life. But maybe it doesn't have to be quite so full of anguish if you never happened to believe, in the first place, that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you. But maybe if you just believed that they were on loan to you from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you're finished, with somebody else. And, you know, if we think about it this way it starts to change everything.
This is how I've started to think, and this is certainly how I've been thinking in the last few months as I've been working on the book that will soon be published, as the dangerously, frighteningly over-anticipated follow up to my freakish success.
And what I have to, sort of keep telling myself when I get really psyched out about that, is, don't be afraid. Don't be daunted. Just do your job. Continue to show up for your piece of it, whatever that might be. If your job is to dance, do your dance. If the divine, cockeyed genius assigned to your case decides to let some sort of wonderment be glimpsed, for just one moment through your efforts, then "Ole!" And if not, do your dance anyhow. And "Ole!" to you, nonetheless. I believe this and I feel that we must teach it. "Ole!" to you, nonetheless, just for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up.
私は作家ですが― 書くことは 仕事以上のものです ずっと 情熱を注いできたし― 今後もそれは 変わりません と言いつつ 最近変わった体験をしました 公私にわたって… 仕事への姿勢を 考え直すことになりました 最近 回顧録を書き上げました 題名は― "食べ祈り愛する(Eat, Pray, Love)" 明らかに 今までの作品と違います どういうわけか 各国語に翻訳され― 話題を呼び 世界的ベストセラーになりました その結果として 今ではどこでも― 運が尽きたヒト扱いされます 本当に "もう終り" なんです みんな 心配顔でこう言います "あれを越えられなかったらと 不安では?" "不安にはならない? " "一生書き続けようと―" "注目される本が書けないって" "もう 二度と"
まあ 勇気づけられますこと もっとヒドい経験もあります 20年以上前 10代の頃 言ったのです 作家になりたい と 人々は今と同じ 不安顔でした "成功しなかったら?" "拒否される屈辱に耐えられる?" "一生 書き続けて―" "何も完成しなくて―" "口は 失敗の苦汁に満たされ―" "破れた夢の山なす残骸の上で のたれ死んでも?" (会場 笑) そんな感じでした
これらの答えは 端的には"イエス" です もちろん不安です 常に不安です 怖いものは山ほどあります 他人が分らないものも… 海藻など ゾッとします でも執筆に関しては― 最近 ずっと考え続けています 理にかなってるか と 天職だと思うことを― 恐れるのが当然と みなされるのが? クリエイティブの世界が 他と違うのは― 精神を気遣われる ということ 他の職業では あまりないでしょう? 父は 化学技術者でした 私の記憶では 40年勤めた間に― 仕事が不安か と訊いた人はいません "最近 化学技術スランプは大丈夫?" ありえないでしょう? もっとも 化学技術者のほうは― 何世紀も 風評とは無縁です "躁うつの飲んだくれ" という風評とは… (会場 笑)
作家には つきものです いえ 全クリエイティブ業界で… 精神不安定で 知られているし― 無残な死者の数を見ても 明らかです 20世紀だけで 偉大な創作者たちが― どれだけ 早世し自殺しているか 実際の自殺でなく― 自分の才能に殺された人もいます ノーマン メイラーは生前 言いました "作品が ジワジワと私を殺す" ライフワークに対し 尋常ではない考え方ですが― 誰も驚かないでしょう 長年 聞き慣れた話ですから 当然のことと 捉えられています 創造に苦悩はつきものであり― 芸術性は 必ず最終的に苦痛をもたらすと…
今日の提起は ここです これで いいと思います? 変だと思いません? よく考えてみても…? 私には 引っかかります 忌まわしいし― 危険な発想でしょう 次世紀に残してほしくない むしろ生き続けるよう 励ますべきでは?
自分の状況から見ても 分かります あの暗い前提を 受け入れるのは― 危険でしょう ことに私の― 今の状況を 考えるなら… つまり… この通り― まだ若く 40そこそこ 仕事も あと40年続けるかもしれない 今から先 書き上げるものは間違いなく― この前出版した本と 比較されるんです 信じられないぐらい売れたあの本と… ここだけの話 率直に言うと― 今後 代表作を書ける見込みは低いんです ああ なんてこと! こんな風に考えて 人は― 朝9時からジンを飲むようになるんです それは ごめんです (会場 笑) 好きな仕事を続けたい
そこで考えます "どうやって?" 振り返って じっくり考えました 書き続けるために なすべきことは― 心理的に守れるものを作ることだろう と 安全な距離を 保てるようになること 作家としての私と 未来の作品の評価を― 心配する私の間に… 昨年中 手本を探し続けました 歴史も さかのぼり― 様々な社会も 探りました より良く まっとうな見解はないかと 創作者を助け 創作につきものの― 精神的リスクを管理できないか…
古代ギリシャとローマにありました ついて来て下さい じき戻りますから 古代のギリシャとローマでは― 信じられていませんでした 人間に創造性が備わっているとは… 創造性は 人に付き添う精霊で― 遠く未知のところから来たのです 人間の理解を超えた動機から… 古代ギリシャ人は 精霊を"ダイモン"と呼びました ソクラテスは ダイモンがついていると信じていた 遠くから叡智を語ってきたと… ローマ人も同様でしたが― 肉体のない創造の霊を"ジーニアス" と呼びました 彼らは "ジーニアス(天才)" を― 能力の秀でた個人とは 考えなかった あの精霊のことだと 考えていました アトリエの壁の中に生き― ハリーポッターの妖精ドビーのように… 創作活動をこっそり手伝い― 作品を形作るんです
素晴らしい! 先ほど話した"距離"が存在します 作品の評価から 心理的に守られるものが… そういうものだと 人々は信じていました 古代のアーティストは 守られていたのです たとえば 過剰な自惚れから どんなに立派な作品でも 自分だけの功績ではない 霊が助けたと 知られていたからです 失敗しても 自分だけのせいじゃない "ジーニアス" が ダメだったんです この考えは 長らく西洋に浸透していましたが―
ルネッサンスが全てを変えました とてつもない考えが現れた 世界の中心に 人間を置こうではないかと 全ての神と神秘の上に… 神の言葉を伝える謎の生き物は 消えた… 合理的人文主義の 誕生です 人々も信じ始めました 創造性は 個人の内から現れるのだと 史上初めて― 芸術家が "ジーニアス" と呼ばれるようになりました "ジーニアス" が側にいるのではない
これは大きな間違いですよ たった一人の人間を― 男でも女でも 一人の人を― 神聖で創造的な謎の― 本質で源だと 信じさせるなんて 繊細な人間の心には 少し重荷では? 太陽を飲めと 言うようなものです 歪んだエゴでしょう それが 作品への過剰な期待を作り― その期待へのプレッシャーが― 過去500年 芸術家たちを殺してきたんです
もしこれが事実なら― 事実だと思いますが― 問題は 今後です 他に道は ないでしょうか? 創造性の謎と 上手に付き合うには― 昔の考え方に ならえばいい? 恐らく無理でしょう 500年に及ぶ 合理的人文思想を消すのは… 18分のスピーチでは ね 恐らく この会場にも― 科学的な正当性を 疑う人がいるでしょう 妖精というアイデアに… 彼らが 作品に甘い蜜をかけるなんて? 深入りは しませんが―
提起したいのは ここです "いいじゃない?" "何がいけない?" と 今まで聞いたどの話より 納得いきます 創作過程の 意味不明な気まぐれが― 説明できます 何か創ろうとした人なら分かる― つまり皆さん ご存知のあの― 非合理な過程です ときに超常現象とさえ感じられる…
最近 非凡な詩人 ルース ストーンに会いました 90を超えても現役の詩人です 彼女はバージニアの田舎で育ち― 畑仕事をしていた時に― 詩の到来を 感じたそうです 大地の彼方から やってくるのを… ものすごい一群の風のようなものが― 大地を越えて突進してくるのを― 地面の振動を感じて 察したそうです なすべきことは ただ一つ "がむしゃらに走る" こと がむしゃらに家へ走り― 詩に追われながら― 素早く 紙と鉛筆を手に取り― 詩が 身体を通り抜ける時に― つかまえ 書き留める 間に合わない時もありました 走って走って… 間に合わず― 身体から素早く 抜けてしまった 彼女によると "恐らくそのまま― 次の詩人を探しに行った" と 別の機会には― これは秀逸ですが― 逃がしそうな時が ありました 必死で走り 紙を探し― 詩が身体を通り― 抜けようとした瞬間 鉛筆をつかみ― もう一方の手を伸ばし― 捕まえたそうです 詩の 尻尾をつかみ― 身体の中に 尻尾の方から取り込み― 書き写していったんです 詩は完璧に出来ましたが― 全て 逆さまでした (会場 笑)
それを聞いて思ったんです "まさか"と 私のやり方とソックリだったので (会場 笑)
身体を通る部分じゃないですよ! 私は頑固なので 仕事は― 毎朝 同じ時間に起き― 苦心してコツコツ書いています そんな私でも― 出合う瞬間があります 皆さんも経験あるでしょう アイデアが降りてくるんです どこからともなく これは一体? 取り乱さずに どう対処しましょう? 正気を保ちながら?
対処法の現代における お手本は― ミュージシャンの トム ウェイツです 数年前 雑誌の取材で会い― この話をしました 彼の人生は 典型的な― 苦悩する現代アーティストでした 扱いにくい創作の衝動を― 制しようと苦心していました 内面の衝動を…
歳をとり 穏やかになり― ある日 L.A.のフリーウェイを走っていて― 全てが変わりました 飛ばしていたら 突然― 頭に 曲の断片が聴こえてきた とらえ難くもどかしい 閃きとして… たまりません 素晴らしくて― 待ち望んだ瞬間なのに― 紙も鉛筆もないんです テープレコーダーもない
いつもの焦燥に 駆られました "これを逃して―" "一生悩まされる" "俺はダメだ 無理だ" 慌てる代わりに 止めました 思考回路を止め― 斬新な行動に出ました 空を見上げ― "なあ 運転してるのが分からないのか?" (会場 笑) "今 曲が書けるとでも?" "書いてもらいたきゃ 出直して来いよ" "面倒見てやれる時に" "でなけりゃ 他所をあたってくれ" "レナード コーエンにでも"
以降 作曲の姿勢が変わったそうです 作風は変わりないですが― 作曲の姿勢と それに伴う不安は― "ジーニアス"を出したら 消えたのです 問題の元を 本来の場所に返し― 葛藤しなくても良いと 気付きました 奇妙で一風変わった 共同作業です 彼と 変わった外部のモノとの対話… 別モノとの対話です
この話を聞いて 私も少し― 仕事の姿勢を変え 助かったんです あのベストセラーを執筆中― 絶望に陥ったとき― 頑張っても 上手く行かず― 悲惨な結末を考え始めました 最悪になるわ と 悪いどころか史上最悪! 葬ろうかと思い始めた時に― トムの話を思い出し― やってみました 原稿から顔を上げ― 部屋の片隅に話しかけたんです "ちょっと" と声に出して "仮に この本がイマイチでも―" "私一人の責任じゃないわよね?" "全力投球なのは分かるでしょ?" "これ以上は無理" "良くしたければ 役目を果たして" "その気がないなら いいわよ" "私は自分の役目を果たすだけ" "しっかり書いておいてね" "私は やることやったって" (会場 笑)
だって― (会場 拍手) ご覧の通りじゃないですか? 昔 北アフリカの砂漠では― 月夜に 踊りと歌の祭典がありました 明け方まで何時間も 見事なものです プロの踊り手は― 素晴らしいです たまに ごくまれに― 踊り手が 一線を越えることがある 何の話か お分かりですよね そんな場面に出合ったことありません? まるで時が止まり― 踊り手が ある境界を抜ける… いつもの踊りと 変わらないはずなのに― すべてが符合し― 突然 人間には見えなくなる 内から足元から輝き― 神々しく燃え上がるんです
当時の人々は そんな時― 何が起きたか察し その名を呼びます 両手を合わせて 唱え始めます "アラー アラー 神よ 神よ" "あれは神だ" と 歴史の本によると― ムーア人は南スペイン侵攻時 その慣習も持ち込みました 長年かけて発音も変わり― "アラー アラー" から "オレー オレー" へ… 今でも闘牛とフラメンコで耳にします スペインでは 演者の驚異的な動きに― "アラー オレー" "すごい! ブラボー!" 神を垣間見るんです 素晴らしい まさにこれです
ただし厄介なのは 翌朝です 踊り手が目覚めると― 火曜の朝11時で もう神はいません 膝の悪い老いた人間が一人… 恐らく あの高みに再び上ることも― 回転しても 神の名を呼ぶ人もない… 残りの人生は? つらいことです 最も辛い現実です 創造的な人生上で… いえ そこまで酷くないかも… もし初めから 非凡な才能が自分に― 備わっていたと 信じなければ… その力が借り物だと 思い― 謎の源から 人生に添えられ― 終えたら 他へ行くものと思えば… そう考えれば 全て変わります
私も そう考え始め― この数ヶ月 考え続けてきました もうすぐ出る本を 書いている間に… 危険なほど期待された最新作― 異常な成功の 次の作品です
自分に言い聞かせ続けました のまれそうになった時に― 恐れない ひるまない やることをやるだけ 結果を気にせず 続けよ と 踊るのが仕事なら 踊るだけ 気まぐれな精霊が 割り当てられ― あなたの努力に対し 一瞬でも奇跡を― 見せてくれたら… "オレー!" 見せてくれずとも踊るだけ それでも 自分に"オレー" と そう信じますし 広めませんか それでも"オレー" と 真の人間愛と 不屈の精神を― 持ち続けることに対し…
有難うございました (会場 拍手) ありがとう (会場 拍手)
"オレー!" (会場 拍手)
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