Antonio Porchia was an Italian poet. He was born in Conflenti (Italy) but, after the death of his father in 1900, moved to Argentina. He wrote a Spanish book entitled Voces ("Voices"), a book of aphorisms. It has since been translated into English (by W.S. Merwin), French, and German. A very influential, yet extremely succinct writer, he has been a cult author for a number of renowned figures of contemporary literature and thought such as Andr茅 Breton, Jorge Luis Borges, Roberto Juarroz and Henry Miller, amongst others. Some critics have paralleled his work to Japanese Haiku and found many similarities with a number of Zen schools of thought.
Serious reading is often driven by chance encounters. I encountered the name Antonione Porchia three times on three occasions from three different writers. The first was while reading an interview with the great Argentine poet Roberto Juarroz ( Famous for his 鈥淰ertical poetry鈥� , which I had reviewed here) . He says, 鈥業 keep a few admirations (Porchia, for Example, Rainer Maria Rilke and Vicente Huidobro)' . The second one was from an interview with WS Merwin where he voices his immense satisfaction in discovering and translating Antonio Porchia. The third one, which literally made the sale, was from Jorge Luis Borges, the only writer with whom I would have loved to have a photograph. So let me quote what Borges says about this fellow Argentine:
鈥淢axims run the risk of seeming like mere verbal equations: we are tempted to see in them the work of chance or a combinatorial art. But this is not the case for Novalis, La Rochefoucauld or Antonio Porchia. In each maxim, the reader feels the immediate presence of a man and his destiny. We never met in person. I first heard his name from the lips of Xul Solar, the visionary painter. It isn鈥檛 hard for me to imagine that they were great friends: neither of them could contradict me at present. But what I can say with certainty is that, through his 鈥淰oices鈥�, Antonio Porchia is today an intimate friend of mine, even if he doesn't know it.
"... In Porchia's aphorisms, the reader feels the immediate presence of man and his destiny. The aphorisms included in "Voices" lead much further than their written text. They are not an end but a beginning. They don't strive to create an impression. One can assume that the writer wrote them for himself, without knowing that that he was creating for others the image of a lonely man, who sees things with clarity and is conscious of the unique mystery of every moment."
Now a bit about this writer of poetic aphorisms. Porchia arrived in Argentina from Italy in 1902 and remained a humble immigrant all his life, working at the docks, weaving baskets and making prints. Porchia wrote and rewrote one book throughout his life and that is Voices (That speaks about quality than quantity).
I am overwhelmed by the sheer poetic power and simmering wisdom contained in this little tome. There are many great books that slowly fall into that black hole called oblivion and so let me salute the poet WS Merwin for doing yeoman service of translating Voices for the English readers.
Voices falls in the borderline between Prose and Poetry enshrining a vision that illuminates the world. Reading this slim volume of 128 pages (count half of that for English readers as it is bilingual) . It appears to me that Porsche contracted his solitude, sufferings, sentiments and sapience into this mini magnum opus. Let me discuss some of my favourites here.
鈥淚 know what I have given you. I do not know what you have received鈥�
What a revelatory thought! It instantly invites us to think about every kind of giving-intellectual, emotional or material. Whatever received is received in a way that suits the needs of the recipient. Perhaps at a much deeper level it speaks about the misunderstandings in love, communication and relationships.
鈥淭here are sufferings that have lost their memory and do not remember why they are suffering鈥�
This one is really introspective. Ask a mother in Palestine, Syria or Ukraine who is frozenly inured to sufferings and you know the spiritual depth of it. And indeed many of the aphorisms read like fragments of a spiritual book, like that Marcus Aurelius鈥� Meditations or works of St. Thomas.
"Following straight lines shortens distances, and also life"
This I thought is an excellent critique of the narrowness of linear thinking and vision .
Here are some more for your thoughts and discussions:
"Sometimes, at night, I turn on a light so as not to see."
鈥淎 full heart has room for everything and an empty heart has room for nothing.鈥�
鈥淢y father, when he went, made my childhood a gift of a half a century.鈥�
鈥淵ou do not see the river of tears because it lacks one tear of your own鈥�
鈥淣othing that is complete breathes"
鈥淭he mystery brings peace to my eyes, not blindness.鈥�
鈥淲hen your suffering is a little greater than my suffering I feel that I am a little cruel.鈥�
鈥淎 new pain enters and the old pains of the household receive it with their silence, not with their death.鈥�
鈥淚f those who owe us nothing gave us nothing, how poor we would be鈥�
鈥淢y neighbour鈥檚 poverty make me feel poor; my own doesn't.鈥�
鈥淎 little candor never leaves me, it is what protects me.鈥�
鈥淚 saw a dead man. And I was little, little, little . . . My God, what a great thing a dead man is!鈥�
鈥淗e who holds me by a thread is not strong; the thread is strong.鈥�
鈥淢y poverty is not complete; it lacks me.鈥�
鈥淓verything is a little bit of darkness, even the light.鈥�
鈥淗e who does not fill his world with phantoms remains alone.鈥�
鈥淥ne lives in the hope of becoming a memory.鈥�
Each of the above aphorisms feeds on silence and possesses a meditative quality. Unlike the 鈥淢axims鈥� of La Rochefoucauld , Proche鈥檚 aphorisms are free of acidity, cynicism and social foibles. His passionate thoughts almost stretch to the eternal and expose us to the infinite. These aphorisms are certainly bound to churn our conscience. His Zen-like wisdom, spiritual leapings like those of Blake and concerns like those of modern writers like Kafka or Camus seem to have originated in the soil of his wisdom and unadulterated thinking. It appears that his suffering, pain and solitude acted as a crucible to distill these noble thoughts of universal worth.
It is astonishing that this man who gardened on a small plot of his experience succeeded in harvesting extraordinary fruits from it for humanity to feed on for centuries. His Voices will continue to echo forever in any reader. While this book can be read in two hours, I plan to keep reading it for a lifetime.
鈥濭lasovi鈥� su sve 拧to je Porkija napisao. To su sna啪ni, krhki, nestalni i obuzimaju膰e misaoni zapisi od naj膷e拧膰e jedne re膷enice, idealni za 膷itanje pred san, kao sekularni molitvenik. U svakom smislu, 啪ivotna knjiga: esencija prelepih i naizgled urednih nemira, koji idu pod ko啪u.
Iako su 鈥濭lasovi鈥� nazivani zbirkom aforizama, epigrama, pa i poetske proze, 拧to u izvesnom smislu svakako jesu, Porkiji bi bli啪i bili zen koani ili fragmenti presokratovaca. Svaka veza sa Pesoovom 鈥濳njigom nespokoja鈥� je na mestu, s time 拧to je Porkija majstor svo膽enja ra膷una. On je ti拧i, jezgrovitiji, ali bez zagrcnutosti ili stiskanja zuba i predsedava va啪nom vi拧eglasju govora stvari. Bol, se膰anje, ja/svet, ti拧ina i, prisustvo odsustva i odsustvo prisustva pod lasoom metafizike. Nema sistema i ne treba da ga bude. Ima beskraja ose膰aja i svetlucavih misli.
U prvom susretu sa nekim od zapisa, 膷inilo mi se da su ravni, nagla拧eno pou膷itelni, ve膰 vi膽eni, i 膷ak nepodsticajni. Ipak, vra膰anje otklju膷ava sve i divno nagra膽uje. Nije 膷udo 拧to je Porkija bio toliko va啪an svom argentinskom sunarodniku Borhesu. A i ne samo njemu.
膶itao sam izdanje KOV-a, u prevodu Tanje Malenice.
Izbor:
Kad verujem da je kamen kamen, a oblak oblak, dolazim u stanje nesvestice.
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Da, postoje milioni zvezda. A milioni zvezda su dva oka koja vas gledaju.
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Razlog se gubi obrazlaganjem.
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Kada je sve u膷injeno, jutra su tu啪na.
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Kada se ne voli nemogu膰e, onda se ne voli.
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Ponekad sanjam da sam budan. Tako sanjam san mog sna.
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Da ne bih varao, nije mi dosta da ne varam.
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Sunce je spolja拧njost svih no膰i i svih hladno膰a.
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Kako neobi膷no sve izgleda kada mi se 膷ini da je sve bez mene!
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Da, uvek patim, ali samo u nekim momentima; jer samo u nekim momentima mislim da uvek patim.
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Sve moje misli su samo jedna misao, jer nikada ne prestajem da razmi拧ljam.
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Ako je ono 拧to prona膽e拧 uvek onoliko koliko tra啪i拧, uzalud pronalazi拧, uzalud tra啪i拧.
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Biti neko zna膷i biti neko ko je sam. Biti neko jeste samo膰a.
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Sve 拧to postoji nije sve. Jer sam ja mogao da i ne postojim. Ko zna koliko jo拧 toga je moglo da ne postoji? Mo啪da sve.
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Kamen koji uzmem u svoje ruke upija malo moje krvi i otkucaja. [Apropo ove re膷enice 鈥� kakva se divna mogu膰a paralela pojavila sa Andri膰em! Valja se setiti ne samo 鈥濵osta na 沤epi鈥� nego i, naravno, 鈥瀂nakova pored puta鈥�. Kod Andri膰a 啪ivot stvari ima jednu posebnu uzbudljivost, vrlo srodnu Porkiji.]
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Kada neko shvati da je dete svojih uverenja, on gubi svoja uverenja.
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Da li su jednom, u nekoj ve膷nosti, stvari bile stvari, a ne se膰anja na njih?
丕毓鬲賯丿鬲 賮賷 丕賱亘丿丕賷丞 丕賳 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 爻賷卅丞 賮賱噩丕鬲 賱賱鬲乇噩賲丞 丕賱賮乇賳爻賷丞 賵 賱賰賳 賳賮爻 丕賱卮賷亍 賲孬賱 賴匕賴 丕賱卮匕乇丕鬲 乇亘賲丕 賰丕賳 賱賴丕 氐丿賶 爻丕亘賯丕 賱賰賵賳賴丕 卮賷亍 噩丿賷丿 賵 賲禺鬲賱賮 賮賷 丨賷賳賴丕 丕賲丕 賮賷 賵賯鬲賳丕 丕賱丨丕賱賷 賮賴匕丕 丕賱賳賵毓 賲賳 丕賱卮匕乇丕鬲 賳乇丕賴 賷賵賲賷丕 賮賷 賲賵丕賯毓 丕賱鬲賵丕氐賱 賵 丕賱噩賲賷毓 亘丕賲賰丕賳賴 賰鬲丕亘鬲賴丕 Tu ne vois pas le fleuve de pleurs parce qu'il lui manque une larme de toi Si je te donnais ma vie, que pourrais-tu me donner ?