Anioł przy moim stole – historia Janet Frame /An Angel at My Table – story Janet Frame


Gdyby nie Ana pewnie nigdy nie przeczytałabym jej książek  i nie obejrzałabym filmu : „Anioł przy moim stole”.

Thank you Ana!!!

Janet Frame była delikatną, ciepłą, uprzejmą i pełną humoru kobietą. Ale była też odludkiem i trudno się dziwić analizując jej życie. Byłam wzruszona czytając jej powieść autobiograficzną – „ Na wyspę teraz/ To the Is-Land, 1983. 

 „Reading Janet Frame’s novels and poetry is to take a journey into what it means to be human.”

Janet-Frame

She could laugh and talk and express opinions without being ridiculed; and there she was writing poems in a small notebook and reading them to the other patients who were impressed with her talent. … What had we done to her, each of us, day after day, year after year, that we had washed away her evidence of self.   (Angel 105)

Myślę od jakiegoś czasu, ale dziś bardziej, także po przeczytaniu biografii Janet Frame – “kiedy tak naprawdę zaczynamy uchodzić w oczach innych za szaleńców…?” Nie rozumiem dlaczego  jedna z najdoskonalszych pisarek nowozelandzkich spędziła swoja młodość ( 8 lat) w szpitalach psychiatrycznych z rzekomo zdiagnozowaną schizofrenią. Pisarka  przeszła setki elektrowstrząsów,  zaplanowano także lobotomię; Na kilka dni przed usunięciem części jej mózgu  otrzymała prestiżową nagrodę literacką , która przekonała, administrację szpitala, aby anulować operację. Przeczytałam jej książki, są pełne ciepła, dziecięcych niepokojów, wzruszeń, słabości, a potem lęków, bo zaczyna dokuczać jej dojmujące uczucie, że jest nieco inna, że nie nosi tych samych sukienek, nie czyta tych samych książek co inni rówieśnicy, nie wie, że podpasek nie chowa się do szuflady. Opowiada o swoich bliskich ciepło, z dużą doza humoru, autoironii. Pisze też o smutku i rozpaczy po stracie bliskich, ale inaczej niż dzieje się to zwykle w naszych sercach. Ze smutkiem przyjmowałam fakt nie akceptacji jej osoby z powodu burzy rudych włosów i skromnych, wytartych ze starości ubrań.
“Anioł przy moim stole “ oparty na powieści J. Frame, był jednym z  najpiękniejszych filmów jakie widziałam. 

Divisions of the kind were fashionable at that time, and it was so easy to stifle one’s need to help by deciding that help could neither be accepted nor understood.
J. Frame

‘They think I’m going to be a schoolteacher but I’m going to be a poet’
J. Frame

I walk to the foreshore of Waimaru where the sea will creep into the sleep of people and flow round and round in their head, eating out caverns where it echoes and surges till the people become eroded with the green moth and all cry inside themselves. Help, Help.

(Owls, p.19) J. Frame

Gorąco polecam:

I’M NEVER GOING TO WRITE ANOTHER STORY.

I don’t like writing stories. I don’t like putting he said she said he did she did, and telling about people, the small dark woman who coughs into a silk handkerchief and says excuse me would you like another soda cracker Mary, and the men with grease all over their clothes and lunch tins in their hands, the Hillside men who get into the tram at four forty-five, and hang on to the straps so the ladies can sit down comfortably, and stare out of the window and you never know what they’re thinking, perhaps about their sons in Standard two, who are going to work at Hillside when it’s time for them to leave school, and that’s called work and earning a living, well I’m not going to write any more stories like that. I’m not going to write about the snow and the curly chrysanthemums peeping out of the snow and the women saying how lovely every cloud has a silver lining, and I’m not going to write about my grandmother sitting in a black dress at the back door and having her photo taken with Dad because he loved her best and Uncle Charlie broke her heart because he drank beer. I’m never going to write another story after this one. This is my last story.

I’m not going to write about the woman upstairs and the little girl who bangs her head against the wall and can’t talk yet though she’s five you would think she’d have started by now, and I’m not going to write about Harry who’s got a copy of We Were the Rats under his pillow and I suppose that’s called experience of Life.

And about George Street and Princes Street and the trams up to twelve. I’m not going to write about my family and the house where I live when I’m in Oamaru, the queerest little house I’ve ever seen, with trees all round it oaks and willows and silver birches and apple trees that are like a fairy-tale in October, and ducks waggling their legs in the air, and swamp hens in evening dress, navy blue with red at the neck, nice and boogie-woogie, and cats that have kittens without being ethical.

And my sister who’s in the sixth form at school and talks about a Brave New World and Aldous Huxley and DH Lawrence, and asks me is it love it must be love because when we were standing on the bridge he said. He said, she said, I’m not going to write any more stories about that. I’m not going to write any more about the rest of my family, my other sister who teaches and doesn’t like teaching though why on earth if you don’t like it they say.

That’s Isabel, and when it’s raining hard outside and I think of forty days and forty nights and an ark being built, when it’s dark outside and the rain is tangled up in the trees, Isabel comes up to me, and her eyes are so sad what about the fowls, the fowls I can see them with their feathers dripping wet and perches are such cold places to sleep. My sister has a heart of gold, that’s how they express things like that.

Well I’m not going to do any more expressing.

This is my last story.

And I’m going to put three dots with my typewriter, impressively, and then I’m going to begin …

I think I must be frozen inside with no heart to speak of. I think I’ve got the wrong way of looking at Life.” 

Janet Frame