NORMAN MANEA
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past. It is not accidental that in 1982, after I publicly protested against the
nationalist policy of the communist authorities I was called by the official
press "anti-Party," "cosmopolitan," "extra-territorial," as it is not accidental
that ten years later, in 1992, after I published a text about the nationalism
of the Romanian cultural elite, the press campaign in the new democratic
and less democratic newspapers was even more extensive and more color–
ful,
calling me "traitor," "the dwarf from Jerusalem," "a moth, hiding in
distant exile."
"The loneliness of the poet-what is the loneliness of the poet?" was
a question that a group ofJewish Romanian writers fond of aphorisms and
wordplay amused themeselves with in the first postwar period.
"A circus routine that hasn't been anounced." That was the answer
given then, half a century ago, by the young poet Paul Celan, before he
went into exile in the West.
In the world-circus the poet looks like an Auguste the Fool ill–
equipped for everyday life in which his fellow men offer and receive their
share of edible reality. He seems a bizarre bungler who dreams of other
rules, other evaluations and rewards. And yet he often demonstrates a deep
knowledge of his fellow citizens, from whom he takes and to whom he
returns a kind of magic that is as calculated as it is spontaneous. His weak–
ness may be seen, therefore, as an unconventional and devious strength, his
solitude as a deeper kind of solidarity, his imagination as a shortcut to
reality.
Inevitably, in the bright public arena, Auguste the Fool faces, finally,
the Clown of Power. All human tragicomedy may be seen, occasionally, in
this encounter, in the history of Circus as History.
An artist who has lived under tyranny (and even one who hasn't) can–
not ignore the barrier that separates the two roles.
We considered, over there, and still consider, even over here, that a
name inscribed in a book is perhaps man's supreme attempt at
solidarity
with his fellow man, in defiance of mortality. We believed that the world
of literature represents at the same time the miraculous conversion of
soli–
tary
suffering and hopes. And yet, we also struggled to overcome the
impasse between
solitude
and
solidarity.
There are times when even the most solitary men of letters are oblig–
ed to overcome their scepticism, to accept the risk of rhetoric. Not only
Emile Zola did it. There were in our century many extreme situations
when writers rose above terror, broke with opportunistic local habits, set
aside their innate distrust of rhetoric, and declared a clear opposition
