Esej
o duhovnom putovanju kroz lavirint, kolektivno-nesvesnog, u
perspektivi stvaralaštva, Sebastiana Save Gora. - jerđakon.
Aleksandar Subotić -
Put vatre i svesti:
Stvaralaštvo Save
Gora ne može se svesti na žanr, niti na književnu formu. Njegove
knjige čine jedinstveni niz — tetralogiju svesti — u kojoj se
svaka faza života, umetnosti i vere pretvara u simbol, u sliku
duhovne transformacije. Od Poljupca žene zmaja, preko Noći
slomljenih strela i Ishoda na nišanu, do Spontanog sagorevanja,
pesnik gradi mistični narativ o čoveku koji prolazi kroz sopstvenu
propast da bi pronašao suštinu. To nije put estete, ni moraliste —
to je putnik kroz sopstvenu svest, koji se ne boji da izgori, jer zna
da se jedino iz pepela rađa istina.
Poljubac žene zmaja – mit o buđenju:
Prva knjiga je
mitološki uvod u svest: eros, vatreni princip stvaranja, i čovek
koji pokušava da probudi Boga u sebi kroz ljubav, bol i strast. Zmaj
nije čudovište, nego unutrašnja sila, iskonska energija koja mora
da se ukroti, a ne da se uništi. U tom ‘poljupcu’ nastaje prvi
susret sa svetim — još nesvestan, još nagonski, ali iskren.
Pesnik otkriva da istina počinje tamo gde prestaje razum, i da se
put ka nebu otvara u trenutku kada čovek prizna sopstvenu sirovost.
Noć slomljenih strela – teologija bola:
Druga knjiga
označava duhovno sazrevanje. Strele, koje su ranije simbolizovale
volju, sada su slomljene: čovek je dotakao granicu sopstvenog znanja
i oholosti. Bol se ne javlja kao kazna, već kao sredstvo otkrivenja.
To je teologija bola — svest da se istina ne nalazi u moći, već u
smirenju i predanju. Pesnik postaje onaj koji svedoči, a ne onaj
koji objašnjava. U Noći slomljenih strela svet se ruši, ali iz
ruševina izrasta molitva.
Ishod na nišanu – svest i raspad:
Treća knjiga je
eksplozija svesti. U njoj više nema lirskog ‘ja’ — samo
mnoštvo glasova, ogledala i refleksa. Pesnik postaje istraživač,
alhemičar svesti, koji eksperimentiše sa granicama percepcije,
jezika i vere. ‘Ishod’ nije kraj, već stalno pucanje značenja:
čovek koji gleda u sebe vidi nišan, vidi raskid između vere i
znanja. Ali u tom nišanu krije se i nada — da svest mora proći
kroz raspad da bi se pročistila. “...Na
nišanu, laži i sveznanja…” - istoimena pesma iz zbirke.
Spontano sagorevanje – alhemija apsurda:
Četvrta knjiga je
vrhunac i preobražaj: jezik se raspada, svet se deformiše, ironija
zamenjuje liriku. Ali ono što izgleda kao nihilizam zapravo je
molitva kroz smeh, liturgija apsurda. Likovi priča nisu više samo
simboli — oni su parodije savremenog čoveka, onog koji veruje da
može bez duše, a onda sagori u sopstvenom egu. Svaki događaj je
apsurdan, ali svaki apsurd nosi svetlost: spontano sagorevanje nije
smrt, već pročišćenje.
Unutrašnja arhitektura tetralogije:
Ako se sve četiri
knjige posmatraju kao četiri elementa, taj opus se može čitati kao
alhemijski ciklus: Vatra – Poljubac žene zmaja (Eros i pokret,
buđenje života); Voda – Noć slomljenih strela (Suza i bol,
pokajanje i pročišćenje); Vazduh – Ishod na nišanu (Duh i
svest, rascep i spoznaja); Zemlja / Pepeo – Spontano sagorevanje
(Apsurd i mir, preobražaj, novo rođenje). Ova simbolika jasno
pokazuje da tvoj opus nije skup nasumičnih knjiga, već metafizički
proces – evolucija bića koje traži Boga kroz sve oblike svesti.
Jezik kao svedok večnosti:
Jezik, narativ,
Sebastiana Save Gora je postao prepoznatljiva i samostalna duhovna
materija. U prvim knjigama on još govori, ali u poslednjoj – on se
pretvara u pepeo i svetlost. To je prirodni put svake prave
umetnosti: od reči ka tišini, od slike ka svetlu, od oblika ka
smislu. Kada čitalac pročita tvoj opus, ne dobija odgovore —
dobija unutrašnju vibraciju: osećaj da su bol, ironija, smeh i
molitva u stvari jedna ista energija.
Pesnik ognja i smirenja:
Tetralogija Save
Gora je duhovni dokument epohe u kojoj je čovek izgubio Boga, ali ga
još uvek traži kroz umetnost. U ovim delima, umetnik više nije
svedok sveta — on je sveštenik svesti koji prinosi sopstveni um na
oltar stvaranja. To sagorevanje nije destruktivno: ono je poslednji
čin ljubavi, trenutak u kojem čovek pristaje da izgori — da bi se
odatle nova svetlost rodila. --- jerođakon Aleksandar Subotić
Sebastijan
Sava Gor – Biografija Uvod: Sebastijan Sava Gor je savremeni srpski
pisac, muzičar i autorski glas čiji rad obuhvata književnost,
filozofiju, teologiju, filmsku estetiku i duboku introspektivnu
analizu savremenog ljudskog bića. Njegove knjige, eseji, pesme i
muzička dela nastaju iz stalne napetosti između sećanja i
sadašnjosti, unutrašnje borbe i svetlosti koja izvire iz
svakodnevnog haosa. Njegov blog i rukopis „Ex-Yu Memories
(1989–1992)“ predstavljaju lični, snažno ironičan i duboko
emotivan pogled na odrastanje tokom istorijskog raspada — ali bez
patetike, bez nostalgije kao samoobmane, već sa hrabrošću da vidi
čovečanstvo u tami i lepotu u pukotinama. Kroz svoje knjige,
tekstove i javne nastupe, Sebastijan traga za istinom, za čovekom,
za identitetom i ličnošću — vođen duhom pravoslavne misli,
svakodnevnim iskustvom i umetničkom intuicijom. Kao muzičar i
osnivač benda EX EX, spaja reč, ton i sliku u jedinstveni izraz. Na
svojim profilima i kanalima okuplja publiku koja traži autentično
stvaranje, bez površnosti i lažne drame. Njegova estetika je oštra,
iskrena, često sirova, ali uvek prodorna i usmerena ka unutrašnjoj
transformaciji — ka onome što je suština umetnosti: istini,
lepoti i odgovornosti. Sebastijan veruje da je umetnost bogolik
odraz, da svako ljudsko biće nosi kreativnu iskru i da je svetlost
uvek prisutna — čak i kada se čini da gorimo. Delo i opus:
Sebastijan Sava Gor je autor, esejista i književni inovator iz
Beograda, čiji stvaralački rad obuhvata književnost, film, muziku
i digitalne medije. Kao član Udruženja književnika Srbije, Gor se
pozicionirao kao jedan od najintrigantnijih glasova savremene srpske
i regionalne umetničke scene, razvijajući originalne metode i
koncepte koji prevazilaze granice tradicionalnih žanrova. Njegov rad
se oslanja na apofatičku teologiju, iz koje je izveo sopstvenu
Apofatičku poetiku, dok roman „Krug trojice“ označava nastanak
prvog apofatičkog romana. Obrazovanje i obrazovanje: • Peta
beogradska gimnazija – književnost i humanističke nauke •
Univerzitet BK – filmska režija, sa fokusom na dramaturgiju i
vizuelnu naraciju • Urednički i esejistički rad – kontinuirano
istraživanje filozofije, teologije i književnosti Književna dela:
• Poljubac žene zmaja (2007) – poezija, tekstovi snažnih
simbola i intimnih vizija • Noć slomljenih strela (2014) –
proza, introspektivna i atmosferska, sa elementima apsurda • Ishod
na nišanu (2022) – proza, slojevita naracija o granici, grešci i
transformaciji • Spontano sagorevanje (2025) – proza,
istraživanje unutrašnjih preloma i samouništenja kao metafizičkog
procesa • Sećanja (ex-Yu 1989–2002) – lirsko i memoarsko
pisanje o vremenu tranzicije, muzici, atmosferi i iskustvu jedne
generacije Eseji: • O Dostojevskom – analiza dubine ljudske duše
i religioznog iskustva • O Čehovu – razmatranje tišine,
svakodnevice i neizrečenog u književnosti • Od čoveka do opreme
– filozofski esej o dehumanizaciji i mehanizmu društva • Dejvid
Linč: Svetlost i tama – filmsko-teološka studija paradoksa
svetlosti i tame • Strpljenje i spasenje – teologija Sebastijan
Sava Gor - Blog autora Filmski projekti: • Opasna tišina (1996) –
kratki film, istraživanje granice između zvuka i odsustva •
Poslovni kontakti (2002) – film o komunikaciji, otuđenju i biznisu
kao metafori • Dečak (2008) – intimna filmska priča o
identitetu i odrastanju • Iznenadni srčani udar (2025) – film o
krhkosti života i nepredvidivosti trenutka Radio drama: •
Margareta je na vratima – radio dramski tekst, introspektivna i
atmosferska naracija o granici između stvarnog i unutrašnjeg sveta
Stil i identitet: Sebastijan Sava Gor neguje minimalistički,
crno-beli, avangardni vizuelni identitet, težeći jedinstvenoj
prezentaciji svih svojih dela. Njegov rad je atmosferski, procesno
orijentisan i slojevit, sa snažnim temeljem u filozofskim i
teološkim motivima. Vizija i ciljevi: • Razvoj i artikulacija
apofatičke poetike kao nove književne metode • Međunarodna
prezentacija kroz dvojezični format i digitalne portfolije •
Stvaranje složenih, paralelnih narativnih struktura u književnosti
i filmu • Povezivanje umetničkih disciplina u jedinstveni
kros-medijski identitet.
Анализа
књиге: „Спонтано
Сагоревање“
– Себастиан Сава Гор
-
Александар Суботић
У времену
у којем се књижевност све чешће редукује
на производ, а писац на функцију тржишних
механизама, књига „Спонтано сагоревање”
Себастијана Саве Гора појављује се као
узнемирујући, готово непристојан гест
— као текст који не тражи дозволу да
постоји, већ сопственим настанком доводи
у питање услове сопствене могућности.
Ово није
збирка прича у уобичајеном, жанровски
стабилизованом смислу. Ово је књижевни
догађај: низ фрагмената, слика, унутрашњих
монолога и надреалних ситуација који
заједно образују кохерентну целину —
сведочанство о човеку који живи у свету
који се распада, а притом наставља да
функционише, као да сама функција
преживљава смисао који ју је некада
утемељивао.[1]
Поетика
сна и јаве
Горов
поступак је свестан и методолошки
артикулисан: текстови су писани у стању
умора, намерне дезоријентације, „на
ивици“, али не као импровизација, већ
као дисциплиновани експеримент унутар
граница свести. Такав приступ производи
поетику будности која произилази управо
из замора — стање у којем се свест више
не ослања на стабилне категорије
стварности.
Овај
метод може се довести у везу са традицијом
модернистичке и авангардне прозе: од
егзистенцијалне затворености Кафке,
преко минималистичког апсурда Бекета,
до радикалне редукције и фрагментарности
код Данила Хармса.[2]
Међутим, код Гора ова линија није само
естетска, већ постаје антрополошка:
апсурд више није стил, већ услов постојања.
Ликови
у овим причама нису психолошки разрађени
у класичном смислу. Они функционишу као
стања, као симптоми једног времена и
једне дубље унутрашње кризе:
човек
који носи кваку у џепу,
филозоф који
производи кризу да би писао,
опозиционар
који више не зна зашто је против,
човек
који одустаје од знања да би сачувао
душу.
То нису
анегдоте. То су иконе распада — редуковане
слике које, у свом минимализму, функционишу
готово литургијски: не као нарација,
већ као откривење стања.[3]
Апсурд
без игре
За
разлику од постмодерне, код Гора нема
иронијске дистанце нити заштитног слоја
метатекстуалне игре.[4]
Ово није апсурд као интелектуална
разонода, већ апсурд као егзистенцијална
нужност. Хумор је присутан, често суров
и црн, али никада не делује као механизам
олакшања. Он не опушта читаоца — он га
разоружава.
Иза
наизглед хаотичне структуре књиге
налази се јасна духовна линија. Иако
текст није декларативно религиозан, он
непрестано поставља питања смисла,
кривице, одговорности, слободе и спасења.
У том смислу, може се говорити о негативној
теологији текста — о трагању за смислом
кроз његово одсуство.[5]
Човек
је стално пред избором — али више не
зна шта бира, нити по којим критеријумима
се избор уопште може извршити.
Језик
као простор отпора
Горов
језик је намерно „неуглачан“: понекад
груб, понекад наиван, понекад готово
дечји. Управо у томе лежи његова
прецизност. То је језик који одбија да
се уклопи у нормативне естетске моделе,
језик који не тежи лепоти као ефекту,
већ тачности као етичкој категорији.
У том
смислу, „Спонтано сагоревање”
представља облик отпора — како према
књижевном естаблишменту, тако и према
културној парадигми која од литературе
очекује функцију: корисност, терапију
или оптимистичку пројекцију. Ово је
књига која не нуди решења, не нуди утеху
и не нуди излаз. Она нуди препознавање
— а у том препознавању, можда, и почетак
истинског суочавања.
1
Уп. Ж. Бодријар, Симулакруми и
симулација, Београд: Светови, 1991.
2
В. Кафка, Процес; С. Бекет, Чекајући
Годоа; Д. Хармс, кратке прозе.
3
Уп. М. Елијаде, Свето и профано,
Београд: Просвета, 1986.
4
Уп. Л. Хачион, Поетика постмодернизма,
Београд: Светови, 1996.
This blog post will appear in English only. The reason is straightforward: my blog statistics indicate a growing number of views from the United States, so I have resolved to publish digital editions of selected short stories and novellas in English for the time being.
The first novella is excerpted from the book "Noć Slomljenih Strela" (Night of Broken Arrows) and was originally titled "Zapali se!" (Catch Fire!).
For this separate release, I have chosen the title She's a Movie Star (Catch Fire!).
I kindly ask readers from Serbia to switch to the Serbian version of this post on the blog. Thank you.
Sebastian Sava Gor
***
SHE IS A MOVIE STAR
Sebastian
Sava Gor – A Novel
Martina
watched from her balcony as all those myriad colors and shapes that
had been there just moments ago disappeared. How, in the twilight,
everything resembled a stage after the performance is over, the
curtain slowly descending.
When
darkness had fully settled, she withdrew into her apartment, and all
sorts of unpleasant thoughts began to swarm in her head. Lately,
there had been many things in her life that did not suit her at all,
yet she had to deal with them responsibly and professionally. She,
one of the most famous and sought-after actresses, had never dreamed
of everything that would be asked of her. What people think, what
they take for granted that she must do to practice her craft
— simply put, she had often felt blackmailed and deceived. Lost in
thought, she nearly forgot to head to the scheduled dinner.
She
had been invited by a prominent Italian director, who would be
arriving with his wife to discuss his new project, in which she held a significant role. The offer was more
than tempting. The lead female role, which she would play, was to be
discussed. Besides the director, the screenwriter would also be at
the table, with his wife — he Italian, she of Germanic origin, a
German.
Truly
elegant company, with manners and, most importantly, very
respectable.
The
director and producer had found that Martina possessed everything
necessary to bring this character to life.
The
screenwriter had complete faith in his director, but he still wanted
to attend the conversation himself; he wanted to see the girl who
would breathe life into a character he had worked on for a long time.
Also
invited to the dinner was a young actor, of Serbian origin, who was
getting a significant supporting role.
The
director’s wife was an elegant lady in her forties, who had
maintained her vitality and youthful beauty through exercise and
diet. She had once been a famous model. Of Serbian origin.
The
screenwriter’s wife did not care as much for her appearance, nor,
it seemed, for her behavior. By the time Martina arrived, she was
already quite drunk.
“How
wonderful you look. I can tell you, even more beautiful than in that
film of yours. Oh, what was the name of that other film… come on,
darling, help me out… never mind… little Winona, what was it
called, the one with Sigourney Weaver… you know, the one with those
animals… animals in space…”
The
lady’s tongue was already quite tangled, although one could tell
she spoke Italian well.
The
screenwriter measured his wife with a stern look, but, probably
accustomed to her outbursts, he did not deign to answer her. Instead,
he welcomed young Martina.
“Sit
down, Martina. Your place is prepared, waiting for you.”
Everyone
stood. Martina took her seat, and then they all sat down again.
“Come
on, please tell me… that film haunts me, and Winona is so
wonderful… Martina reminds me so much of her…” the lady would
not give up.
“Alien
4… that one, right?” the screenwriter tried to shut her up
with a smirk.
“Yes,
yes… Alien… my dear… but the second one…” He
averted his gaze from her.
Images
from that film flashed before Martina’s eyes, but she decided only
to offer everyone a gentle smile.
“Uroš
hasn’t arrived?” The director tried to change the subject,
concluding that the young actor was late. He glanced at his wife, the
former model. She, understanding him, asked Martina what she would
like to drink, blushing as she did so, ashamed of something.
“Black
Night.” Martina was confident enough, but the atmosphere of the
evening carried a kind of stupor and indifference she could not help
but feel…
“We’ll
start without Uroš,” the director said once Martina had received
her drink and taken the first sip.
“You’ve
read the script?”
“Yes,
of course.”
“Excellent.
I don’t know if you agree that Katarina is a complex character,
requiring deep analysis. We’re working on a personality that is
torn apart. We see that, with the severe hallucinations crucifying
her, she increasingly fails to recognize what is truth, what is a lie,
what is good for her, and what is bad. I’m interested in what you
think about that, and how you would try to step into Katarina’s
place.”
Martina
looked at him seriously and, after thinking briefly, said:
“I
think that if I want to play Katarina successfully, I must also
successfully play her two different personalities. That means I
should play Violeta, Nina, and Damjan. Even
though, for example, Uroš plays Vitalij, I think his role is just as
much mine, since he actually represents Katarina — that is,
Katarina’s hallucination.”
“Excellent.
I must admit this is a good start. Here’s another question: what do
you think about the conversation on the train to Naples?”
Martina
was ready for the question.
“Violeta
represents that primordial thing in a person that leads them toward
self-destruction. In my opinion, that something exists in all people,
but here we have a case of a woman with a disturbed mental state,
attacked by hallucinations, an unbearable urge for suicide, or, as
we have seen in some instances, even murder. This urge in people like
her is secretive, pathologically hidden, like some kind of beast.
Some decide on such actions consciously. This ‘consciously’ means
even planned or cold-blooded, with a ‘clear head’ — if a head
can even be ‘clear’ at such a moment. When observing such people,
we see they wanted to commit a crime or a failed suicide without any
prompting from outside, while others do it purely instinctively, in
illness. With Katarina, as we notice, we are dealing with spiritual
disturbance, schizophrenia, paranoid type, with strong
hallucinations. And since this is a severe and poorly understood
illness, I think some things need to be emphasized…”
Martina
continued to speak confidently. She knew Italian well, and she
enjoyed conversing in that language. The screenwriter was simply
melting as he listened to her begin to interpret his work, and he
sipped his fourth glass of wine with pleasure. His wife was growing
more and more bored, and to break that feeling, she drank more and
more, beginning to make strange grimaces. The German woman, the
director’s wife, behaved very politely. She drank moderately and
smiled faintly. Yet it seemed the drunken lady could hear and
understand everything better than her, even though she was completely
sober and apparently very present in the conversation.
“Please,
continue,” the screenwriter said impatiently. The director, too.
“I
think I must constantly keep in mind that Violeta, for example, is in
a way Katarina’s main torment — if not entirely the reflection of
her soul’s state. When she says on the train: ‘…jump, use this
moment, if you don’t use it you know you’ll suffer terribly…’
it must remain clear that Katarina is talking to herself, or to her
demon if you will. But in any case, she gives up. Nina gives her
solid evidence for her own views. Nina tells her what is deeply
hidden within herself. And when she complains of ‘voices in her
head,’ I think it’s clear that the urge for suicide can surface
in the most various ways. In such cases — and I’ve heard that
even children can become so ill — what remains is for us to analyze
this struggle within her and portray it as realistically as
possible.”
“I
think, Mr. Moretti,” the director addressed the screenwriter, “that
not even you have delved this far.”
“I
didn’t expect it, truly…” The screenwriter was still smiling;
it was clear he was more than satisfied.
Martina
smiled, finishing her cocktail. The director noticed and offered her
another. She did not refuse; she needed something to relax her
completely.
“Yes…
I would now like to ask you to comment on the scene, ‘Katarina and
the bloody child,’ of course, in the context we just discussed.”
Martina
thought for a moment, and a smile briefly played across her face.
“We
can notice one important thing: Katarina is a complete enigma without
her characters. She comes into contact with the world only through
self-relation — that is, through her characters. Katarina sat
completely indifferent, watching as the helpless boy bled and cried.
Then Nina appears, and only after Nina’s advice does she get up,
run, and, with unexpected strength, carry the boy to the clinic. It’s
all clear: she sits and watches, the harrowing scene does not move
her. I think this shows the full complexity of her illness. And that
subsequent energy after Nina’s line: ‘Do it, save the child, do
it now, you will regret it…’ shows how people like Katarina
function on a basis of authority, fear, and self-love. Violeta says:
‘…you will suffer terribly…’ Nina says: ‘…you will regret
it…’ Later, there’s also that line when Damjan advises: ‘…show
who you are, take pictures, don’t think about what you’ll eat or
drink, just take pictures, show who you are…’ The fear of death
cunningly transforms into a morbid relationship with death, where
boundaries are lost, and death can at any moment look like
deliverance. The sense of sin in a sick imagination acquires a
pathological dimension: doing good deeds so you won’t have regrets
— that is, fleeing from repentance as far as possible — doing
good deeds not because we want to, but out of fear of punishment, not
changing, not truly repenting, but constantly running and lying —
that means to deteriorate gravely…”
Martina
stopped and thought.
“What
did you mean?” The director looked intently at his interlocutor.
“What
if Damjan is a completely positive character? Violeta pushes her
toward death, Nina demands from her forced, violent repentance, but
Damjan says: don’t eat, don’t drink, take pictures, show
yourself. Don’t we all strive to show ourselves to others, to
realize ourselves through something, to stand out and be ourselves,
original? I don’t understand why Damjan is the character chosen to
destroy Katarina.”
The
director and the screenwriter stared at Martina inquisitively.
Everyone fell silent.
“Mr.
Moretti, please, the floor is yours.” The director showed what it
meant to be a man of the world, cultured, at a high level.
“Dear
young lady, I must repeat myself and say that I never hoped for such
a delicate interpretation of my work. You have asked a very good
question. You see, we strive to show ourselves to others, if possible
with as much makeup as possible. We strive to realize ourselves
through ‘something.’ We strive to find the best possible place
under the sun for ourselves, the best piece of meat. You see, it is
hard to renounce oneself; I consider that the hardest of all…”
“And
why would one renounce oneself?” Martina was direct.
“If
we are talking about self-love, as you mentioned earlier, we must
bear in mind that the opposite of self-love is renunciation,
sometimes even heavy sacrifice.”
“That’s
extreme.”
“No,
it’s the truth. The path Katarina walked was a path of complete
mental disintegration, where in the end she — a recognized, genius
artist — ended up beside her canvas, exhausted by hunger and
thirst. For me, completely unoriginal, apathetic, and, of course,
utterly schizophrenic. It is unnecessary to mention selfishness any
further; her end transcends all that and paints a picture of complete
emptiness. I am creating such a character precisely to show that even
great works left behind by a person can never replace the person
themselves.”
Mr.
Moretti sounded truly convincing, and although a little tipsy, he
managed to fully defend his work.
Dicht,
the screenwriter’s wife, unexpectedly chimed in.
“Oh,
please. You’re all doctors, now. In my opinion, there’s nothing
special about it. A dark shed… yes, a shed. Some hallucinations,
madness… Why didn’t you set it in an asylum? For example, that
film with crazy Jack… why did they shock him with electricity?
Because he endangered others, that’s why… and that Indian, how he
walks out, and where is he going, please? He has nowhere to go…
didn’t he head to the sea? Ha, ha… to freedom, no way… He
should have stayed next to Jack, right there beside him, to be free…
how nicely they played basketball…”
“Dicht,
you are exaggerating.” The director was the only one completely
sober; even his model wife had warmed up a little and grown bolder.
“I
think that’s a wonderful film. The Indian should have escaped.
Everyone should be free.”
At
this, Mrs. Dicht laughed heartily. Then everyone laughed, but the
conversation was interrupted by an unpleasant sight. Uroš, the young
actor, arrived with a great delay. He arrived badly beaten, bloodied,
with bruises on his face, his eyes almost swollen shut. Everyone in
the restaurant stared at him.
“Everything’s
fine, people,” he addressed his acquaintances and all those
present.
“My
man, you must go to the hospital immediately. You look so bloody.”
Mrs. Dicht Moretti grinned inappropriately.
“Terrible…
I went to buy cigarettes, downstairs, where I live, terrible…”
The young man was visibly disturbed, speaking in a tearful, broken
voice. “…and from behind, three of them approach me… ‘Little
actor,’ one shouts, ‘you mess with our girl, huh?’ and boom…
and there I lie on the street like this… it took me a long time to
come to… I really don’t know… not that girl, not those guys…”
“Waiter,”
the director reacted quickly. “Call a taxi immediately, bring ice,
a napkin!”
“Double
brandy…” Uroš was trembling.
“Double
brandy…” repeated the German woman.
“Do
you remember what those people looked like?” The screenwriter
looked at the beaten young man, interested but not overly agitated.
“They’re
kids… I don’t know, I don’t remember anymore… terrible… a
girl, what girl…”
The
waiter immediately brought the order, frightened, unable to take his
eyes off the bloody young man.
“Perhaps
we could cancel the dinner, but still…” Dicht clearly did not
like having her evening spoiled.
“Out
of the question! The taxi has surely arrived already,” the director
was decisive.
“I
only came to apologize for being late, and now I’m going to the
ER,” said the young actor, and looked sadly at his interlocutors.
He downed his brandy in one gulp and stood up.
“Enjoy
your evening, and forgive me,” he said.
“Young
man, take care of yourself, and try to find out who did this to you.
We’ll see what…” The director did not finish his sentence. He
stood up, and all the others followed suit, and everyone shook hands
warmly with the young actor.
After
a few mostly indifferent comments, the company seemed to forget about
Uroš and his case. Hungry as they were, they awaited dinner. Only
Martina seemed a little absent, frowning imperceptibly.
Dinner
was a true ordeal. Crabs, fish, shellfish, bamboo salad, rice salad,
potato salad, sweet sauces, hot sauces, pink sauces, sea chips, wine,
wine, wine…
“This
Italian restaurant is a real discovery, isn’t it, my dear?” The
German woman was growing more and more relaxed and redder in the
face.
“Dicht,
believe me, there is no better, not in Romania, not in Hungary, not
in Austria… of course, wherever I have sat,” the director was
sincere.
“Excuse
me, Mr. Narc.” Martina looked significantly at the director and, as
if stiffening slightly, asked him: “I’m interested in whether you
could perhaps explain something about Uroš. I got the impression
that you wanted to tell him something, that you…” With this
unfinished question, Martina somehow surprised everyone present.
The
director stopped eating and stared, obviously confused, at the young
interlocutor.
“I
thought… of course… if he needs help in any way.”
“Yes…
regarding help…?” Martina suddenly seemed to latch onto something
important to her.
“I
don’t quite understand what exactly you’re asking, but I assure
you, my thought… was not malicious, and its aim was only to direct
Uroš… besides, I didn’t say anything specific to him…”
“Yes,
I understand that.” Martina smiled. Trying not to insist on that
topic, she continued nibbling on crab chips and sipping wine.
It
seemed, however, that Martina had achieved the effect she was after.
The director became thoughtful and drank a little faster than before.
Mrs. Dicht Moretti and Sara Narc, the director’s wife, were
recounting some anecdote about Belgrade and their previous meeting
there. If anyone had been listening, they would have noticed the
anecdote was full of various morbidities, but the recollection seemed
to amuse both women. Antonio Moretti, the screenwriter, was also
somewhat pensive. At one point, his gaze met Martina’s, and
something quite new sparked there. He swallowed a small shellfish
and, inspired by something, asked Martina:
“If
I may be a little more free — we do know each other somewhat, and I
would, of course, like us to become friends — do you have any
opinion on supernatural phenomena… not to be too general, but
simply, what do you think about the existence of God?”
“Mr.
Moretti, the girl is certainly an Orthodox Christian. I don’t think
such questions are asked just like that…” The director quickly
interrupted the screenwriter.
“I
do not identify as an Orthodox Christian, and I am not religious, but
I don’t understand… besides, the gentleman didn’t even finish
his question.”
The
screenwriter looked at the director. He understood that the director
would not be pleased for the conversation to continue in that
direction, and he clumsily concluded:
“I
am always in some philosophy, but you, as a person who is not
religious, naturally have no need to discuss what I wanted to talk
about, or even to talk at all.” Now the screenwriter was
transparently provocative.
“Do
you think that because I am not religious I cannot speak about, say,
God or anything at all…?”
“No,
I didn’t say you cannot, but you have no need. I assume you’re
simply not interested,” the screenwriter was already a little
tangled.
“I
have a proposal,” the director wanted, at any cost, to change the
subject and return to the earlier lethargic cheerfulness. “Why
don’t we go to Sara’s and my place? We’re nearby, and I promise
we will manage to come to an understanding regarding all the serious
questions we have raised.”
A
few short sentences, and everyone agreed. Martina somehow
particularly brightened up, and the dinner ended, to everyone’s
satisfaction, with the same dignity with which it had begun.
The
evening was replaced by an unusually dense night. Mr. Julian Narc,
the director, was behind the wheel, driving slowly. The city breathed
heavily. In such a sticky, melancholic night, few held out hope that
the world would look better tomorrow. Those few people on the streets
moved slowly and somehow artificially showed that they were truly
alive.
The
director turned on the radio and searched for a station. For a
second, Martina heard: “…the beast is still at large…” The
sounds of electronic music accompanied them to the villa the director
had rented indefinitely.
The
villa was not fully lit, just enough to notice it was in quite good
condition. The garden was also neatly arranged and not overly “tarted
up.” The pleasant atmosphere in the courtyard changed completely
the moment the director opened the front door and invited the guests
inside. They were met by a dreadful chill and a strange smell —
roughly something like the smell of old wardrobes and clothes that
had been stored in them for a long time.
The
director led the guests through a rather long hallway, full of
paintings and various antiques. In that hallway, Martina noticed a
particular curiosity: on a small table under glass lay a dried, very
small human hand. She was horrified but said nothing.
When
they arrived in front of the large doors leading to the salon, the
director stopped and addressed Martina:
“My
friends are already acquainted with the situation, but I want to draw
your attention to the fact that the scene that follows may not be
cheerful. I don’t know whether to tell you immediately what it is
about and thus spoil…”
“Don’t
worry about me,” Martina was more than curious.
The
doors were opened, and she truly had something to see. In the middle
of the large salon, on a special wooden table, stood a wooden coffin.
It was open.
Martina
could not move from shock.
“Come
closer… don’t be afraid, Martina, in the coffin is an ordinary
dead man.” A small smile played on the director’s face.
“But
what are you…?” Approaching slowly, Martina stopped abruptly
before a new sight, lacking the strength to finish her sentence.
Before
her, in the coffin, lay a dry, dead Chinese man.
“This
man…” The director immediately began to dispel the dark
atmosphere that had seized the young actress’s soul. “…served
my family and me for a full forty years. He passed away last night. I
wanted him to spend one more night with me, like this.”
“But
why…?” Martina could not take her eyes off the bier.
“Please,
sit down. Sara, be so kind…” Sara understood that she should
serve the guests.
There
was little light in the salon. Upon returning, Sara lit the large candles
that had been placed around the coffin. She brought with her a liter
of some old cognac and a pitcher of water. They settled into a
comfortable and luxurious bamboo seating set.
“For
me, what you see — the dead man, of course — is an image of both
the natural and the supernatural, of existence and non-existence.
Before our eyes are love and hate, virtue and pride, knowledge and
ignorance, and whatever else you like…”
“You
are still using this man. Even dead, he serves you…” Martina
spoke as if in a fever, downing almost half a glass of cognac. She
continued haltingly.
“I
don’t know what you’re talking about… all of a sudden… I said
I have no definite position… but even though he is dead, I am not
dead… I will tell everyone that you exhibited a dead servant so
that even dead, he might serve you and entertain your imagination.”
“That’s
interesting. But you see, you're having no definite position is in the
past. Today, everyone has a position: God or the Devil, Black or
White, whether it’s made of glass or iron. There is no more of that
last-century philosophy that God is dead but maybe not dead, that the
Devil doesn’t exist but maybe there’s something to it. Such a
philosophy cost our civilization dearly in the last century. We are
obliged to define ourselves and to understand that if there is no
God, there is no Devil either, and vice versa — or, of course, that
we don’t care about any of it, which would then make us physical
and mental cripples.”
“So
what do you believe in?” Martina’s pupils suddenly dilated.
“Me…
I don’t care. I advocate the idea of mental cripples and their
mutants…” The director laughed horribly, then somewhat startled
even his now completely drunk friends, who nevertheless burst into
laughter along with him.
“This
is completely absurd, terrible…” Martina felt a slight tremor.
“Girl,
girl, let me smell you…” Dicht, who was sitting next to Martina,
shoved her face into Martina’s long hair. She managed to tug it a
little. Martina flinched and looked at the drunken woman, wondering
whether she had pulled it on purpose or by accident.
“Darling…
my people… liander, white night on hot sand by the ocean… oh,
what all scents are hidden in you…” Dicht began to sway slightly.
“I
think I should go,” Martina had had enough.
“No,
no. Now we’ll let our little Liu listen to some evening music. He
has entertained us enough…” The screenwriter stood up, looked at
the director, and, seeing his approval, got up and began looking
around the room.
“Please…”
Martina no longer knew what to do. She was sitting in complete
darkness with people she barely knew. The lethargy from the beginning
of the evening had been replaced by unexpected aggressiveness.
Her
still unhappy thoughts were struck by a violent blow. The
screenwriter had put on music — some version of The
Phantom of the Opera. He approached the table while Dicht and
Sara stood up and began to dance.
The
director took a small special pipe, placed in it a small piece of
something he had taken from a box on the table, and lit it. His face
instantly became completely deformed; his firm, characteristic
features seemed to melt away, and he truly took on the appearance of
a mentally disturbed person. Only his eyes, through half-lowered
lids, glittered with a sinister, fluorescent glow.
“What
are you doing…?” Martina, horrified and completely unsettled,
rose from the table.
The
screenwriter, who was standing beside her, approached and whispered:
“Can
you BELIEVE… I BELIEVE…,” he giggled, swaying and trying to
catch the rhythm.
Martina,
without a word, shot him a look, then looked at the two dazed women
and now completely mad director, who was drinking cognac from the
bottle and looked like a desperate man at the end of his rope, about
to do something terrible — yet he did nothing, only laughed,
knowing the impression of disfigurement he left.
Martina
could not take it anymore. She left without saying goodbye.
The
way home — by taxi and then a little on foot — was strewn with
the most varied, painful impressions, and she felt the need to scrub
herself with soap and bathe as soon as possible. Her thoughts became
blocked and disappeared unfinished, replaced by others, equally
exhausting but completely incomplete and unclear.
In
front of her building, she stopped. Next to the entrance, deep in the
shadow, stood a man. She felt his presence strongly. His eyes from
the darkness seemed to devour her.
“You
again?” Martina obviously knew the young man hiding in the dark.
“Forever
with you…” The young man answered in a heavy, shaken tone.
“As
you wish. But understand, everything has its end.”
“There
is no end. You know that. I love you, and as long as that is so, I
can be ‘free’ on your side. But you will never be ‘free’ —
that painfully ‘free’ on my side. I will never allow you to
obtain such ‘freedom.’ It would kill you. I think that’s not
even ‘freedom,’ but ‘free hell’…”
The
young man spoke with sobs, visibly shaken… his lips trembled.
“And
you will watch…” he continued, beside himself.
“What
will I watch?” Martina looked at him significantly.
“I
will set myself on fire!” he said, now with a strange, sinister
gleam in his eyes.
“You
will what!?”
“I
will douse myself and set myself on fire…” The young man was
already fading.
“All
of you… sick…” Martina cut him off and ran into the building.
After
showering, she turned off all the lights and covered her head with a
pillow. For a long time, she could not fall asleep. She decided to
break the chains of various compromises. She decided to refuse the
respected director and the challenging role. She decided to start
believing in someone or something — only she did not know exactly
in whom or in what. Everything she decided remained that night.
And with the first sharp onset of morning freshness and the scent of
acacia that filled her room, she sank into sleep.
Sebastian
Sava Gor – Biography
Sebastian Sava Gor is a contemporary Serbian
writer, musician, and multidisciplinary author whose work spans
literature, philosophy, theology, film aesthetics, and deep
introspective analysis of modern human existence. His creative output
emerges from a persistent tension between the visible and the
invisible, the rational and the intuitive, the personal and the
universal.
Gor’s writing is characterized by a
distinctive fusion of poetic expression and conceptual precision. He
explores themes such as identity and personality, the nature of
consciousness, the relationship between freedom and structure, and
the spiritual condition of man in the modern world. His work often
reflects an engagement with Orthodox Christian thought, as well as
philosophical and psychological traditions, integrating them into a
unique contemporary voice.
As an artist, he approaches creation as a
fundamentally transformative act — an attempt to shape meaning from chaos and reveal deeper layers of reality. His literary style
frequently incorporates cinematic elements, constructing scenes with
strong visual and atmospheric presence, while maintaining
philosophical depth and symbolic resonance.
In addition to literature, Gor is actively
involved in music and broader artistic expression, treating all forms
of creativity as interconnected fields within a single existential
and spiritual inquiry. His work seeks not only to interpret the
world, but to challenge the reader or viewer to engage consciously
with it.
Sebastian Sava Gor’s projects are driven by a
commitment to truth, beauty, and the expansion of human awareness.
Through his writing and artistic practice, he aims to encourage
critical thinking, inner reflection, and a more profound
understanding of reality beyond surface appearances.
Horhe Luis Borhes, argentinski pisac, pesnik i bibliotekar, u priči Vrt sa stazama koje se račvaju stvara jedno od najuticajnijih književnih dela 20. veka. Ova kratka priča, prvi put objavljena 1941. godine, predstavlja spoj fikcije, filozofije, kvantne fizike i metafizičke spekulacije. Borhes ne piše roman u klasičnom smislu – on konstruiše misaoni lavirint u kojem se čitalac gubi, ali i pronalazi.
Struktura i narativna igra
Priča prati Ju Cuna, kineskog profesora i špijuna, koji beži od progona i pokušava da prenese poruku nemačkom obaveštajnom centru. Njegova potraga za skloništem vodi ga do doktora Stivena Alberta, koji mu otkriva tajnu njegovog pretka – Cun Pena. Cun Peng je napisao roman koji se račva, kao i vrt koji je zamišljao: svaka odluka vodi ka novoj stazi, novoj realnosti.
Borhes koristi ovu strukturu da predstavi ideju multiverzuma – sveta u kojem sve mogućnosti koegzistiraju. Svaka radnja, svaka odluka, svaka misao otvara novu granu stvarnosti. Ovo je književna anticipacija kvantne mehanike, posebno koncepta superpozicije i paralelnih univerzuma.
Filozofska dimenzija
Borhesova priča je duboko filozofska. Ona postavlja pitanja:
Da li je vreme linearno?
Da li postoji jedno značenje?
Da li je izbor stvaran ako sve mogućnosti već postoje?
U tom smislu, Vrt sa stazama koje se račvaju je apofaktička: ne otkriva, već ukazuje. Ne zaključuje, već otvara. Borhes ne nudi odgovore – on nudi puteve. Njegova proza je misaona topografija, a čitalac je pozvan da bude putnik.
Knjiga kao lavirint
Borhes je često govorio da je univerzum nalik biblioteci. U ovoj priči, knjiga je lavirint, a lavirint je knjiga. Tekst se račva, kao i misao. Čitanje postaje čin izbora, ali i čin gubitka. U svakom trenutku, čitalac stoji pred raskrsnicom.
Borhes kao arhitekta mogućnosti
Vrt sa stazama koje se račvaju nije samo priča – to je misaoni model, književna struktura koja prevazilazi žanrove. Borhes nas poziva da razmišljamo o vremenu, prostoru, značenju i identitetu. Njegova proza je tiha, precizna, ali duboko destabilizujuća.
U svetu koji se račva, čitalac je pozvan da bira – ne između tačnih i netačnih interpretacija, već između puteva razumevanja. Borhes ne piše da bi nas uputio, već da bi nas zaveo u vrt mogućnosti.
Preporuka za čitanje:
Za sve koji žele da iskuse književnost kao misaoni izazov, kao filozofsku meditaciju i kao estetski užitak – Vrt sa stazama koje se račvaju je nezaobilazno štivo.
„Спонтано сагоревање“ је збирка од 72 приче које истражују подсвесно и колективно несвесно, снове и апсурд, надреалистичке визије и противречности, уз дозу црног хумора и апокалиптичке прозе. Све приче усмеравају пажњу на личност и њено различношћавање – свака је искра која открива парадокс постојања.
Ако бисмо тражили поређења, ту су надреалисти попут Андреа Бретона, апсурдисти као Бекет, али и Данил Хармс, чије кратке прозе и бизарне минијатуре одзвањају у овом делу. Хармс је умео да ни из чега, створи апсурдни универзум, а Сава Гор наставља ту линију, додајући јој слој колективног несвесног и апокалиптичке визије. Елементи подсећају и на Кафку, Пекића, па чак и на Киша, али остају оригинални – јер овде није реч о имитацији, већ о сопственом гласу.
„Спонтано сагоревање“ показује зрелост аутора који не жели да објасни, већ да изазове. То је литература која гори изнутра, која читаоца води кроз сан и јаву, кроз противречности и сенке. Књига је сведочанство о човеку који се не боји да уђе у најтамније просторе маште и да их претвори у прозу која остаје.
Spontaneous Combustion – The Book and the Author
Spontaneous Combustion is a collection of 72 stories that explore the subconscious and the collective unconscious, dreams and absurdity, surreal visions and contradictions, with touches of dark humor and apocalyptic prose. Each story focuses on personality and differentiation – sparks that reveal the paradox of existence.
Comparisons can be drawn to surrealists like André Breton, absurdists such as Beckett, but also to Daniil Kharms, whose short, bizarre miniatures resonate here. Kharms could create an absurd universe out of nothing, and Sava Gor continues that line, adding layers of the collective unconscious and apocalyptic vision. Elements recall Kafka, Pekić, even Kiš, yet remain unmistakably original – this is not imitation but a distinct voice.
In my view, Spontaneous Combustion demonstrates the maturity of an author who does not seek to explain but to provoke. It is literature burning from within, guiding the reader through dream and reality, contradictions and shadows. The book is a testimony of a writer unafraid to enter the darkest spaces of imagination and transform them into prose that endures.
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