(Dis)placements

Broj 1 - Godina 6 - 12/2015

Uvodnik

The point at which all the texts collected in this issue of [sic] converge is the contended problem of (non-)belonging to a certain physical or imaginary place, with the accompanying experience of being displaced, replaced, or misplaced. The anxiety of displacement creates an increasing need – now perhaps more visible in contemporary societies than ever before– to move beyond the existing boundaries and limitations in a perpetual search of a place of one’s own, or otherwise place the fragmented experience of life within some spatial framework. Various aspects of and approaches to the broad concept and forms of displacement(s) provide the basis for considerations of artistic, literary and social phenomena offered by [sic]’s authors. ..

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Izdvojeno

She looked loathingly at the spoon. It was a metal spoon, dark, with a small engraving on its handle – a sharp taste. “Open your mouth, slowly, eaaaasy, like a little birdie in its nest,” he said, bringing the spoon to her mouth. He hated spoons; they had seemed despicable little things since he was small. Why did he now find himself having to wield it, full of soup, having to usher it now into this young child’s mouth, as his parents had done to him, as surely as his parents’ parents had also done? If they even had spoons then, if some fool had already invented them. He had to find himself an encyclopedia and figure out when the first spoon had been forged; he had to get his hands on an encyclopedia, a source of infinite knowledge by which he might survive. Spoon: A piece of silverware with a concave scoop at its end; typically used for carrying liquids to the mouth. ...

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EstagfirullahInna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'unda će plutati. Pa, mislim da me dom ispljunuo, nestanci struje i policijski sat kao jezik uz klimavi zub. Bože, znaš li kako je teško pričati o danu kada te vlastiti grad vukao za kosu, kraj starog zatvora, kraj školskih vrata, kraj gorućih torza nabijenih na stupove kao zastave? Kada upoznam druge nalik sebi, prepoznajem čežnju, nedostajanje, sjećanje na pepeo na njihovim licima. Nitko ne napušta dom osim ako dom nisu usta morskog psa. Nosila sam tu staru himnu u ustima tako dugo da više nije bilo mjesta ni za jednu drugu pjesmu, drugi jezik i drugi govor. Poznajem strah koji te prekriva, u potpunosti guta. Rastrgala sam i pojela svoju putovnicu u hotelu zračne luke. Naduta sam jezikom koji si ne mogu priuštiti da zaboravim.*Znam da je nekoliko stvari istinito. Ne znam kamo idem, a odakle dolazim nestaje, nisam dobrodošla i moja ljepota ovdje nije ljepota. Moje tijelo gori sramom nepripadanja, moje tijelo žudi. Ja sam grijeh sjećanja i odsustvo sjećanja. Gledam vijesti i usta mi postaju umivaonik pun krvi. Redovi, formulari, ljudi za stolovima, posjetnice, imigracijski službenik, pogledi na ulici, hladnoća koja se nastanjuje duboko u moje kosti, satovi engleskog u večernjim satima, udaljenost koja me dijeli od doma. Ali, elhamdulillah, sve je ovo bolje od mirisa žene u plamenu, ili kamiona punog muškaraca koji izgledaju kao moj otac, koji mi čupaju zube i nokte, ili četrnaest muškaraca između mojih nogu, ili pištolj, ili obećanje, ili laž, ili njegovo ime, ili njegova muškost u mojim ustima. ...

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The boy was playing alone on a dusty road, not far from the big door of the courtyard of his house. On a day other than a market day or a holiday, the road would be peaceful, almost deserted, but the boy would always harbor a hidden hope that the road might produce something new, rare, and exciting. On that day the road brought nothing for quite a long time. At one moment the boy raised his eyes. High overhead he saw someone coming down the hill.The slopes of that unusually steep hill rose above the town almost perpendicularly, evoking in the boy’s mind the image of a school blackboard. The precipitous surface of the hill was streaked by a dusty white road that disappeared behind low, rocky and sparsely vegetated mounds with a well-trodden shortcut the color of clay stretching between them. High above on the hill the traveller emerged as a tiny figure whose clothes or age could not yet be discerned. The boy saw him disappear behind the rocky mounds and then appear again, coming out of every bend bigger and clearer than he had been the moment before. The boy kept a close watch on him until the man appeared on a small plateau, where the reddish shortcut merged with the dusty road, and the road descended almost straight as a waterfall in front of the first houses on the outskirts of the town. The boy’s house was one of them. ...

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Transgressivity, in a broad sense, denotes a state of movement from one distinct position, mode, or territory to another, be it spatial, geographical, mental, spiritual, or even narrative. Transgression occurs when one crosses boundaries, in other words, limes of different entities. Geocritical transgressivity, which is a multifaceted concept, may lead to a variety of interpretations at many different strata. Transgressivity finds echoes in Caryl Phillips’s narratives, at times in geographical forms, where a deterritorialized character crosses borders without ever gaining reterritorialization, at other times, in his fragmented narration where the reader stands at a threshold. Our paper uses Phillips’s A New World Order (2001) in particular as a key text through this geocritical lens of transgressivity to see to what extent it functions as the author’s map legend that presents a cartographic pattern of his writing in general. Our discussion also focuses on Phillips’s distinct analyses in A New World Order to shed light on his other narratives in a geocritical context. ...

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