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Prima Vista 2016

The Literary Festival Prima Vista will take place from the 4th to the 7th of May in Tartu!

Full programme

MystiFiction

The Patron of Prima Vista

Prima Vista patroon » Click to zoom ->Silently words arise. Quietly and gently they filter into your empty space. Gentle-voiced wind-words blow over your relaxed body stroking your tired cheeks. Light and delicate lip-words whisper about a moment of fulfilment into your ear, knock on the permanence of your address registration. Wind themselves with quiet strokes round your wrists. Massage the soles of your feet. Touch firmly and relaxingly the sensitive points on your nape and your neck. Bear you on a soft warm turf and you understand you are late. On a soil you did not promise before using those words, on a soil that should not be here. You are late and the best you can do, what you do, is to let the words act. There is no sense in asking whose words they are. No sense in asking why those words have been blown at you. It is too late. Everything will become clear – at some time much later. Words have attacked you and are building a new and weird world around you.

The new order of words begins from the small pyramid at the top of a pyramid. But if there is two of something, be it on a one dollar note, an effect of a magic mirror is started. On the top as well at the bottom. If we place a mirror in a room we get two rooms at a time and everything becomes possible. What is whispered at the bottom reverberates on the top. A Heavenly Jerusalem, an unknown literary work descends and covers the writing desk in front of a writer. Like on founding Rome one of the twins had to die, the writer now has to make a sacrifice for his work to achieve maximum magic power over the reader. Perhaps you remember Edgar Allan Poe’s story William Wilson (1839) where someone identical with him tortured the protagonist? When he, however, killed this double, he died himself. Every literary work is thus a sacrifice and dieing, killing your double with the text created. A writer sits behind his desk and looks at himself in the mirror. It has ever been the same. How far is he ready to go? Who is he ready to scarify?  Vilde’s desk, Kross’ desk. Mutt’s desk. And finally the desk that demands a pyramid above it, to defend the writer from grave robbers.                     

Isn’t it so? But it is so only at the first sight. For a good ‘desk’ – the work - does not in fact need any other defence than the reader’s talent. A good work is a confident enigma: come, look at that pyramid, touch the words – they remain the same. In fact the writer’s sacrifice itself is clandestine. He sacrifices, it is sure: writing about something he always leaves something unwritten. Using one word, he leaves another unused. The word he chose is exclusively right, irrefutable, an initiating singularity. But here’s where the rub is: the exclusively right word is as if itself, it as if kills the double. The secret is in fact that the double is alive. Alive like Schrödinger’s cat, like a ghost. He will become alive in death, is present where it is not present, and lets the words carry here their frightening exciting flavour. If what’s written has magic power, it can speak of what it seems not to speak of at all. Words arise, give a hunch, but the solution is not final. Talented robbers are welcome for they will find what remained unseen. 

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