Written by: Radmilo Anđelković
Translated by: Mihajlo Stojković
“To die to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream…”, repeated the monkey and asked: “Does this make any sense or did I type out some nonsense again?” Shakespeare’s Hamlet had it easy. His hardships of his uncle replacing his father in all the functional positions of the state, the roof and bedclothes were distinct to the theatrical world of the time, the sending of Ophelia to a nunnery was understood as a digression. Much ado about nothing, almost three centuries will pass until Freud and company provide us the structure of Eros and Thanatos, ego, superego, Id, and comprehend the essence of the Oedipus complex. One should be careful with archetypes, they are rocked on a daily basis and we don’t know which one will be ripped out, and which one will remain. Dreams are the divine road into the unknown.
To sleep, to dream… Who did not dream never even woke up. The dream citizens did their part, the horoscope men are running out of ideas and so everybody is trying to fathom out what suits them and what doesn’t, they interpret Nostradamus in all the various ways. I read an interpretation from 1940. Even Hitler was a superb fellow. Even those who turn to professionals exist. Presetting dreams for a good buck has always been a profitable trade. Then again, the Id is the right place where dreams appear and disappear.
If only professionals handle ego and superego, and if, God forbid, amateurs acknowledged them, then Eros and Thanatos are left to literature. So, if the writers’ protagonists don’t fall in love with anyone and doubt in love, or if they miss out on killing, dispatching or maiming somebody, then they wrote to no avail. The readers are keen on everything happening to somebody other than themselves, and believing that they propelled at least a small whirlpool within themselves. It is extremely convenient that medicine differentiates adrenaline (adrenum) and epinephrine (epinephros), because they know they don’t mean the same. Adrenaline is when it happens to you, but epinephrine is prescribed in pills.
By no means should you take archetypes off your mind. Archetypes bind us, allow the recognition of other’s behaviors, the understanding of other’s books and ideas. If there is no better evidence, then those are the mutual words in all the world’s languages, and that which we will perceive in anyone’s behavior or diction. The older the word, the more it belongs to all. There is research from which the thesis of a protolanguage or Nostratic language stems from. Jared Diamond used it in a convenient way, starting from – a sheep.
When we arrive at the Id, it’s inevitable to decide whether it is our own or mutual. There is no one else in the personal, and in the mutual there should be everything that was experienced and unexperienced, written and unwritten, imagined but unfulfilled. It is the hodgepodge of everything, and when we touch it, we should be cautious of what we pull out of it. Concurrently, the Id is a literary partner, a co-author, and we should be grateful to it for the moments when the written becomes magic. Simultaneously, the Id sets a riddle before us, which we either solve or not solve. Though it’s better not to solve it, if it fills the reader with ignorance, then the writer has something to rely on. I’ve never once complained on the unconscious, if I could I’d give him half the copyright, and then we can share the nothing I buy.
The time in which we live disturbs the Id in an extremely abject manner. The Id contains everything that is, and reality more and more of that what isn’t. Reality has become more unbalanced than the Id. It’s easy to disregard the random combinations of the Id. Waking up allows reassessment, everything that is absurd we chuck back, let it be reassessed and converted into something rational for use. Reality is far more questionable. We should first devote ourselves to thinking on the subject “Who would believe it?” It is soon becoming evident that every foolishness has its own client.
When we get to the moment when waking up is inevitable, we imagine that a similar melee is awaiting us on both sides. On one side there’s slog and great confusion, the familiar walls are crumbling stone by stone, such as memories from long ago are erased, you’re looking for a road, spinning in circles or climbing endless steps, skimming non-existent books, facing enemies you don’t know but who know you, you rubbed them up the wrong way so you have to pay the price, meeting the woman of your dreams, but you don’t know from which one, and sometimes you know how to fly but also to fall into the abyss. Luckily, when it is at its worst, you jerk out of and escape sleep, the Id is merciful and gives you another opportunity. You fidget around a couple of times in bed to rid yourself of that dream, and sink into a new and different one.
Every day the alarm clock proves that dreams exist. Or the day breaks through unshielded windows, and then through weary eyelids. You’ll soon gather that dreams are more real than reality, and that day lasts infinitely longer than night. There’s no efficient way to prevent waking up. You can hear a car door slamming shut outside, someone driving their child to kindergarten across the road, the garbage collectors rattling about late in the evening, first in the street above, and then, in the street below, next to the little park. The curtains are drawn only when it is determined that the Sun is in its place, in order to count the clouds blocking it, to see whether the workers on the Garden Center skyscraper are doing something or dillydallying. They are finishing the construction since the crane has already been taken away. Then you dive into the mundanity until late in the evening when fireworks will be going off somewhere, cannon fire without detonation. It could last a while, if the outside world wouldn’t impose itself, I rarely buy the daily press, but I cannot resist television and the Internet.
The outside world is the corporeal Id, where everything real and unreal is stirred. My ego is bigger than yours. It’s easy with the news, I watch them on two competitive channels, I compare lies of one with the other, I keep to the weather forecast, if they too aren’t scheming something. It’s far more complicated with acted shows. I avoid older homemade movies, they drag me most into the Id, the parade of the deceased which I, mostly, personally knew. I’m not happy even with the recycled foreign movies, and for who knows what time has the thesis been proven that a book must be read twice, the first time when we are young, and the second time when we are older than the protagonists. I don’t see the story in movies anymore, but I see where they planted some future belief. Documentaries promote contemporary truisms. Going outside causes new perplexities, we come across severance not based on what is or isn’t, but on what we brought to reality from our own Id. Only those who periodically wander into our reality can see changes. They discovered in vain the new evidence of unity in Viminacium, when we constantly live in disunion.
Nevertheless, don’t take it to heart if the theses of psychoanalysis have become reality. They somehow wiggled their way out and got involved in our lives. Furthermore, count on me sharing responsibility with my mate from the unconscious, so set your sights on him instead of me. I’m only typing like the monkey at the beginning of the story.
Radmilo Anđelković was, during his working age, engaged in scientific research at the Military Technical Institute in Belgrade and his research is unavailable to the public. He has been a supporter of fiction and fandom for the last thirty years, and his work there is somewhat more available. He has published eight novels and about forty short stories. Being a passionate cook, he has also published a book on indigenous spices in cookery. He works on essays in literary fiction only when someone gets on his nerves.
Translator Mihajlo Stojković – was born on the 20th of March 1998 in Pozarevac where he graduated from the High School of Economics and Commerce. Despite the fact it being a vocational school, he decided to continue his education at the Faculty of Philology in Belgrade, where he is currently a third-year student of the English Department. He participated and was a finalist in the English Department Short Story Competition. Upon finishing his studies, he wish to become an English language teacher and eventually write a book.
Translation edited by: Dejan Mujanović