Jangkau

Di sebuah natal, ditemani sepatah kidung yang seperti berkabung, aku menyelipkan sebuah doa yang kelelahan. Kata-katanya kulupa. Yang kuingat, isinya pernyataan menyerah. Tuhan, kataku, aku datang lagi, bukan mau tawar-menawar, melainkan untuk menyerah. Doa itu tanpa pretensi untuk mengindah. Malah seperti repetisi yang kalah.

Malam ini adalah malam aku berhenti mengerti. Tentangmu. Tentang hidup. Segalanya jauh dari nalar, terasa muskil ditakar. Tiada dalam buku. Tak juga di lagu-lagu. Aku, kau, dan pikiranku seperti dalam tiga bilik. Aku dan harap. Pikiranku yang gagap. Kau? Dalam dunia yang tak terjangkau.

Tentang natal, pewarta bicara tentang upaya. Hatiku menganga. Sudah lewat aku. Sekali-sekali sumringah. Terkadang jengah. Sakit sering. Kupikirkan apa sebab. Kudapati nalarku yang tak terjembatani, yang menggantung, yang gagal. Dari situ, di sela kidung yang menggaung, aku menyerah kepada-Nya. Kukatakan aku akan berhenti merasa serba bisa, berhenti selalu tahu, berhenti mengaku paham. Kukatakan dariku akan lebih banyak terucap kata ‘tolong’.

Di halaman baru nanti, aku akan berhenti tegar, mulai sadar dan tahu kapan harus gentar. Malam ini juga, duniamu yang tak terjangkau itu adalah surat kanak-kanak dalam huruf-huruf yang jauh dari indah, namun dikirimkan kepada-Nya dengan harapan sampai yang lugu, yang kadang terasa lucu.

Akhir

Janganlah kau merengut, Karenin. Aku bisa apa ketika pohon apel bengkok di pusaramu meranggas? Tak ubahnya tanduk rusa, kini dia menjelma payungmu. Kita tak bisa melawan musim bukan?

Karenin, aku menjenguk bukan sengaja. Apalagi tak rela kau berhenti terjaga. Aku telah mencari orang lain, tapi yang kudapati hanya perbuatan bersikukuh, bersitegang, dan penyimpulan demi penyimpulan. Tak kutemukan yang sesabar kau, Karenin. Sungguh! Bukan, kukira ini bukan masalah pelik. Malah aku curiga, ini cuma cara memelik-melikkan perkara. Baiklah, kau dengar aku bercerita.

Pernahkan kau alami malam yang sedetik lalu pekat tiba-tiba benderang bak siang? Kukira tidak. Tapi aku, Karenin, di suatu malam bulan Oktober yang menggigil, aku merasakannya. Terselip di kepadatan seribu pasang mata saat itu, aku mengintip langit dalam diam. Lalu terdengar letupan di kejauhan. Dan seribu wajah tengadah. Ledakan itu di bawah, tapi di langit seperti hujan meteor. Bukan pijar-pijar yang menyeramkan, tapi sinar-sinar memesona. Aneka warna, Karenin. Ada yang merah dan membentuk hati di langit. Pasti akan jadi kesukaanmu. Aku suka yang berputar-putar tapi tanpa gelegar. Bocah-bocah di depanku berceloteh tentang kembang api mana yang mereka puja. Aku begitu riang dalam sunyiku, Karenin. Tanpa sadar mulutku menganga. Malam seperti melompat ke siang.

Tapi seperti segala hal, keterpukauanku segera berakhir, Karenin. Setelah setengah jam, gulita kembali meraja. Sejak itu, aku selalu dihantui perasaan berakhir. Apa saja, yang kusuka pun yang kubenci, akan menemui akhirnya. Kebebasan yang kukira kugenggam di negeri jauh ini, segera mati oleh pikiran-pikiran tentang pulang. Perasaan tak diburu-buru dan keleluasaan untuk memikirkan apa saja lebih lama, dihantar ke ajal oleh rekaan-rekaan tentang tenggat. Keindahan-keindahan yang ditangkap mata di tanah ini, berakhir ketika raga pindah nanti. Dugaan-dugaan terbaik tentang kekasih, mungkin sirna ketika nanti kami saling menatap mata. Udara dingin ini akan berhenti ketika mendekat ke khatulistiwa. Hanya satu yang tak kunjung berakhir, Karenin: pikiran-pikiran tentang keberakhiran. Dan semua disulut oleh kembang api yang, setelah setengah jam, henti.

Karenin, beri tahu aku satu saja yang tak akan berakhir. Bisikkanlah supaya segera kukejar. Tapi memang tak ada kan, Karenin? Semuanya akan menemui perhentian. Lalu, apa nasibku jika perasaan ini terus memberondong? Tak bisakah kau ajari aku mumifikasi, agar bisa kuawetkan semua yang kusuka di sini lalu kubawa serta? Karenin, suatu kali aku mendengar seseorang bernyanyi. Tentang kekuatan memori, yang katanya bisa membawa yang lalu hidup kembali. Itulah mengapa Yesus meminta diingat ketika murid-murid makan roti dan minum anggur. Itulah mengapa penjahat di Golgota memohon untuk diingat ketika sang Kristus telah menjejak Firdaus. Itulah juga yang kini kulakukan, Karenin, merekam semuanya dalam ingatan. Sebaik-baiknya, serinci-rincinya, sedalam-dalamnya. Supaya kelak ketika semuanya berakhir, aku bisa menghidupkannya dan sadar bahwa semuanya pernah bermula, meski tak lama. Tapi aku tahu benar, kenangan hanya maya. Aku tak akan pernah lagi melihat dan membauinya seperti kala aku di dalamnya. Dan karenanya aku takkan pernah dipuaskan. Seperti saat ini, Karenin, ketika aku mengaduh padamu. Kau yang senantiasa hidup namun tak lagi ada. Dahulu mungkin kau akan bicara, tapi kini apa yang pusara bisa kata?

Karenin, setelah kembang api akhirnya padam malam itu, aku hanya bisa menetapkan hati, bahwa aku akan benar-benar hadir dalam tindakan apa pun yang kupilih, dalam saat apa pun yang kujejak. Agar ketika semuanya berakhir, aku tak menyimpan sesal.

Tak usahlah kau gusar, Karenin. Semuanya akan berakhir, juga musim gugur ini. Kelak daun-daun hijau kembali, seperti sediakala. Dan aku masih akan ke sini, ketika pikiran tentang keberakhiran ini pun berakhir, dan keluh tentang entah apa lagi berawal. Kuharap kau tak bosan.

Dulce et decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.



Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.



In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.



If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen

Apa pun lagi

Salju turun ini senja,

di stasiun Victoria yang sekelam sketsa.

Seperti serpih kulit gandum yang diterbangkan angin

dari bibir alat penampi.

Bulir-bulirnya putih,

meluncur mencair ketika menyentuh bibirku.

Dengan mulut menganga

kucoba menangkap sekepal,

tapi sekuku pun tidak,

apalagi segumpal.

Ke mana kau?

Cepatlah, sebelum gegas mereka.

Usah takut udara yang beku.

Juga digentarkan angin yang menciutkan belulang.

Ada tanganku untuk kau pegang.

Kuhembuskan uap hangat,

kapan pun jemarimu mengerang.

Ke mari, ajarku menari.

Gerak apa saja,

tak seirama pun tak apa.

Berhitung kita hingga tiga,

lalu langkah menyamping sehasta dua.

Kau ingin aku bersenandung?

Wintersong kudendangkan ke telingamu,

setengah berbisik.

Menari kita, berputar-putar.

Tak ada orang lain,

tanpa silam, tak ingat esok.

Sampai mata kita terpejam,

ke buaian salju membenam.

Dan malam ini,

kita tak ingin apa pun lagi.

Bukan?

"Aku tak berharap untuk dimengerti. Lakukan apa pun yang membuatmu nyaman."

[apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [apologetika?] [bukan!] [bukan?]

terima kasih tak terhingga kepada surel seorang teman

"Karenin, aku dekat."

Here lies Karenin. He gave birth to two rolls and a bee.

Setiap kali aku terkenang padamu, duduk diam aku di bawah pohon apel itu, mengingat-ingat apa yang telah kau ajarkan pada kami di dalam kebisuan dan keberserahanmu. Kau yang tak punya kehendak, kau yang tak memendam daya gugat, kau yang riang oleh pengulangan-pengulangan.

Aku bersyukur telah belajar dari mencintaimu, bahwa hanya cinta yang tak meminta pun tak berharaplah yang benar-benar bisa disebut tulus. Jika yang dicinta hanya teman, di mana baiknya? Jika kita mencintai orang hanya agar kita "diizinkan" ada, tak layak itu disebut cinta. Juga bukan cinta jika dasarnya membutuhkan semata. Kita takkan pernah menetapkan dengan pasti, bagian mana dari hubungan kita dengan orang lain yang merupakan hasil dari emosi-emosi kita - cinta, antipati, amal-kasih, atau kebencian - dan bagian mana yang ditentukan oleh permainan kuasa yang terus-menerus antara kita dan orang-orang itu. Kebaikan manusia yang sejati, dan segala kemurnian dan kebebasannya, hanya akan terwujud ketika sang penerima kebaikan tak punya kuasa.

Karenin, siapa lagi yang akan memberiku petuah kini. Sepeninggalmu, aku dirundung penyesalan bahwa dalam hidupku aku telah mencintai dengan menarik. Padahal mencintai juga berarti kadang merelakan diri ditarik, juga sering mengulur. Aku kisut dirundung sesal tentang ini. Hingga akhirnya di lantai dansa, aku dan dia angkat bicara - diiringi denting-denting piano yang serasa mabuk dan terhuyung - siapa menarik siapa, siapa mengurung siapa, siapa menyakiti siapa.

Aku yang menginginkannya menjadi tua, seekor kelinci. Tapi kini aku memikirkannya kembali dalam makna baru. Apa arti menjadi kelinci? Artinya hilang segala kekuatan. Tak seorang pun lagi lebih kuat dari yang lain. Itulah sebabnya kami bisa saling dekap dalam perasaan aman.

Dalam langkah-langkah yang lemah tapi padu, kami sadar sesungguhnya kami saling tarik, ke dalam apa yang kami sebut sebagai kesedihan. Tapi anehnya malam itu kami menari sambil menyunggingkan senyum yang paling indah dalam kehidupan kami, karena kami sadar, apa pun yang telah kami lakukan dan lewati, kami kini masih berdua, hanya berdua, dan bahagia. Ya, kesedihan yang ganjil dan kebahagiaan yang janggal. Kesedihan itu berarti: kami telah tiba di stasiun terakhir. Kebahagiaan itu: kami masih bersama. Kesedihan itu bentuk, kebahagiaan isi. Kebahagiaan mengisi ruang kosong dalam kesedihan. Dan kami akan berdansa hingga piano tak lagi bersuara, bahkan makhluk-makhluk nocturnal pun telah henti bicara.

Karenin, kapan pun kau merindu, aku di sini. Dekat.

Setelah akhirnya menuntaskan The Unbearable Lightness of Being pagi ini

Leaving Home

Pernahkah kau bangun dari tidur yang lelap di suatu pagi kala matahari terlanjur meninggi, dan mendapati hatimu tersenyum? Itu aku pagi ini. Ada terima kasih yang tak terkatakan kepada sang pemilik hari yang begitu murah hati. Bukan hanya hari baru yang Dia karuniakan pagi ini, tapi juga obrolan ibu-anak Julie dan Paige yang pagi ini ditingkahi kemanjaan.

Hanya ada Julie dan Paige minus ayah di sebuah rumah mungil berlantai dua berkamar tiga yang keberantakannya masih bisa diterima mata. Juga tiga kucing persia - Bobby, Batton, dan entah siapa - yang, kata Julie, seperti membentuk dua blok yang berseberangan, meski tak saling cakar. Aku tak pernah ingin menanyakan kepada Julie perihal ketidakhadiran ayah ini. Terlalu pribadi, pikirku.

Julie gemar nonton The X Factor, ikut terharu oleh kisah-kisah finalisnya yang lebih sering klise. Kecintaannya pada tanah air barangkali tergambar dari kegembiraannya yang meluap ketika Inggris melibas Kazakstan 5-1 pada laga kualifikasi Piala Dunia kemarin. Dia staf computer maintenance di sebuah universitas kecil dekat sini. Julie tipe ibu yang mengandalkan microwave, oven, dan mesin cuci piring. Selalu meluangkan waktu untuk bertanya, bagaimana hariku, bagaimana pelajaranku, apakah aku sudah bisa online atau tidak. Peduli.

Paige seorang remaja yang sedang peduli pada gaya dan warna rambut. Dia tahan berjam-jam di telepon. Kadang-kadang juga terlihat sedang mencoret-coret buku gambar yang besar.

Hubungan mereka? Baru mulai terang pada hari ketiga aku di rumah mungil itu. Ada suara-suara kudengar di ruang tv di bawah, tapi bukan membahas film atau opera sabun yang diputar malam itu. Nada suara Julie meninggi, sementara Paige selalu menyahut cepat di setiap akhir kalimat ibunya itu, dengan suara yang disengaja untuk menambah sebal. Tagihan telepon jadi pasal. Paige kecanduan menelepon. Julie pusing, tagihan mau dibayar dengan apa. Lalu si anak lari ke kamarnya di lantai atas dengan langkah yang sengaja dibuat berat agar bising. Si ibu terus memanggil. Dia belum selesai bicara, katanya. Entah jam berapa mereka berhenti. Aku terlelap sebelum gencatan senjata dicapai.

Hari lain soalnya adalah Paige yang bolos sekolah. Dia tidak suka sekolahnya, katanya. Julie mencecar retoris, Paige mau jadi apa kelak kalau malas sekolah. Yang ditanya malah mengancam minggat. Kepedulian seringkali memang dipersepsi berbeda.

Tadi malam topiknya adalah Paige yang pulang larut tapi tak bilang. Tapi perang tak berlarut karena The X Factor yang tayang langsung malam itu mengalihkan perhatian Julie. Paige selamat di kamarnya.

Tapi pagi ini ketika aku bangun, kudengar Paige yang mengingatkan ibunya untuk mandi karena air di bathtub sudah penuh. Suaranya damai sekali. Tak berapa lama, Paige remaja memanggil ibunya kembali dengan suara yang sama, menanyakan soal padu padan baju – sepertinya dia mau ke pesta. Julie menyarankan ini dan itu, yang ditanggapi putrinya dengan tawa. Saat Paige tengah mematut-matut diri di depan cermin, sempat pula dia berteriak kepada Julie yang sedang menonton The X Factor di kamar, finalis mana membawakan lagu apa. Julie menjawab dengan setengah berteriak pula.

Ah…, begitulah ibu, anak, dan cinta. Kalau yang ketiga hadir mengikat, ancaman minggat hanya akan jadi bunga-bunga pencerah hari. Di penghujung malam, si pengancam toh akan mengendap-endap naik ke kamarnya dan, dengan perasaan menyesal, mengintip ibunya yang pura-pura tidur, padahal menahan senyum mendengar buah hatinya kembali. Ibu yang menyumpah dirinya sudah tak tahan lagi, akan jumpalitan ketika mendapati anaknya kehilangan selera makan karena diserang sakit.

Tapi sayangnya ada yang tak begitu. Banyak anak yang lari dari orang tua yang telah membesarkannya tanpa sedikit pun memikirkan diri sendiri. Atas nama kemandirian, atas nama kemajuan zaman, atas nama kesenangan, atas nama kebebasan.

Seperti gadis belia yang menyelinap kala pagi meninggalkan ayah dan ibunya dalam lagu Beatles, She’s Leaving Home, yang kami bahas dalam kuliah kami di suatu pagi. Sepucuk suratnya meninggalkan sekelumit tanda tanya yang pedih di hati mereka – apa salah kami, apa yang kurang, mengapa?

Sore ini aku duduk di atas rumput di sebuah kolam di dekat Blackheath Village yang ramai di akhir pekan, menyelesaikan paruh akhir sebuah buku yang tak kunjung kelar kubaca. Anak-anak kecil melemparkan remah-remah roti ke arah angsa-angsa yang menanti dengan gembira di tengah kolam. Sang ibu tak henti tersenyum menyaksikan tingkah anak-anaknya yang lucu.

Perhatianku tiba-tiba teralih ke dua pasangan paruh baya yang mendorong seorang perempuan renta di kursi roda. Dia pasti ibu dari salah satunya. Mereka mendorongnya ke tepi kolam. Sang istri menjelaskan pemandangan di kolam itu, sedikit berbisik di dekat telinga sang ibu yang telah rabun agaknya. Lalu perempuan itu menaruh sejumput kacang di telapak tangan sang ibu untuk dia kunyah sesekali. Perempuan renta itu tak sepatah kata pun bicara. Dia hanya menatap lurus ke arah angsa-angsa yang berebut makanan. Lalu ketika tempat duduk mereka diterpa sinar matahari yang terik, mereka mendorong si renta ke tempat yang teduh dan mulai lagi mengajaknya bicara, sekalipun dia hanya diam.

Aku berhenti membaca, didera bayangan-bayangan yang membuatku merindu, seketika teringat lagu Beatles itu, She’s Leaving Home.

Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins

Silently closing her bedroom door

Leaving the note that she hoped would say more

She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief

Quietly turning the backdoor key

Stepping outside she is free.

She (We gave her most of our lives)

is leaving (Sacrificed most of our lives)

home (We gave her everything money could buy)

She's leaving home after living alone

For so many years. Bye, bye

Father snores as his wife gets into her dressing gown

Picks up the letter that's lying there

Standing alone at the top of the stairs

She breaks down and cries to her husband Daddy our baby's gone

Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly

How could she do this to me.

She (We never thought of ourselves)

is leaving (Never a thought for ourselves)

home (We struggled hard all our lives to get by)

She's leaving home after living alone

For so many years. Bye, bye

Friday morning at nine o'clock she is far away

Waiting to keep the appointment she made

Meeting a man from the motor trade.

She (What did we do that was wrong)

is having (We didn't know it was wrong)

fun (Fun is the one thing that money can't buy)

Something inside that was always denied

For so many years. Bye, bye

She's leaving home. Bye, bye

Menonton Sayap

Delapan gerbong, mungkin seribu orang, sejuta pergumulan. Aku satu di antaranya. Seperti sekeranjang ikan kering yang disusun berjejal. Namun yang terdengar hanya gesekan roda kereta dengan rel baja. Atau suara desis yang samar-samar dari iPod entah siapa di sebelah sana yang disetel - entah sengaja entah tidak - terlalu keras. Setengah jam bisa berlalu tanpa sepatah kata. Suara roda kereta tiba-tiba berubah jadi melodi sendu dengan ritme yang begitu teratur. Tapi tanpa lirik. Seribuan orang tadi diam karena telah menemukan tempat sembunyi. Tak ada semak, tanpa belukar. Mereka bersembunyi di click-wheel iPod yang bundar, di balik lembar demi lembar London Lite gratisan yang isinya payudara, gosip, dan bola, di buku-buku yang tebal dan sangar. Mereka seperti hidup di tabung kaca masing-masing yang tak saling beririsan. Lalu di setiap perhentian, begitu pintu di buka, mereka akan bergegas dalam langkah yang cepatnya menggila, tanpa maaf menabrak siapa pun yang lambat. Mengapa tak saling bicara?

Mungkin karena tak ada yang kami anggap penting, berguna, bermanfaat untuk kemaslahatan pribadi kami. Segera aku teringat salah satu cerita pendek Gabriel Garcia Marquez yang kami bahas belum lama, A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings. Tentang seorang tua yang ditemukan oleh Pelayo di halaman rumahnya, dia yang compang-camping, payah, dan berkubang lumpur. Tapi dia punya sepasang sayap. Lalu si tua dituduh sebagai malaikat yang datang untuk mencabut nyawa anak Pelayo yang malam itu demam parah, namun urung menyelesaikan misinya setelah dihantam cuaca yang - meminjam kata-kata Marquez - sedih. Si tua pun dikurung. Namun tak lama anak itu pun sembuh. Pelayo berencana melepas si tua bersayap itu ke laut dengan rakit yang diberi persediaan air dan makanan. Dia urung dilepas subuh itu. Orang banyak telah berkerumun menontonnya, seperti menonton binatang sirkus. Mereka terbahak.

Seorang pendeta mencoba menengahi, membuka-buka katekismus yang dia kira akan menjawab pertanyaan tentang malaikat. Dengan naif dia menyapa si tua dalam bahasa Latin yang dia sebut bahasa Tuhan. Dan menyerapah dia menyebut si tua yang tak membalas sebagai iblis. Istri Pelayo seperti Warren Buffett zaman itu, yang sadar peluang dan uang. Dia taruh si tua dalam pagar. Lalu orang-orang harus melempar 5 sen untuk menontonnya. Dan ke situlah datang orang-orang yang lemah jantung, yang sukar tidur hanya karena suara bintang, yang lumpuh, yang pincang. Mereka cabuti bulu pada sayap si tua dan menyentuhkannya pada bagian tubuh mereka yang cacat seraya berharap kesembuhan. Tak sedikit pun dan tak sedetik pun mereka memikirkan si tua, hanya kepentingan pribadi. Tak juga keluarga Pelayo yang kemudian membangun 'istana' dari uang para penonton itu.

Aku membayangkan betapa pragmatisnya manusia, yang selalu memikirkan guna bagi dirinya sendiri, bahkan terhadap malaikat. Kubayangkan si tua bersayap itu jatuh dari langit ke dalam kereta Bakerloo Line yang padat kala pagi. Mungkin kami, ribuan manusia yang bersembunyi tadi, baru akan saling bicara. Tentang apa yang bisa kami manfaatkan darinya, tentang keuntungan yang mungkin kami keruk darinya. Begitu takut aku membayangkan diriku menyentuh kening si tua yang penuh kerut sembari mengucap harap semoga terjadi perbaikan radikal dalam karierku. Barangkali seseorang yang lain akan mencabut sehelai bulu dari sayapnya sambil membayangkan sebuah apartemen mewah di Marble Arch. Yang lain mungkin sekadar menginjak kakinya sambil mengangankan hubungan yang kembali mesra dengan pasangan.

Merinding aku membayangkan betapa manusia bisa jadi begitu pragmatis terhadap apa pun yang dihadapinya. Entah pada hari ke berapa di London, aku memutuskan untuk tidak lagi bersembunyi di balik iPod, buku, apalagi London Lite. Setiap pagi kini aku selalu mencoba menatap muka orang-orang di sekelilingku di kereta, membagi sedikit senyum jika beradu mata dengan mereka yang - sebenarnya dalam hatinya - ingin menyapa. Atau sekadar memiringkan badan di lorong yang sesak agar orang lain bisa lewat, menjawab "no problem at all" ketika mereka mengatakan "thank you". Duduk di sebelah perempuan berkulit legam yang entah kenapa tidak ada seorang pun yang mau menduduki kursi kosong di sebelahnya padahal kereta itu sedang penuh sesak. Aku ingin menatap dengan penuh harap bulu-bulu yang kembali tumbuh di kedua sayap si tua, dan tersenyum melepas dia yang mencoba kembali terbang keluar dari pagar yang mengurungnya, melayang di atas atap-atap rumah tempat para penonton itu bersembunyi.

Nevermore

Terpana aku ketika berganti-ganti kami membacakan puisi Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven, siang itu. Akukah si narator tanpa nama yang menghabiskan umur membaca kearifan-kearifan yang terlupakan, hanya demi melupakan hilangnya orang-orang tercinta? Kalau saja kami tak berlima, barangkali aku sudah berkabung di ruang itu.

Seekor gagak mencangkung di patung Pallas, seperti hendak mengolok-olok rasa kehilangan, mengejek drama yang dibawa kesendirian. Hendak marah aku. Tapi marah hanya akan membuatnya terbang, pikirku. Urung. Dan pikiran ini, kenapa pula semakin jauh menjejak ke belakang, ke yang dulu? Sudahlah. Apa lagi yang dicarinya? Ya, di sana, dalam pigura-pigura, ada potret-potret mereka. Yang pergi. Dan aku yakin, burung itu pun akan pamit, seperti mereka yang lebih dulu berlalu bersama kenangan-kenangannya.

"Nevermore," jawabnya. Ah..., dia gagak yang bicara. Benarkah kau takkan pergi? "Nevermore," ulangnya. Aku mulai ceria. Tapi itu sebelum aku bertanya. Akankah aku bersatu kembali dengan Lenore-ku di surga kelak? Dan dia hanya punya satu jawab: "Nevermore".

Kelas Thea benar-benar meninggalkan kesenduan yang mendalam, bahkan berjam-jam setelah buku kami tutup. Ke mana aku berjalan, seperti ada larik-larik The Raven yang sengaja dibacakan dengan pengeras suara di seluruh sudut London yang menua.

Di Charing X yang riuh:

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

Di peron stasiun London Bridge yang padat:

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Di pelataran Lewisham yang muram:

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Di Blackheath yang memanggil-manggil tangis:

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Begitu terus, diulang dan diulang. Hingga larut mata tak kunjung terpejam. Aku tak henti bertanya, tak usai menggugat. Tapi yang kudengar lagi-lagi "Nevermore" yang tak terbantahkan. Dalam diamku memandangi rintik hujan yang memukul-mukul kaca jendela malam itu, aku sempat berharap sang gagak hinggap di situ. Mungkin aku bisa memintanya berubah jadi nabi. Atau jadi serafim. Mungkin akan kutulis sepucuk surat dan kuminta dia menghantarkannya ke surga. Mungkin aku akan bertanya, mungkinkah aku berubah menjadi burung juga. Tapi mungkin demi mungkin yang tak berkesudahan akhirnya membuatku lelah juga. Dan aku tertidur dalam rindu. Jauh dari pulas. Yang terakhir kuingat hanya "Nevermore".

Minggu Ersen

Menguaplah segala curiga khas first-timer ketika Ersen tua mulai bicara. Dia seorang Tunisia beranak empat yang lahir di Inggris. Tapi aksen Tunisia yang kadang terdengar menggelitik, tak lekang dari bicaranya. Setelah belasan jam kebisuan yang ricuh di sebuah maskapai Arab yang aroma kabinnya seperti aroma di toko rempah, celoteh Ersen si sopir taksi terasa begitu melegakan.

Ersen bukan orang kuliahan, tapi diskusi kami nyambung tentang banyak hal - perlambatan ekonomi dunia, pemanasan global, budaya, dan entah apa lagi. Ersen akan bicara dari sudut pandang pembaca surat kabar dan pemerhati yang awam tapi bersemangat. Tentang musim yang semakin aneh di London. Tentang nyamuk yang puluhan tahun tak ada tapi kini singgah lagi karena London semakin panas. Tentang kebiasaan orang-orang Inggris yang semakin gemar menggesek kartu kredit tanpa berpikir akan membayar dengan apa. Sambil sesekali menekan tombol di alat penjejak lokasi di mobilnya, "Profesor" Ersen akan memberikan kuliah singkatnya tentang sejarah, budaya, dan dinamika sosial di Inggris. Hal-hal trivial seperti beda 'heath' dan 'pasture' atau 'park' dengan 'communal playground', entah kenapa, terdengar begitu menarik ketika keluar dari mulutnya. Dan dia berhasil membuatku tersenyum tak henti di sepanjang jalan.

Jalan-jalan London sepi sore itu. "Beginilah jalanan pada hari Minggu," kata Ersen. Aku bertanya, apa yang dilakukan orang-orang Inggris pada hari minggu. Pergi rekreasi atau tinggal di rumah dan menonton TV, kata Ersen. Tapi, katanya lagi, tak semua orang bisa menikmati semua 'kemewahan' itu. Ada orang-orang yang harus tetap bekerja pada hari Minggu agar tetap hidup. Ya, dia salah satunya. "Hidup semakin berat di negeri ini. Bahan makanan, gas, listrik, makin mahal kian hari," katanya sambil mengenang roti yang dulu bisa didapat dengan uang 20 pence. Ah..., Ersen, dia baru saja merusak gambaran kemakmuran negeri ini yang ada di kepalaku yang naif. Dan segera aku menemukan kesamaan yang dimiliki semua belahan dunia - yang punya dan yang tak punya, yang sejahtera dan yang papa. Di pojok mana pun, dua kelas itu akan ada.

Di tengah perjalanan, sempat pula Ersen menepi untuk membuka jaket tebalnya yang bikin gerah, sambil tak henti meminta maaf sekiranya itu tak sopan. Tak apa, kataku, memandang sekilas kaus buntungnya yang jelas bukan pilihan golongan sejahtera. Aku diam, mereka-reka bagaimana Ersen menjalani hidupnya di kota serba gemerlap ini. Dan tersadar aku, ada sesuatu yang sedari tadi tak sekali pun kudengar dalam celotehnya. Keluh. Ya, tak secuil pun nada keluh terlontar dari mulutnya yang terus bicara. Tak juga tertoreh di wajahnya. Ceritanya tentang hidup yang keras adalah kesimpulan yang ditariknya sambil menceburkan diri dalam hidup yang disebutnya keras itu. Ersen jelas bukan kanak-kanak yang merengek di tepi kolam, menolak terjun. Dia petarung kehidupan yang tak menyerah.

Lamunku buyar saat mobil berhenti. Kami telah tiba di tujuan. Setelah sebuah selamat tinggal dan terima kasih yang cepat, Ersen tua berlalu, mungkin masih akan kembali ke Heathrow untuk menjemput entah siapa. Aku melangkah ke dalam rumah. Terselip seiris kagum yang tak pergi.

Kurz, Henri, dan Cinta

Joe Simpson begitu memukau sore ini dengan The Beckoning Silence-nya yang pedih. Dengan suara yang terkadang patah-patah dan seperti mencari keyakinan, Joe meretas kisah Tony Kurz yang malang, yang mencoba menaklukkan pucuk Eiger di tahun 1936, dan gagal. Bagian akhir film itu begitu menyayat. Kurz bergantung di seutas tali setelah sebuah badai salju yang menggila. Seorang temannya di ujung tali di atas, terikat, mati. Seorang lagi di ujung tali lainnya, tergantung, mati. Kurz di tengah. Aku teringat pada mata kail yang sering orang ikatkan lebih dari satu di seutas senar. Tim penyelamat akhirnya datang. Tapi badai yang belum berhenti mengamuk membuat penyelamatan mustahil. Mereka menyuruh Kurz menunggu di atas sana, menanti pagi tiba.

Pagi yang membekukan. Tangan kiri Kurz sudah membiru karena frostbite. Dia di antara sadar dan tidak. Tapi adegan-adegan akhir itu benar-benar menunjukkan betapa manusia diberkahi dengan naluri untuk bertahan hidup hingga titik penghabisan. Semua upaya yang mungkin telah dilakukan, tapi akhirnya hidup Kurz berakhir di sebuah simpul yang menghambat. "Selesai sudah," katanya dalam bahasa Jerman yang terdengar rapuh. Dan mati.

Ya, Kurz mungkin mati, tapi aku sangat yakin dia telah mati dengan puas. Dia mati setelah berhasil mencapai suatu titik yang belum pernah dicapai siapa pun dalam pendakian menuju puncak Eiger. Pencapaian seringkali punya harga. Mahal. Dan tak banyak yang mau membayar. Aku?

Tapi dalam perjalanan menuju Blackheath yang sunyi, entah kenapa yang menari-nari di kepalaku justru puisi Adrian Henri yang dibacakan Mark Beasley siang tadi dalam kuliahnya tentang revolusi oleh puisi di Liverpool. Mark yang suka bersiul. Mark yang belum juga mengganti bajunya yang kemarin. Mark yang seperti tahu segalanya tentang apa pun. Mark yang benci siswa terlambat, tapi selalu terlambat masuk kelas. Mark yang kuhormati dalam diskusi.

Aku seperti satu-satunya orang yang terpukau oleh topik yang dibicarakan Mark dengan bersemangat. Gadis-gadis Belgia dan Rusia di sekelilingku sibuk mencoret-coret hand-out kuliah. Muka-muka mereka yang seperti baru kembali dari bar, jelas tak menunjukkan minat terhadap kuliah, apalagi kuliah tentang puisi yang punya daya gubah. Dalam hati mungkin mereka sedang berkata, "Yeah, whatever.."

Dan Mark bicara banyak soal lirik-lirik Beatles yang lebih mirip puisi dibanding lagu-lagu picisan di zamannya. Tentang perubahan yang dibawa lirik-lirik itu dalam kehidupan sosial. Ah..., aku bersemangat. Lupa aku pada sereal yang hampir membuatku muntah pagi tadi. Dan setelah kuliah yang bagiku mencerahkan itu, aku dan Mark terlibat dalam diskusi yang pintar. Sempat pula kami membandingkan puisi Adrian Henri dengan definisi cinta Franz dalam The Unbearable Lightness of Being-nya Milan Kundera yang sedang kubaca. Ah..., rasanya tak perlu lagi aku makan siang.

Dan malam ini, di kereta yang dingin menuju Blackheath, yang kuingat cuma larik-larik puisi Adrian Henri, Love Is. Masih dengan sebuah lubang yang menganga di rongga dada. Juga sepi yang seperti tak ingin turun di stasiun Lewisham yang buram. Love is...



Love is...
Love is feeling cold in the back of vans
Love is a fanclub with only two fans
Love is walking holding paintstained hands
Love is.
Love is fish and chips on winter nights
Love is blankets full of strange delights
Love is when you don't put out the light
Love is
Love is the presents in Christmas shops
Love is when you're feeling Top of the Pops
Love is what happens when the music stops
Love is
Love is white panties lying all forlorn
Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm
Love is when you have to leave at dawn
Love is
Love is you and love is me
Love is prison and love is free
Love's what's there when you are away from me
Love is...



Ah..., tahu apa aku?

Menaruh Harap

Aku telah makan. Tapi seperti ada lubang besar menganga di rongga perut. Telah tertawa aku bersama dua teman, tapi tak terasa lepas. Malam ini aku sadar aku sedang sakit justru dalam sendiriku memandangi lampu-lampu jalanan yang seolah berkejaran dari jendela mobil.

Ini sakit yang telah lama tak singgah. Bulan-bulan kemarin aku benar-benar tak merasakannya. Anehnya, sehat ini justru buah dari tak berharap. Aku tahu, semua buku akan bicara soal pentingnya harapan, dan aku akan ditertawai dan dituduh ngawur. Tapi sungguh, tak berharap membuatku sejenak berhenti menaruh orientasi pada apa yang kuinginkan tapi tak kumiliki. Saat-saat tak berharap memberiku waktu hening untuk melihat lebih dekat apa yang telah kumiliki dan belajar menginginkannya.

Tapi malam ini aku sakit. Sesak. Dan segera aku tahu ini sakit karena berharap. Sekalipun yang kuharap cuma sebuah kesempatan mendengarnya dan bicara. Sekalipun yang kuharap hanya sepotong tawa di seberang sana. Sekalipun yang kuharap sekadar sepatah kata. Tapi perihnya bukan kepalang. Berharap dan tak mendapat. Apalagi yang lebih menyayat?

Aku teringat perkataan seorang teman siang tadi, ketika kami tiba-tiba membicarakan tentang rasa sakit dalam kehidupan ini. Dia bilang rasa sakit itu tanda bahwa kita masih hidup. "Tough times don't last, tough people do," celotehku. Semuanya bermula dari lirik Simple Together-nya Alanis Morisette yang, kata temanku tadi, menggambarkan kisahnya pernah. Aku meminta maaf telah membongkar kesedihan yang mungkin lebih ingin dikuburnya, tapi dia bilang tak apa.

Aku pun teringat lirik Alanis yang lain yang lebih sering membuatku teriris dalam sendiriku. That I Would Be Good. Betapa ingin aku menjadi pribadi dalam lagu itu, yang takkan bersedih sekalipun tak lagi raja, yang takkan berduka sekalipun hanya jempol terbalik yang diterima, yang takkan dirundung lara sekalipun tak bersamanya. Yang akan baik-baik saja tanpa segalanya.

Adakah kau pantas diharap? Entah. Tapi apa pun ini, kuharap aku akan tetap baik.

that I would be good even if I did nothing

that I would be good even if I got the thumbs down

that I would be good if I got and stayed sick

that I would be good even if I gained ten pounds

that I would be fine even if I went bankrupt

that I would be good if I lost my hair and my youth

that I would be great if I was no longer queen

that I would be grand if I was not all knowing

that I would be loved even when I numb myself

that I would be good even when I am overwhelmed

that I would be loved even when I was fuming

that I would be good even if I was clingy

that I would be good even if I lost sanity

that I would be goodwhether with or without you

Mencintai ef-ji-di

Suatu hari, dalam khayalku terjadi percakapan begini:

"Beri aku sejuta masalah. Akan kupecahkan tanpa berkedip."
"Sesumbar kau!"
"Just try."
"Karyawan kurang kreatif?"
"FGD."
"Bawahan takut kasih ide?"
"FGD."
"Pesaing mulai mengejar?"
"FGD."
"Bingung cari ide produk baru?"
"FGD."
"Got mampet?"
"FGD."
"Putus cinta?"
"FGD."
"Pacar selingkuh?"
"FGD."
"Hutang jatuh tempo?"
"FGD."
"Jalanan berlubang?"
"FGD."
"Jangan bilang masalah terlambat datang bulan juga bisa dipecahkan dengan..."
"FGD."
"Duhh..., kau ini, semua masalah dijawab pake FGD. Kalau diskusi melulu, kapan action-nya? Jangan-jangan bentar lagi untuk merumuskan apakah perlu FGD atau nggak, apa tujuan FGD-nya, tempatnya, menu makanannya, susunan agendanya, pesertanya, harus dilakukan FGD juga?"
"FGD!"
"Sinting!"

untuk para pecinta FGD di mana pun berada

*FGD: Focus Group Discussion

Mencincang Identitas

Dalam Identity, Milan Kundera mengisahkan Chantal yang gusar karena pria-pria tak lagi memalingkan muka kepadanya ketika dia melenggang. Tapi aku bukan sedang ingin membicarakan buku itu. Di dalam sebuah forum di satu titik waktu di penghujung Agustus, tiba-tiba kata ‘identitas’ meluncur ringan dari mulut seorang teman. Kata itu terdengar seperti tak disengaja. Dia tak diucapkan dengan tekanan, tidak juga diberi jeda setelahnya untuk membiarkannya mengendap. Hanya satu kata di antara berondongan ribuan kata berikutnya. Tapi aku menangkapnya laiknya sesuatu yang maha penting.

Dan ketika giliranku tiba untuk angkat suara, aku pun berceloteh tentang teori identifikasi diri. “Seperti ketika menonton sebuah film, kita hanya akan betah bertahan jika ada satu karakter saja di dalamnya yang kepadanya kita bisa mengidentifikasikan diri,” kataku memberi contoh. Dengan begitu fungsi katarsis dari film itu tepat mengenai kita. Tapi soal teori katarsis ini tidak kuucapkan saat itu, hanya tersimpan di kepala. Lalu aku menjadikan gagasan itu sebagai dasar ketika membicarakan iklan, pembaca, promosi, dll.

Dan seperti biasa, setiap kali bersemangat membicarakan pikiran yang kusukai, aku seperti mengalami trance. Tiba-tiba aku tak peduli lagi orang mengerti atau tidak, orang suka atau tidak, ada yang tersinggung atau tidak. Dunia luar menjadi nomor dua. Setelah trance pagi itu, gagasan-gagasanku dicincang. Disebut brilian namun diikuti dengan ‘tapi’. Aku diam, teringat satu bagian cerita Holden Caulfield dalam The Catcher in the Rye mengenai seorang temannya yang bercerita tentang pamannya dan seluruh kelas menginterupsi dengan kata “Digression!”

Anehnya, aku tak merasa tersinggung. Justru seperti ada rasa kelegaan yang amat sangat yang menekan-nekan dadaku. Akhirnya aku bisa mengerti argumentasi Holden kepada Antolini: pengutaraan pikiran yang jujur adalah pencapaian. Setelah penyincangan berakhir, seorang teman menghampiri, seperti hendak mengejek aku yang baru saja dijagal. “Yang terpenting bagiku adalah aku sudah bersenang-senang dengan pikiranku,” kataku ringan menjawabnya. Kurenungkan kembali apakah aku mengatakannya dengan bersungguh-sungguh. Setelah satu tarikan napas panjang, aku yakin aku bersungguh-sungguh. Entah kenapa aku teringat Chantal dan kerisauannya. Dia yang menaruh nilai dirinya pada berpaling-tidaknya orang lain ketika dia melenggang.

Tiba-tiba aku merasakan dorongan yang kuat untuk pulang, mandi, lalu menyelesaikan Identity itu sambil bersandar di dinding dengan bantal sebagai alas punggung. Dan Senin depan aku akan ikut puasa mengumpat.

Membenci Upham

Dalam perjalanan ke Ramelle, Kapten Miller memutuskan untuk menetralisir sebuah senjata mesin Jerman di dekat sebuah stasiun radar yang telah ditinggalkan. Hampir semua anak buahnya menentang keputusan itu. Alasan mereka, itu bukan misi utama. Tapi Miller menghardik, jika tidak "dibersihkan", pasukan yang akan datang setelah mereka akan jadi korban. Mereka pun bertempur. Wade, seorang tenaga medik, terluka parah. Miller dan anak buahnya menutup lubang-lubang peluru di tubuhnya ketika Wade mulai tersedak oleh darahnya sendiri. Ditanya apa permintaan terakhirnya, Wade hanya meminta lebih banyak morfin. Dan dia selesai..

Tentara Jerman terakhir yang masih hidup di situ jadi bulan-bulanan mereka. Geram, semua orang sepakat bunuh. Tapi Kopral Timothy P. Upham bersikeras si Jerman tak boleh dibunuh. "It's against the Goddamn rules!" sergahnya pada Kapten Miller. Lalu Miller pun melepas si Jerman dengan mata tertutup kain, berjalan ke depan, menghitung hingga 1000.

Di Ramelle, pertempuran hebat tak terelakkan. Upham yang sedari awal tak pernah membunuh, ditugasi untuk membawa amunisi ke personil yang terpisah-pisah. Mellish di lantai atas sebuah bangunan tua, menghantam pasukan Jerman dengan senapannya dari atas. Sadar kehabisan peluru, Mellish memanggil-manggil Upham yang di luar berdiri kaku, gemetar oleh desing peluru. Dengan sisa-sisa keberanian akhirnya dia berhasil mendekat ke tempat Mellish. Di atas Mellish bertarung tangan kosong dengan seorang Jerman - ternyata si Jerman yang dulu mereka lepaskan atas ketidaksetujuan Upham. Mellish mati oleh sebuah tikaman yang begitu lambat ke jantungnya. Dia memandangi mata si Jerman yang menikamnya itu. Mungkin masih didengarnya bunyi logam tajam itu menembus daging, tulang dada, dan kemudian jantungnya. Dia pun selesai.

Di bawah, Upham terisak, mendengar suara Mellish tak lagi ada. Tangannya telah ada di picu senapan, gemetar. Si Jerman turun, tak menghiraukannya karena menganggapnya tak akan bisa berbuat apa-apa.

Barangkali Upham akan mengenang, sekiranya dulu dia setuju si Jerman di-"selesaikan" saja, Mellish masih akan bisa tertawa bersamanya. Barangkali-barangkali yang tak akan menghasilkan apa-apa. Ada saat di mana nilai-nilai kebaikan menjadi begitu abu-abu. Upham tentu berharap rasa kemanusiaan berbuah rasa kemanusiaan pula. Tapi dia lupa ini perang. Bahkan mungkin untuk menyebut "against the rules" pun siapa saja perlu merenung dalam perang. Membingungkan. Terlalu banyak yang tak adil. Saya, di satu sisi, geram pada Upham dan menyebutnya banci - apalagi dia pula yang selamat dari pertempuran Ramelle itu. Tapi benarkah mematuhi peraturan - tidak membunuh musuh yang telah menyerah - sepenuhnya salah? Lantas apa yang benar? Saya tetap geram setelah selesai menonton Saving Private Ryan itu, tapi tak berani lagi menghakimi.

Nyebut

Dan semakin banyak orang yang menyebut-nyebut Tuhan dalam keseharian seperti menyebut-nyebut Noam Chomsky ketika membicarakan propaganda.

mejakerja

Meja kerjaku pagi ini:

• Jejeran buku-buku, mulai dari yang njelimet kayak The Conditions of Learning-nya Robert M. Gagne hingga yang remeh - dan sok tahu - macam Truly Mars & Venus tulisan John Gray. Rasanya sudah lama tak dibersihkan. Banyak serpihan-serpihan hitam mirip jelaga di atasnya. Aku menengadah, ternyata dari AC. *Oh.., sudah berapa banyak yang kuhirup?*
• Tiga tumpuk kartu nama. Dua jenis, katanya. Tapi aku tak tahu apa, tak pernah kubuka. Bingung. Gemar sekali perusahaan ini bikin kartu nama.
• Sebuah botol minum aluminimum bertuliskan 'Los Angeles Lakers'. Semoga mereka menang dalam laga final keempat lawan Celtics.
• Jam meja Black Pig & White Pig. Mati!
• Kaleng permen fox yang isinya macam-macam - stapler, stabilo, correction fluid, bolpen merah dan biru, post-it.
• Kalender Honda. Mei dan Juni gambarnya New CR-V. Lupakan!
• Foto aku dan kawan-kawan lama di sebuah pesta ulang tahun anak seorang bos.
• Tumpukan naskah-naskah yang tak rapi.
• Tumpukan buku-buku baru terbit. Kebenaran? Mudah sekali kau menyebut kebenaran.
• Tumpukan buku-buku mini, mulai dari Long Life, A Treasury of Love Poems, The Little Book of Chinese Proverbs. Prett!
  

Danny boy, kau perlu satu hari untuk menyingkirkan semua sampah itu. Toh yang kau perlukan cuma satu bolpen merah, satu bolpen hitam/biru, flashdisk 1 GB. Cukup kan?

Far

"I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it's both. Maybe both is happening at the same time. I miss you. If there's anything you need, I won't be far away."

Judging Books by Their Covers

"Ini salah satu bab favoritku di Surely You're Joking Mr. Feynman. Sang jenius tak sedikit pun mau mengkompromikan ilmunya. Yang buruk dia sebut buruk. Yang bagus dia katakan bagus. Dia pertahankan integritasnya sekalipun orang-orang di sekitarnya telah memilih untuk penjadi pengikut dan membodohkan diri. Sangat menohok untuk siapa pun yang bergerak di industri perbukuan, tempat di mana segala cara digunakan demi menjual 'ilmu pengetahuan'. Benar-benar pelajaran berharga soal integritas!" - Dan





After the war, physicists were often asked to go to Washington and give advice to various sections of the government, especially the military. What happened, I suppose, is that since the scientists had made these bombs that were so important, the military felt we were useful for something.

Once I was asked to serve on a committee which was to evaluate various weapons for the army, and I wrote a letter back which explained that I was only a theoretical physicist, and I didn’t know anything about weapons for the army.

The army responded that they had found in their experience that theoretical physicists were very useful to them in making decisions, so would I please reconsider?

I wrote back again and said I didn’t really know anything, and doubted I could help them.

Finally I got a letter from the Secretary of the Army, which proposed a compromise: I would come to the first meeting, where I could listen and see whether I could make a contribution or not. Then I could decide whether I should continue.

I said I would, of course. What else could I do?

I went down to Washington and the first thing that I went to was a cocktail party to meet everybody. There were generals and other important characters from the army, and everybody talked. It was pleasant enough.

One guy in a uniform came to me and told me that the army was glad that physicists were advising the military because it had a lot of problems. One of the problems was that tanks use up their fuel very quickly and thus can’t go very far. So the question was how to refuel them as they’re going along. Now this guy had the idea that, since the physicists can get energy out of uranium, could I work out a way in which we could use silicon dioxide–sand, dirt–as a fuel? If that were possible, then all this tank would have to do would be to have a little scoop underneath, and as it goes along, it would pick up the dirt and use it for fuel! He thought that was a great idea, and that all I had to do was to work out the details. That was the kind of problem I thought we would be talking about in the meeting the next day.

I went to the meeting and noticed that some guy who had introduced me to all the people at the cocktail party was sitting next to me. He was apparently some flunky assigned to be at my side at all times. On my other side was some super general I had heard of before.

At the first session of the meeting they talked about some technical matters, and I made a few comments. But later on, near the end of the meeting, they began to discuss some problem of logistics, about which I knew nothing. It had to do with figuring out how much stuff you should have at different places at different times. And although I tried to keep my trap shut, when you get into a situation like that, where you’re sitting around a table with all these “important people” discussing these “important problems,” you can’t keep your mouth shut, even if you know nothing whatsoever! So I made some comments in that discussion, too.

During the next coffee break the guy who had been assigned to shepherd me around said, “I was very impressed by the things you said during the discussion. They certainly were an important contribution.”

I stopped and thought about my “contribution” to the logistics problem, and realized that a man like the guy who orders the stuff for Christmas at Macy’s would be better able to figure out how to handle problems like that than I. So I concluded: a) if I had made an important contribution, it was sheer luck; b) anybody else could have done as well, but most people could have done better , and c) this flattery should wake me up to the fact that I am not capable of contributing much.

Right after that they decided, in the meeting, that they could do better discussing the organization of scientific research (such as, should scientific development be under the Corps of Engineers or the Quartermaster Division?) than specific technical matters. I knew that if there was to be any hope of my making a real contribution, it would be only on some specific technical matter, and surely not on how to organize research in the army.

Until then I didn’t let on any of my feelings about the situation to the chairman of the meeting–the big shot who had invited me in the first place. As we were packing our bags to leave, he said to me, all smiles, “You’ll be joining us, then, for the next meeting..

“No, I won’t.” I could see his face change suddenly. He was very surprised that I would say no, after making those “contributions.”

In the early sixties, a lot of my friends were still giving advice to the government. Meanwhile, I was having no feeling of social responsibility and resisting, as much as possible, offers to go to Washington, which took a certain amount of courage in those times.


I was giving a series of freshman physics lectures at that time, and after one of them, Tom Harvey, who assisted me in putting on the demonstrations, said, “You oughta see what’s happening to mathematics in schoolbooks! My daughter comes home with a lot of crazy stuff!”

I didn’t pay much attention to what he said.

But the next day I got a telephone call from a pretty famous lawyer here in Pasadena, Mr. Norris, who was at that time on the State Board of Education. He asked me if I would serve on the State Curriculum Commission, which had to choose the new schoolbooks for the state of California. You see, the state had a law that all of the schoolbooks used by all of the kids in all of the public schools have to be chosen by the State Board of Education, so they have a committee to look over the books and to give them advice on which books to take.

It happened that a lot of the books were on a new method of teaching arithmetic that they called “new math,” and since usually the only people to look at the books were schoolteachers or administrators in education, they thought it would be a good idea to have somebody who uses mathematics scientifically, who knows what the end product is and what we’re trying to teach it for, to help in the evaluation of the schoolbooks.

I must have had, by this time, a guilty feeling about not cooperating with the government, because I agreed to get on this committee.

Immediately I began getting letters and telephone calls from book publishers. They said things like, “We’re very glad to hear you’re on the committee because we really wanted a scientific guy … and “It’s wonderful to have a scientist on the committee, because our books are scientifically oriented …”

But they also said things like, “We’d like to explain to you what our book is about …” and “We’ll be very glad to help you in any way we can to judge our books …”

That seemed to me kind of crazy. I’m an objective scientist, and it seemed to me that since the only thing the kids in school are going to get is the books (and the teachers get the teacher’s manual, which I would also get), any extra explanation from the company was a distortion. So I didn’t want to speak to any of the publishers and always replied, “You don’t have to explain; I’m sure the books will speak for themselves.”

I represented a certain district, which comprised most of the Los Angeles area except for the city of Los Angeles, which was represented by a very nice lady from the L.A. school system named Mrs. Whitehouse. Mr. Norris suggested that I meet her and find out what the committee did and how it worked.

Mrs. Whitehouse started out telling me about the stuff they were going to talk about in the next meeting (they had already had one meeting; I was appointed late). “They’re going to talk about the counting numbers.” I didn’t know what that was, but it turned out they were what I used to call integers. They had different names for everything, so I had a lot of trouble right from the start.

She told me how the members of the commission normally rated the new schoolbooks. They would get a relatively large number of copies of each book and would give them to various teachers and administrators in their district. Then they would get reports back on what these people thought about the books. Since I didn’t know a lot of teachers or administrators, and since I felt that I could, by reading the books myself, make up my mind as to how they looked to me , I chose to read all the books myself. (There were some people in my district who had expected to look at the books and wanted a chance to give their opinion. Mrs. Whitehouse offered to put their reports in with hers so they would feel better and I wouldn’t have to worry about their complaints. They were satisfied, and I didn’t get much trouble.)

A few days later a guy from the book depository called me up and said, “We’re ready to send you the books, Mr. Feynman; there are three hundred pounds.”

I was overwhelmed.

“It’s all right, Mr. Feynman; we’ll get someone to help you read them.”

I couldn’t figure out how you do that: you either read them or you don’t read them. I had a special bookshelf put in my study downstairs (the books took up seventeen feet), and began reading all the books that were going to be discussed in the next meeting. We were going to start out with the elementary schoolbooks.

It was a pretty big job, and I worked all the time at it down in the basement. My wife says that during this period it was like living over a volcano. It would be quiet for a while, but then all of a sudden, “BLLLLLOOOOOOWWWWW!!!!”–there would be a big explosion from the “volcano” below. The reason was that the books were so lousy. They were false. They were hurried. They would try to be rigorous, but they would use examples (like automobiles in the street for “sets”) which were almost OK, but in which there were always some subtleties. The definitions weren’t accurate. Everything was a little bit ambiguous–they weren’t smart enough to understand what was meant by “rigor.” They were faking it. They were teaching something they didn’t understand, and which was, in fact, useless , at that time, for the child.

I understood what they were trying to do. Many people thought we were behind the Russians after Sputnik, and some mathematicians were asked to give advice on how to teach math by using some of the rather interesting modern concepts of mathematics. The purpose was to enhance mathematics for the children who found it dull.

I’ll give you an example: They would talk about different bases of numbers–five, six, and so on–to show the possibilities. That would be interesting for a kid who could understand base ten–something to entertain his mind. But what they had turned it into, in these books, was that every child had to learn another base! And then the usual horror would come: “Translate these numbers, which are written in base seven, to base five.” Translating from one base to another is an utterly useless thing. If you can do it, maybe it’s entertaining; if you can’t do it, forget it. There’s no point to it.

Anyhow, I’m looking at all these books, all these books, and none of them has said anything about using arithmetic in science. If there are any examples on the use of arithmetic at all (most of the time it’s this abstract new modern nonsense), they are about things like buying stamps.

Finally I come to a book that says, “Mathematics is used in science in many ways. We will give you an example from astronomy, which is the science of stars.” I turn the page, and it says, “Red stars have a temperature of four thousand degrees, yellow stars have a temperature of five thousand degrees …”–so far, so good. It continues: “Green stars have a temperature of seven thousand degrees, blue stars have a temperature of ten thousand degrees, and violet stars have a temperature of … (some big number).” There are no green or violet stars, but the figures for the others are roughly correct. It’s vaguely right–but already, trouble! That’s the way everything was: Everything was written by somebody who didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, so it was a little bit wrong, always! And how we are going to teach well by using books written by people who don’t quite understand what they’re talking about, I cannot understand. I don’t know why, but the books are lousy; UNIVERSALLY LOUSY!

Anyway, I’m happy with this book, because it’s the first example of applying arithmetic to science. I’m a bit unhappy when I read about the stars’ temperatures, but I’m not very unhappy because it’s more or less right–it’s just an example of error. Then comes the list of problems. It says, “John and his father go out to look at the stars. John sees two blue stars and a red star. His father sees a green star, a violet star, and two yellow stars. What is the total temperature of the stars seen by John and his father?”–and I would explode in horror.

My wife would talk about the volcano downstairs. That’s only an example: it was perpetually like that. Perpetual absurdity! There’s no purpose whatsoever in adding the temperature of two stars. Nobody ever does that except, maybe, to then take the average temperature of the stars, but not to find out the total temperature of all the stars! It was awful! All it was was a game to get you to add, and they didn’t understand what they were talking about. It was like reading sentences with a few typographical errors, and then suddenly a whole sentence is written backwards. The mathematics was like that. Just hopeless!

Then I came to my first meeting. The other members had given some kind of ratings to some of the books, and they asked me what my ratings were. My rating was often different from theirs, and they would ask, “Why did you rate that book low?”

I would say the trouble with that book was this and this on page so‑and‑so–I had my notes.

They discovered that I was kind of a goldmine: I would tell them, in detail, what was good and bad in all the books; I had a reason for every rating.

I would ask them why they had rated this book so high, and they would say, “Let us hear what you thought about such and such a book.” I would never find out why they rated anything the way they did. Instead, they kept asking me what I thought.

We came to a certain book, part of a set of three supplementary books published by the same company, and they asked me what I thought about it.

I said, “The book depository didn’t send me that book, but the other two were nice.”

Someone tried repeating the question: “What do you think about that book?”

“I said they didn’t send me that one, so I don’t have any judgment on it.”

The man from the book depository was there, and he said, “Excuse me; I can explain that. I didn’t send it to you because that book hadn’t been completed yet. There’s a rule that you have to have every entry in by a certain time, and the publisher was a few days late with it. So it was sent to us with just the covers, and it’s blank in between. The company sent a note excusing themselves and hoping they could have their set of three books considered, even though the third one would be late.”

It turned out that the blank book had a rating by some of the other members! They couldn’t believe it was blank, because they had a rating. In fact, the rating for the missing book was a little bit higher than for the two others. The fact that there was nothing in the book had nothing to do with the rating.

I believe the reason for all this is that the system works this way: When you give books all over the place to people, they’re busy; they’re careless; they think, “Well, a lot of people are reading this book, SO it doesn’t make any difference.” And they put in some kind of number–some of them, at least; not all of them, but some of them. Then when you receive your reports, you don’t know why this particular book has fewer reports than the other books–that is, perhaps one book has ten, and this one only has six people reporting–so you average the rating of those who reported; you don’t average the ones who didn’t report, so you get a reasonable number. This process of averaging all the time misses the fact that there is absolutely nothing between the covers of the book!

I made that theory up because I saw what happened in the curriculum commission: For the blank book, only six out of the ten members were reporting, whereas with the other books, eight or nine out of the ten were reporting. And when they averaged the six, they got as good an average as when they averaged with eight or nine. They were very embarrassed to discover they were giving ratings to that book, and it gave me a little bit more confidence. It turned out the other members of the committee had done a lot of work in giving out the books and collecting reports, and had gone to sessions in which the book publishers would explain the books before they read them; I was the only guy on that commission who read all the books and didn’t get any information from the book publishers except what was in the books themselves, the things that would ultimately go to the schools.

This question of trying to figure out whether a book is good or bad by looking at it carefully or by taking the reports of a lot of people who looked at it carelessly is like this famous old problem: Nobody was permitted to see the Emperor of China, and the question was, What is the length of the Emperor of China’s nose? To find out, you go all over the country asking people what they think the length of the Emperor of China’s nose is, and you average it. And that would be very “accurate” because you averaged so many people. But it’s no way to find anything out; when you have a very wide range of people who contribute without looking carefully at it, you don’t improve your knowledge of the situation by averaging.

At first we weren’t supposed to talk about the cost of the books. We were told how many books we could choose, so we designed a program which used a lot of supplementary books, because all the new textbooks had failures of one kind or another. The most serious failures were in the “new math” books: there were no applications; not enough word problems. There was no talk of selling stamps; instead there was too much talk about commutation and abstract things and not enough translation to situations in the world. What do you do: add, subtract, multiply, or divide? So we suggested some books which had some of that as supplementary–one or two for each classroom–in addition to a textbook for each student. We had it all worked out to balance everything, after much discussion.

When we took our recommendations to the Board of Education, they told us they didn’t have as much money as they had thought, so we’d have to go over the whole thing and cut out this and that, now taking the cost into consideration, and ruining what was a fairly balanced program, in which there was a chance for a teacher to find examples of the things (s)he needed.

Now that they changed the rules about how many books we could recommend and we had no more chance to balance, it was a pretty lousy program. When the senate budget committee got to it, the program was emasculated still further. Now it was really lousy! I was asked to appear before the state senators when the issue was being discussed, but I declined: By that time, having argued this stuff so much, I was tired. We had prepared our recommendations for the Board of Education, and I figured it was their job to present it to the state–which was legally right, but not politically sound. I shouldn’t have given up so soon, but to have worked so hard and discussed so much about all these books to make a fairly balanced program, and then to have the whole thing scrapped at the end–that was discouraging! The whole thing was an unnecessary effort that could have been turned around and done the opposite way: start with the cost of the books, and buy what you can afford.

What finally clinched it, and made me ultimately resign, was that the following year we were going to discuss science books. I thought maybe the science would be different, so I looked at a few of them.

The same thing happened: something would look good at first and then turn out to be horrifying. For example, there was a book that started out with four pictures: first there was a wind‑up toy; then there was an automobile; then there was a boy riding a bicycle; then there was something else. And underneath each picture it said, “What makes it go?”

I thought, “I know what it is: They’re going to talk about mechanics, how the springs work inside the toy; about chemistry, how the engine of the automobile works; and biology, about how the muscles work.”

It was the kind of thing my father would have talked about: “What makes it go? Everything goes because the sun is shining.” And then we would have fun discussing it:

“No, the toy goes because the spring is wound up,” I would say. “How did the spring get wound up?” he would ask. “I wound it up.” “And how did you get moving?” “From eating.” “And food grows only because the sun is shining. So it’s because the sun is shining that all these things are moving.” That would get the concept across that motion is simply the transformation of the sun’s power.

I turned the page. The answer was, for the wind‑up toy, “Energy makes it go.” And for the boy on the bicycle, “Energy makes it go.” For everything, “Energy makes it go.”

Now that doesn’t mean anything. Suppose it’s “Wakalixes.” That’s the general principle: “Wakalixes makes it go.” There’s no knowledge coming in. The child doesn’t learn anything; it’s just a word !

What they should have done is to look at the wind‑up toy, see that there are springs inside, learn about springs, learn about wheels, and never mind “energy.” Later on, when the children know something about how the toy actually works, they can discuss the more general principles of energy.

It’s also not even true that “energy makes it go,” because if it stops, you could say, “energy makes it stop” just as well, What they’re talking about is concentrated energy being transformed into more dilute forms, which is a very subtle aspect of energy. Energy is neither increased nor decreased in these examples; it’s just changed from one form to another. And when the things stop, the energy is changed into heat, into general chaos.

But that’s the way all the books were: They said things that were useless, mixed‑up, ambiguous, confusing, and partially incorrect. How anybody can learn science from these books, I don’t know, because it’s not science.

So when I saw all these horrifying books with the same kind of trouble as the math books had, I saw my volcano process starting again. Since I was exhausted from reading all the math books, and discouraged from its all being a wasted effort, I couldn’t face another year of that, and had to resign.

Sometime later I heard that the energy‑makes‑it‑go book was going to be recommended by the curriculum commission to the Board of Education, so I made one last effort. At each meeting of the commission the public was allowed to make comments, so I got up and said why I thought the book was bad.

The man who replaced me on the commission said, “That book was approved by sixty‑five engineers at the Such‑and‑such Aircraft Company!”

I didn’t doubt that the company had some pretty good engineers, but to take sixty‑five engineers is to take a wide range of ability–and to necessarily include some pretty poor guys! It was once again the problem of averaging the length of the emperor’s nose, or the ratings on a book with nothing between the covers. It would have been far better to have the company decide who their better engineers were, and to have them look at the book. I couldn’t claim that I was smarter than sixty‑five other guys–but the average of sixty five other guys, certainly!

I couldn’t get through to him, and the book was approved by the board.

When I was still on the commission, I had to go to San Francisco a few times for some of the meetings, and when I returned to Los Angeles from the first trip, I stopped in the commission office to get reimbursed for my expenses.

“How much did it cost, Mr. Feynman?”

“Well, I flew to San Francisco, so it’s the airfare, plus the parking at the airport while I was away.”

“Do you have your ticket?”

I happened to have the ticket.

“Do you have a receipt for the parking?”

“No, but it cost $2.35 to park my car.”

“But we have to have a receipt.” “I told you how much it cost.

If you don’t trust me, why do you let me tell you what I think is good and bad about the schoolbooks?”

There was a big stew about that. Unfortunately, I had been used to giving lectures for some company or university or for ordinary people, not for the government. I was used to, “What were your expenses?”–”So‑and‑so much.”–”Here you are, Mr. Feynman.”

I then decided I wasn’t going to give them a receipt for anything . After the second trip to San Francisco they again asked me for my ticket and receipts.

“I haven’t got any.” “This can’t go on, Mr. Feynman.”

“When I accepted to serve on the commission, I was told you were going to pay my expenses.”

“But we expected to have some receipts to prove the expenses.”

“I have nothing to prove it, but you know I live in Los Angeles and I go to these other towns; how the hell do you think I get there?”

They didn’t give in, and neither did I. I feel when you’re in a position like that, where you choose not to buckle down to the System, you must pay the consequences if it doesn’t work. So I’m perfectly satisfied, but I never did get compensation for the trips.

It’s one of those games I play. They want a receipt? I’m not giving them a receipt. Then you’re not going to get the money. OK, then I’m not taking the money. They don’t trust me? The hell with it; they don’t have to pay me. Of course it’s absurd! I know that’s the way the government works; well, screw the government! I feel that human beings should treat human beings like human beings. And unless I’m going to be treated like one, I’m not going to have anything to do with them! They feel bad? They feel bad. I feel bad, too. We’ll just let it go. I know they’re “protecting the taxpayer,” but see how well you think the taxpayer was being protected in the following situation.

There were two books that we were unable to come to a decision about after much discussion; they were extremely close. So we left it open to the Board of Education to decide. Since the board was now taking the cost into consideration, and since the two books were so evenly matched, the board decided to open the bids and take the lower one.

Then the question came up, “Will the schools be getting the books at the regular time, or could they, perhaps, get them a little earlier, in time for the coming term?”

One publisher’s representative got up and said, “We are happy that you accepted our bid; we can get it out in time for the next term.”

A representative of the publisher that lost out was also there, and he got up and said, “Since our bids were submitted based on the later deadline, I think we should have a chance a bid again for the earlier deadline, because we too can meet the earlier deadline.”

Mr. Norris, the Pasadena lawyer on the board, asked the guy from the other publisher, “And how much would it cost for us to get your books at the earlier date?”

And he gave a number: It was less !

The first guy got up: “If he changes his bid, I have the right to change my bid!”–and his bid is still less!

Norris asked, “Well how is that–we get the books earlier and it’s cheaper ?”

“Yes,” one guy says. “We can use a special offset method we wouldn’t normally use …”–some excuse why it came out cheaper.

The other guy agreed: “When you do it quicker, it costs less!”

That was really a shock. It ended up two million dollars cheaper. Norris was really incensed by this sudden change.

What happened, of course, was that the uncertainty about the date had opened the possibility that these guys could bid against each other. Normally, when books were supposed to be chosen without taking the cost into consideration, there was no reason to lower the price; the book publishers could put the prices at any place they wanted to. There was no advantage in competing by lowering the price; the way you competed was to impress the members of the curriculum commission.

By the way, whenever our commission had a meeting, there were book publishers entertaining curriculum commission members by taking them to lunch and talking to them about their books. I never went.

It seems obvious now, but I didn’t know what was happening the time I got a package of dried fruit and whatnot delivered by Western Union with a message that read, “From our family to yours, Happy Thanksgiving–The Pamilios.”

It was from a family I had never heard of in Long Beach, obviously someone wanting to send this to his friend’s family who got the name and address wrong, so I thought I’d better straighten it out. I called up Western Union, got the telephone number of the people who sent the stuff, and I called them.

“Hello, my name is Mr. Feynman. I received a package …”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Feynman, this is Pete Pamilio” and he says it in such a friendly way that I think I’m supposed to know who he is! I’m normally such a dunce that I can’t remember who anyone is.

So I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Pamilio, but I don’t quite remember who you are …”

It turned out he was a representative of one of the publishers whose books I had to judge on the curriculum commission.

“I see. But this could be misunderstood.”

“It’s only family to family.”

“Yes, but I’m judging a book that you’re publishing, and maybe someone might misinterpret your kindness!” I knew what was happening, but I made it sound like I was a complete idiot.

Another thing like this happened when one of the publishers sent me a leather briefcase with my name nicely written in gold on it. I gave them the same stuff: “I can’t accept it; I’m judging some of the books you’re publishing. I don’t think you understand that!”

One commissioner, who had been there for the greatest length of time, said, “I never accept the stuff; it makes me very upset. But it just goes on.”

But I really missed one opportunity. If I had only thought fast enough, I could have had a very good time on that commission. I got to the hotel in San Francisco in the evening to attend my very first meeting the next day, and I decided to go out to wander in the town and eat something. I came out of the elevator, and sitting on a bench in the hotel lobby were two guys who jumped up and said, “Good evening, Mr. Feynman. Where are you going? Is there something we can show you in San Francisco?” They were from a publishing company, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with them.

“I’m going out to eat.”

“We can take you out to dinner.”

“No, I want to be alone.”

“Well, whatever you want, we can help you.”

I couldn’t resist. I said, “Well, I’m going out to get myself in trouble.”

“I think we can help you in that , too.”

“No, I think I’ll take care of that myself.” Then I thought, “What an error! I should have let all that stuff operate and keep a diary, so the people of the state of California could find out how far the publishers will go!” And when I found out about the two‑million‑dollar difference, God knows what the pressures are! (Dikutip dari Surely You're Joking Mr. Feynman)

Kathleen Kelly's Philosophy of Selling Books

The main theme of a film is always constructed by a lot of subthemes. These subthemes are often not related directly to the main theme, but there they are to provide the settings for the main theme to develop. Therefore, if you give an extra effort to break a film down into chunks - instead of just look at the big picture, ignoring the subthemes and subplots - and examine each chunk as an individual theme, you will be able to learn a lot of different things from a single movie. And it's often totally different from the main theme.

That's what I did the last time I watched Nora Ephron's You've Got Mail. Instead of putting myself in a sentimental state watching the funny romance of Joe Fox and Kathleen Kelly, I focused on their conflict in the book business - not that I thought romance is a cliche, it's just a try to see beyond the thing that average viewer will perceive.

The first valuable principle was formulated by Katheen when she first met Joe Fox in The Shop Around the Corner. "I started helping my mother here after school when I was six years old. I used to watch her, and it wasn't that she was selling books, it was that she was helping people become whoever they were going to turn out to be. When you read a book as a child it becomes part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your life does."

Off course what Kathleen and her mom did was selling. They got money from books. But the selling was definitely not driven by the money, but by the passion to help people to be whoever they're going to be. Books are seen as equipments for people in their quest to find the self. I think this passion will lead anyone - especially editors - in the book business to make books based on the values they'll give to people's lives, instead of merely on whether it will be sold out or not. The same passion will lead salespeople to sell books that people really need, not books that the salespeople (pretend to) think people need.

Another valuable principle was stated when Kathleen's employees - George, Christina, and Birdie - were talking about their worries seeing the Fox Books store. Kathleen ensured them that they're going to be fine saying, "They're big, impersonal, and full of ignorant salespeople!" Those are at least two deadly sins of a big business: impersonality and ignorance.

In the small The Shop Around the Corner, kids can still sit down listening to the booklady reading a section from Roald Dahl's celebrated autobiography Boy, describing "The Great Mouse Plot of 1923". There were interactions - socially and emotionally - in it, compared to the deep couch and cappuccino offered by Fox Books store as a bribe. There won't be a scene in Fox Books store where a reader cried after reading a touching book and Cecilia Kelly offered a box of kleenex. Instead, individuals will only stroll around from shelf to shelf to find a title and then pay - the thing they can always do in any other places. At The Shop Around the Corner, emotional attachment doesn't only appear between buyer and books, but also between buyer and seller. Buying is not merely an economic activity, it's an experience.

Ignorance was beautifully pictured by the scene in children book section in Fox Books store where a lady were looking for a book and all she can remember was that it contains the word 'shoes'. And the salesman had no idea of what she was talking about. Kathleen who happened to be there explained crying that what she was looking for were the Shoes series of Noel Streatfeild that were out of print already. Kathleen then recommend the Ballet Shoes. In Fox Bookstore, there will be no George Papas explaining to Joe Fox about beautifully crafted hand-illustrations. Ignorance is all we will find when I go to to big bookstores nowadays.

At the end of the film we saw Fox Books store won, putting The Shop Around the Corner into bankruptcy. Yes, I fully understand that the success of a business - note that success nowadays is identical only to financial gain and survival - is determined by sophisticated terms such as marketing strategy and tactic, updated management technique, and so on. But when we talk about quality, I don't think that's enough. I am not blaming modern mega stores. Such a store gives more people chances to earn their living. But I have a vision of putting those principles together in a more humane business: passion to help people, personality, knowledgability, and marketing strategies and tactics. Only by that way I think you can make a growing business which at the same time gives people experience. But still a sad question popped up in my mind, "Is that what today's people really want - discount, cappuccino, gimmick, deep couch?" How sad...

Menonton Kitty di Jakarta

Di suapan terakhir nasi lemak yang enak, potongan penghabisan kari ayam yang nyam-nyam, kami terhentak oleh jerit perempuan di lantai dasar. Kami tinggalkan piring kami, bersama orang-orang lain di resto pengusung nama negeri jiran itu menghambur ke luar, mencari tempat di mana mata kami leluasa melihat apa yang terjadi di lantai bawah. Di lantai bawah keadaan kacau. Baju-baju yang dipajang berserakan di lantai. Puluhan orang, kebanyakan perempuan, berlarian tak tentu arah. Butuh tiga menit setidaknya untuk mengetahui benar apa yang membuat orang-orang itu histeris, karena terlalu banyak objek bergerak di bawah sehingga sukar menentukan fokus. Tapi tak lama kemudian seorang pria bergerak ke tengah. Di tangannya sebilah klewang. Teriakan ibu-ibu kian melengking ketika senjata tajam itu diacung-acungkannya entah dengan tujuan apa. Ketika dia berbalik, aku dapat melihat dengan jelas bajunya yang kuyup oleh darah yang mengalir dari luka bacok di kepala. Lalu dia berjalan kian gontai menuju pintu keluar pusat keramaian itu. Sesekali dia berhenti sambil menyeka darah yang kian deras. Lelah mungkin. Sempat pula dia duduk di salah satu kedai kopi. Entah apa yang dipikirkannya. Dua menit kemudian temannya, juga dengan parang di tangan, menghampiri dan memapahnya ke luar.

Dan aku diajak berpikir, bukan terutama oleh adegan berdarah-darah di bawah, tetapi oleh apa kata orang dan aku tentang kejadian itu. Aku sendiri harus mengaku telah termakan stereotip. "FPI kayaknya," ujarku pada seorang teman ketika kami masih sama-sama tak tahu apa yang terjadi. "Tadi aku lihat celananya cingkrang," jawabku ketika dia tanya kenapa aku bisa tahu. Beberapa orang lain di sekitar kami membuat sangkaan senada. Maklum, peristiwa itu hanya berjarak beberapa hari dari tragedi monas. Sebenarnya dugaan awalku adalah bom. Kepada seorang teman sempat pula aku bilang, dulu kalau ada ledakan bom, redpel-ku pasti langsung suruh aku turun, ngubek-ngubek TKP dan rumah sakit untuk cari korban dengan kisah paling tragis, paling heroik, atau paling klenik. "Jangan lupa tanyakan soal firasat, Dan," kata redpel-ku pula dengan cerdasnya. Oh dunia... Di dekat sebuah restoran cepat saji, cerita yang berkembang lain lagi. Dua orang pramusaji justru berkelakar betapa akan lebih seru peristiwa tadi kalau ada adegan adu pedang seperti di film-film laga mandarin. Seorang bapak setengah baya justru membahas rasa jijik. "Hilang selera makan saya ngeliatnya." Ada suami yang menyuruh istrinya menjauh dari tangga, siapa tahu orang-orang yang bertikai di bawah naik ke lantai dua.

Yang kemudian terpikir olehku adalah reaksi orang-orang ketika lelaki yang terluka itu berjalan gontai kehabisan darah. Semua orang justru menyingkir, menjauh. Ada lebih dari lima satpam yang mengikutinya, tapi bukan dengan maksud meringkus atau menolong, melainkan hanya ingin memberinya jalan sambil memastikan dia tidak menyerang pengunjung. Laki-laki itu seperti banteng habis dihunus yang kemudian ditontoni hingga kehabisan darah. Lalu aku teringat kisah Kitty Genovese yang dikutip Malcolm Gladwell dalam Tipping Point. Di suatu hari pada tahun 1964, Kitty dikejar oleh penyerangnya di suatu jalan di New York. Dalam kengerian selama setengah jam itu, dia ditikam tiga kali hingga mati. Ironisnya, kejar-kejaran itu ditonton oleh 38 orang tetangganya dari jendela masing-masing. Dan tak seorang pun melakukan apa pun, tak juga menelepon polisi. "Ketidakpedulian pada tetangga dan masalahnya adalah tindakan refleks yang terkondisikan dalam kehidupan di New York dan kota-kota besar lainnya," tulis Abe Rosenthal, editor The New York Times, soal kasus itu. Inikah yang terjadi kemarin? Barangkali. Klewang di tangan lelaki terluka itu tentu menjadi pembeda. Atau justru menjadi pembenar untuk tak ikut campur, sebab tindakan menolong yang heroik bukan tak mungkin menyebabkan diri terluka. Atau justru besarnya jumlah orang yang menyaksikan ikut menjadi tempat sembunyi yang nyaman. "Kan bukan hanya saya yang lihat. Kenapa harus saya yang tolong?" Entah apa yang kami pikirkan ketika "menonton" saat itu, tapi yang pasti tak kudengar sepatah kata pun nuansa iba di tengah kerumunan kami. Mungkin Rosenthal benar soal ketidakpedulian. Atau mungkin kami bahkan dibuai oleh nyamannya dosa kolektif. Tak apa tak peduli, asal bukan sendiri. Itu pikir kami.

Orang itu akhirnya dibawa entah ke mana oleh temannya, setelah beberapa taksi menolak mengangkutnya di luar. Sementara itu, manajer kafe dan resto yang tempatnya kebagian darah memerintahkan bawahan-bawahannya untuk mengepel. Sebuah kedai kopi bahkan merelakan sebungkus kopinya dihamburkan di lantai, demi mengusir bau amis darah. Hanya lima menit berselang, semuanya kembali bergeliat. Kedai kopi yang dibanjiri darah tadi kembali didatangi orang ramai. "Kejadian tadi menyisakan kengerian yang membuat orang ingin duduk diam sejenak. Kedai kopi pasti orang serbu sekadar untuk duduk minum. Lagipula ada bahan cerita baru yang bisa dibahas panjang lebar sambil ngopi," teoriku. Dan para wanita muda kembali menawar kalung. Dan ibu-ibu kembali mencoba-coba baju batik di bawah sembari mematut-matut diri. "The power of consumerism!" ucapku dan seorang teman hampir serempak.

Dan seperti di film-film, polisi lagi-lagi ketinggalan kereta...