Silvija Žnidar o romanu Katje Gorečan Materinska knjižica

Materinska knjižica Katje Gorečan je, rabi pomanjševalnice v naslovu navkljub, močna, eksplozivna knjiga. Svojo silnost črpa iz nenavadne, a za to delo skorajda samoumevne, inherentne kontradikcije oziroma kontrastnosti, ki se morda ne razkrije takoj: gre za ekspresiven, visceralen izraz vpitja, krika, hkrati pa je to pričevanje o molku, zamolčanem, nečem komajda izrekljivem. Seveda lahko delo na kratko opišemo, označimo kot roman o spontanem splavu, ki je na žalost še vedno tabuizirana, utišana tema, a ta pripoved daje mnogo, mnogo več: o težko ubesedljivem, ekstremno bolečem dogodku ne govori z distance, ne razgalja ga analitično, zadržano. Nasprotno, Materinska knjižica spontani splav – in vse njegove neznosne realije ter intimno katastrofične konsekvence – podoživlja vsakič znova, v nenehnem vračanju intenzivnih krčev žalovanja, hiperventilira, predihava skozi njegovo kruto realnost, zazanka nas v samo repetitivno grozo doživete travme. To je delo, ki ne le govori o izgubi, ampak skozi njega spregovori izguba sama oziroma tisto, kar je bilo izgubljeno. Absenca si s pripovedovalskim glasom izbori svojevrstno prezenco. Fascinantno je, kakšen učinek uspe avtorici ustvariti ravno s tem, ko prepusti naracijo nerojenemu otroku – Tobiji –, ki obupano mater, izpraznjeno življenja, spodbuja nazaj k »svetlobi«; gre za dve bitji iz različnih ontoloških realnosti, ki hrepenita, težita drug k drugemu, ki sta zvezani z žalovanjem, a ločeni s smrtjo, kar daje delu močan emocionalen naboj. Nemoč in molk matere, ki je bila prizorišče smrti lastnega otroka, postaneta strahotno otipljiva skozi »intervencijo« bitja onkraj tukajšnje stvarnosti.

O (spontanem) splavu je gotovo težko govoriti, kaj šele približati to nedojemljivo izkušnjo tistim, ki tega niso doživeli. A Katji Gorečan je z Materinsko knjižico uspelo bralcem_kam  predočiti skelečo »avro« te travme, jih vpeti, približati k razumevanju. K temu je gotovo prispevala tudi sama sestava romana, izbrana kombinatorika narativnih in formalnih prijemov, h katerim lahko prištejemo izrazito poetični stil, že omenjeno umestitev izgubljenega otroka na mesto pripovedovalca, fragmentiranost, izčiščenost in nabrušenost pisave, ki se ne zavezuje olepševanju, temveč takojšnjemu posredovanju surovosti.

Če je sicer materinska knjižica nekakšna beležka, ki jo ob prvem pregledu dobijo bodoče matere, kamor se zapisuje »vse pomembne podatke o nosečnosti, plodu in predvidenem terminu poroda«, je ta knjiga beleženje, polnjenje absence, ki materi predstavlja edino prezenco, ki bo ostala za otrokom. V nekem bolj nenavadnem, netipičnem zasuku bi lahko na roman gledali kot na svojstveno pričevanjsko literaturo. Čeprav delo ne zasleduje nekih zgodovinskih dogodkov, ima ta osebna kataklizma splava za mater večjo težo od kakršnegakoli zunanjega procesa: pravzaprav gre za sesutje njenega sveta in posledično za nujnost izpričevanja te lastne katastrofe, memoariziranja tistega, kar je bilo vzeto, kar pa lahko dobi svojo vrednost v arhivih fikcije oziroma književnosti. Materinska knjižica stopa na neizmerljivo mesto tišine vseh tistih, ki so s spontanim splavom izgubili_e otroka, pa o tem niso (z)mogli_e spregovoriti, ker se o tem »ne spodobi« govoriti odprto, odkrito. Kot pravi Tobija: »o vsem je treba govoriti na glas, razen o tem, kar se je zgodilo mami«. Ta knjiga odpravlja zaporo tabuiziranosti, se glasno izvija iz kokona zamolkov.

Med vsemi kriki, izbruhi bolečine, spetimi v strjena poglavja, ki se kažejo kot nanizane epizode osebnega pekla prebolevanja, pa bralci_ke najdemo še eno dragocenost (pa naj jo je avtorica vpeljala namenoma ali pa tudi ne): to je subtilno vpeljana kritična ost, ki se usmerja k mentalitetam dandanašnje kapitalistične (hiper)produkcije, mantram pridnosti in neizčrpne delavnosti, k forsiranju »toksične pozitivnosti«, ki gre z roko v roki z ideali produktivnosti. Kot da materina posttravmatska depresija ni dovolj, ji ob vrnitvi v delovno in družabno okolje ne prizanese niti okolica; od nje se zahteva, da dela skorajda iz bolniške postelje, da prezre svoje težave, da hitro okreva, da dela na sebi in svoji sreči, da zreducira težo tega, kar se ji je zgodilo. Gorečan izpostavi hipokrizijo družbe, ki prikimava le srečnim, aktivnim ljudem, marginalizira pa tiste, ki jim pri tem ni »uspelo«. Skorajda ni nenavadno, da se v takšni atmosferi materi porajajo (sicer neutemeljeni) občutki krivde, povezani z nezadostnostjo, lenobo; v družbi, kjer je sama nosečnost doživeta kot odraz truda matere, kjer mentalno zdravje obvisi na »delu na sebi« in pozitivni naravnanosti, se subjekte, ki se od tega tako ali drugače odcepijo, krivi za »spodletelost«. In tudi tukaj Materinska knjižica napravi pomemben korak k odločnem zavračanju tovrstnih normativov.

Materinska knjižica je tako nedvomno pomembno delo: tako iz sporočilne kot tudi iz estetsko-oblikovne perspektive. Je toliko stvari oziroma pojavov obenem: je žalostinka za izgubljenim potencialom ljubezni, je pričevanje o zaustavitvi časa znotraj trgajoče, parajoče bolečine, je iskanje utehe, zaključka, je bes nad nemočjo v neizprosni realiteti družbe, je neumorna, neusmiljena poezija, preoblečena v prozo, govor kaotične izkušnje, posredovane osupljivo direktno. Vsekakor gre za eno izmed prelomnih, izstopajočih del v strukturi slovenske literarne (prozne) produkcije, ki bo gotovo odzvanjalo še dolgo.

Silvija Žnidar on The Maternity Booklet by Katja Gorečan

Materinska knjižica (The Maternity Booklet) is, despite the use of a diminutive in the title, a powerful, explosive book. It draws its power from an unusual, but for this literary work almost self-evident, inherent contradiction or contrast, which may not be immediately apparent: it is an expressive, visceral expression of a shout, a scream, but at the same time it is a testimony of silence, of the concealed, of something barely speakable. Of course, the literary work can be briefly described, labelled as a novel about miscarriage, which is unfortunately still a taboo, silenced topic, but this narrative offers much, much more: it does not speak from a distance about an extremely painful event that is beyond hard to put into words, it does not expose it in a restrained and analytical way. On the contrary, The Maternity Booklet repeatedly relives the miscarriage – and all its unbearable realities and intimately catastrophic consequences – in a constant return of intense pangs of grief, hyperventilating, breathing through its harsh reality, looping us through the very repetitive horror of the trauma experienced. It is a literary work that not only speaks of loss, but loss itself, or that which has been lost speaks through it. Absence adopts a unique presence through the narrative voice. What is fascinating is the effect the author manages to create precisely by leaving the narration to the unborn child – Tobija – who encourages the desperate mother, drained of life, to come back to the “light”; they are two beings from different ontological realities, longing for each other, gravitating towards each other, tied by grief but separated by death, which gives the literary work a powerful emotional charge. The helplessness and silence of the mother, who served as the site of death for her own child, become horribly palpable through the “intervention” of a being beyond this reality.

It is certainly difficult to talk about (spontaneous) abortion, let alone to present this unfathomable experience to those who have not experienced it. But with The Maternity Booklet, Katja Gorečan has succeeded in depicting the stinging “aura” of this trauma to her readers, in engaging them, in bringing them closer to understanding. The very structure of the novel, the chosen combination of narrative and formal devices, to which we can add a highly poetic style, the aforementioned placement of the lost child in the place of the narrator, the fragmented, polished, and sharpened writing, which is not committed to embellishment but to the immediate transmission of rawness, have certainly contributed to that.

If the maternity booklet is a kind of notebook given to expectant mothers at their first check-up, where all “the important information about the pregnancy, the foetus, and the estimated due date” is recorded, this book is a record, a supplementation of the absence, which the mother views as the only thing present in her child's wake. In a more unusual, atypical twist, the novel could be seen as a unique piece of testimonial literature. Although the literary work does not follow any historical events, this personal cataclysm of abortion has greater weight for the mother than any external process: it is, in fact, the collapse of her world and, as a consequence, the necessity of recounting her own catastrophe, of memoarising that which has been taken away, but which can obtain its value in the archives of fiction or literature. The Maternity Booklet steps into the immeasurable place of silence of all those who have lost a child through miscarriage but have not been able to speak out about it because it is “not appropriate” to talk about it openly, candidly. As Tobija says: “everything should be spoken out loud, except about what happened to mom.” This book breaks the barrier of taboo and emerges loudly from the cocoon of concealment.

But among all the screams, the outbursts of pain embedded in condensed chapters that appear as serialised episodes of a personal hell of recovery, the reader finds one more thing of value (whether or not the author intended it): a subtly introduced criticism, which is directed towards the mentalities of today’s capitalist (hyper)production, the mantras of diligence and inexhaustible industriousness, the promotion of a “toxic positivity” that goes hand-in-hand with the ideals of productivity. As if the mother’s post-traumatic depression were not enough, when she returns to her working and social environment, she is not shown any compassion by those around her; she is asked to work almost from her hospital bed, to ignore her problems, to recover quickly, to work on herself and her happiness, to trim the weight of what has happened to her. Gorečan highlights the hypocrisy of a society that gives a nod only to happy and active people, while marginalising those who were “unsuccessful” in doing so. It is almost not unusual in such an atmosphere that (unfounded) feelings of guilt arise within the mother, linked to perceived inadequacy and laziness; in a society where pregnancy itself is experienced as a reflection of the mother’s efforts, where mental health stops at “working on oneself” and maintaining a positive attitude, those who dissociate themselves from it in one way or another are blamed for their “failure”. And here, too, The Maternity Booklet takes an important step towards a strong rejection of such norms.

The Maternity Booklet is therefore undoubtedly an important literary work: both from the aspect of the message contained within it and from the aspect of its aesthetic and form. It is so many things or phenomena at the same time: it is a eulogy for the lost potential of love, it is a testament to the stopping of time within a piercing, searing pain, it is a search for consolation, for closure, it is a rage at the powerlessness in the unrelenting reality of society, it is tireless, relentless poetry disguised as prose, the speech of a chaotic experience conveyed in a shockingly direct manner. It is certainly one of the ground-breaking, outstanding works in the canon of Slovenian literary (prose) that will surely echo for a long time.

Objavo je omogočila Javna agencija za knjigo