dit boek is geen meesterwerk, het is zelfs niet okri’s beste werk. ik zou willen dat hij er meer tijd voor had genomen. karakters meer had uitgewerkt en sommige uitweidingen juist had ingekort. de boodschap had minder expliciet gemogen en meer in het verhaal verwerkt. hoofdpersoon lao is in het begin een stereotiep. een cynische ontevreden en teveel drinkende presentator. aan het eind van de roman is lao welhaast een vriendelijke filosoof die de mensheid met mededogen aanziet. een verandering die je na lezing wel begrijpt, maar die zich ook, letterlijk, in sneltreinvaart heeft voltrokken.

het verhaal: een mysterieuze opdrachtgever wil een tv-programma maken over een reis naar arcadia. per trein, vanuit london dwars door europa. de crew lijkt een allegaartje losers, in ieder geval in lao’s ogen. maar hij neemt een goede vriendin mee, mistletoe, en gaat. hij gaat omdat deze reis naar arcadia (hoe kan het anders) een transformatie lijkt te beloven, een reis naar verlichting.

But no matter how awful I feel things to be, I don’t want oblivion just yet. I want to hurl a few marvellous surprises into the great jaws of life. I want myself to be the surprise. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life stewing in bile. I too dream of a workable resolution, but I can’t seem to find the will to straighten things out. I can’t seem to go forward, therefore I must go back. I must find the lost beginnings, must reincarnate childhood, find a new reason for breathing, make a new covenant.

I must find a way to make death not a threat, an enemy, a terror, an excuse, but a friend, an aid, a liberator. For it would seem that death is the golden key to the mystery of living, but I don’t know how to use it. And so, raging or not, hypocrite or not, loathing the camera or not, cynic or not, I need this journey. I need to find out what reasons other people have for living, I need to be broken down again into the simplest components and re-assembled like a beautiful jigsaw into a more lovely picture of who I really am and what I can be.

Slowly, I was learning to love my theme. Hello to journeys, Salut to escapes. I hope my escape leads me back to myself, by a new route, so that I can see my life and its possibilities as if for the first time.

And so this journey must be a sort of dying for me; a dying of the old self; a birth of something new and fearless and bright and strange.

en zijn ik sterft vrij onmiddelijk want vanaf dat moment verandert het perspectief van i naar de 3e persoon. en zodra we niet meer alles door de perceptie van lao zien verandert hij van cynisch observator tot participant in de levens om hem heen.

de reis kent wat mysterieuze voorvallen die niet worden opgehelderd. eerst stoorde me dat, als rafels aan het verhaal. later zag ik deze voorvallen (inscriptions genoemd) als gebeurtenissen die steeds maar voor 1 karakter van belang zijn. zoals iemand achteloos iets kan zeggen dat een ander diep raakt en verandert. en al zouden daar 20 mensen om heen staan: voor hen betekent de opmerking niets. zo betekenen sommige voorvallen in deze roman niets voor mij als lezer. later blijken ze wel voor iemand in de crew bij te hebben gedragen aan een transformatie. en transformatie, dat is waar deze roman over gaat. transformatie en het vinden van de weg (lao heet niet voor niets lao) die iedereen kwijt lijkt te zijn.

als de crew het louvre (en het schilderij dat een grote rol speelt in dit boek) verlaat en op gare de l’est aankomt om de treinreis te vervolgen:

then lao saw it, briefly. he saw a man with thick glasses, struggling to make out the words on the giant console. struggling to make out his destination, to see it clearly. he was adjusting his glasses, straining, sweating, and still he couldn’t see clearly.

het schilderij is in dit boek raadsel zowel als sleutel. de dood is veel te belangrijk geworden en neemt teveel van ons leven af. zoals mistletoe in haar droom ziet haalt de man die zich het meest in het raadsel van de inscriptie verliest de dood pas echt binnen in arcadie (zie zijn schaduw). als het bewustzijn zich eenmaal zover ontwikkeld heeft dat we het concept dood kunnen bevatten zonder het te kunnen aanvaarden, pas dan heeft die dood haar plaats ook in het leven zelf opgeeist. en daarmee is het paradijs pas echt verloren.

de observaties over het jachtige, op consumptie gerichte moderne leven zijn niet altijd even subtiel. en okri klinkt wat belerend bij het aanwijzen van andere richtingen, af en toe lijkt het een zelf-hulp-boek verlichting in 231 pagina’s. soms erg uitgebreid (het stukje painting heb ik voortvarend ingekort, het was wel 5x zo lang).

maar okri is een veel te goede schrijver en een veel te goede observator om een slecht boek te kunnen afleveren. het kan zijn dat ik het te uitgebreid en overduidelijk vind omdat ik over de thematiek zelf ook al jaren heb nagedacht. toch wilde ik het onmiddelijk herlezen, en elke keer dat ik met het boek geconfronteerd word (zoals van de week, bij het inruimen van mijn nieuwe boekenkastje) wil ik dat weer. en bij herlezen ontdek ik telkens nieuwe subtiliteiten. nuances in een gedachtengang die ik al dacht te kennen en te delen.

het is zijn eerste roman die in europa speelt en niet in afrika en het is uiterlijk gebaseerd op een reis die okri (met een tv-crew) in 1996 voor de bbc maakte toen hij eenmalig great railway journeys presenteerde (zie de disclaimer die aangeeft in this book i use the outer facts of a real journey as a vehicle for fictional characters […] the journey is real, but the people are invented).

het boek is gemengd ontvangen, veelal wordt het als minder gezien dan zijn trilogie over azaro, het jongetje dat opgroeit in lagos, waarvan het eerste deel the famished road hem de booker prize opleverde. the guardian (een krant waarvoor okri zelf ook schrijft) had een erg negatieve recensie.

en toch, dit is een van de niet-eens-zo-heel-veel boeken die ik waarschijnlijk nog een aantal keren met plezier zal herlezen. door het magische element dat met magie weinig van doen blijkt te hebben, door een vage identificatie met mistletoe, door de manier waarop okri me naar een schilderij weet te laten kijken, door al zijn observaties over dood en leven en door zijn magistrale vertelstijl. door hoe hij kijkt, denkt en schrijft. toch blijft het jammer dat hij niet meer tijd heeft genomen voor dit boek. het had als een odyssee kunnen zijn, deze reis van lao, mistletoe en crew, en dat is het nu niet.

lees hier een interview met okri in trouw, september 2003.

‘In Arcadië’ is meer een stiletto dan een vuist. Misschien leg ik steeds meer lagen af, in plaats van meer gewicht te verzamelen. In dit boek ruk ik de buitenste kleren van het verhaal af. Intuïties, dromen, al die elementen die normaal gesproken alleen op de achtergrond van een verhaal meespelen, breng ik op hetzelfde, gelijkwaardige niveau. Want dromen zijn niet zomaar een kleine toevoeging aan ons dagelijks leven, ze zijn echt. Dromen en intuïties zijn gelijkwaardig aan verhalen, beschrijvingen, dagelijkse dingen. Vergelijk het met een schilderij van Matisse: er is geen achtergrond of voorgrond, alles is achtergrond, voorgrond en nu tegelijk. Zo leven we. Het zal vreemd zijn voor de lezers, maar ze zullen eraan gewend raken.

what is this painting? is it a monster, a sphinx, a riddle, a mental labyrinth, the resting point of an idea that has travelled thousands of years in the mind of humanity, or a secret guide to the future?

is it in fact a painting, or is it one of those things that transcend art, transcend their form, a question that immortality poses to mortality?

at the center of the painting is the tomb. and at the center of the tomb is the inscription: et in arcadia ego. those four words are among the most debated in the history of art, the most enigmatic, puzzling, mysterious, and endless.

i too have lived in arcadia, the inscription reads. who is the i? is it death? is it the one who died? there is no name on the tomb. so it can’t be the one who is buried in it. the tomb itself seems to be the i; or the unnamed dead within it. this unnaming makes it all of us, therefore it might be anyone who has died. they too have been in arcadia. they too have lived. and now they are dead. we who look upon the painting are implicated. we stand with the shepherds. we too are in arcadia. we are alive. we too will… but if the tomb itself is the one that speaks its own inscription then it is saying that death too has been in arcadia, and is still there, in the form of the monumental tomb.

like a silent explosion, a quiet inner revolution, a provocation to enlightenment, a ticking time bomb of illumination planted right in the midst of life’s splendours, it is impossible for an intelligent human being to see this painting, to think about it, and to live the same way they lived before.

ben okri – in arcadia

she was a daughter of pan and had been wandering in a landscape of trees
and flowers. the air was sweetened with amaranth. there were acorns on
the grass. a chain of ochre mountains ranged all around her, bare and
stark and oddly beautiful. she knew that the mountains were the forms of
sleeping gods, the ancient forgotten gods.

it was a brilliant day. the sun was benevolent in its universal golden
splendour. there were a few lovely clouds, and within one of the clouds
was the exact form of an angel in flight. she was in the homeland of
human happiness. she was happy, and had been eternally happy, like a
fortunate child. she had known no suffering and had always been
surrounded with love.

but as she wandered in this realm of happiness she came upon three men
who stood puzzled before a gigantic tomb. the men were shepherds. she
had never seen them before. they were grizzled, but seemed harmless. on
the enormous tomb there was an inscription.

she was one of the daughters of pan, and yet the inscription troubled
her. the men fretted over the inscription and kept pointing at it, while
their shadows took on sinister shapes. she noticed that the man who
pointed most ardently at the word arcadia had formed the shadow of a man
with a scythe. this troubled her more.

they asked her about the tomb. but she had never seen a tomb before.
they explained what it was. she turned pale. they contemplated the
inscription and the mystery of the tomb till the shadows grew shorter
and stranger ond the wind-quivering grass. the world had darkened into
tones of a deep bright sombre beauty. sadness seemed to be leaking into
the happy kingdom of the earth.

and when she left the men, who remained discussing the inscription for
what seemed the rest of their lives, she was never quite so happy again.
and her life now seemed as a bright golden dream of ambiguities when she
woke up in the dark.

ben okri – in arcadia

and then there was mistletoe, silent, submerged, and waiting. a life
begun in happiness, a childhood rich in variety and freedom, much early
travel, much of the world seen and loved. then a life that took a wrong
turning, and the right road regained later than she would have wished.

blessed with an ease of spirit that falls so easily into a love of
rebellion. she was one of the intelligent ones who have to be lazy in
order to be awoken by failure. the early recklessness. the ambiguous
blessings of beauty, feline grace, and deep-scented sensuality. the
early reliance on easy talent. then being too favoured and lucky. then
unfavoured and unlucky. then misused by men. then disillusioned and
disenchanted. talents not developed early, lost on the way, wandering,
beautiful, optimistic still, and lost.

wreckages of past dreams about her. then despair and loss of faith in
life. then drink and drugs and hopelessness and believing in everything,
believing in nothing. emptiness. lovelessness. and then touched by good
fortune which never really deserted her. finding new friends. finding a
friend in lao. then the slow journey back, through art, to sanity.

meanwhile, what a ring of connections. disowned by parents, cut off from
homeland, almost friendless, heart dry but for the pulses of new
friendships and the quickening of art. her sensuality fabulous, her body
suspicious of love. her eyes suspicious, in spite of a capacity for
abundant warmth and great love. a heart frozen, a mind awake. waiting
for life’s thaw, clinging on to friendship, silent, submerged, like a
submarine, an iceberg, magisterial…

ben okri – in arcadia

what is this painting? is it a monster, a sphinx, a riddle, a mental labyrinth, the resting point of an idea that has travelled thousands of years in the mind of humanity, or a secret guide to the future?

is it in fact a painting, or is it one of those things that transcend art, transcend their form, a question that immortality poses to mortality?

at the center of the painting is the tomb. and at the center of the tomb is the inscription: et in arcadia ego. those four words are among the most debated in the history of art, the most enigmatic, puzzling, mysterious, and endless.

i too have lived in arcadia, the inscription reads. who is the i? is it death? is it the one who died? there is no name on the tomb. so it can’t be the one who is buried in it. the tomb itself seems to be the i; or the unnamed dead within it. this unnaming makes it all of us, therefore it might be anyone who has died. they too have been in arcadia. they too have lived. and now they are dead. we who look upon the painting are implicated. we stand with the shepherds. we too are in arcadia. we are alive. we too will… but if the tomb itself is the one that speaks its own inscription then it is saying that death too has been in arcadia, and is still there, in the form of the monumental tomb.

like a silent explosion, a quiet inner revolution, a provocation to enlightenment, a ticking time bomb of illumination planted right in the midst of life’s splendours, it is impossible for an intelligent human being to see this painting, to think about it, and to live the same way they lived before.

ben okri – in arcadia

she was a daughter of pan and had been wandering in a landscape of trees
and flowers. the air was sweetened with amaranth. there were acorns on
the grass. a chain of ochre mountains ranged all around her, bare and
stark and oddly beautiful. she knew that the mountains were the forms of
sleeping gods, the ancient forgotten gods.

it was a brilliant day. the sun was benevolent in its universal golden
splendour. there were a few lovely clouds, and within one of the clouds
was the exact form of an angel in flight. she was in the homeland of
human happiness. she was happy, and had been eternally happy, like a
fortunate child. she had known no suffering and had always been
surrounded with love.

but as she wandered in this realm of happiness she came upon three men
who stood puzzled before a gigantic tomb. the men were shepherds. she
had never seen them before. they were grizzled, but seemed harmless. on
the enormous tomb there was an inscription.

she was one of the daughters of pan, and yet the inscription troubled
her. the men fretted over the inscription and kept pointing at it, while
their shadows took on sinister shapes. she noticed that the man who
pointed most ardently at the word arcadia had formed the shadow of a man
with a scythe. this troubled her more.

they asked her about the tomb. but she had never seen a tomb before.
they explained what it was. she turned pale. they contemplated the
inscription and the mystery of the tomb till the shadows grew shorter
and stranger ond the wind-quivering grass. the world had darkened into
tones of a deep bright sombre beauty. sadness seemed to be leaking into
the happy kingdom of the earth.

and when she left the men, who remained discussing the inscription for
what seemed the rest of their lives, she was never quite so happy again.
and her life now seemed as a bright golden dream of ambiguities when she
woke up in the dark.

ben okri – in arcadia

and then there was mistletoe, silent, submerged, and waiting. a life
begun in happiness, a childhood rich in variety and freedom, much early
travel, much of the world seen and loved. then a life that took a wrong
turning, and the right road regained later than she would have wished.

blessed with an ease of spirit that falls so easily into a love of
rebellion. she was one of the intelligent ones who have to be lazy in
order to be awoken by failure. the early recklessness. the ambiguous
blessings of beauty, feline grace, and deep-scented sensuality. the
early reliance on easy talent. then being too favoured and lucky. then
unfavoured and unlucky. then misused by men. then disillusioned and
disenchanted. talents not developed early, lost on the way, wandering,
beautiful, optimistic still, and lost.

wreckages of past dreams about her. then despair and loss of faith in
life. then drink and drugs and hopelessness and believing in everything,
believing in nothing. emptiness. lovelessness. and then touched by good
fortune which never really deserted her. finding new friends. finding a
friend in lao. then the slow journey back, through art, to sanity.

meanwhile, what a ring of connections. disowned by parents, cut off from
homeland, almost friendless, heart dry but for the pulses of new
friendships and the quickening of art. her sensuality fabulous, her body
suspicious of love. her eyes suspicious, in spite of a capacity for
abundant warmth and great love. a heart frozen, a mind awake. waiting
for life’s thaw, clinging on to friendship, silent, submerged, like a
submarine, an iceberg, magisterial…

ben okri – in arcadia

if music was born out of grief, painting was born out of transience within an immortal universe. painting is the charmed presence of what will no longer be there. an enchanted absence, a visible dream, a parallel universe, defying death, underlining life’s brevity. it is a vision of life from hades enchanted. it is the secret history of light, the psychodrama of colour, the moment in a mind, the moment in a song. painting is life, life smiling at death with light as its secret. painting is narcissus surprised.

painting is an inscription on the flesh of time. painting is the triumph of plants and minerals and animal hair. it is soul dancing to soul. painting is the still life of god’s mind. painting is the only mortal space where angels dwell in stillness. it is meditation with eyes wide open, contemplation with the mind’s eyes focused on enigmas. it is visualisation materialised. the mind’s strength and grace trembling in space. the unending lesson of the ascending spirit. painting is the tentative deciphering of destiny, the visual haiku of human history, musings of life in deep dimensions.

painting is human love transcending human forgetfulness. it is mortality staring at itself in the evanescent mirror of immortality. it is spaces dancing, dimensions interacting, realms interpenetrating, time zones colliding, eliding, harmonising. painting is the shaman’s mirror, the warrior’s truest shield, the healer’s armour against fate and tragedy. the celebration of light.

painting is one of the earliest tools of survival. you painted a thing first then you made it manifest later. there is painting of the mind, where you first create the complete form of a thing or dream or desire and feed it deep into the spirit’s factory for the production of reality. painting is the mirror of healing, the base of creativity, the spring-board of materialisation. painting is the mathematics of making things possible. it is planting notions in the subconscious through the allure or disturbance of the eyes.

great paintings transcend the eyes and, through other agencies, can be transmitted from soul to soul. all dreamers are spirit painters. all dreams are paintings. all spirit painters are world remakers. painting is the refresher of love, the aider of love, the incarnation of loving. painting is time multiplied by light. painting is where the dead sleep, where the labyrinth is decoded. it is the secret film of the gods, the ecstasy of dyes, the paradigm of better ways of being.

painting is the illuminated record book of invisible realms seen in glimpses. intimations of reincarnation. akashic still-points. painting is indeed one of the places where hades is averted. it is the hint of a sort of immortality within. it comes from the same place inside us where gods are born.

painting is one of the most mysterious metaphors of arcadia.

ben okri – in arcadia (2002)