By Andrej Nikolaidis, CdM columnist
Teofil Pancic has died.
He was a great literary critic and journalist. Only slightly older than me: we belong to the same generation. The one defeated in all its wars. For consolation, but not for excuse: we couldn’t choose our wars. Those were wars in which only scum could win. I don’t know. I would like to believe that it was never about victory, rather about the fight itself.
Selimovic’s pseudo-Quranic motto “Death and the Dervish” is only formally correct, but it’s not true: every man is not always at a loss. Because the scum is human, all too human: and they always win.
You’ll recognize a scumbag, among other things, by the fact that he always moralises. A decent man is dedicated to self-examination. He’s driven by shame. The scumbag, on the other hand, marches through this world like a soldier, always in a group, always in search of other people’s weakness and sin: because as long as there are other people’s sins, his own remain hidden. A scumbag hates mirrors; he zealously smashes them.
Sewers are the recruiting base of any moral police.
Teofil was the exact opposite of all that. He was miles above all that, but he never took the position of being above the situation, which is the easiest, narcissistic and, in short: miserable. He saw every evil and injustice as something he had to fight against.
He was an excellent writer, because he wasn’t afraid of other people’s opinion and where it could take him. He was impeccably intellectually honest and, I admit, I envied him for that. Whenever he criticized me – and he did: some of my novels and some of my texts – I sat down and thought hard about where I was wrong. Which, of course, doesn’t mean that I didn’t continue to make mistakes: because weakness can be stronger than wisdom. I trusted him, as I trust Viktor Ivancic. Anyone good at this craft is able to recognize a writer’s greatness after only reading three sentences. Teofil, I repeat, was one of the great ones. Of whom there are few in every place and in every time. And there are fewer and fewer of them.
There wasn’t a grain of nationalism in Teofil. In a time and space poisoned by nationalism, he remained pure. And I envy him for that.
Teofil was a king without an army who alone – as a good literary piece – with a quill in his right hand and an inkwell in his left hand – stands fearlessly against a huge, bloodthirsty army.
I’m quoting Milorad Popovic, from as far back as I can remember, and therefore, perhaps I’m paraphrasing: but the king, even with a reed in his hand, should rush into the darkness.
