Maka Joxadze
Maia Jaliashvili (Strokes for a Portrait)
In the three tenses of our lives, shadows, faces, silhouettes, voices, intonations, facial features, and gazes constantly replace each other. Sometimes, attacks begin – blizzards of memory. As they subside, the snowdrift of memory clears like a steamed-up mirror, and from the lake of this mirror, precious eyes, portraits, and personalities gaze back.
Maia Jaliashvili, for me as a person, a professional, a colleague, or simply a reader, is like a golden medallion given by God, a talisman I always carry with me and rely on. Time cannot change this hope, nor diminish it. I feel as if God created her as a kindred spirit, a helper, and an advocate for my soul. Moreover, I am certain that any artist of any century or nationality whose work Maia has touched would consider her as such.
Whatever or whomever Maia Jaliashvili writes about, along with a broad perspective, great intellect, and extraordinary interpretation, what strikes us first and foremost is her ability to rejoice in the talent of others, which, unfortunately, is rare even among professionals today.
Maia Jaliashvili also possesses that innate delicacy, which, let's say, allows her to maintain objectivity when reviewing even a less favored artistic text and to deliver her message uncompromisingly. This is nothing but professional honesty. I might be mistaken, but for some reason, I believe that Maia Jaliashvili's readings of literary works, which offer such depth and aesthetic pleasure, would not be possible if she were merely a pure scientist and not a creator. Indeed, in the scientific arena, whether it's reviewing, editing, supervising, or opposing degree seekers, or in the world of pedagogy, she has been so prolific and constantly active for years that this continuous dedication has almost overshadowed the astonishment and pleasure brought by her prose and poetry. However, it is precisely her creative talent that adds charm and uniqueness to Maia's scientific works and writings.
I have read from art experts that it is rare for a painter to equally master the art and technique of painting landscapes, portraits, still lifes, in a word, various genres of painting. If we look at Maia Jaliashvili's work from this perspective, we will find that she works with equal force and passion in various genres of literature, whether it's literary criticism, articles, essays, research papers, plays, fables, or poems. This is truly a rare exception.
In almost all her works created in these genres, we witness a fireworks display of wit, humor, and liveliness. You find yourself attending celebrations of contemporary satire, for example, in her fables, which naturally remind you of the so-called wise jesters of the ancient royal courts, who did not hesitate to "scourge" even the sovereigns themselves, so that justice would prevail, so that truth would not be oppressed.
The wisdom (intellect) of Sulkhan-Saba or Aesop, light, and transparency accompany her fables: whether it's "The Eloquent Rabbit," "The Clever Bear," "The Chairless President," "Garbage Flowers," "The Charm of Democracy," "The Monastery Mouse," and so on.
The story of "The Eloquent Rabbit" is so topical that it directly reminds you of real-life characters, and in the "Masters of Idle Speech," you can easily recognize politicians, experts, philosophers, various organizations, groups, and parties with their greed and uncontrolled ambitions... Maia's fables are accompanied by such tranquility and simplicity that you will be surprised. Only a sharp and agile mind can compose even this fable, "Power and Ascent":
"Power approached the ascent and began to plow it. The ascent was silent and thoughtful. 'I know well what a brave man you are; I have seen many of your upward plowing, but I have not seen any harvest from that plowing.'"
Another fantastic example: the fable is called "Man-Lost Conscience":
"Adorned in every way and almost flawless, Conscience was grieving. It had lost its man. 'Have you seen anyone passing by?' 'Indeed,' said the trees, 'we have seen them passing by.' 'Perhaps he is grieving like me?' 'Of course,' they said. 'If he notices your footprint anywhere, he turns away heartbroken.' 'How fortunate you are to be lamenting.' 'But where has a manless conscience ever been heard of?' 'I saw the poor thing yesterday,' murmured the oak. 'It was sitting at the edge of the village, pleading with passersby, "Help me find him."'
As for the collection of poems "The Chalice of the Heart," which is true poetry, even the diaries of Tao-Klarjeti written in prose will bring tears to your eyes.
Georgia, for me personally, is an untranslatable poem, the complete reception, understanding, and explanation of which, unlike politicians, diplomats, scientists, and philosophers, is the fate of true poets. Besides Galaktion's oceanic depths in "Blue Twilight of the Desert," like a rose in the sand, sorrowful lines are buried like blood: "Unbaptized children rush towards school." How will a foreign reader understand this sorrow, who does not know what baptism means?
For me, Maia Jaliashvili's "Khandzta" is also an untranslatable poem.
This poem recently reminded me of the anniversary evening dedicated to Ana's 100th birthday at the Georgian Academy of Sciences. Giorgi Kalandadze, Ana's nephew, returning from lectures, once told his family: "Today, lecturer Gegeshidze, while talking about poetry, told us that there are two Svetitskhoveli cathedrals, one in Mtskheta and the other built by Konstantine Gamsakhurdia in 'The Right Hand of the Grand Master.' We Georgians have two Nikortsminda churches, one in Racha and the other in Galaktion's work. We also have two tombs of David the Builder, one in Gelati and the other in Ana's poem."
Unfortunately, I have not yet seen Tao-Klarjeti, but even without seeing it, I can confirm that there are two Khandztas, one on the land of Georgia torn from its native soil by enemies, and the other in Maia Jaliashvili's brilliant poem "Khandzta“. For me, this poem is untranslatable because a foreigner, unless he is a child of a country with a fate as twisted as Georgia's, will not understand the bitterness of this poem. Finally, I have kept this very poem:
"It resembles an abandoned
Old father,
Sickened by the fate
Of a prodigal son.
When the sun rises,
It warms its bones,
Khandzta—
Spine-broken.
It barely lifts
Its wet eyelids,
Longing for the warmth
Of psalms.
And with a hoarse,
Moss-covered voice,
It glorifies God
In prayers,
Melted and faded".
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The speech was delivered on February 22, 2025, at the Writers' House project meeting "Muse" evening with the laureates.
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