Dalam Fikiran Seorang Bohemian

Saya harus akui, ada waktu ketika saya membaca The Lesser Bohemians karangan Eimear McBride, saya rasa cringe. Juvenile gila novel ini. Macam pernah baca atau tonton daripada beratus buah filem. Tentang gadis datang ke kota besar untuk belajar jadi pelakon sambil mabuk cinta dengan lelaki jauh lebih berusia dan matang. Klise. Tetapi saya terus juga membaca. Sebab teknik. Dan latar kota London. Ya, teknik aliran kesedaran. Jarang digunakan kerana ia susah untuk ditulis (dan susah untuk dibaca). Tetapi ia bukanlah benda baru. Apatah lagi dalam konteks sastera Malaysia. Namun McBride ada melakukan inovasinya yang tersendiri kepada teknik ini. Saya nak pinjam istilah perfileman: fast-cut! 

Selalunya bila kita tengok Virginia Woolf atau Shahnon Ahmad menggunakan teknik aliran kesedaran, masa bergerak perlahan. Monolog demi monolog melintas. Tetapi watak kita mungkin baru melangkah beberapa tapak di dunia luar. McBride punya pendekatan lebih ringkas dan jauh lebih cepat. Kadang-kadang ayatnya pun tidak lengkap. Dialog terpotong. Seolah fikiran atau pengucapan wataknya terpotong. Kalau tidak fokus pada tubuh, dia akan fokus pada dialog, atau lakaran kota London. Semuanya melintas cepat. Dan kita pun terkejar-kejar mencari tali atau rantai naratif untuk berpaut agar tidak jatuh. 

Adakah teknik ini berkesan? Ada waktunya ya, sebab waktu utama McBride ialah gadis belasan tahun yang masih rapuh emosinya. Kegilaan aliran naratif sedikit sebanyak menggambarkan kegilaan emosi seorang remaja. Tetapi ada waktu, ia memaksa kita ke dalam perincian babak yang mungkin sebenarnya tidak perlu, melainkan anda seorang hantu porno atau peminat tegar Milan Kundera. 

Saya kongsikan di bawah satu fast-cut yang McBride gunakan dengan berkesan di samping meninggalkan aroma melankolik yang hangat apabila kita selesai membacanya: 

"Side by side, smiling down, almost shy. He kisses my shoulder every once in a while. Drinking more now warm, champagne. Who needs glasses? and laugh as our legs shake from the effort of  what they've been through. Elbows slit carpet burns and where they'll bruise. He'll have bite marks tomorrow for I was bad. Such straight teeth! he observes and examines. But stay close these last hours. Fall asleep. Wake. Repeat. Sleep. Do again. All the night wrapped in his quilt on his floor. Eventually him saying No  white yet but it's dawn and we should try to sleep. Don't. And instead sit the far side of his desk. Pull open his curtains to watch the sun together rise slowly through the Camden sky. Help itself to chimneys. Across bins and bikes. Between footpaths and hedges. Up our naked legs' swing. His reach to the window ledge. Mine not as long. Take the light on our bodies and not caring who might see from the street. Besides, they'd be lucky to witness. Finish off  the bottle. Smoke cigarettes and. White will be the day. Later on, maybe blue. What you'll do once I'm gone? Sleep and not think about you, what'll you do in Ireland? Walk. Where? By the lake. Nice lake? Has its moments. Just a month, isn't it? Yes. But we kiss long to stave it off and shiver in our tiredness until he says Come on. It's time to get dressed. I'll take you to the train.

Through quiet Liverpool Street he carries my beg. Quiet concourse. Stanstead Express. Quietest platform. Loneliest journey I know. I'll miss you, I say. Will you write? If you want. Or you want. Then I'll want, if you will. All I want though is to tell him how much I     No, go, or you'll miss your train. Just one quiet kiss more so before taking my beg and going. And. What if he just disappears?  Has already gone as utterly  utterly as before he came? Snatched a look back. No. There he is. Tall in his long coat and glasses. Waving to my wave. Watching me to my carriage. Wave again. Get on and all doors slam. Then the train pulls away."