marți, 4 mai 2010

"Most meople are other people.Their thoughts are someone else's opinions. Their lives a mimicy, their passion a question." (O. W.)

...and they are fucking boring (continuare by me)

Adevarul este fuziunea exceselor antagonice. Cand ele converg, omul izbucneste in ras.
"And I laugh, and I laugh" - ca sa-l citez pe Bruno Filippi...

luni, 3 mai 2010

"In the circle of life" - Renzo Novatone

(In memory of Bruno Filippi)

"The people who desire to be themselves never know where they are going."

"The final outcome of knowledge consists in recognizing that the soul of man is unknowable."

"Thus us Life! Sorrow is our creative abyss, Joy and Happiness our mighty dream!
Even if sorrow does not make us better, "I think" says Nietzsche - "that it makes us deeper." And in the mysterious depths of our being the unknowable enigma toils and hides itself. Hour by hour, moment by moment, it transmutes itself from unknown emotion to known thought, luminous and briliant, that flashes its darting rays on virgin, purple peaks of revelatory knowledge."

" the happines created by and for ourselves is reflected, smiling, in the sea of our sorrow; of this our sorrow that gave us Life!"

"Life for us is to change all that we are and all that touches us into light and flame, because we cannot do otherwise. This is the circle - perhapes much too limited - of Life where we are perpetually knocked down without being able to escape except through the silent paths of Death! But Death does not frighten or terrorize us. On the countrary! We who proceed out of the Unknoun of eternity and go toward the eternity of Unknown have learned to look upon Death like any moment of our Life. And this is our most beautiful, our most sublime mystery!
This is the final word of knowledge. The unknowable!

And it is from this our unknowable singularity that the powerful and diabolical voice of our desires rises. Desires of youthful flesh eager of pleasure, the cry of the spirit panting for unlimited freedom, mad flights of the mind through the distant, unexplored unknown; howls and ferocious blasphemies of our galloping and vagabond thought colliding with the much too mysterious walls of eternity, triumphant and dionysian songs of Life seen dimly through the delirium of a dream, a dream composed of a Whole lost and wandering in a Void. And in the Void Death waits for us. This Death that is ours as Life is ours.

But one should not be lowered into the grave with a heart swollen with sadness and weeping. It is necessary first to have lived in intensity as Artists, as Rebels, as Heroes, without ever having bathed in the bitter waters of repentance that flow in christian rivers. The true original sinner should not die drowning in the slimy whirlpools of a slimier remorse, but rather enveloped in the rosy blaze of the greatest sin. Before dying, we must be consumed to the last quivering spark of our luxuriant thought, having made a feast of the world and an infinite pleasure of action, Before dying, it is necessary - as Emerson said - to feel everything become familiar to us, every event useful, every day holy, every person divine. Then? "Then comes the nausea, the repugnance, the loathing" says Bruno Filippi, and then one "dares" and daring one goes with a calm and bright spirit toward the silent realm of Death where the mind disperses in the vast stillness of the Void and matter descomposes in order to live another type of unknown life in the atoms."

"But while I admire this vigorous creature who blossomed luxuriously through the pegan mystery of the homerically tragic art that, as a symbol of sublime heroic beauty, exalts itselfs above the sky of Shadow and of Night as the fatal announcement of a brilliant dawn of blood, fire and light, I see "the anarchic individual" standing out from the grey twilight of reality, "he who obeyes only his own law in order to open the passage with bomb explosions" and live life crying like the god of the rynerian parable: "I love you and freely desire you, oh my Necessity!"

"Spirit has made itself Thought, Thought has made itself Flesh in order to reapear as symbol."

"Like all of the few frantic lovers of Life, he was a heroic poet of the deed who in the destruction of himself and of his Misfortunes created a tragic song to the "triumph of the imperishable will", to the cult of eternal Joy and Beauty. He offered all the corroding and luminous flames of his ardent, sorrowful and tortured mind. In the delirious impulse of his annihilation, wanted to make the most intimate and sublime Sin acknowleged Life. Then he dissolved in the Void, a luminous and wandering voice that remains for us, incessantly whispering: "Dare, dare!"

"He was broken while breaking the chains that you, United in a cowardly and hateful way in your manifold quality as dangerous lunatics, riveted logically and morally, to his twenty year old rebel wrists in order to crush his Uniqueness, his mystery, because he was incomprehensible to you, precisely as the comlicated mind of one who feels complete in himself must be. Bruno Filippi hated. But the forces of Hatred did not crush the powers of Love within Him. He immolated himself in a fruitful embrace with death because he madly loved Life. We have the need and the entitlement to say of him that which was said of D'Annunzian hero: "That the slaves of the marketplace turn around and remember!"

vineri, 30 aprilie 2010

"Fiecare dintre noi suntem un diavol si transformam lumea in care traim in propriul iad"(Oscar Wilde)

“De ce ti-e frica de singuratate? Ti-e frica sa ramai singur cu tine?”,
obisnuiam sa ironizez cu prima ocazie pe oricine cauta compasiune, alianta puerila a celor invisi, empatizare cu vesnicul conformist. Obisnuiam sa adopt o figura cinica dar simpatica, o atitudine flegmatica dar ingaduitoare, epatarea ma ispitea dar nu ma coboram la nivelul ei. Asta a fost doar inceputul spre o intelegere mai putin naiva a contrariului a ceea ce simteam.
E ciudat cand instinctele te tradeaza. Ma simteam mandra si sigura pe mine pentru ca nu aveam de ce sa-mi fie frica. Ma complaceam. Pana am intrezarit monstrul.

N-am incetat sa ma complac, insa nu fara efort…In ce ma priveste, nu ma pot abandona fricii. Dar tind sa-i indreptatesc pe cei care o fac. Treapta cu treapta, introspectia lucida si riguroasasa se dezintegreaza, se topeste in abis. E chiar explicabil, cand imparti realitatea in "bine" si "rau" , sa te privesti si sa te ingrozesti, pt ca nu semeni deloc cu ce ai trait pana acum. Esti o revelatie atat de profunda, atat de unic si de imperceptibil, incat iti esti de-a dreptul strain si incomprehensibil. Cum sa nu te sperii de monstrul care planeaza asupra existentei tale, atemporal, aspatial si omnipotent? Esti tu! Destin si vointa, cauza si efect, creatie si distrugere. Esti tot ce mintea nu va putea vreodata concepe. Esti mai mult decat poti spera. Si te sperii! Te refugiezi in ratiune, in material si-n fictiune (poate e cazul sa punem egal).

Imi place sa cred ca traiesc in oarecare armonie cu monstrul meu. Cand suntem la ananghie ne dam cate o mana de ajutor unul altuia. Incerc sa ma transpun pe o pozitie de egalitate cu el. Sper sa-mi ierte aroganta…Cand el iese la iveala eu il las sa-si faca meandrele si-i ingadui mici indiscretii isterice, cand eu il reneg el ma asteapta rabdator cu un zambet sarcastic si nu ma dojeneste, stie ca supravietuirea noastra depinde de asta. El traieste intr-o lume desavarsita, alienat viselor neghioabe. Eu nu-mi atribui impertinenta de a-l diseca, ma straduiesc doar sa ma strecor cuminte printre vise, halucinatii "rationale" (prea putin constiente).
Dar mai pot? Nu m-a atras niciodata ipocrizia. Plus ca a-nceput sa-mi placa monstrul, eu cu el vreau sa fiu…il inteleg, il iubesc si-l admir atat de mult incat inutilitatea existentei devine realitate iar realitatea existenta inutila. Ma predau lui, mie, si ma subjug, si ma trezesc, si acaparez si devin ceea ce sunt.
Sunt singura.

luni, 12 aprilie 2010

"Tie iti place toata lumea; ceea ce e totuna cu a spune ca toti oamenii te lasa indiferent." (Oscar Wilde)

Tu nu crezi in nimic; ceea ce e totuna cu a spune ca nu excluzi nici o posibilitate.

miercuri, 31 martie 2010

datorie ("Scopul vietii e dezvoltarea sinelui"-Oscar Wilde)

timpul se scurgea altfel in copilarie. aproape ca nici nu exista.spatiul se rezuma la contemplarea si redescoperirea aceluiasi peisaj familiar, la fel de fascinant ca tot ce era inca necunoscut. te catarai in copac fara frica ca o sa cazi, fugeai fara sa conteze unde ajungi. daca nu ne intoarcem acolo traim degeaba.

luni, 29 martie 2010

very, but totally...rude song

vineri, 26 martie 2010

Incoerenta lui Bakunin

Voltaire a spus ca daca dumnezeu n-ar exista ar trebui inventat. Bakunin a spus ca daca dumnezeu ar exista ar trebui impuscat. Dupa care a adaugat ca trebuie sa distrugem statul. De ce nu a afirmat ca daca statul ar exista ar trebui distrus?

p.s.: inca nu s-a gasit nimeni sa zica ca daca statul n-ar exista ar trebui inventat

Sa distrugem timpul (cum ramane cu spatiul?)

"Când omul, în integritatea lui, va atinge fericirea, timpul va înceta să mai existe, pentru că nu va mai fi nevoie de el."
(Dostoievski - "Demonii")

luni, 22 martie 2010

Demonii lui Dostoievski

" -ce-i retine pe oameni, dupa parerea dumitale, sa se sinucida? il intrebai eu.
ma privi distrat, cautand parca sa-si aduca aminte despre ce vorbisem.
-eu...inca nu stiu prea bine... doua prejudecat ii retin, doua lucruri; numai doua; unul mic si neinsemnat, celalalt f important. dar si cel mic este totodata foarte mare.
-care sa fie acel lucru mic?
-durerea? sa fie chiar asa de important... in cazul de fata?
-o importanta de prim ordin. exista doua categorii: unii se sinucid fie din pricina unei mari depresiuni, fie dintr-o pornire furioasa, fie ca sunt nebuni, fie cine sa-i mai inteleaga de ce...acestia o fac brusc. nu prea se gandesc la durere, ci o fac instantaneu. iar altii o fac rational, acestia mediteaza mult si indelung.
-cum? exista si oameni care se sinucid rational?
-foarte multi. daca n-ar fi existat prejudecati, numarul lor ar fi fost si mai mare; toti.
-ei, chiar toti?
el tacu.
-dar nu exista si metode de a muri fara durere?
-inchipuie-ti, se opri el in fata mea, inchipuie-ti un pietroi de marime imensa, de marimea acestei case; pitroiul acesta atarna deasupra capului dumitale, pe cap, vei simti durerea?
- o piatra cat o casa? e infricostor, fireste.
-nu-i vb de frica; vei simti durerea sau nu?
-o piatra cat un munte, un milion de paduri?bineinteles ca nu mai poate fi vorba de durere.
-dar sa te afli cu adevarat in situatia aceasta, stiind ca aceasta piatra atarna realmente deasupra capului dumitale, iti va fi negresit o frica grozava, ca iti va provoca durere. orice savant, orice medic, oricat de mare, la toti o sa le fie frica. stiind ca nu vor suferi nici o durere, totusi vor suferi de frica, cu gandul ca o sa-i doara.
- dar cauza cealalta, cea mare?
-lumea de apoi.
-adica pedeapsa?
-indiferent ce. lumea de apoi; lumea de apoi, ca atare.
-dar nu exista ateisti, care nu cred deloc in lumea de apoi?
si de data aceasta imi lasa intrebarea fara raspuns.
-poate ca judeci dupa dumneata personal?
-nimeni nu poate judeca decat dupa el insusi, zise el rosindu-se. libertatea deplina va veni abia atunci cand omului ii va fi absolut egal daca traieste sau daca nu traieste. iata scopul final.
-scopul? dar atunci poate ca nimeni nu va mai dori sa traiasca?
-nimeni, zise el hotarat.
-omul se teme de moarte fiindca tine la viata, asa inteleg eu lucrurile si este un imperativ al fricii.
-este o lasitate si tocmai aici se ascunde toata minciuna! ochii lui scanteiara. viata este suferinta, viata este spaima, si omul e nefericit. acum omul tine la viata, pentru ca tine la suferinta si la frica. asa este construita acum lumea. acum viata i se infatiseaza omului in chip de suferinta si frica, aici e toata minciuna. astazi omul inca nu este om adevarat. va veni un om nou, fericit si mandru, omul caruia ii va fi absolut inediferent daca va trai sau nu; acesta va fi omul nou. cine va invinge suferinta si frica, acela va deveni el insusi d-zeu. iar celalalt d-zeu nu va mai exista.
-prin urmare celalalt d-zeu exista dupa parerea dumitale?
-nu exista, dar e prezent. in piatra nu exista suferinta, dar in frica de piatra suferinta exista. d-zeu este suferinta fricii de moarte. cine va invinge suferinta si frica, va deveni el insusi d-zeu. atunci va veni o viata noua, va fi un om nou, totul va fi nou...atunci istoria se va imparti in doua: de la gorila pana la distrugerea dumnezeirii si de la distrugerea dumnezeirii pana la...
-pana la gorila?
-...pana la transformarea fizica a Pamantului si a omului. cine indrazneste sa se sinucida acela este d-zeu. astazi oricine poate sa faca asa ca d-zeu sa nu existe si nimic sa nu existe. dar nimeni inca n-a facut-o niciodata.
-au existat milioane de sinucigasi.
-dar nu au facut-o pt asta; mereu cu frica si nu in acest scop. nu pentru a ucide frica. cine se va sinucide numai pentru a ucide frica, acela indata va deveni d-zeu."

joi, 4 martie 2010

Antifascism in secolul XXl

Daca vrem sa evitam reaparitia oricarei forme de dominatie fascista, va trebui sa luptam nu doar in favoarea demnitatii si libertati umane dar si impotriva mijloacelor care au facut posibila existenta unui regim nazist, precum militarizarea, etatizarea ori propaganda mincinoasa. In lipsa unei imagini de ansamblu, opunandu-ne doar discriminarii, rasismului ori patriotismului nu vom reusi sa combatem in intregime cauzele complexe, prezente si in societatea contemporana, care au dus la formarea doctrinei national-socialiste.

Daca se considera ca fascismul a fost un produs tipic german sau italian, rezultatul unei mentalitati care poata sa apara doar in sanul acestor popoare, atunci e clar ca lichidarea industriei grele, eliminarea liderilor si reeducarea adeptilor lor ar fi indicat sfarsitul fascismului si al razboiului, produsul sau inevitabil.

Aceasta este o idee simplista si primejdioasa deoarece cauzele fascismului sunt latente peste tot si el poate sa reapara in multe alte tari, daca exista conditii propice. Nu aparam nici naivitatea ca fascismul german ar putea reaparea in alte locuri cu trasaturi identice. Istoria nu se repeta niciodata. Aparam ipoteza ca fascismul ar putea renaste cu atributele lui de barbarie spirituala, sclavie a sufletelor si a trupurilor, ura nationala, demagogie si razboi. Ipoteza este plauzibila daca tinem cont de faptul ca fascismul s-a nascut din criza generala a sistemului, criza care nu a fost solutionata, desigur, prin infrangerea militara a Germaniei.

Admitand ca nazismul s-a nascut din criza capitalismului si ca o forma de a pune capat revolutiei, poate sa para contradictoriu ca a contat pe opinia publica si chiar pe fanatismul marilor mase, manipulate impotriva celor mai profunde interese ale lor. Exista multe exemple in istorie si nici o dovada contra faptului ca omenirea este inca sensibila la o astfel de propaganda. Expansiunea fascismului ne-a demonstrat cum masele pot ajunge sa sprijine fanatic o miscare destinata sa le duca in sclavie, sa le abrutizeze si sa le arunce in lupte sangeroase.

Asemenea miscarilor de extrema dreapta de azi, doctrina fascista a folosit un limbaj anticapitalist si unele masuri economice care o faceau sa se asemene cu socialismul; se intitula national-socialism. A folosit sofismul etatizarii: socialismul e statal iar tot ce e statal e socialist. A profitat de confuzia comuna dintre revolutie si violenata pentru a distrage atentia de la esenta problemelor societatii, facand poporul sa creada ca iudaismul si capitalismul erau unul si acelasi lucru si, in consecinta, a omori si a tortura era o operatie echivalenta cu suprimarea bancii private. Insa, in pofida lozincilor anticapitaliste, marii bancheri straini au sprijinit si chiar finantat fascismul transformand aceasta forma noua si subtila de a profita de nemultumirea maselor intr-o bariera in fata comunismului. Constient sau nu, nazistii au devenit garzile de corp ale capitalismului, si ceea ce a fost un mijloc barbar de a pune capat revolutiei in Europa s-a transformat, chiar pe parcursul acestui proces, intr-o barbarie pentru barbaria insasi, in ura pentru ura si putere pentru putere.

Fenomenul era usor de explicat in Germania: resentimentul impotriva tarilor aliate, lipsa de incredere in partidle muncitoresti care se luptau intre ele si nu se dovedeau capabile sa rezolve problemele. Partidul national-socialist a profitat de toata aceasta materie prima, a dezlantuit uri unificatoare si a construit, prin propaganda, sofismul ca sistem.

Unii sunt de parere ca, fiind un fenomen german, nu trebuie sa ne facem griji in ce priveste fascismul, odata ce Germania a fost anihilata pe plan militar. Dintre toate formele de a face jocul fascismului aceasta este cea mai subtila pentru ca ii usureaza reinvierea in orice alta tara a lumii.

O astfel de conceptie se leaga de credinta ca germanii au ceva misterios si ocult, care ii diferentiaza . Dupa cum se vede, in aceasta chestiune antinazistii sunt de acord cu nazistii. Ciudata si intortocheata forma de a sprijini doctrinele rasiste! Partizanii acestor teorii considera ca in adancul oricarui german exista germenul misterios al militarismului, disciplina oarba si inclinata spre barbarie. Insa istoria ne arata ca ori de cate ori circumstantele, epoca, obiceiurile si luptele i-au ingaduit sau l-au ajutat, omul a coborat in cele mai abjecte adancuri ale cruzimii si ale sadismului. Nu este necesar sa fii barbar pentru a fi german, asa cum pentru a fi german nu e suficient sa fii barbar, fapt dovedit de prezenta politiei in oricare dintre tarile noastre. Istoria ne arata pana la refuz ca nu exista caractere nationale invariabile si ca o data cu toate conditiile economice, sociale, sau religioase, se schimba si obiceiurile, aspiratiile, gusturile.

Acest punct de vedere asupra relativitatii caracterelor nationale nu presupune negarea faptului ca popoarele zilelor noastre au trasaturi deplorabile produse de circumstante istorice si sociale comune. Indiferent de cauze, cetateanul contemporan doreste sa faca parte din organizatii – oricare ar fi ele – care sa-l priveze de libertate, este lipsit de initiativa autonoma, are o atitudine de supunere docila si actioneaza conform spiritului de turma, este favorabil oricaror clase de excese, incapabil sa traieasca fara regulamente, construieste ori de cate ori poate un sistem dogmatic, vede in stat un dumnezeu atotputernic si venerabil. Desigur ca un om cu asemenea caracteristici este material propice nasterii unor indivizi ca Hitler. Inca mai exista circumstante sociale si economice care pot duce la reaparitia fascismului. Acum, ca si in vremea celui de al doilea razboi mondial, exista omul sensibil indoctrinarii pe care obedienta si militarismul il pregatesc bine pentru fascism; exista deasemena un nucleu de banditi foarte hotarati si care au un program de lupta foarte clar.

Nu se poate lupta ani la rand impotriva unui dusman puternic, fara a sfarsi prin a semana cu el. Acest fapt psihologic explica straniile fenomene la care asistam: anumiti antifascisti viseaza la formele cele mai crude de razbunare; nu incurajeaza siguranta, ci pedeapsa si ura; insufletiti de acelasi sadism, ei dau frau liber tocmai pasiunilor pe care le uram la fascism. Spiritul fascist renaste astfel in chip subtil, in sufletul propiilor sai calai.

Exista anumite sentimente si prejudecati pe care este foarte greu sa le strangi dupa ce le-ai varsat; nazismul a dus la accentuarea antisemitismului in tarile unde era activ si a provocat aparitia lui acolo unde era aproape inexistent; a popularizat sofisme despre inferioritatea anumitor rase; a distrus credinta in respectul reciproc, in demnitatea umana, in virtutile ratiunii si ale dezbaterii. Omenirea are nevoie de multa vreme ca sa restaureze aceste valori si nu se stie daca o va putea face, atata timp cat forme latente ale fascismului sunt inca prezente si ignorate.

(dupa sabato)

marți, 2 martie 2010

The Day Before the Revolution - Ursula K. Le Guin

My novel The Dispossessed is about a small worldful of people who call themselves Odonians. The name is taken from the founder of their society, Odo, who lived several generations before the time of the novel, and who therefore doesn't get into the action-- except implicitly, in that all the action started with her.

Odonianism is anarchism. Not the bomb-in-the-pocket stuff, which is terrorism, whatever name it tries to dignify itself with; not the social-Darwinist economic "libertarianism" of the far right; but anarchism. as prefigured in early Taoist thought, and expounded by Shelley and Kropotkin, Goldman and Goodman. Anarchism's principal target is the authoritarian State (capitalist or socialist); its principal moral-practical theme is cooperation (solidarity, mutual aid). It is the most idealistic, and to me the most interesting, of all political theories.

To embody it in a novel, which had not been done before, was a long and hard job for me, and absorbed me totally for many months. When it was done I felt lost exiled--a displaced person. I was very grateful, therefore, when Odo came out of the shadows and across the gulf of Probability, and wanted a story written, not about the world she made, but about herself.

In memoriam Paul Goodman, 1911-1972

The speaker's voice was as loud as empty beer-trucks in a stone street, and the people at the meeting were jammed up close, cobblestones, that great voice booming over them. Taviri was somewhere on the other side of the hall. She had to get to him. She wormed and pushed her way among the dark-clothed, close-packed people. She did not hear the words, nor see the faces: only the booming, and the bodies pressed one behind the other. She could not see Taviri, she was too short. A broad black-vested belly and chest loomed up, blocking her way. She must get through to Taviri. Sweating, she jabbed fiercely with her fist. It was like hitting stone, he did not move at all, but the huge lungs let out right over her head a prodigious noise, a bellow.. She cowered. Then she understood that the bellow had not been at her. Others were shouting. The speaker had said something, something fine about taxes or shadows. Thrilled, she joined the shouting--"Yes! Yes!" --and shoving on, came out easily into the open expanse of the Regimental Drill Field in Parheo. Overhead the evening sky lay deep and colorless, and all around her nodded the tall weeds with dry, white, close-floreted heads. She had never known what they were called. The flowers nodded above her head, swaying in the wind that always blew across the fields in the dusk. She ran among them, and they whipped lithe aside and stood up again swaying, silent. Taviri stood among the tall weeds in his good suit, the dark grey one that made him look like a professor or a play-actor, harshly elegant. He did not look happy, but he was laughing, and saying something to her. The sound of his voice made her cry, and she reached out to catch hold of his hand, but she did not stop, quite. She could not stop. "Oh, Taviri," she said, It's just on there!" The queer sweet smell of the white weeds was heavy as she went on. There were thorns. tangles underfoot, there were slopes, pits. She feared to fall, to fall, she stopped.

Sun, bright morning-glare, straight in the eyes, relentless. She had forgotten to pull the blind last night. She turned her back on the sun, but the right side wasn't comfortable. No use. Day. She sighed twice, sat up, got her legs over the edge of the bed, and sat hunched in her nightdress looking down at her feet.

The toes, compressed by a lifetime of cheap shoes, were almost square where they touched each other, and bulged out above in corns; the nails were discolored and shapeless. Between the knob-like anklebones ran fine, dry wrinkles. The brief little plain at the base of the toes had kept its delicacy, but the skin was the color of mud, and knotted veins crossed the instep. Disgusting. Sad, depressing. Mean. Pitiful. She tried on all the words, and they all fit, like hideous little hats. Hideous: yes, that one too. To look at oneself and find it hideous, what a job! But then, when she hadn't been hideous, had she sat around and stared at herself like this? Not much! A proper body's not an object, not an implement, not a belonging to be admired, it's just you, yourself. Only when it's no longer you. but yours, a thing owned, do you worry about it-- Is it in good shape? Will it do? Will it last?

"Who cares" said Laia fiercely, and stood up.

It made her giddy to stand up suddenly. She had to put out her hand to the bed-table, for she dreaded falling. At that she thought of reaching out to Taviri in the dream.

What had he said? She could not remember. She was not sure if she had even touched his hand. She frowned, trying to force memory. It had been so long since she had dreamed about Taviri; and now not even to remember what he had said!

It was gone, it was gone. She stood there hunched in her nightdress, frowning, one hand on the bed-table. How long was it since she had thought of him--let alone dreamed of him--even thought of him, as "Taviri?" How long since she had said his name?

Asieo said. When Asieo and I were in prison in the North. Before I met Asieo. Asieo's theory of reciprocity. Oh yes, she talked about him, talked about him too much no doubt, maundered, dragged him in. But as "Asieo," the last name, the public man. The private man was gone, utterly gone. There were so few left who had even known him. They had all used to be in jail. One laughed about it in those days, all the friends in all the jails. But they weren't even there, these days. They were in the prison cemeteries. Or in the common graves.

"Oh, oh my dear," Laia said out loud, and she sank down onto the bed again because she could not stand up under the remembrance of those first weeks in the Fort, in the cell, those first weeks of the nine years in the Fort in Drio, in the cell, those first weeks after they told her that Asieo had been killed in the fighting in Capitol Square and had been buried with the Fourteen Hundred in the lime-ditches behind Oring Gate. In the cell. Her hands fell into the old position on her lap, the left clenched and locked inside the grip of the right, the right thumb working back and forth a little pressing and rubbing on the knuckle of the left first finger. Hours, days, nights. She had thought of them all, each one, each one of the Fourteen Hundred, how they lay, how the quicklime worked on the flesh, how the bones touched in the burning dark. Who touched him? How did the slender bones of the hand lie now? Hours, years.

"Taviri, I have never forgotten you!" she whispered, and the stupidity of it brought her back to morning light and the rumpled bed. Of course she hadn't forgotten him. These things go without saying between husband and wife. There were her ugly old feet fiat on the floor again, just as before. She had got nowhere at all, she had gone in a circle. She stood up with a grunt of effort and disapproval, and went to the closet for her dressing gown.

The young people went about the halls of the House in becoming immodesty, but she was too old for that. She didn't want to spoil some young man's breakfast with the sight of her. Besides, they had grown up in the principle of freedom of dress and sex and all the rest, and she hadn't. All she had done was invent it. It's not the same.

Like speaking of Asieo as "my husband." They winced. The word she should use as a good Odonian, of course, was "partner." But why the hell did she have to be good Odonian?

She shuffled down the hall to the bathrooms. Mairo was there, washing her hair in a lavatory. Laia looked at the long, sleek, wet hank with admiration. She got out of the House so seldom now that she didn't know when she had last seen a respectably shaven scalp, but still the sight of a full head of hair gave her pleasure, vigorous pleasure. How mane times had she been jeered at, Longhair, Longhair, had her hair pulled by policemen or young toughs, had her hair shaved off down to the scalp by a grinning soldier at each new prison? And then had grown it all over again, through the fuzz,to the frizz, to the curls, to the mane. . . . In the old days. For God's love, couldn't she think of anything today but the old days?

Dressed, her bed made, she went down to commons. It was a good breakfast, but she had never got her appetite back since the damned stroke. She drank two cups of herb tea, but couldn't finish the piece of fruit she had taken. How she had craved fruit as a child badly enough to steal it; and in the Fort--oh, for God's love stop it! She smiled and replied to the greetings and friendly inquiries of the other breakfasters and big Aevi who was serving the counter this morning. It was he who had tempted her with the peach, "Look at this, I've been saving it for you," and how could she refuse? Anyway she had always loved fruit, and never got enough; once when she was six or seven she had stolen a piece off a vendor's cart in River Street. But it was hard to eat when everyone was talking so excitedly. There was news from Thu, real news. She was inclined to discount it at first, being wary of enthusiasms, but after she had read the between the lines of it, she thought, with a strange kind of certainty, deep but cold. Why, this is it: it has come. And in Thu, not here. Thu will break before this country does; the Revolution will first prevail there. As if that mattered! There will be no more nations. And yet it did matter somehow, it made her a little cold and sad-envious, in fact. Of all the infinite stupidities. She did not join in the talk much, and soon got up to go back to her room, feeling sorry for herself. She could not share their excitement. She was out of it, really out of it. It's not easy, she said to herself in justification, laboriously climbing the stairs, to accept being out of it when you've been in it, in the center of it, for fifty years. Oh, for God's love. Whining!

She got the stairs and the self-pity behind her, entering her room. It was a good room, and it was good to be by herself. It was a great relief. Even if it wasn't strictly fair. Some of the kids in the attics were living five to a room no bigger than this. There were always more people wanting to live in an Odonian House than could be properly accommodated. She had this big room all to herself only because she was an old woman who had had a stroke. And maybe because she was Odo. If she hadn't been Odo, but merely the old woman with a stroke, would she have had it? Very likely. After all, who the hell wanted to room with a drooling old woman? But it was hard to be sure. Favoritism, elitism, leader-worship, they crept back and cropped out everywhere. But she had never hoped to see them eradicated in her lifetime, in one generation. Only Time works the great changes. Meanwhile this was a nice, large, sunny room, proper for a drooling old woman who had started a world revolution.

Her secretary would be coming in an hour to help her despatch the day's work. She shuffled over to the desk, a beautiful, big piece, a present from the Noi Cabinetmakers' Syndicate because somebody had heard her remark once that the only piece of furniture she had ever really longed for was a desk with drawers and enough room on top . . . damn, the top was practically covered with papers with notes clipped to them, mostly in Noi's small clear handwriting: Urgent.--Northern Provinces.--Consult w/R. T.?

Her own handwriting had never been the same since Asieo's death. It was odd, when you thought about it. After all, within five years after his death she had written the whole Analogy. And there were those letters, which the tall guard with the watery grew' eyes, what was his name, never mind, had smuggled out of the fort for her for two years. The Prison Letters they called them now, there were a dozen different editions of them. All that stuff, the letters which people kept telling her were so full of "spiritual strength"--which probably meant she had been lying herself blue in the face when she wrote them, trying to keep her spirits up--and the Analogy which was certainly the solidest intellectual work she had ever done, all of that had been written in the Fort in Drio, in the cell, after Asieo's death. One had to do something, and in the Fort they let one have paper and pens. . . . But it had all been written in the hasty, scribbling hand which she had never felt was hers, not her own like the round, black scrolling of the manuscript of Society Without Government, forty-five years old. Taviri had taken not only her body's and her heart's desire to the quicklime with him, but even her good clear hand-writing.

But he had left her the Revolution.

How brave of you to go on, to work, to write, in prison, after such a defeat for the Movement, after your partner's death, people had used to say. Damn fools. What else had there been to do? Bravery, courage--what was courage? She had never figured it out. Not fearing, some said. Fearing yet going on, others said. But what could one do but go on? Had one any real choice, ever?

To die was merely to go on in another direction.

If you wanted to come home you had to keep going on, that was what she meant when she wrote "True journey is return," but it had never been more than an intuition, and she was farther than ever now from being able to rationalize it. She bent down, too suddenly so that she grunted a little at the creak in her bones, and began to root in a bottom drawer of the desk. Her hand came on an age-softened folder and drew it out, recognizing it by touch before sight confirmed: the manuscript of Syndical Organization in Revolutionary Transition. He had printed the title on the folder and written his name under it, Taviri Odo Asieo, IX 741. There was an elegant handwriting, every letter well-formed, bold, and fluent. But he had preferred to use a voiceprinter. The manuscript was all in voiceprint, and high quality too, hesitancies adjusted and idiosyncrasies of speech normalized. You couldn't see there how he had said "o" deep in his throat as they did on the North Coast. There was nothing of him there but his mind. She had nothing of him at all except his name written on the folder. She hadn't kept his letters, it was sentimental to keep letters. Besides, she never kept anything. She couldn't think of anything that she had ever owned for more than a few years, except this ramshackle old body, of course, and she was stuck with that. . . .

Dualizing again. "She" and "it." Age and illness made one dualist, made one escapist; the mind insisted, It's not me, it's not me. But it was. Maybe the mystics could detach mind from body, she had always rather wistfully envied them the chance, without hope of emulating them. Escape had never been her game. She had sought for freedom here, now, body and soul.

First self-pity, then self-praise, and here she still sat, for God's love, holding Asieo's name in her hand, why? Didn't she know his name without looking it up? What was wrong with her? She raised the folder to her lips and kissed the handwritten name firmly and squarely, replaced the folder in the back of the bottom drawer, shut the drawer, and straightened up in the chair. Her right hand tingled. She scratched it, and then shook it in the air, spitefully. It had never quite got over the stroke. Neither had her right leg or right eye, or the right corner of her mouth. They were sluggish, inept, they tingled. They made her feel like a robot with a short circuit.

And time was getting on, Noi would be coming, what had she been doing ever since breakfast?

She got up so hastily that she lurched, and grabbed at the chairback to make sure she did not fall. She went down the hall to the bathroom and looked in the big mirror there. Her grey knot was loose and droopy, she hadn't done it up well before breakfast. She struggled with it a while. It was hard to keep her arms up in the air. Amai, running in to piss, stopped and said, "Let me do it!" and knotted it up tight and neat in no time, with her round, strong, pretty fingers, smiling and silent. Amai was twenty, less than a third of Laia's age. Her parents had both been members of the Movement, one killed in the insurrection of '60, the other still recruiting in the South Provinces. Amai had grown up in Odonian Houses, born to the Revolution, a true daughter of anarchy. And so quiet and free and beautiful a child, enough to make you cry when you thought: this is what we worked for, this is what we meant, this is it, here she is, alive, the kindly, lovely future.

Laia Asieo Odo's right eye wept several little tears, as she stood between the lavatories and the latrines having her hair done up by the daughter she had not borne; but her left eye, the strong one, did not weep, nor did it know what the right eye did.

She thanked Amai and hurried back to her room. She had noticed, in the mirror, a stain on her collar. Peach juice, probably. Damned old dribbler. She didn't want Noi to come in and find her with drool on her collar.

As the clean shirt went on over her head, she thought, What's so special about Noi?

She fastened the collar-frogs with her left hand, slowly. Noi was thirty or so, a slight, muscular fellow, with a soft voice and alert dark eyes. That's what was special about Noi. It was that simple. Good old sex. She had never been drawn to a fair man or a fat one, or the tall fellows with big biceps, never, not even when she was fourteen and fell in love with every passing fart. Dark, spare, and fiery, that was the recipe. Taviri, of course. This boy wasn't a patch on Taviri for brains, nor even for looks, but there it was: she didn't want him to see her with dribble on her collar and her hair coming undone.

Her thin, grey hair.

Noi came in, just pausing in the open doorway--my God, she hadn't even shut the door while changing her shirt! She looked at him and saw herself. The old woman.

You could brush your hair and change your shirt, or you could wear last week's shirt and last night's braids, or you could put on cloth of gold and dust your shaven scalp with diamond powder. None of it would make the slightest difference. The old woman would look a little less, or a little more, grotesque.

One keeps oneself neat out of mere decency mere sanity, awareness of other people.

And finally even that goes, and one dribbles unashamed.

"Good morning," the young man said in his gentle voice.

"Hello, Noi."

No, by God, it was not out of mere decency. Decency be damned. Because the man she had loved, and to whom her age would not have mattered--because he was dead, must she pretend she had no sex? Must she suppress the truth, like a damned puritan authoritarian? Even six months ago, before the stroke, she had made men look at her and like to look at her; and now, though she could give no pleasure, by God she could please herself.

When she was six years old, and Papa's friend Gadeo used to come by to talk politics with Papa after dinner, she would put on the gold-colored necklace that Mama had found on a trash heap and brought home for her. It was so short that it always got hidden under her collar where nobody could see it. She liked it that way. She knew she had it on. She sat on the doorstep and listened to them talk, and knew that she looked nice for Gadeo. He was dark, with white teeth that flashed. Sometimes he called her "pretty Laia." "There's my pretty Laia!" Sixty-six years ago.

"What? My head's dull. I had a terrible night." It was true. She had slept even less than usual.

"I was asking if you'd seen the papers this morning."

She nodded.

"Pleased about Soinehe?"

Soinehe was the province in Thu which had declared its secession from the Thuvian State last night.

He was pleased about it. His white teeth flashed in his dark, alert face. Pretty Laia.

"Yes. And apprehensive."

"I know. But it's the real thing, this time. It's the beginning of the end of the Government in Thu. They haven't even tried to order troops into Soinehe, you know. It would merely provoke the soldiers into rebellion sooner, and they know it."

She agreed with him. She herself had felt that certainty. But she could not share his delight. After a lifetime of living on hope because there is nothing but hope, one loses the taste for victory. A real sense of triumph must be preceded by real despair. She had unlearned despair a long time ago. There were no more triumphs. One went on.

"Shall we do those letters today?"

"All right. Which letters?"

"To the people in the North," he said without impatience.

"In the North?"

"Parheo, Oaidun."

She had been born in Parheo, the dirty city on the dirty river. She had not come here to the capital till she was twenty-two and ready to bring the Revolution, though in those days, before she and the others had thought it through, it had been a very green and puerile revolution. Strikes for better wages, representation for women. Votes and wages--Power and Money, for the love of God! Well, one does learn a little, after all, in fifty years.

But then one must forget it all.

"Start with Oaidun," she said, sitting down in the armchair. Noi was at the desk ready to work. He read out excerpts from the letters she was to answer. She tried to pay attention, and succeeded well enough that she dictated one whole letter and started on another. "Remember that at this stage your brotherhood is vulnerable to the threat of... no, to the danger... to..." She groped till Noi suggested, "The danger of leader-worship?"

"All right. And that nothing is so soon corrupted by power-seeking as altruism. No. And that nothing corrupts altruism-no. O for God's love you know what I'm trying to say, Noi, you write it. They know it too, it's just the same old stuff, why can't they read my books!"

"Touch," Noi said gently, smiling, citing one of the central Odonian themes.

"All right, but I'm tired of being touched. If you'll write the letter I'll sign it but I can't be bothered with it this morning." He was looking at her with a little question or concern. She said, irritable, "There is something else I have to do!"

When Noi had gone she sat down at the desk and moved the papers about, pretending to be doing something, because she had been startled, frightened, by the words she had said. She had nothing else to do. She never had had anything else to do. This was her work: her lifework. The speaking tours and the meetings and the streets were out of reach for her now, but she could still write, and that was her work. And anyhow if she had had anything else to do, Noi would have known it; he kept her schedule, and tactfully reminded her of things, like the visit from the foreign students this afternoon. Oh, damn. She liked the young, and there was always something to learn from a foreigner, but she was tired of new faces, and tired of being on view. She learned from them, but they didn't learn from her; they had learnt all she had to teach long ago, from her books, from the Movement. They just came to look, as if she were the Great Tower in Rodarred, or the Canyon of the Tulaevea. A phenomenon, a monument. They were awed, adoring. She snarled at them: Think your own thoughts! --That's not anarchism, that's mere obscurantism.--You don't think liberty and discipline are incompatible, do you?--They accepted their tongue-lashing meekly as children, gratefully, as if she were some kind of All-Mother, the idol of the Big Sheltering Womb. She! She who had mined the shipyards at Seissero, and had cursed Premier Inoilte to his face in front of a crowd of seven thousand, telling him he would have cut off his own balls and had them bronzed and sold as souvenirs, if he thought there was any profit in it--she who had screeched, and sworn and kicked policemen, and spat at priests, and pissed in public on the big brass plaque in Capitol Square that said HERE WAS FOUNDED THE SOVEREIGN NATION OF A-IO ETC ETC, pssssssssss to all that! And now she was everybody's grandmama, the dear old lady, the sweet old monument, come worship at the womb. The fire's out, boys, it's safe to come up close.

"No, I won 't," Laia said out loud. "I will not." She was not selfconscious about talking to herself, because she always had talked to herself. "Laia's invisible audience," Tavari had used to say, as she went through the room muttering. "You needn't come, I won't be here," she told the invisible audience now. She had just decided that it was she had to do. She had to go out. To go into the streets.

It was inconsiderate to disappoint the foreign students. It was erratic, typically senile. It was unOdonian. Psssssss to all that. What was the good working for freedom all your life and ending up without any freedom at all? She would go out for a walk.

"What is an anarchist? One who, choosing, accepts the responsibility of choice."

On the way downstairs she decided, scowling, to stay and see the foreign students. But then she would go out.

They were very young students, very earnest: doe-eyed, shaggy, charming creatures from the Western Hemisphere. Benbili and the kingdom of Mand, the girls in white trousers, the boys in long kilts, warlike and archaic. They spoke of their hopes. "We in Mand are so very far from the Revolution that maybe we are near it," said one of the girls, wistful and smiling: "The Circle of Life!" and she showed the extremes meeting, in the circle of her slender, dark-skinned fingers. Amai and Aevi served them white wine and brown bread, the hospitality of the House. But the visitors, unpresumptuous, all rose to take their leave after barely half an hour. "No, no, no," Laia said. "stay' here, talk with Aevi and Amai. It's just that I get stiff sitting down, you see, I have to change about. It has been so good to meet you, will you come back to see me, my little brothers and sisters, soon?" For her heart went out to them, and theirs to her, and she exchanged kisses all round, laughing, delighted by the dark young cheeks, the affectionate eyes, the scented hair, before she shuffled off. She was really a little tired, but to go up and take a nap would be a defeat. She had wanted to go out. She would go out. She had not been alone outdoors since-when? Since winter! before the stroke. No wonder she was getting morbid. It had been a regular jail sentence. Outside, the streets, that's where she lived.

She went quietly out the side door of the House, past the vegetable patch, to the street. The narrow strip of sour city dirt had been beautifully gardened and was producing a fine crop of beans and ceea, but Laia's eye for farming was unenlightened. Of course it had been clear that anarchist communities, even in the time of transition, must work towards optimal self-support, but how that was to be managed in the way of actual dirt and plants wasn't her business. There were farmers and agronomists for that. Her job was the streets, the noisy, stinking streets of stone, where she had grown up and lived all her life, except for the fifteen years in prison.

She looked up fondly at the facade of the House. That it had been built as a bank gave peculiar satisfaction to its present occupants. They kept their sacks of meal in the bomb-proof money-vault, and aged their cider in kegs in safe deposit boxes. Over the fussy columns that faced the street carved letters still read, "National Investors and Grain Factors Banking Association." The Movement was not strong on names. They had no flag. Slogans came and went as the need did. There was always the Circle of Life to scratch on walls and pavements where Authority would have to see it. But when it came to names they were indifferent, accepting and ignoring whatever they got called, unafraid of being pinned down and penned in, unafraid of being absurd. So this best known and second oldest of all the cooperative Houses had no name except The Bank.

It faced on a wide and quiet street, but only a block away began the Temeba, an open market, once famous as a center for blackmarket psychogenics and teratogenics, now reduced to vegetables, secondhand clothes, and miserable sideshows. Its crapulous vitality was gone, leaving only half-paralyzed alcoholics. addicts, cripples, hucksters, and fifth rate whores, pawnshops, gambling dens fortune-tellers, body-sculptors, and cheap hotels. Laia turned to the Temeba as water seeks its level.

She had never feared or despised the city. It was her country. There would not be slums like this, if the Revolution prevailed. But there would be misery. There would always be misery, waste, cruelty. She had never pretended to be changing the human condition, to be Mama taking tragedy away from the children so they won't hurt themselves. Anything but. So long as people were free to choose, if they chose to drink flybane and live in sewers, it was their business. Just so long as it wasn't the business of Business, the source of profit and the means of power for other people.

She had felt all that before she knew anything; before she wrote the first pamphlet, before she left Parheo, before she knew what "capital" meant, before she'd been farther than River Street where she played rolltaggie kneeling on scabby knees on the pavement with the other six-year-olds, she had known it: that she, and the other kids, and her parents, and their parents, and the drunks and whores and all of River Street, were al the bottom of something--were the foundation, the reality, the source. But will you drag civilization down into the mud? cried the shocked decent people, later on, and she had tried for years to explain to them that if all you had was mud, then if you were God you made it into human beings, and if you were human you tried to make it into houses where human beings could live. But nobody who thought he was better than mud could understand. Now, water seeking its level, mud to mud, Laia shuffled through the foul, noisy street, and all the ugly weakness of her old age was at home. The sleepy whores, their lacquered hair-arrangements dilapidated and askew, the one-eyed woman wearily yelling her vegetables to sell, the half-wit beggar slapping flies, these were her countrywomen. They looked like her, they were all sad, disgusting, mean, pitiful, hideous. They were her sisters her own people.

She did not feel too well. It had been along time since she had walked so far, four or five blocks by herself, in the noise and push and striking summer heat of the streets. She had wanted to get to Koly Park, the triangle of scruffy grass at the end of the Temeba and sit there for a while with the other old men and women who always sat there, to see what it was like to sit there and be old; but it was too far. If she didn't turn back now, she might get a dizzy spell, and she had a dread of falling down, falling down and having to lie there and look up at the people come to stare at the old woman in a fit. She turned and started home, frowning with effort and self-disgust. She could feel her face very red, and a swimming feeling came and went in her ears. It got a bit much, she was really afraid she might keel over. She saw a doorstep in the shade and made for it, let herself down cautiously, sat, sighed.

Nearby was a fruit-seller, sitting silent behind his dusty, withered stock. People went by. Nobody bought from him. Nobody looked at her. Odo, who was Odo? Famous revolutionary, author of Community, The Analogy, etc. etc. She, who was she? An old woman with grey hair and a red face sitting on a dirty doorstep in a slum, muttering to herself.

True? Was that she? Certainly it was what anybody passing her saw. But was it she, herself, any more than the famous revolutionary, etc., was? No. It was not. But who was she, then?

The one who loved Taviri.

Yes. True enough. But not enough. That was gone; he had been dead so long.

"Who am I?" Laia muttered to her invisible audience, and they knew the answer and told it to her with one voice. She was the little girl with scabby knees, sitting on the doorstep staring down through the dirty golden haze of River Street in the heat of late summer, the six-year-old, the sixteen-year-old, the fierce, cross, dream-ridden girl, untouched, untouchable. She was herself. Indeed she had been the tireless worker and thinker, but a blood clot in a vein had taken that woman away from her. Indeed she had been the lover, the swimmer in the midst of life, but Taviri, dying, had taken that woman away with him. There was nothing left, really, but the foundation. She had come home; she had never left home. "True voyage is return." Dust and mud and a doorstep in the slums. And beyond, at the far end of the street, the field full of tall dry weeds blowing in the wind as the night came.

"Laia! What are you doing here? Are you all right?"

One of the people from the House, of course, a nice woman, a bit fanatical and always talking. Laia could not remember her name though she had known her for years. She let herself be taken home, the woman talking all the way. ln the big cool common room (once occupied by tellers counting money behind polished counters supervised by armed guards) Laia sat down in a chair. She was unable just as yet to face climbing the stairs, though she would have liked to be alone. The woman kept on talking, and other excited people came in. It appeared that a demonstration was being planned. Events in Thu were moving so fast that the mood here had caught fire, and something must be done. Day after tomorrow, no, tomorrow, there was to be a march, a big one, from Old Town to Capitol Square the old route. "Another Ninth Month Uprising," said a young man, fiery and laughing, glancing at Laia. He had not even been born at the time of the Ninth Month Uprising, it was all history to him. Now he wanted to make some history of his own. The room had filled up. A general meeting would be held here, tomorrow, at eight in the morning. "You must talk, Laia."

"Tomorrow? Oh, I won't be here tomorrow," she said brusquely. Whoever had asked her smiled, another one laughed, though Amai glanced round at her with a puzzled look. They went on talking and shouting. The Revolution. What on earth had made her say that? What a thing to say on the eve of the Revolution, even if it was true.

She waited her time, managed to get up and, for all her clumsiness, to slip away unnoticed among the people busy with their planning and excitement. She got to the hall, to the stairs, and began to climb them one by one. "The general strike," a voice, two voices, ten voices were saying in the room below, behind her. "The general strike " Laia muttered, resting for a moment on the landing. Above, ahead, in her room, what awaited her? The private stroke. That was mildly funny. She started up the second flight of stairs, one by one, one leg at a time, like a small child. She was dizzy but she was no longer afraid to fall. On ahead, on there, the dry white flowers nodded and whispered in the open fields of evening. Seventy-two years and she had never had time to learn what they were called.

Zabalaza Books
“Knowledge is the Key to be Free”
Post: Postnet Suite 116, Private Bag X42,
Braamfontein, 2017, Johannesburg, South Africa

luni, 15 februarie 2010

"crede ca nu crede si nu crede ca crede":)))

credinta este simpla incapacitate de a rationa. nu cred in nimic! cu atat mai putin in ratiune

Despre adevar (ori mai degraba despre minciuna)

-Stiu ca esti un om dintr-o bucata si te mandresti cu asta. Dar pune-ti si tu intrebarea: de ce sa spunem adevarul? Ce anume ne leaga de el? Si de ce, in general, consideram calitatea de a spune adevarul o virtute? Inchipuie-ti ca te intalnesti cu un nebun care sustine ca e peste si ca toti suntem niste pesti. Te iei cu el la cearta? Te dezbraci in fata lui si-i arati ca n-ai aripioare de peste? Sau ii spui de la obraz ce gandesti despre el? Hai, vorbeste!
Daca i-ai spune numai si numai adevarul, numai ceea ce gandesti cu adevarat despre el, ai intra intr-o discutie serioasa cu un nebun si, in consecinta, ai ajunge tu insuti sa fii nebun. Asa e si cu lumea care ne inconjoara. Daca m-as indaratnici sa-i spun adevarul de la obraz ar insemna s-o iau in serios. Si a lua in serios ceva atat de neserios inseamna sa devii tu insuti neserios. Asadar, precum vezi, eu
trebuie sa mint, daca nu vreau sa-i iau in serios pe nebuni si sa nu devin unul dintre ei.

(...) si i se paru ca, de fapt, toti oamenii cu care se intalnea la noul loc de munca nu erau decat niste linii supte de o hartie sugativa, niste fiinte nestatornice, cu atitudini labile, niste fiinte fara o substanta temeinica; dar ceea ce-i mai grav, mult mai grav (ii veni in minte in continuare) e faptul ca el insusi nu este altceva decat o umbra a acestor oameni umbriti, deoarece isi epuiza toata ratiunea pentru a li se adapta si a-i imita, si chiar daca ii imita zambind in ascuns si fara serioazitate, incercand astfel sa-i ridiculizeze in taina si sa-si justifice adaptarea, tot nu izbutea sa schimbe cu nimic starea lucrurilor, pentru ca pana si imitatia malitioasa si sarcastica tot imitatie ramane, o umbra subordonata, derivata si simpla.
Si asta e umilitor, cumplit de umilitor.

(...)Nu, nu va fie teama, Eduard n-a inceput sa creada in Dumnezeu. Povestirea noastra nu are deloc intentia sa se incununeze cu efectul unui paradox atat de ostentativ. Dar Eduard, este preocupat totusi, cu o placere nostalgica, de chipul lui.
Dumnezeu e substanta insasi, si Eduard n-a gasit niciodata nimic substantial in iubirile sale, in dascalia sa, in gandurile sale. E prea ager la minte ca sa admita ca vede
substantialitatea in nesubstantial, dar totodata e prea slab ca sa nu tanjeasca in taina dupa substantialitate.
Ah, doamnelor si domnilor, trista e viata omului care nu poate sa ia nimic si pe nimeni in serios!
De aceea Eduard tanjeste dupa Dumnezeu, caci numai Dumnezeu unicul e scutit de obligatia
difuza de a se manifesta si are dreptul doar de a exista; caci numai el (singur, unic si inexistent) formeaza partea opusa, substantiala, a acestei lumi nesubstantiuale (dar prin asta cu atat mai existenta).
Asa se face ca, din cand in cand, Eduard zaboveste in biserica si se uita cu jind si meditativ spre cupola sfantului lacas. Sa ne luam ramas-bun de la el intre-o asemenea clipa: e dupa-amiaza, iar biserica e muta si pustie: Eduard sta pe banca de lemn, chinuit de regretul ca Dumnezeu nu exista...

(Milan Kundera - "Eduard si Dumnezeu", din volumul "Iubiri caraghioase")

(...) Adauga ca el planuise de multa vreme ("dar eu nici nu sunt altceva decat unul care face vesnic planuri", adauga el cu un sarcasm timid) sa scrie un roman sau o piesa de teatru despre asta: povestea unui tanar care isi propune sa spuna intotdeauna adevarul, intotdeauna, fie ce-o fi. Si incepe numaidecat sa semene distrugerea, oroarea si moartea la fiecare pas. Pana cand se distruge pe sine insusi, prin propia sa moarte.
- Atunci e nevoie de minciuna - admise Martin cu amaraciune.
- Spun ca nu intotdeauna se poate spune adevarul. De fapt, aproape niciodata.
- Adica minciuni prin omisiune?
- Cam asa ceva - admise Bruno privindu-l dintr-o parte, temandu-se sa nu-l jigneasca.
- Deci nu crezi in adevar.
- Cred ca adevarurile sunt bune in matematica, in chimie, in filozofie. Dar nu in viata. In viata sunt mai importante iluziile, inchipuirea, dorinta, speranta. Si apoi, stim oare ce e adevarul? Daca eu afirm ca bucata aia de geam e albastra, spun un adevar. Dar e un adevar partial si, deci, un fel de minciuna. Caci bucata aia de geam nu e singura, face parte dintr-o casa, dintr-un peisaj, dintr-un oras. E inconjurata de griul peretelui aluia de beton, de albastrul deschis al cerului, de norii aceia prelungi si de infinit de multe alte lucruri. Si daca nu spun totul, dar absolut totul, mint. Dar e imposibil sa spui
totul, nici macar in cazul geamului, un simplu fragment din realitatea materiala, din simpla realitate materiala. Realitatea este infinita si mai ales infinit de nuantata, si daca uit fie si numai una dintre nuante sunt un mincinos. Inchipuie-ti atunci ce inseamna realitatea fiintelor omenesti, cu complicatiile, intortocherile si contradictiile lor si, pe deasupra, si schimbatoare. Deoarece se schimba cu fiecare clipa care trece si nu mai suntem la fel cu ce am fost cu cateva clipe mai inainte. Oare suntem intotdeauna aceeasi persoana? Avem oare mereu aceleasi sentimente? Poti iubi un om si, deodata sa nu-l mai stimezi, ba chiar sa-l urasti. Si daca ii spunem ca nu-l mai pretuim, facem o greseala, caci, chiar daca faptul e un adevar, e un adevar momentan, care nu va mai fi un adevar peste o ora sau ziua urmatoare, sau in alte imprejurari. In schimb, fiinta careia ii destainuim sentimentul nostru va crede ca acesta este adevarul, o data pentru totdeauna. Si se va cufunda in disperare.

(...) Nici o consideraţie abstractă, chit că s-ar referi la probleme omeneşti, nu servea drept consolare nici unui om, să-i aline vreuna din tristeţile şi neliniştile ce poate chinui o fiinţă con­cretă în carne şi oase, o biată fiinţă cu ochi ce privesc temători (spre ce sau spre cine?), o făptură ce supravieţuieşte numai datorită speranţei. Pentru că, din fericire (se gîndea el), omul nu e alcătuit numai din disperare, ci şi din speranţă şi credin­ţă; nu numai din moarte, ci şi din dorinţa de a trăi; şi nu nu­mai din singurătate, ci şi din clipe de înţelegere şi dragoste. Căci, dacă disperarea ar fi mai tare, ne-am lăsa cu toţii să mu­rim sau ne-am sinucide; or, în nici un caz nu se întîmplă aşa. Ceea ce demonstra, după părerea lui, ce puţină importanţă avea raţiunea, nefiind raţional să avem speranţe în lumea în care trăim. Dar, din fericire, omul nu e aproape niciodată. o fiinţă raţională şi, de aceea, speranţa renaşte mereu în mij­locul calamităţilor. Şi chiar şi renaşterea e ceva atît de absurd, un absurd atît de subtil şi profund absurd, atît de lipsit de ori­ce temei, e o dovadă că omul nu este o fiinţă raţională. Şi astfel, abia a ras un cutremur o vastă regiune din Japonia sau din Chile; abia au adus nişte inundaţii formidabile la moartea a sute de mii de copii în regiunea Ianţe; abia că un război crud si, pentru imensa majoritate a victimelor, fără sens, a mutilat, torturat, asasinat, violat, incendiat şi distrus femei, copii şi sate, că supravieţuitorii, cei care fără îndoială au asistat, înspăimîntaţi şi neputincioşi la acele calamităţi ale naturii sau ale oamenilor, chiar fiinţele care în momentele acelea dispera­te crezuseră că niciodată nu vor mai vrea să trăiască şi că nici­odată nu o să-şi mai refacă viaţa şi că nici n-ar putea să şi-o refacă chiar dacă ar fi vrut, chiar bărbaţii şi femeile acelea, aceste fiinţe fragile încep îndată, din nou, ca nişte furnici proaste dar eroice, să reconstruiască mica lor lume de toate zilele: o lume mică, desigur, dar tocmai de aceea emoţionantă. Aşa că nu ideile erau cele care salvau omenirea, nu intelectul şi raţiunea, ci tocmai contrariul lor: acele nesăbuite speranţe ale oamenilor, furia nepotolită de a supravieţui, dorinţa de a respira pînă în ultima clipă, micul, încăpăţînatul lor eroism de toate zilele în faţa nefericirilor. Şi dacă angoasa e experienţa Neantului, ceva ca o dovadă ontologică a Neantului, oare spe­ranţa nu e dovada unui Sentiment Ocult al Existenţei, ceva pentru care merită să lupţi?

Intotdeauna m-a făcut să rîd lipsa de imaginaţie a aces­tor domni, care cred că, pentru a ajunge la un adevăr, faptele trebuie să „păstreze proporţiile cuvenite". Aceşti pitici îsi în­chipuie (au şi ei imaginaţie, desigur, dar o imaginaţie pitică) că realitatea nu depăşeşte statura lor, şi că nici nu e mai com­plexă decît creierul lor de muscă. Aceşti indivizi, care spun despre ei înşişi că ar fi „realişti", pentru că nu sînt capabili să vadă mai departe de vîrful nasului, confundă Realitatea cu un Cerc-cu-Diametrul-de-Doi-Metri care îşi are centrul în căpăţîna lor modestă. Nişte bieţi provinciali care rîd de ceea ce nu pot înţelege şi nu cred nimic din ceea ce ar putea fi în afara faimosului lor cerc. Cu şiretenia tipică a ţăranului, îi dau la o parte tot timpul pe nebunii care vin la ei cu planuri pen­tru descoperirea Americii, dar cumpără o cutie de scrisori de îndată ce ajung la oraş. Şi au tendinţa să considere logic (alt cuvinţel care le place!) ceea ce e pur şi simplu un fapt care ţine de psihologie. Obişnuitul se transformă astfel în rezona­bil, mecanism prin care se ajunge ca eschimosului să i se pară rezonabil să-şi ofere nevasta primului venit, pe cînd unui european i se pare mai degrabă o nebunie. Acest soi de pier-de-vară au refuzat rînd pe rînd existenţa antipozilor, a mitra­lierei, a microbilor, a undelor herţiene. Nişte realişti care s-au individualizat prin faptul că au refuzat (de obicei prin ras, in mod energic, ajungînd chiar pînă la închisoare şi balamuc) viitoare realităţi.

Asta ca să nu mai zic nimic de celălalt aforism suprem „pastrînd proporţiile cuvenite". Ca şi cum în istoria omerii s-ar fi întîmplat ceva important care să nu fie o exagerare de la Imperiul Roman pînă la Dostoievski.

"Descartes si-a creat principiile teoriei sale pornind de la trei vise. Frumos inceput pentru un aparator al ratiunii!“

(...)Se stie foarte bine: francezii sînt oameni grozav de logici si mecanismul mintal al acelui Descartes de la Serviciul Vamal era imbatabil; Marsilia era în sud şi pe acolo e cald. Buenos Aires e mult mai la sud şi, deci, acolo trebuie să domneasca o caldura infernală. Ceea ce demonstrează la ce demenţă poate duce logica: printr-un raţionament corect poate fi desfiintat Polul Sud.

L-am liniştit (măgulindu-1), confirmînd prin asta cat de savant era. I-am spus că la Buenos Aires lumea umblă în chiloţi de baie si ca de îndată ce ne îmbrăcăm ne e cam prea cald. Drept care funcţionarul mi-a pus cu plăcere ştampila şi mi-a dat înapoi paşaportul, zîmbind: Allez-y! Mai civilizaţi-vă şi voi puţin!

(Ernesto Sabato - "Despre eroi si morminte")

luni, 20 aprilie 2009

Subcomandante Marcos si Paco Ignacio Taibo II - Mortii incomozi

-Un amic de-al meu zice ca a parasit religia catolica din doua motive: comorile Vaticanului intr-o lume de sarantoci i s-au parut o injuratura de mama si, doi, in biserica nu ai voie sa fumezi. Banuiesc ca e valabil in toate religiile. Sunt de acord. Ideea de Dumnezeu ma enerveaza al dracului, a conchis Hector cu multa seriozitate.
(...)Parea sa fie un tip onest, genul despre care maica-sa spunea "un om cumsecade", referindu-se negresit la muncitori, laptari, instalatori, gradinari si vanzatori de bilete de loterie. Din cate-si amintea Hector, maica-sa nu spusese niciodata asa despre un burghez, nici mare, nici mic. O fi stiut ea ceva.

Deci va spuneam ca, daca vad cetateni care merg pe jos (se numesc ''pietoni''), masinile vor sa-i calce. Asa ca, daca n-ai masina, trebuie sa te feresti sa nu te calce sau sa iei microbuzul sau sa te bagi sub pamant si sa iei metroul. Cum ma dadeam jos din pesero si ma pomeneam pe strada, cum ma bagam sub pamant. Adica in metrou.
Metroul e ca un sir de masini lipite intre ele, de parca-ar fi legate cu o sfoara si una ar trage-o pe cealalta. Cand vine metroul, lumea de afara se inghesuie, se inghesuie si aia de-s inauntru, adica unii vor sa intre si altii sa iasa. Castiga ala care impinge mai tare. La inceput credeam ca asa fac oamenii de la oras sport si impingeam si eu din tot sufletul si incercam sa-i insufletesc cu lozinca aia de zice "poporul unit niciodata nu-i infrant", dar dupa aia mi-am dat seama ca nu, ca asa traiesc ei, impingandu-se. Adica aia care merg pe jos. Iar aia care merg cu masina se injura de mama la tot pasul. Deunazi i-am intrebat pe Andres si pe Marta care erau mai multi, oamenii, sau masinile? Mi-au zis ca oamenii. Atunci m-am gandit ca masinile erau mai importante decat oamenii: imediat iti dai seama ca orasul e facut pentru masini si pentru antene, dar nu pentru oameni. Asa ca, neputand sa incapa laolalta oameni si masini si antene, au sapat o groapa sub oras, adica sub pamant, unde e multa lume: barbati, femei, copii, batrani. Si politisti.
Stii dumneata cum se coc tradatorii? Nu apar de azi pe maine, azi se culca luptatori de gherila si maine se trazesc agenti ai guvernului. Pur si simplu devin slabi. Tradeaza din oboseala, din plictiseala, din inertie. E ca si cum materialul din care sunt facuti se moaie, tot tragand de el, se flescaieste, iar printre fibrele musculare se aduna rahatul, vechile temeri. Iar asta implica un autocontrol permanent, o gramada tot mai mare si mai densa de autoinselare si explicatii. Stii ce a facut Morales cand a implinit 25 de ani? Si-a turnat fosta nevasta la politia politica. Au torturat-o groaznic in beciurile de sub birourile pe care le aveau vizavi de Monumentul Revolutiei. Si stii cum si-a justificat Morales delatiunea? A zis ca o salva de la moarte. Si stii ce visa Morales? Visa ca fosta lui nevasta se plimba desculta pe nisipul unei plaje din Veracruz. In timp ce o violau de trei ori pe zi si ii spargeau dintii cu lovituri de picior.
Hector era un marxist existentialist, din aceia care cred ca socialismul determina constiinta; ca, dupa ce umblase atata timp cu cei patruzeci de hoti, Ali Baba ajunsese unul dintre ei si intrase in PRI. Hector credea ca daca esti prea mult timp scaun, sfarsesti prin a-ti placea sa tii in spate curul altora. Nu credea in rautatea naturala a guvernantilor. Credea ca daca stai prea mult la guvernare, sfarsesti prin a ajunge un ticalos, ca sederea la putere creeaza obsesia perpetuarii puterii, iar cand puterea politica se termina, ramane puterea banului, care e o alta forma de putere, de aceea sunt atatea sertare deschise care te invita sa bagi mana si atatea abuzuri; ca pentru a tine pe picioare tara care le placea, guvernatii Mexicului stabilisera in ultimii ani un soi de lege suprema, niciodata data publicitatii, ferecata in seiful sefului suprem: "Singurul principiu de subzistenta este principiul autoritatii." (...)
Hector mai credea ca in ultimii ani Mexicul fusese o tara esentialmente nedreapta, dominata de abuz de putere arbitrar, violenta impotriva celor lipsiti de aparare si, mai nou, de mediocritate, mitocanie, rautate si prost gust.
Nu sunt expert in "razboiul murdar", dar pot sa-ti spun ca cei de atunci sunt activi si acum, mai bine zis au fost reciclati. Guvernul schimbarii e mai curand guvernul raului reciclat.
(...)Belascoaran si Elias nu merg pe urmele unui asasinat, ci pe urmele ASASINULUI. Iar daca e vorba de cine cred eu, atunci el nu se va intoarce la locul crimei. El, asasinul, e sistemul. Da, sistemul. Cand e vorba de o crima, vinovatul trebuie cautat sus, nu jos. Sistemul e Raul, iar raii sunt cei care se afla in slujba sistemului.
Numai ca Raul nu este o entitate, un demon pervers si malefic in cautare de trupuri pe care sa le stapaneasca si, folosindu-se de ele, sa faca rautati, crime, asasinate, programe economice, fraude, lagare de concentrare, razboaie sfinte, legi, tribunale, crematorii si canale de televiziune.
Nu, Raul este o relatie, o postura, o pozitionare fata de celalalt. O optiune. Raul este sa alegi Raul. Sa alegi sa fii Rau fata de altul. Sa te transformi, din propria vointa, in calau. Sa-l transformi pe celalalt in victima.
Din capitolul XX: "Raul si Raii"


Uite, Elias, tu poate o sa ma intelegi pentru ca esti indigen si stii cum simte unul discriminarea si rasismul. Cum sa-ti spun eu, e ca o ura fata de tot ce este diferit. Si ura asta nu inseamna doar ca se uita urat la tine, te iau in batjocura, te umilesc sau te insulta. E ceva care ajunge chiar la crima. Unele (unii) dintre noi au ajuns sa fie asasinate. Uneori se afla, alteori nu. Si nu ma refer la faptul ca ne omoara in timpul unui jaf sau al unui sechestru. Nu, ne omoara pentru ca avem curaj sa fim diferiti. In plus, pentru ca suntem ceea ce suntem, daca se intampla ceva ne banuiesc mai intai pe noi. Fiindca cred ca diferenta noastra nu e naturala, ci e o perversiune, ceva rau. De parca preferinta noastra sexuala ar fi produsul unei minti criminale, un semn de delicventa... sau de animalitate, caci un episcop ne-a comparat cu gandacii. Nu stiu cum se face, dar daca esti homosexual, lesbiana, transsexual sau lucratoare sexuala, esti banuit imediat de ceva rau. Asa ca trebuie sa ne ascundem diferenta, sa ne-o purtam pe strazi intunecate. Dar de ce sa ascundem ceea ce suntem? Muncim si noi ca oricare om, iubim si uram ca toata lumea, visam asa cum viseaza toti, avem calitati si defecte ca toata lumea, adica suntem egali, dar diferiti. Insa pentru ei nu suntem normali, suntem niste fenomene oribile, niste degenerati ce trebuie eliminati. Si nu ma intreba cine sunt "ei", ca n-am sa stiu sa-ti spun. Ei. Toti. Pana si cei care-si zic progresisti, democrati, de stanga. (...) Orasul sperantelor, sanchi. Da, caci daca unul ca noi pateste ceva, cu totii spun "o merita", "nu iese fum fara foc" sau ceva de genul asta. In plus, cand vrei sa insulti pe cineva nu faci referinta la orientarea lui sexuala? Nu-i zici "poponarule", "pidosnicule", "curva masculina', sau "fetita"? Dar ce sa-ti zic eu tie, daca "indianule" continua sa fie o insulta intr-o tara care s-a ridicat pe spinarea indigenilor? Cine sunt "ei"? Toti. Sau nici unul. E ceva ca o ambianta. E ceva in aer. Si mai sunt si ipocriti, caci aceiasi care ne insulta ziua vin noaptea sa ne caute "ca sa vada ce simti" sau pentru ca trupul lor sa marturiseasca ceea ce le refuza capul, adica ca sunt la fel ca noi. Sigur, uneori suntem si agresivi, dar numai asa ne putem apara. Daca esti tot timpul agresat, normal ca ne gandim ca toata lumea vrea sa ne faca rau. De ce trebuie sa fie asa? As vrea sa cred ce mi-ai spus tu, adica sa ma pot opera, sa-mi aduc corpul la ceea ce este, sa ma marit si sa fac copii. Dar nu mi-as minti copiii, le-as spune ce am fost. Si n-as vrea sa le fie rusine de mine. Sigur ca s-au mai schimbat lucrurile, homosexualitatea si lesbianismul nu mai sunt atat de persecutate, dar asta acolo sus, la oamenii cu bani si prestigiu. Dar aici jos, nicio schimbare. Raul e neputinta asta a oamenilor de a intelege diferenta, pentru ca a incerca sa intelegi inseamna a respecta. Iar oamenii persecuta lucrurile pe care nu le inteleg. Raul e neintelegerea, discriminarea, intoleranta. E peste tot. Sau nicaieri...

RAUL SI RAII VAZUTI DE DON QUIJOTE DE LA MANCHA SI SANCHO PANZA, SCUTIERUL SAU, vechi indreptatori de strambatati (acusi implinesc 400 de ani)

Intr-aceasta, descoperira trizeci sau patruzeci de mori de vant aflate pe acea campie, si, de indata ce le zari don Quijote ii spuse scutierului sau:
- Norocul ne calauzeste treburile mai bine decat ne-am putea-o noi dori, caci uite-acolo, prietene Sancho Panza, unde se arata treizeci de uriasi matahalosi, sau ceva mai multi, cu care am de gand sa intru-n lupta si sa le iau tuturoara viata, iar cu prazile de pe urma lor incepe-vom a ne imbogati, caci e razboi drept si este mare slujire adusa lui Dumnezeu a sterge de pe fata pamantului o samanta atat de pernicioasa.
- Care uriasi? - zice Sancho Panza.
- Cei pe care-i vezi acolo - raspunse stapanul sau -, cu bratele lungi, caci unii obisnuiesc a le avea de aproape doua leghe.
- Baga de seama, inaltimea ta - raspunse Sancho -, aia care se vad acolo nu sunt uriasi, ci mori de vant, iar ce pare bratele lor sunt aripile, care, invartite de vant, fac sa mearga piatra morii.
- Se vede bine - raspunse don Quijote - ca nu esti instruit in materie de aventuri: sunt uriasi, iar daca ti-e frica, pleaca de-aici si roaga-te in rastimpul cat eu unul voi intra cu ei in lupta crunta si inegala.
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Ingeniosul hidalg don Quijote de la Mancha, Volumul I, 1605


(...)Poate ca merge pe 71 de ani. Poate ca fetita n-a implinit 5 ani.
Poate ca dona Socorrito spune acum ca lumea seamana cu o casa mare sau cu o inchisoare mica; ca lumea e plina de ferestre si de usi; ca lumea e un labirint plin de incaperi, unele intunecate, altele luminoase; ca lumea e plina de realitati diferite si uneori contradictorii; ca pe lumea asta fiecare realitate are doua usi, una este a Raului sigur, cealalta a Binelui nesigur; ca uneori omul poate sa aleaga incaperea in care vrea sa traiasca; ca alteori nu poate alege si viata si Raul il duc in alta parte; ca, daca poate sa aleaga, atunci trebuie sa aleaga de doua ori; ca, daca poate, omul trebuie sa aleaga unde vrea sa stea si sa mai aleaga si pe ce usa sa intre; ca treaba oamenilor mari e sa le arate fetitelor si baieteilor toate ferestrele posibile pentru a se putea uita din toate incaperile posibile; ca treaba oamenilor mari e sa lupte incontinuu pentru ca fetitele si baieteii sa fie liberi sa-si aleaga incaperea din lume in care vor sa traiasca, plus libertatea si resposabilitatea de a alege usa prin care sa intre in incaperea aceea; ca atuci poti fi tot ce vrei si unde vrei, dar trebuie sa alegi intre a fi bun si a fi rau.
Poate ca dona Socorrito spune ca Raul lupta ca sa nu existe libertatea si responsabilitatea de a alege incaperea si usa; ca barbatii si femeile care lupta impotriva Raului lupta de fapt pentru toate fetitele si toti baieteii, indiferent care le e culoarea, numele, marimea, nationalitatea, rasa sau limba; ca o lume noua nu foloseste la nimic daca nu facem nimic ca s-o schimbam pe cea pe care o avem; ca Raul se prezinta copiilor ca un alibi pentru relele sortii; ca aceia care lupta impotriva Raului vor ca, pur si simplu, copilaria sa fie o privire deschisa si curioasa.

RAUL SI RAII VAZUTI DE PEDRO MIGUEL, ziarist la ziarul mexiacan La Jordana

Insa actualul ocupant al Casei Albe (George Walker Bush, presedinte al Statelor Unite) vorbeste atat de Cel de Sus, incat ajungi sa te intrebi daca merita sa scuturi teologia de praf si s-o folosesti ca instrument de analiza a lumii contemporane (...). George Walker (...) pare sincer convins ca el si Dumnezeu (in aceasta ordine) fac o echipa formidabila. Fireste, presedintele considera ca ajutorul divin reprezinta un activ mai important decat traditionalele aliante terestre ale Statelor Unite (Frata, Germania, Spania, Canada). (...) Daca imparatia Cerurilor face parte din aceasta alianta, la ce bun sa te plangi ca o tarisoara sau alta paraseste alianta? Ce rost are sa formulezi o definitie clara a Raului, daca e limpede ca Raul e tot ce nu e de acord cu Domnul, care, la randul Sau, s-a dovedit a fi un strateg genial, un economist clarvazator si un promotor (re)electoral inspirat si precis?
"Bush si Dumnezeu", in La Jornada, 25 ianuarie 2005


Chapis e calugarita, maicuta, devotata Domnului, sau cum vreti sa spuneti. Congregatia religioasa din care face ea parte e, cum ar spune zapatistii, "cam foarte diferita": in loc sa se inchida pentru rugaciune sau sa-i momeasca pe bogati cu promisiuni de indulgente, membrii acesteia se dedica practicii crestinesti numita "operatiunea pentru saraci". Adica, cum spun chiar ei, muncesc cu amarastenii.
(...)Chapis vorbeste, Elias asculta.
-Problema cu Raul si Raii e geografica. Adica geografia raului a fost rasucita, intoarsa pe dos. Si uite asa, atunci cand spun istoria Facerii, bogatii rasucesc totul. Dupa ei, cerul, adica Dumnezeu, adica binele, e sus; Raul si Raii, adica Diavolul, sunt jos. Dar nu, Dumnezeu nu e sus. Ca sa indrepte greseala, Dumnezeu si-a trimis fiul, adica pe Christos, pe pamant. Ca sa demonstreze ca binele, adica cerul, nu era sus, departe de ce se petrecea pe pamant. Puternicii de atunci ii convinsesera pe toti ca pamantul era organizat aidoma cerului, adica sus erau bunii, adica stapanii, cai care porunceau, iar jos cei care ascultau, adica Raii. Cu alte cuvinte, cerul echivala cu guvernul si echivalentul lui Dumnezeu era stapanul. Asa justificau, si o fac si acum, ca trebuie sa-i asculti pe stapani pentru ca sunt buni. Uita-te la Bush, care se foloseste de Dumnezeu dupa cum are chef, adica il foloseste ca sa-si justifice rautatile.
(...)S-ar duce Dumnezeu la cei Rai? Nu, se duce la cei de jos si ne spune astfel ca binele nu e sus. Ca daca ar fi asa s-ar fi nascut in casa porcului ala de Salinas de Gortari sau afurisitului de Bill Gates, dar uite ca nu. Asa ca cerul nu e sus, si nici binele. Raul e sus la dreapta, cu bogatii, cu stapanii cei rai, cu cei care impieleaza poporul.
Pe de alta parte, nu stim daca binele e jos la stanga, dar merita sa incepem sa cautam de acolo. Si de-asta ma supara rau de tot afurisitii aia de episcopi si prelati care se aduna cu bogatasii, de-ajung pana sa si semene cu ei dupa cum se imbraca. Asa ca eu te sfatuiesc, daca tot cauti Raul si Raii, sa-i cauti sus si la dreapta, precis acolo vietuiesc.

RAUL SI RAII VAZUTI DE LEONARD PELTIER, amerindian, artist, scriitor si activist pentru drepturile indigenilor din SUA, actualmente detinut pe nedrept si ilegal

Sub pretextul securitatii si al progresului, guvernul ne "elibereaza" de pamanturile, resursele, cultura, demnitatea si viitorul nostru. Niciun tratat semnat cu noi nu este respectat. Folosesc cuvantul "elibereaza" intr-un sens sarcastic si ironic, tot asa cum ei folosesc termenul "pagube colaterale" atunci cand ucid barbati, femei si copii.
Ei spun ca cei ce-si apara pamantul sunt teroristi, salbatici si dusmanosi, ne acuza ca noi suntem agresorii. Cuvintele mele se indreapta acum nu spre indieni. Aveti grija acum, pana nu e prea tarziu, uitati-va la ce se face in numele vostru altora si cate distrugeri admiteti nespunand nimic. Insusi tratatul vostru, cel stabilit intre voi si guvern, e violat in fiecare zi, acest tratat cunoscut de obicei sub numele de Constitutie.
Din penitenciarul Leavenworth, Kansas, ianuarie 2004


Nu ca sunt cinic, sunt realist. Si adevarul e ca, daca nu-i razi tu pe ei, te rad ei pe tine. Sigur ca fac afaceri, si sa nu-mi veniti acum cu prostii din acestea ca etica si justitia pentru ca toate afacerile sunt murdare, doar e vorba sa cumperi ieftin si sa vinzi scump. Sau cum credeti voi ca si-au facut marile averi barbatii si femeile cele mai respectate din Mexic si din lume? Totul se cumpara si se vinde: pamantul, trupul, constiinta, patria. Da, asa e, n-am cumparat intotdeauna. Da, am luat cu japca, am jefuit, dar daca n-o faceam eu o facea altul. Si sunt oameni nascuti sa fie rasi, de parca ar avea scris pe frunte: "trage-mi-o".
Daca am tradat? Depinde de unde privesti. Dupa mine, doar am schimbat paradigma, ceea ce se face pretutindeni in lume, doar ca poarta denumiri precum "maturitate", "realism", "bun-simt".
Daca am ucis? Pai da, caci nu poti avansa fara sa-ti patezi mainile.
Nu, niciodata din fata. Nu din lasitate, dar imi facea rau sa vad ochii viitorilor morti. In plus, aveau sa moara oricum, eu doar le-am grabit despartirea. Ma rog, uneori recunosc ca mi-a fost frica sa-i omor din fata pentru ca era vorba de oameni curajosi.
Daca am inselat? Nu mai mult decat orice politician sau intreprinzator.
(...)Dar stiti care e stiinta ca sa iesi invingator in materie de rautate? Pai, trebuie sa cazi mereu in picioare, sa joci pe toate terenurile si cu toate echipele, sa te ai bine cu Dumnezeu si cu Dracul, sa i-o tragi celui caruia i-o trage altul mai tare, sa-ti pleci privirile in fata celui mai puternic si sa ti le ridici in fata celui mai slab. Pe scurt, sa faci politica moderna. Deci, in materie de rautate, trebuie sa ai un timing bun.
Ce? Sa ma uit in oglinda? Nu, de ce, daca ai influenta si bani toti te vad frumos. Daca am vreo aspiratie? Cum sa nu, uite, aspir sa ajung la batranete fara probleme si cu salteaua burdusita de carti de credit, basca niste milioane in banci din strainatate. Vedeti si voi cata mila inspira batraneii, n-are importanta ce porcarii au facut si cati crestini au trimis pe lumea cealalta.
In afacerea asta cu raul spilul e sa ajungi la batranete, pai nu? Spuneti, ati vazut vreun batranel condamnat? Militarism politic? Pai, ma schimb dupa cum bate vantul, adica-mi schimb convingerile politice precum chilotii. Orice partid te primeste daca stii cum sa te faci atractiv. Banul, da, asta cauta ei, asta cautam cu totii. Iar eu stiu unde se gaseste banul si ce trebuie facut ca sa-l dobandesti.
Daca mi-e frica de justitie? Nu ma face sa rad: tot n-ai inteles ca justitia suntem noi?

RAUL SI RAII VAZUTI DE ANGELA Y. DAVIS, luptatoare nord-americana impotriva rasismului si a represiunii politice. A fost inchisa ilegal si pe nedrept.

Mult trambitatul scop al politiei - "apararea si slujirea populatiei" - devine caricatura groteasca a apararii si slujirii intereselor opresorilor nostri, nu ne slujeste pe noi, ci se afla in slujba justitiei. Fascismul e un proces, creste si se dezvolta aidoma uni cancer. Daca azi amenintarea fascismului se limiteaza la institutiile legii, la fortele politienesti, aparatul judecatoresc si penal, actionand impotriva rezistentei deschise sau latente a nationalitatilor oprimate, maine ar putea ataca clasa muncitoare in masa si chiar democratiile moderne.
Din inchisoarea Districtuala Marin, SUA, mai 1971


Sa renegi ceea ce esti. Sa-ti pierzi memoria. Sa-ti vinzi demnitatea. Sa-ti fie rusine ca esti indian sau negru sau chicano sau musulman sau galben sau alb sau rosu sau gay sau lesbiana sau transexual sau slab sau gras sau inalt sau scund. Sa-ti uiti istoria. Sa uiti de tine insuti. Sa accepti ce-ti baga pe gat cei puternici. Sa te predai. Sa nu lupti. Sa te faci ca nu vezi ca afurisitii aia de fascisti pun mana pe tot. Sa accepti totul in viata si sa-i lasi pe cei puternici sa-si faca meandrele cu noi. Sa te lasi pacalit prin mass-media. Sa te certi cu cei la fel de amarati ca si tine. Sa-i lasi sa-ti ia pamantul si sa te otraveasca cu afurisitele lor de produse modificate genetic.
Sa nu spui nimic impotriva razboaielor de dominatie. Sa votezi cu Bush. Sa-ti faci cumparaturile la Wall-Mart. Sa te minti singur si sa-i minti si pe ai tai. Sa-i lasi sa te abuzeze, sa te omoare, sa te insele si, pana la urma, sa iasa asa cum vor ei. Acesta este Raul. Plus altele de care nu-ti mai spun ca m-am enervat.


Exista un soi de Internationala a dreptei. Da, exact asa cum a fost o Internationala a stangii, desi dupa aia s-a cam dus dracului si a disparut. (...) Pai da, Internationala stangii n-a fost pusa pe butuci de imperialism sau de CIA, noi insine i-am dat la cap si, gata, kaput cu Internationala. Numai ca cea a dreptei n-a disparut si se reorganizeaza. Caci asta e globalizarea neoliberala, o reorganizare internationala a dreptei. Dar, ce sa vezi, ca dreapta a invatat ceea ce n-am invatat noi, adica stanga cea veche, nu aia de acum care nu ajunge nici macar la centru. Si asa se face ca dreapta are o sectiune deschisa si una clandestina. Si a invatat sa se infiltreze. A infiltrat biserica, partidele politice, mijloacele de comunicare, universitatile, intreprinzatorii, sindicatele, armata, politia, judecatorii, deputatii si senatorii, pana si echipele de fotbal.

RAUL SI RAII VAZUTI DE MUMIA ABU JAMAL, ziarist si militant impotriva rasismului, in prezent condamnat la moarte pe nedrept si in mod ilegal in SUA (aici se refera la recentele pagube provocate de tsunamiul de pe coastele Asiei)

Exista si alt razboi al apei care se prefigureza si poate afecta viata a milioane de oameni (...). Pe tot globul, in Africa, Asia si America Latina - inclusiv aici, in America de Nord -, lumea traieste sub amenintarea cooperativizarii apei si a sistemelor de distributie a apei. Apele pamantului, care au fost inca din zorii civilizatiei umane pentru folosul comunitatii, devin rapid o marfa in plus, ceva ce se poate vinde. Daca iti poti permite sa cumperi, perfect. Daca nu, e rau (...). Pe scurt, in apa sunt bani, iar unde sunt bani sunt si corporatii care vor sa obtina profit. Acesta e aspectul obscur, invizibil si tradator al globalizarii pe care o promoveaza guvernele occidentale si corporatiile. Totodata este si esenta reala a privatizarii: sa pui mana pe o mostenire comuna a naturii si s-o transformi in propietate privata, una in plus.
Death Row, Pennsylvenia, SUA, 30 decembrie 2004

RAUL SI RAII VAZUTI DE PABLO NERUDA, chilian, poet si militant de stanga.

Am vazut Raul si Raii, dar nu in barlogul lor.
E un basm ca rautatea ar avea un salas.
Am gasit rautate la tribunale
la Senat am vazut-o bine imbracata si pieptanata,
indreptand dezbaterile si ideile direct spre buzunare.
Raul si Raii
tocmai ieseau din baie: sclipeau
de multumire,
erau perfecti in suavitatea
falsei lor bune-cuviinte
Fragment din "Se reune el acero" (1945), in Canto General

RAUL SI RAII VAZUTI DE MANUEL VAZQUAZ MONTALBAN, scriitor catalan si critic feroce al dreptei (dar si al stangii)

Nu. Nu exista adevaruri unice, nici lupte finale, dar mai e inca posibil sa ne orientam dupa adevarurile posibile impotriva neadevarurilor evidente si sa luptam cu ele. Poti vedea o parte de adevar si sa n-o recunosti. Dar e cu neputinta sa contempli Raul si sa nu-l recunosti. Binele nu exista, insa Raul mi-e teama ca da.
Din "Pamflet de pe planeta maimutelor", sfarsitul lui 1994