A beast can never be as cruel as a human being, so artistically, so picturesquely cruel.”
from "The Brothers Karamazov" By Fyodor Dostoevsky
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@bluesdelprisionero
A beast can never be as cruel as a human being, so artistically, so picturesquely cruel.”
from "The Brothers Karamazov" By Fyodor Dostoevsky
.
A boy is born in hard time Mississippi
Surrounded by four walls that ain't so pretty
His parents give him love and affection
To keep him strong moving in the right direction
Living just enough, just enough for the city...ee ha!
His father works some days for fourteen hours
And you can bet he barely makes a dollar
His mother goes to scrub the floor for many
And you'd best believe she hardly gets a penny
Living just enough, just enough for the city...yeah
His sister's black but she is sho 'nuff pretty
Her skirt is short but Lord her legs are sturdy
To walk to school she's got to get up early
Her clothes are old but never are they dirty
Living just enough, just enough for the city...um hum
Her brother's smart he's got more sense than many
His patience's long but soon he won't have any
To find a job is like a haystack needle
Cause where he lives they don't use colored people
Living just enough, just enough for the city...
Living just enough...
For the city...ooh,ooh
[repeat several times]
His hair is long, his feet are hard and gritty
He spends his love walking the streets of New York City
He's almost dead from breathing on air pollution
He tried to vote but to him there's no solution
Living just enough, just enough for the city...yeah, yeah, yeah!
I hope you hear inside my voice of sorrow
And that it motivates you to make a better tomorrow
This place is cruel no where could be much colder
If we don't change the world will soon be over
Living just enough, just enough for the city!!!!
"As my son was laid on his mother's chest in the delivery room, he turned to look at me and in an instant all my previous priorities vanished. It was extraordinary, extreme, like having one's emotional hard drive wiped and overwritten. Writing was still important, still something I would think and talk about and do obsessively every day, but from now on it would never be the only thing. How could it, when he was there, when he was so small and vulnerable and needed me so much?"
("Fatherhood and Writing." The Guardian, Hari Kunzru)
Un dolor me sube a la garganta
y se apropia de mi corazón.
En qué lugar andarán tus grandes ojos hermosos,
en qué lugar tus labios.
¿Aún existe algo mío
dentro de tu corazón?
¿Será cierto que olvidaste
todo lo que fuimos?
Me dice:
"Donde fuiste feliz alguna vez
no debieras volver jamás: el tiempo
habrá hecho sus destrozos, levantando
su muro fronterizo
contra el que la ilusión chocará estupefacta.
El tiempo habrá labrado,
paciente, tu fracaso
mientras faltabas, mientras ibas
ingenuamente por el mundo
conservando como recuerdo
lo que era destrucción subterránea, ruina.
Si la felicidad te la dio una mujer
ahora habrá envejecido u olvidado
y sólo sentirás asombro
-el anticipo de las maldiciones-."
Look at this man here, for example. He’s a first-class example. See what I mean? Before he came in here he was a big shot, he never stopped shooting his mouth off, he never stopped questioning received ideas. Now – because he’s apprehensive about what’s about to happen to him – he’s stopped all that, he’s got nothing more to say, he’s more or less called it a day. I mean once – not too long ago – this man was a man of conviction, wasn’t he, a man of principle. Now he’s just a prick.’ ‘
The New World Order’ by Harold Pinter from Granta 37: The Family.
The New World Order
by Harold Pinter
A blindfolded man sitting on a chair. Two men (Des and Lionel) looking at him.
Des: Do you want to know something about this man?
Lionel: What?
Des: He hasn’t got any idea at all of what we’re going to do to him.
Lionel: He hasn’t, no.
Des: He hasn’t, no. He hasn’t got any idea at all about any one of the number of things that we might do to him.
Lionel: That we will do to him.
Des: That we will.
Pause.
Well, some of them. We’ll do some of them.
Lionel: Sometimes we do all of them.
Des: That can be counterproductive.
Lionel: Bollocks.
They study the man. He is still.
Des: But anyway here he is, here he is sitting here, and he hasn’t the faintest idea of what we might do to him.
Lionel: Well, he probably has the faintest idea.
Des: A faint idea, yes. Possibly.
Des bends over the man.
Have you? What do you say?
He straightens.
Let’s put it this way. He has little idea of what we might do to him, of what in fact we are about to do to him.
Lionel: Or his wife. Don’t forget his wife. He has little idea of what we’re about to do to his wife.
Des: Well, he probably has some idea, he’s probably got some idea. After all, he’s read the papers.
Lionel: What papers?
Pause.
Des: You’re right there.
Lionel: Who is this cunt anyway? What is he, some kind of peasant – or a lecturer in theology?
Des: He’s a lecturer in fucking peasant theology.
Lionel: Is he? What about his wife?
Des: Women don’t have theological inclinations.
Lionel: Oh, I don’t know. I used to discuss that question with my mother – quite often.
Des: What question?
Lionel: Oh you know, the theological aspirations of the female.
Pause.
Des: What did she say?
Lionel: She said . . .
Des: What?
Pause.
Lionel: I can’t remember.
He turns to the man in the chair.
Motherfucker.
Des: Fuckpig.
They walk round the chair.
Lionel: You know what I find really disappointing?
Des: What?
Lionel: The level of ignorance that surrounds us. I mean, this prick here –
Des: You called him a cunt last time.
Lionel: What?
Des: You called him a cunt last time. Now you call him a prick. How many times do I have to tell you? You’ve got to learn to define your terms and stick to them. You can’t call him a cunt in one breath and a prick in the next. The terms are mutually contradictory. You’d lose face in any linguistic discussion group, take my tip.
Lionel: Christ. Would I?
Des: Definitely. And you know what it means to you. You know what language means to you.
Lionel: Yes, I do know.
Des: Yes, you do know. Look at this man here, for example. He’s a first-class example. See what I mean? Before he came in here he was a big shot, he never stopped shooting his mouth off, he never stopped questioning received ideas. Now – because he’s apprehensive about what’s about to happen to him – he’s stopped all that, he’s got nothing more to say, he’s more or less called it a day. I mean once – not too long ago – this man was a man of conviction, wasn’t he, a man of principle. Now he’s just a prick.
Lionel: Or a cunt.
Des: And we haven’t even finished with him. We haven’t begun.
Lionel: No, we haven’t even finished with him. We haven’t even finished with him! Well, we haven’t begun.
Des: And there’s still his wife to come.
Lionel: That’s right. We haven’t finished with him. We haven’t even begun. And we haven’t finished with his wife either.
Des: We haven’t even begun.
Lionel puts his hand over his face and sobs.
Des: What are you crying about?
Lionel: I love it. I love it. I love it.
He grasps Des’s shoulder.
Look. I have to tell you. I’ve got to tell you. There’s no one else I can tell.
Des: All right. Fine. Go on. What is it? Tell me.
Pause.
Lionel: I feel so pure.
Pause.
Des: Well, you’re right. You’re right to feel pure. You know why?
Lionel: Why?
Des: Because you’re keeping the world clean for democracy.
They look into each other’s eyes.
I’m going to shake you by the hand.
Des shakes Lionel’s hand. He then gestures to the man in the chair with his thumb.
And so will he . . . (he looks at his watch) . . . in about thirty-five minutes.
“Fue” es duro como piedra. Pero a veces las almas cuando no tienen más descansan en un “fue”, lo mismo que en la almohada y se duermen pensando en que un tiempo fue plumas.
Otras veces las almas esperan, esperanzas que se llaman “va a ser”, o “sí, será”, o “ya viene”. La infinita, la inmensa, con su gloria y su peso, vida, toda redonda, toda la vida, puede vivirse en un “quizá”. Igual que a las esferas les basta sólo un punto de contacto en la tierra para apoyar su mundo.
Pero hay almas que nunca descansan ya ni esperan, sentadas a la orilla de la delgada voz con que la ya imposible dicha les dice siempre: “Pude ser, pude ser”.
¿Quién, en las generaciones venideras, podría entender Que caímos de nuevo en las tinieblas Después de haber conocido la luz?
Sebastien Castellon De arte dubitandi, et confidendi,
Ignorandi et sciendi.
Tratar tiranos
-Ya son varios los que han cambiado el mundo, pero de lo que se trata es de ahorrarle al mundo esas transformaciones.
- La idea del “libre desarrollo de la personalidad” parece admirable mientras no se tropieza con individuos cuya personalidad se desarrolló libremente
Requisar una novela es la más alta distinción que el Estado puede conceder a una obra literaria: la imaginación del autor se sitúa al nivel de la realidad; las reflexiones del escritor se convierten en divulgación de secretos de Estado. El poder se asusta ante esos personajes inventados, teme los pensamientos del autor aunque éstos no tengan ninguna posibilidad de convertirse en libros de gran tirada, aunque deban permanecer en el cajón del escritorio de su despacho. ¡Con lo fuerte que parecía, sin embargo, ese poder de nervios tan frágiles, con sus tanques, su aviación, sus imprentas, su radio, su televisión, sus misiles y su energía nuclear! ¡Y resulta que le da miedo una novela! ¡El manuscrito de una novela! Hasta las hojas de papel carbón, en la medida en que se pueden leer por “transparencia”.
Efim Etkind, Sobre Vida y Destino de Vassili Grossman
"Let’s meet in a restaurant"
Is food the enemy?
Giving a dinner party has become
an ordeal. I lie awake the night
before figuring how to produce
a feast that is vegan, gluten free,
macrobiotic, avoiding all acidic
fruit and tomatoes, wine, all nuts,
low carb and still edible.
Are beetles okay for vegans?
Probably not. Forget chocolate
ants or fried grasshoppers.
Now my brains are cooked.
Finally seven o’clock arrives
and I produce the perfect meal.
At each plate for supper, a bowl
of cleanly washed pebbles. Enjoy!
Death is when the heart does not beat and the clock beats.
Love is when the heart beats and the clock does not beat.
Perhaps this simple comparison explains
why you glanced at your watch.
You knew that waiting is the dense endurance of eternity
and love, the miracle of mortals,
makes eternity ashamed,
but death does not wait for anybody.
The long summer afternoon
was going down on coffins and clock towers
the ruins knew
and you did not know
that war makes waiting invalid
and saving life
the whole Truth.
Was she dead?
Had she fled without you?
Or you were not in love anymore?
The dead were not answering.
The living were escaping
and love from then on
beat within
the pulsing of a clock.
Mohsen Emadi
Einstein and Palestine
The first and most important necessity is the creation of a modus vivendi with the Arab people. Friction is perhaps inevitable, but its evil consequences must be overcome by organized cooperation, so that the inflammable material may not be piled up to the point of danger. The absence of contact in every-day life is bound to produce an atmosphere of mutual fear and distrust, which is favorable to such lamentable outbursts of passion as we have witnessed. We Jews must show above all that our own history of suffering has given us sufficient understanding and psychological insight to know how to cope with this problem of psychology and organization: the more so as no irreconcilable differences stand in the way of peace between Jews and Arabs in Palestine. Let us therefore above all be on our guard against blind chauvinism of any kind, and let us not imagine that reason and common-sense can be replaced with British bayonets.
Quiero escuchar un canto en el que rompa el arco iris,
se pose el zarapito en costas olvidadas.
Quiero ver la liana reptar por la palmera
(el tronco del presente es nuestro tenaz futuro).
Quiero al conquistador con abierta armadura
tendido en una muerte de flores perfumadas,
a la espuma quemando con su incienso una espada herrumbrosa
en el puro vuelo azul de los lentos cactus salvajes.
ESCLAVITUD
Cualquier negro alentaba en el pecho una ilusión de fuga, era suficientemente audaz para huir en cualquier oportunidad, por lo cual era estrictamente vigilado durante sus siete a diez años de vida activa en el trabajo. Su destino era morir de fatiga, su muerte natural. Una vez desgastado, podía incluso ser liberado por inservible, para que el señor no tuviera que alimentar a un negro inútil.
Una muerte prematura en un intento de fuga era mejor, tal vez, que la vida del esclavo traído de tan lejos para caer en el infierno de la existencia más penosa. Al sentirse violentado, al saberse explotado, resiste como le es posible. Ahí está la pulcra racionalidad del esclavismo, tan opuesta a la condición humana, que, una vez instituido, sólo se mantiene a través de una vigilancia perpetua y de la violencia atroz del castigo preventivo.
Apresado a los quince años en su propia tierra, como si se tratara de un animal cazado en una trampa, era arrastrado por el pombeiro –comerciante africano de esclavos- hacia la playa donde sería cambiado por tabaco, aguardiente, opio. De ahí partían en convoyes, atados cuello con cuello con otros negros, tirados con una cuerda hasta el puerto y las tumbas. Una vez metido en el navío, lo dejaban en medio de otros cien para ocupar el exiguo espacio, mal comiendo, mal defecando ahí mismo, en medio de la pestilencia más insoportable. Si se salvaba en la travesía, caía en otro mercado, del lado de acá, donde era examinado como un caballo flaco. Luego de ser evaluado por los dientes, por el grosor de los tobillos y de los puños, era rematado. Otro convoy, ahora de ruedas, lo llevaba tierra adentro, hacia el señor de las minas o de las azúcares, para vivir el destino que le había prescrito la civilización: trabajar dieciocho horas al día todos los días del año. En domingo podía cultivar un terrenito, devorar hambriento la parca y puerca ración de insectos con la que restauraban su capacidad de trabajar al día siguiente hasta el agotamiento. Sin amor de nadie, sin familia, sin ninguna identificación posible con nadie –su capataz podía ser un negro, sus compañeros de infortunio, enemigos-, andrajoso y sucio, feo y apestoso, sarnoso y enfermo, sin ningún gozo u orgullo respecto de su cuerpo, vivía su rutina, que consistía en sufrir todo el día el castigo diario de los azotes que le soltaban, para que trabajara atento y aplicado. Semanalmente llegaba un castigo preventivo, pedagógico, para que no pensara en la fuga y, cuando llamaba la atención, caía sobre él un castigo ejemplar en forma de mutilación de dedos, de los pezones, quemaduras con brasas, de quebrarle todos los dientes, o azotes en la picota con 300 latigazos de una vez, para morir, o 50 latigazos diarios, para sobrevivir. Si huía y lo sorprendía, podía ser marcado con hierro incandescente, vivir atado a una bola de hierro teniendo un tendón cortado, ser quemado vivo tras varios días de agonía, en la boca del horno o, de una sola vez, metiéndolo en él para arder como leño resinoso.
Ningún pueblo que haya pasado por esto como rutina de vida durante siglos habría podido salir de ella sin quedar marcado indeleblemente. Todos nosotros, los latinoamericanos, somos carne de la carne de aquellos negros e indios sometidos a suplicio. Todos nosotros, somos, por igual, la mano endemoniada que los sometió a suplicio. La dulzura más tierna y la crueldad más atroz se conjugaron aquí para hacer de nosotros la gente sensible y sufrida que somos, y la gente insensible y brutal que también somos. Descendientes de esclavos y de amos de esclavos, seremos siempre siervos de la malignidad destilada e instaurada en nosotros, tanto por el sentimiento del dolor que se produjo intencionalmente para que doliera más, como por el ejercicio de la brutalidad sobre hombres, mujeres y criaturas, convertidos en alimento de nuestra furia.
La más terrible de nuestras herencias es la de llevar siempre con nosotros la cicatriz del torturador impresa en el alma y pronta a estallar en la brutalidad racista y clasista. Precisamente ella es la que está candente, aún hoy, en tanta autoridad latinoamericana, predispuesta a torturar, a maltratar con sevicia y a lastimar con una brutalidad vertiginosa a los más pobres. Sin embargo, ella misma provocará la creciente indignación que nos dará fuerzas para contener a los demonios y crear aquí una sociedad solidaria.
[El pueblo brasileño, Darcy Ribeiro]