Heterologias
quinta-feira, maio 24, 2007
É lá! Thoreau lindo!
I have paid no poll-tax for six years. I was put into a jail once on this account, for one night; and, as I stood considering the walls of solid stone, two or three feet thick, the door of wood and iron, a foot thick, and the iron grating which strained the light, I could not help being struck with the foolishness of that institution which treated me as if I were mere flesh and blood and bones, to be locked up. I wondered that it should have concluded at length that this was the best use it could put me to, and had never thought to avail itself of my services in some way. I saw that, if there was a wall of stone between me and my townsmen, there was a still more difficult one to climb or break through, before they could get to be as free as I was.
The night in prison was novel and interesting enough. The prisoners in their shirt-sleeves were enjoying a chat and the evening air in the doorway, when I entered. But the jailer said, "Come, boys, it is time to lock up"; and so they dispersed, and I heard the sound of their steps returning into the hollow apartments. My room-mate was introduced to me by the jailer as "a first-rate fellow and a clever man." When the door was locked, he showed me where to hang my hat, and how he managed matters there. The rooms were whitewashed once a month; and this one, at least, was the whitest, most simply furnished, and probably the neatest apartment in the town. He naturally wanted to know where I came from, and what brought me there; and, when I had told him, I asked him in my turn how he came there, presuming him to be an honest man, of course; and, as the world goes, I believe he was. "Why," said he, "they accuse me of burning a barn; but I never did it." As near as I could discover, he had probably gone to bed in a barn when drunk, and smoked his pipe there; and so a barn was burnt. He had the reputation of being a clever man, had been there some three months waiting for his trial to come on, and would have to wait as much longer; but he was quite domesticated and contented, since he got his board for nothing, and thought that he was well treated.
He occupied one window, and I the other; and I saw that if one stayed there long, his principal business would be to look out the window. I had soon read all the tracts that were left there, and examined where former prisoners had broken out, and where a grate had been sawed off, and heard the history of the various occupants of that room; for I found that even here there was a history and a gossip which never circulated beyond the walls of the jail. Probably this is the only house in the town where verses are composed, which are afterward printed in a circular form, but not published. I was shown quite a long list of verses which were composed by some young men who had been detected in an attempt to escape, who avenged themselves by singing them.
I pumped my fellow-prisoner as dry as I could, for fear I should never see him again; but at length he showed me which was my bed, and left me to blow out the lamp.
It was like travelling into a far country, such as I had never expected to behold, to lie there for one night. It seemed to me that I never had heard the town-clock strike before, nor the evening sounds of the village; for we slept with the windows open, which were inside the grating. It was to see my native village in the light of the Middle Ages, and our Concord was turned into a Rhine stream, and visions of knights and castles passed before me. They were the voices of old burghers that I heard in the streets. I was an involuntary spectator and auditor of whatever was done and said in the kitchen of the adjacent village-inn — a wholly new and rare experience to me. It was a closer view of my native town. I was fairly inside of it. I never had seen its institutions before. This is one of its peculiar institutions; for it is a shire town.(1) I began to comprehend what its inhabitants were about.
In the morning, our breakfasts were put through the hole in the door, in small oblong-square tin pans, made to fit, and holding a pint of chocolate, with brown bread, and an iron spoon. When they called for the vessels again, I was green enough to return what bread I had left; but my comrade seized it, and said that I should lay that up for lunch or dinner. Soon after he was let out to work at haying in a neighboring field, whither he went every day, and would not be back till noon; so he bade me good-day, saying that he doubted if he should see me again.
When I came out of prison — for some one interfered, and paid that tax — I did not perceive that great changes had taken place on the common, such as he observed who went in a youth and emerged a tottering and gray-headed man; and yet a change had to my eyes come over the scene — the town, and State, and country — greater than any that mere time could effect. I saw yet more distinctly the State in which I lived. I saw to what extent the people among whom I lived could be trusted as good neighbors and friends; that their friendship was for summer weather only; that they did not greatly propose to do right; that they were a distinct race from me by their prejudices and superstitions, as the Chinamen and Malays are; that in their sacrifices to humanity, they ran no risks, not even to their property; that after all they were not so noble but they treated the thief as he had treated them, and hoped, by a certain outward observance and a few prayers, and by walking in a particular straight though useless path from time to time, to save their souls. This may be to judge my neighbors harshly; for I believe that many of them are not aware that they have such an institution as the jail in their village.
It was formerly the custom in our village, when a poor debtor came out of jail, for his acquaintances to salute him, looking through their fingers, which were crossed to represent the grating of a jail window, "How do ye do?" My neighbors did not thus salute me, but first looked at me, and then at one another, as if I had returned from a long journey. I was put into jail as I was going to the shoemaker's to get a shoe which was mended. When I was let out the next morning, I proceeded to finish my errand, and, having put on my mended shoe, joined a huckleberry party, who were impatient to put themselves under my conduct; and in half an hour — for the horse was soon tackled — was in the midst of a huckleberry field, on one of our highest hills, two miles off, and then the State was nowhere to be seen.
This is the whole history of "My Prisons."
The night in prison was novel and interesting enough. The prisoners in their shirt-sleeves were enjoying a chat and the evening air in the doorway, when I entered. But the jailer said, "Come, boys, it is time to lock up"; and so they dispersed, and I heard the sound of their steps returning into the hollow apartments. My room-mate was introduced to me by the jailer as "a first-rate fellow and a clever man." When the door was locked, he showed me where to hang my hat, and how he managed matters there. The rooms were whitewashed once a month; and this one, at least, was the whitest, most simply furnished, and probably the neatest apartment in the town. He naturally wanted to know where I came from, and what brought me there; and, when I had told him, I asked him in my turn how he came there, presuming him to be an honest man, of course; and, as the world goes, I believe he was. "Why," said he, "they accuse me of burning a barn; but I never did it." As near as I could discover, he had probably gone to bed in a barn when drunk, and smoked his pipe there; and so a barn was burnt. He had the reputation of being a clever man, had been there some three months waiting for his trial to come on, and would have to wait as much longer; but he was quite domesticated and contented, since he got his board for nothing, and thought that he was well treated.
He occupied one window, and I the other; and I saw that if one stayed there long, his principal business would be to look out the window. I had soon read all the tracts that were left there, and examined where former prisoners had broken out, and where a grate had been sawed off, and heard the history of the various occupants of that room; for I found that even here there was a history and a gossip which never circulated beyond the walls of the jail. Probably this is the only house in the town where verses are composed, which are afterward printed in a circular form, but not published. I was shown quite a long list of verses which were composed by some young men who had been detected in an attempt to escape, who avenged themselves by singing them.
I pumped my fellow-prisoner as dry as I could, for fear I should never see him again; but at length he showed me which was my bed, and left me to blow out the lamp.
It was like travelling into a far country, such as I had never expected to behold, to lie there for one night. It seemed to me that I never had heard the town-clock strike before, nor the evening sounds of the village; for we slept with the windows open, which were inside the grating. It was to see my native village in the light of the Middle Ages, and our Concord was turned into a Rhine stream, and visions of knights and castles passed before me. They were the voices of old burghers that I heard in the streets. I was an involuntary spectator and auditor of whatever was done and said in the kitchen of the adjacent village-inn — a wholly new and rare experience to me. It was a closer view of my native town. I was fairly inside of it. I never had seen its institutions before. This is one of its peculiar institutions; for it is a shire town.(1) I began to comprehend what its inhabitants were about.
In the morning, our breakfasts were put through the hole in the door, in small oblong-square tin pans, made to fit, and holding a pint of chocolate, with brown bread, and an iron spoon. When they called for the vessels again, I was green enough to return what bread I had left; but my comrade seized it, and said that I should lay that up for lunch or dinner. Soon after he was let out to work at haying in a neighboring field, whither he went every day, and would not be back till noon; so he bade me good-day, saying that he doubted if he should see me again.
When I came out of prison — for some one interfered, and paid that tax — I did not perceive that great changes had taken place on the common, such as he observed who went in a youth and emerged a tottering and gray-headed man; and yet a change had to my eyes come over the scene — the town, and State, and country — greater than any that mere time could effect. I saw yet more distinctly the State in which I lived. I saw to what extent the people among whom I lived could be trusted as good neighbors and friends; that their friendship was for summer weather only; that they did not greatly propose to do right; that they were a distinct race from me by their prejudices and superstitions, as the Chinamen and Malays are; that in their sacrifices to humanity, they ran no risks, not even to their property; that after all they were not so noble but they treated the thief as he had treated them, and hoped, by a certain outward observance and a few prayers, and by walking in a particular straight though useless path from time to time, to save their souls. This may be to judge my neighbors harshly; for I believe that many of them are not aware that they have such an institution as the jail in their village.
It was formerly the custom in our village, when a poor debtor came out of jail, for his acquaintances to salute him, looking through their fingers, which were crossed to represent the grating of a jail window, "How do ye do?" My neighbors did not thus salute me, but first looked at me, and then at one another, as if I had returned from a long journey. I was put into jail as I was going to the shoemaker's to get a shoe which was mended. When I was let out the next morning, I proceeded to finish my errand, and, having put on my mended shoe, joined a huckleberry party, who were impatient to put themselves under my conduct; and in half an hour — for the horse was soon tackled — was in the midst of a huckleberry field, on one of our highest hills, two miles off, and then the State was nowhere to be seen.
This is the whole history of "My Prisons."
Etiquetas: Body, Disobedience, Film, Genet, Literature, Prison, Scatology, Sexuality, State, Thoreau
segunda-feira, maio 21, 2007
O mesmo memé de outra maneira
Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro, A Parodia, nº 95, 6 de Novembro de 1901, página 360
NO PAÍS DOS SACANAS
Que adianta dizer-se que é um país de sacanas?
Todos os são, mesmo os melhores, às suas horas,
e todos estão contentes de se saberem sacanas.
Não há mesmo melhor do que uma sacanice
para fazer funcionar fraternalmente
a humidade da próstata ou das glândulas lacrimais,
para além das rivalidades, invejas e mesquinharias
em que tanto se dividem e afinal se irmanam.
Dizer-se que é de heróis e santos o país,
a ver se se convencem e puxam para cima as calças?
Para quê, se toda a gente sabe que só asnos,
ingénuos e sacaneados é que foram disso?
Não, o melhor seria aguentar, fazendo que se ignora.
Mas claro que logo todos pensam que isto é o cúmulo da sacanice,
porque no país dos sacanas, ninguém pode entender
que a nobreza, a dignidade, a independência, a
justiça, a bondade, etc., etc., sejam
outra coisa que não patifaria de sacanas refinados
a um ponto que os mais não são capazes de atingir.
No país dos sacanas, ser sacana e meio?
Não, que toda a gente já é pelo menos dois.
Como ser-se então nesse país? Não ser-se?
Ser ou não ser, eis a questão, dir-se-ia.
Mas isso foi no teatro, e o gajo morreu na mesma.
10/10/1973
Jorge de Sena, 40 Anos de Servidão, Lisboa, Edições 70, s.d. [1989], p. 136
Etiquetas: Jardins, Jorge de Sena, Literature, Meme, Oásis, Patriotismo, Pulhice, Tomás Ribeiro
sábado, maio 19, 2007
Hello, hello, Dolly!
Cá está o memé - e é catita:
"Jardim da Europa á beira-mar plantado"
(Thomaz Ribeiro, D. Jayme ou a Dominação de Castella, 1862)
Etiquetas: Bordalo, Castela, Cavaco Silva, Europa, Geo-política, Jardins, Meme, Oásis, Patriotismo, Tomás Ribeiro
segunda-feira, maio 14, 2007
D as in democracy
All voting is a sort of gaming, like checkers or backgammon, with a slight moral tinge to it, a playing with right and wrong, with moral questions; and betting naturally accompanies it. The character of the voters is not staked. I cast my vote, perchance, as I think right; but I am not vitally concerned that that right should prevail. I am willing to leave it to the majority. Its obligation, therefore, never exceeds that of expediency. Even voting for the right is doing nothing for it. It is only expressing to men feebly your desire that it should prevail. A wise man will not leave the right to the mercy of chance, nor wish it to prevail through the power of the majority. There is but little virtue in the action of masses of men. When the majority shall at length vote for the abolition of slavery, it will be because they are indifferent to slavery, or because there is but little slavery left to be abolished by their vote. They will then be the only slaves. Only his vote can hasten the abolition of slavery who asserts his own freedom by his vote.
Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), Civil Disobedience, 1849
Etiquetas: Democracy, Disobedience, Holodkin, Politics, Revolution, Thoreau
sexta-feira, maio 04, 2007
R comme révolution
Ce qu'on a "découvert" récemment: les horreurs de Staline... Enfin! Tout le monde le sait depuis... - j'allais dire: tout le temps. Que les révolutions tournent mal ! (rires) Moi, ça me fait rire ! De qui on se moque ? Quand les nouveaux philosophes ont découvert que les révolutions ça tournait mal ... Faut vraiment être un peu débile !
(...) Toutes les révolutions foirent. Tout le monde le sait : on fait semblant de le redécouvrir, là. Faut être débile ! Alors, là-dessus, tout le monde s'engouffre. C'est le révisionnisme actuel. Il y a Furet qui découvre que la révolution française, c'était pas si bien que ça. Très bien, d'accord: elle a foiré aussi. Et tout le monde le sait ! La révolution française, elle a donné Napoléon. On fait des découvertes qui, au moins, ne sont pas très émouvantes par leur nouveauté. La révolution anglaise, elle a donné Cromwell... La révolution américaine, elle a donné... quoi ? Pire, non ? Elle a donné... je sais pas qui... elle a donné Reagan. Ca ne me parait pas tellement plus fameux. Alors, qu'est-ce que ça veut dire ? On est dans un tel état de confusion. Que les révolutions échouent, que les révolutions tournent mal, ça n'a jamais empêché les gens... ni fait que les gens ne deviennent pas révolutionnaires !
On mélange deux choses absolument différentes... - les situations dans lesquelles la seule issue pour l'homme c'est de devenir révolutionnaire. Là encore, on en parle depuis le début...
Finalement: c'est la confusion du Devenir et de l'Histoire. Si les gens deviennent révolutionnaires... Oui: c'est cette confusion des historiens... Les historiens, ils nous parlent de l'Avenir de la révolution, l'Avenir des révolutions... Mais c'est pas du tout la question ! Alors, ils peuvent toujours remonter aussi haut pour montrer que si l'Avenir a été mauvais, c'est que le mauvais était déjà là depuis le début, mais le problème concret, c'est: comment et pourquoi les gens Deviennent-ils révolutionnaires. Mais ça, heureusement, les historiens ne l'empêcheront pas.
C'est évident que les Africains du Sud, ils sont pris dans un Devenir révolutionnaire. Les Palestiniens, ils sont pris dans un Devenir révolutionnaire. Si on me dit après: "Vous verrez, quand ils auront triomphé... Si leur révolution réussit, ça va mal tourner !"... D'abord, ce serait pas les mêmes. Ce ne seront pas du tout les mêmes genres de problèmes. Et puis, bon : ça créera une nouvelle situation, à nouveau il y aura des devenirs révolutionnaires qui se déclencheront... L'affaire des hommes, dans les situations de tyrannie, d'oppression, c'est effectivement le Devenir révolutionnaire, parce qu'il n'y a pas d'autre chose à faire. Quand on nous dit après "Ah, ça tourne mal", tout ça.. : on ne parle pas de la même chose. C'est comme si on parlait deux langues tout à fait différentes : l'Avenir de l'histoire et le Devenir actuel des gens, c'est pas la même chose.
Gilles Deleuze (1925-1995) entrevistado por Claire Parnet (1988-89)
Etiquetas: Deleuze, Interview, Mass Media, May 68, Revolution
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