Price, pjesme, intervjui...

[pesak]

Covjek (Boris Dezulovic) odselio, mahnuo Splitu i Zagrebu i postao Beogradjanin. Cool

uf. bas se usrecio.
kako li ce mu biti ovde, ko zna. jadan covek.

[talijan]

dervis i smrt

Trajalo je samo trenutak, to njegovo gubljenje vlasti nad sobom, i uzbudjenje koje ga je savladalo. Oci su mu zastale medju sirokim otvorima kapaka, ruke se zbunile. Samo trenutak i sve je proslo, kao da nije ni bilo. Vratio mu se osmijeh, i opet je bio siguran, i neuzbudjeno vedar, mirno radostan sto su mu dosli prijatelji. Ali ga je uzbudjenje jos drzalo, mada mu je izgled smiren. Znao sam po tome sto me vise nije vidio, sto za njega nisam postojao. Nije bio neljubazan, nije gledao mimo mene, rekao je da opet navratim, napomenuo mi da odem do njegove sestre, sve je na izgled bilo obicno, ali njegova misao nije sa mnom: dolje je, na dvoristu, uz zenu sto mu je isla u posjetu. Krenuli smo im u susret, sreli se na vratima, pozdravljajuci se pogledao sam krisom i letimice u njeno lice, nije mi se ucinila narocito lijepa ovako iz blizine, obrazi su joj mrsavi i blijedi, oci sa tragovima vatre od neke bolesti ili tuge, ali ima nesto u izrazu lica sto ostaje u sjecanju, i prosao sam kroz oblak lakog mirisa, udaljio se sa mislju o nerjesivosti svega medju njima. Zato je s onakvim zanimanjem govorio o onoj zeni iz dvorista i o dvojici momaka! Je li to i njegova muka, je li to i njegov bezizlaz? Da nije zaljubljen, sve bi lakse i jednostavnije bilo, ali njegovo naglo bljedilo ne vara. Zna li ona? Zna li njen muz, dobrodusan Latinin sto se poklonio preda mnom duboko, sa ugodnim smijeskom nezlobiva covjeka, troma u svemu. Sigurno ne zna, njega strast ne raspinje. On ne bi ubio, i kad bi znao. Zena zna, zene uvijek znaju, makar nista ne bilo receno, i prije ce pomisliti da jest nego da nije. Sta se desava medju njima, nekazano, ili izmucano, izmedju muza koji ih odvaja prisustvom i podstice nesumnjanjem, uvijek spreman da prebrodi njihove opasne cutnje veselim pricanjem ni o cemu? Kakav je bijes okusane ili neutazene zelje medju to dvoje mladih ljudi, kakva omadjijanost koja se, samo mislima hranjena, moze razviti u opasan zanos. Ili je samo Hasan uhvacen, zbog njenog lelujavog stasa vitke trske i tihe vedrine sjajnih ociju koje je obiljezila bolest. Zar se zato izdvojio da se ovako nepovratno zaplete u strast sto se ne trosi i ne moze da nestane? Misli na nju, mjesecima razdvojen, susrece je kad se vrati, uljepsanu zeljama s dalekih puteva, upija zednim ocima da je zapamti i ponese na nova putovanja. Gdje ce se zatvoriti taj krug u kome se strast hrani a ne trosi?

[StLouis]

teofil pancic

Belzebub

Ideja o ustanovljavanju Takvog Nečega kvintesencija je naročito uvrnutog i sadističkog zla, dok »terenska realizacija« toga spada među sramnije stvari koje su ljudi ikada učinili otkad se Istorija zapisuje u knjige i hronike; a oni ljudi koji se zovu Srbi zasigurno nikada ni pre ni docnije nisu počinili, niti će ikada počiniti, nešto tako užasno, tako nepopravljivo, odvratno, a ponad svega nepotrebno i bezvezno kao što je krvavi, ubilački, pljačkaški i proterivački nastanak Onoga što su prozvali Republika Srpska, a čemu pravo ime može prosiktati samo Belzebub, makar kroz usta Opsednutog.

U stvarnosti, ona nije nikakva slatka beba, nego glomazna crkotina razjapljena nasred puta kojim bi rado prolazio normalan i čestit svet, srpski i svaki drugi, ali mu je zazorno, i postidno, i mučno, ona je na koncu tek sramotni iscedak i posmrtni ostatak jedne kanibalske orgije ubijanja nedužnih koja nije dostojna čak ni da se nazove ratom. Biti za ili protiv njenog postojanja na Zemlji nije pitanje manjka ili viška »srpskosti«, nego ljudskosti, toga jesi li ili nisi ona i onaj koji je bar ponekad u svome postojanju nešto više od beslovesne funte razgalamljenog mesa, nekadrog da dušom, telom i pameću dobaci dalje od dva-tri Najniža Poriva.



pescanik.net

[aNTropocentrio]

Adnadin Jašarević
Sa druge strane sna



Bijelo. Čista bijela tavanica, bez mrlje... S naporom pokrećem glavu ulijevo. Bijeli zidovi, vrata, bijeli ormar... Upravo sam ovako zamišljao smrt, otkako razmišljam o smrti... Oštar bol u prsima svjedoči suprotno: živ sam. Iz ruke se izvija plastična duga cjevčica, sve do prozirne vrećice u kojoj se komeša žućkasta tekućina. Desno, čujem kako kucka u pravilnim razmacima, neki aparat... U bolnici sam. Posljednja predstraža pred granicama suhe zemlje. Čegrtavo se smijem, bol snaži. Sjetio sam se te čarobne knjige u ovoj sterilnoj sobi - neobično. Stara dama, Ursula, tako je opisivala zemlju mrtvih, 'suha zemlja'... Mjesto gdje ni suza ni glasa nema... Nikada nisam odobravao pjesnički zanos: kako su samo opjevavali smrt, podilazili joj, "tepali", kao milom djetetu... Pjesnici umiru u majčinoj utrobi: nikad i ne žive. Kako je onaj smetenjak pisao: "Doći će smrt i imaće tvoje oči..." Da je smrt 'djevojka iz susjedstva', ja odavno ne bih živio, koliko sam ih upoznao... Smijem se uprkos boli. Bijednici! Nikada nisu uspjeli prihvatiti istinu: prokleti romantičari! 'Život je san', ponekad mora, ili uglavnom mora, splet boja, šarenila, koje će se, konačno, stopiti u izvornu i posljednju boju, jedinu: možda bijelu... Bol svrdla kroz moja prsa, nevidljiva šaka steže srce, snažno, snažnije, dahćem... Stežem zube. Mislim da ću se usrati. Smrad. Bol bubnja u glavi vrelim timpanima. Mrak...

Otvaram oči. Nebesa, nisam mrtav! Ne ležim. Sjedim na tvrdoj, drvenoj stolici. Zurim u drveni sto, prekriven tamnim, neizbrisivim mrljama. Rukom stežem, čvrsto, zglobovi su pobijelili, ručku velike krigle: unutar nje komeša se, da, pivo... Mora biti da haluciniram! Dobro se osjećam, bol je iščezla, snažan sam. Lijepo. Bolje ova tlapnja nego bjelina one usrane sobe... Buka me zasipa sa svih strana, pjesma, razgovori, preglasni. Pažljivo njušim poznate mirise pečenja i alkohola. Ubjedljiv san. Ili mora... Lagano podižem glavu. Oči su mi skrivene širokom, udobnom kabanicom, tako da mogu gledati kamo poželim, a da drugi to ne primijete. Gledam. Kafana. Djeluje kao antikvitet, iskopan iz arheološkog nalazišta. Za drvenim stolovima sjede otromboljeni 'tipovi', ispijaju krigle piva. Nekoliko patuljastih prilika vrzma se u sjenovitim zakutcima. Debeli gostioničar juri između stolova - dahće pod teretom ovala mesa i krigli piva. Dim se vije po svuda, gust kao magla, čini da prizor djeluje nestvarno, kao što i jeste nestvaran. Smijem se - nema boli u prsima. U drugoj ruci i ja držim lulu, poput ostalih: puckam. Ukusan duhan. Uživam. Nikada nisam ovo učinio osim u pričama koje sam čitao. Ova slika, ovo mjesto, odnekud mi je poznato, ali, ne mogu se sjetiti.

Lagano pijuckam pivo, raspuhujem dim iz lule, zadovoljan. Ne želim se probuditi. Ako već moram umrijeti, neka se to desi ovdje, ne u bolnici. Razgledam neobična, zajapurena lica, srednjovjekovnu odjeću, uglavnom pokrpanu, slušam njihovo bučanje i grlene, male glasove onih patuljastih tipova. Izgleda da se "veliki" i 'mali' ovdje dobro slažu. Izgleda i da me izbjegavaju. Niko ne gleda u mom pravcu, niti mi se obraća. Kao da nisam za stolom, u ovoj krčmi. U redu. I nisam. Pažnju mi privlače četvorica polušana. Krčmar ih posjeda za sto blizu moga. Donosi im pivo. Izgledaju umorni i zaplašeni. Razgovaraju odveć tiho da bih mogao čuti o čemu. Stomak mi se grči. Odnekud znam da su ova četiri mališana značajni za mene. Pažljivo ih posmatram, lica... Dvojica veseljaka rumenih obraza, jedan gojazan, pomalo tupa izraza, a drugi, da, on, mršavog, isposničkog lica, blijedog, uokvirenog kudravom crnom kosom. Te oči koje gledaju u daljinu. To je on. Ja znam ovog polušana. Znam ga, iako ga nikada nisam sreo. 'Uhvatio' je moj pogled. Zadrhtao je. Zove gostioničara. Došaptavaju se. Debeli suče brkove i nervozno me pogleda. Zakratko. Nešto govori malenom, o meni. Odlučio sam. Pozvaću ga za moj sto. Doznaću o čemu je riječ. Mahnuh mu. Klimam glavom. I on dolazi, nesigurna koraka. Zabacujem kukuljicu. On sjeda nasuprot mene.

- Mene zovu Strajder. - rekao sam, iznenadivši sam sebe.

- Veoma mi je drago što sam vas sreo gospodine - Podbrdni, ako je stari Masločvor dobro čuo vaše ime. - potpuno stran meni, duboki glas, kotrljao mi se preko jezika, zuba i usana. To nisam bio ja ili jesam? Podbrdni, Masločvor? Šta to pričam?

- Jeste. - reče polušan usiljeno.

- Pa, gospodine Podbrdni - rekao sam - da sam ja na vašem mjestu, ja bih spriječio vaše mlade prijatelje da pričaju previše. Piče, vatra i slučajni susreti sasvim su ugodni, ali, eto - ovo nije Okrug. Ima čudnog svijeta naokolo. Može biti da to kažem ja što ne bi trebalo, možete pomisliti. - dodao sam kriveći nevjerovatan osmjeh na licu uvidjevši kako polušan nervozno pogleda prema svojim malenim prijateljima. - A bivalo je čak i čudnijih putnika da prođu kroz Bri u posljednje vrijeme. - nastavio sam motreći polušanovo lice.

Govorio sam kao da deklamujem dobro znanu ulogu. Da, znao sam ko je taj čovječuljak. On je Frodo, Frodo Bagins, prstenoša! Nevjerovatno! Ja sam Aragorn*, Strajder, kako god hoćete, a priča, ili san, u koji sam se upleo, to je moja najdraža priča! Bože, pa ja to sjedim u krčmi "Poni koji se propinje" - prva knjiga, "Družina prstena". Glava u kojoj Aragorn sreće hobite, bjegunce pred crnim jahačima! Ne mogu da vjerujem!

Graške znoja probijale su mi licem. Prepoznavanje dobuje u mom čelu poput ratnih bubnjeva. Taj Frodo, taj mali anti-Faust, on sjedi nasuprot mene, izgubljen, nesretan, potpuno u mojoj milosti... Gledam ga opet pažljivo -vrti se na stolici, nervozno pogleda ka njegovim prijateljima. Znam o čemu govore, o Bilbovoj rođendanskoj zabavi. Upravo sada maleni smiješni čovječuljak ispričaće kako je Bilbo nestao svima naočigled.

- Bolje da brzo učiniš nešto! - prosiktao sam kroz zube.

Frodo skoči, stade na sto i progovori. Pažanja Pipinovih slušalaca - tako se zove onaj smiješni mališa - je razbijena. Svi gosti u kafani gledaju ka Frodu očekujući pjesmu. Sada će zapjevati "Jedna krčma, vesela stara krčma...". A poslije, počinje moja velika pustolovina. Vodicu ih kroz nezamislive opasnosti do Rivendala, i dalje. Trčaću Rohanskom markom u potjeri za orcima, boriti se na zidinama Helmovog ponora, odbraniti Minas Tirit, i tamo, pred vratima Mordora zavrijediti krunu koju moji preci baštine, krunu kraljeva zapada. Ja sam Aragorn, sin Aratornov, nasljednik Izildurov. Počinje rat za prsten, moja velika priča. Ako i jesam mrtav, šta mari. Ako je ovo smrt, drago mi je mrijeti... Frodo pada sa stola, iščezava. Počinje! Sada će dopuzati do mene. Smrt! Dakle, tako je to... smrt, 'suha zemlja' s onu stranu postojanja nije ništa drugo do veliki san, čovjekov najdraži san. Frodo se pojavljuje kraj mene. Razgovaram s njim. Djelićem svijesti mislim još o svim onim nesretnicima koji ne znaju sanjati, mislim o tome gdje će oni svršiti, u kakvoj stvarnoj mori, kada im kucne smrtni čas...

* Arargorn, Frodo, junaci romana "Gospodar prstenova", J.J.R. Tolkeina.

[black]

OCES PARE ILI...

Kriza .Opasna i neumoljiva .Udara vas čak i kada ste pali. I bespomocni.
Privredna , politicka , vojna , seksualna i kakva sve još ne .
I još kada se razmase i podivlja , pa se manifestuje u raznoraznim oblicima . E onda si ga na...ao , da oprostis .
Ali kriza u Grahovu ...
Evo vam je, posebna prica:

Jednog jutra, pozva raspustenica Smilja , Marincica da joj iscjepa drva.
Dobra drva.
Bukova.
A nije ni gazdarica za zanemariti ... dobaci Majkic, nakon razgledanja gomile cokica.
Boga mi , ćeš se naraditi druskane ... namignu na Marincica , onako usput zagledajuci raspustenicu.
Podgojenu i utegnutu .
Ima dana , ja ću to polako i sigurno... poceska se Marincic iza uva , gledajuci gomilu drva. Bukovih.
I lati se sjekire .
Udri, pa udri. Ne staje.
Drva cjepka.
Bukova.
Pa udri, i udri.
Odmjerava ga raspustenica sa balkona. Pomalo zacudjena. Pomalo iznenadjena. A bogami i pomalo zadivljena.Pocese joj mislima, kolati svakakve slike. Udari krv u obraze, a srce zivlje poskoci u grudima.
A kako i ne bi. Marincic zapeo pa udara, drva prste. A ona sama već nekoliko godina. Ako ne laže, ko će ga znati?
Negdje pred vece, iscjepa Marincic drva. Pozva ga Smilja u stan. Da mu plati .Usput će ga pocastiti rakijom i kavom.
Eto Marincicu, ja te posteno pozva da mi iscjepas drva i ti to valjano i uradi. Svaka cast. A sad ću ja tebi posteno i platiti.
Svaka i tebi Smiljo cast ... odgovori skromno Marincic, na raspustenicine pohvale .
E reci ti meni sad, jel vise volis da ti platim parama ili da ... zastade Smilja, pazljivo motreci Marincica.
A on cuti, misli na drva.
Dobra i cjepka.
Bukova.
Znaci dal vise volis da ti platim parama , kao sto rekoh ili ...
Zastade opet Smilja blago se zarumenjevsi u licu.
A on i dalje misli na gomilu drva.
Ili ćeš pare ili da skidam gace ...izusti najzad raspustenica svoju ponudu, opet blago porumenivsi .
Ali zato Marincic planu u obrazima ko bulka u zitu.
Pa se još vise ucuti, ako je mogao jer i dotad je cutao. Ma kakve gace ... zbuni se on.
A Smilja zeleci mu pomoći u odluci , sve se nešto meskolji na kaucu .
Sjevnuse bedra.
Marincic cuti .
Gleda u njena bedra .
Razmišlja .
Kod Smilje rub suknje uzmice ko oseka. Još malo pa će objelodaniti i platezno sredstvo ond. donji ves. Gace. Cipkane.
Ja mislim Smiljo ... najzad progovori Marincic ...ovaj, ja bih radje da ti meni das pare, jer ja ne mogu ...
Pa ako si umoran možemo mi i sutra ... ne odustaje Smilja.
Ma dobro ima i toga , jer nacjepo sam se ja tih drva danas, ali ja bih ipak radje pare da ti meni das jer eto ... ne odstupa Marincic.
Pa zašto , jer nešto do mene kad ... snuzdi se raspustenica.
Ma nije do tebe ništa, nego meni su tvoje gace velike.

A dolje u dvoristu mjesec je obasjao drva.
Iscjepana.
Bukova.

(L.J.Pjer)

[FFK as Lucy01]

IBRICA I MARICA (Almir Alić)

(Sarajevo- Zagreb)


Umorni putnik osjeti jaku mučninu u stomaku, potaknutu iznenadnim prizorom na mokrom kolovozu. Kroz zamagljeno je prozorsko staklo posmatrao bijelo krzno pregažene mačke. Slučaj je htio da životinja baš tu izgubi treću dimenziju, pretvarajući se u svoju beživotnu projekciju na vlažnom asfaltu. Bila je vrlo razvijena- posthumno joj je gotovo pošlo za rukom dvije isprekidane linije kolovozne trake pretvoriti u jednu, punu. Kroz poluspuštene očne kapke putnik nijemo zuri u ekran zamagljenog prozora. Traži smisao u jurnjavi automobila i škripi guma što sistematično raznose komade prljavo- bijele dlake.
- Život je neizliječiva bolest, s predvidljivim krajnjim ishodom,- kontemplira putnik, zureći u ono malo jada što ostane kad nas jednom nestane.
- Ubrzo će sve tragove na cesti sprati hladne, decembarske kiše.
Pogled mu, nesvjesno, odluta ka nebu. Još se čeka prvi, zakašnjeli snijeg.
Autobus Centrotransa je napravio novu stajanku u n- tom usputnom restoranu, nazvanom po hladu bjelogoričnog drveta, poštujući tradicionalni deal između vozača i gostioničara koji se poravnavao preko novčanika iscrpljenih punika na relaciji Sarajevo- Zagreb. Adnan Gracić nikada ne izlazi iz autobusa za vrijeme ovakvih prekida vožnje. Navika iz djetinjstva. Pare se nisu bacale za bljutavu doljevušu koju gostioničari besramno nazivaju kavom, pa je navici ostao dosljedan i sada, kada novca u prometu ima još manje. Tako je slučajno u Adnanov vidokrug ušla dvodimenzionalna projekcija mačke na asfaltu i pokrenula neželjene procese u glavi i stomaku.
Čelo drži prislonjeno uz prozor. Godi mu ledeni dodir stakla. Glavu, ionako, nikada ne naslanja na sjedište- gade mu se poslovično prljavi i masni prekrivači. Da je odstupio od ovog besmislenog, hipohondričnog pravila jednostavno bi naslonio glavu i sklopio oči. Duboki san bi ga poštedio prizora presovane domaće životinje i osjećaja mučnine u progresu. Još da ne mora disati, život bi mogao biti podnošljiv.
Zrak u autobusu kombinacija je najgorih mogućih mirisa na svijetu. Smrdljivi koktel diesel goriva, ljudskog znoja, upotpunjen je aromom spaljene piletine. Njene posmrtne ostatke sistematično trijebi putnik na susjednom mjestu. Gospodin je otkopčao zadnji gumb na košulji, olabavio čvor kravate s uzorkom Disneyevog miša i razmakao čeljusti poput anakonde- da bi lakše usisao svoj plijen. Masno odijelo mu se, na dnevnom svjetlu, presijava kao kod rudničkog portira. Bez sumnje i on je iz Bosne. Nudi da podjeli ono što je ostalo, a ostalo je najslađe- trtica i vrat.
Saputnik uhvati zamišljen Adnanov pogled, brzo proguta polusažvakan komad piletine (da mu nebi utekla misao), pa progovori zavjerenički intoniranim glasom:
- Pogana je to životinja! Moja sestrična je od njene dlake fasovala hematom na mozgu veliki k'o rukometna lopta. Cura lijepa, jedinica u majke! Svi mislili "ono- najgore", ali sreća pa nije! Zarazile su je neke baje što stanuju u mačijem izmetu, a prenose se preko životinjske dlake.
Tematika sopstvenog izlaganja ne slabi apetit nezvanom gostu. Žvaće i priča o govnima. Ne može ga zbuniti ni Adnanova apsolutna nezainteresiranost da agresivni monolog svojim govorom pretvori u dijalog. Mesožder forsira priču i misli, Susjed će omekšati, imaće sugovornika da pričom prekrati vrijeme do dalekog Zagreba.
- Sad je mala dobro, samo ima poveliki ožiljak na glavi. Pati se k'o Miki Jevremović, valja joj s potiljka navući kosu da pokrije prostor gdje više ne raste. Što ti je život- mačke je voljela više od svega, a danas ih odmah spuca nogom u guzicu. Vozaču što je ovu zgazio, platila bi škembiće i piće!
Adnan ništa ne odgovori. Njegova mučnina je neanimalne prirode i to stranac nužno ne mora da zna. Sklopi oči da ne gleda mrtvu mačku i zamrači bolnu asocijaciju na starijeg brata. Na uši postavi slušalice discmana i pusti da se zavrti njegov omiljeni CD- "Amanet". Znao je jedno, put u tuđinu čine snošljivim zvuci sevdalinke. Stari trik nostalgičara. Pustiš muziku, sklopiš oči i bilo gdje da si u tom trenu, svuda oko tebe nalazi se Bosna.
Iz slušalica začu glas oronulog šansonjera što pod stare dane, vješto kao umirovljena prostitutka, koketira sa zvukom sevdaha. Ibrica Jusić je pjesmom plivao uzvodno, vraćao se svojim hercegovačkim korjenima. Sluša Adnan o "bolesti šimšir lista, pod pendžerom lijepe Magbule", pa mu tuđa bol na tren olakša vlastitu brigu.
Na put je pošao nerado, potjeran nevoljom, ispraćen majčinim suzama. Kući treba donjeti mrtvo tijelo brata iz daleke Amerike. Amerika je sjedinila mnoge države, a Latif zalijepio baš u New Jerseyu. Majčina je želja da joj draži sin bude ukopan pored očeve grobnice, na Kovačima, prije dolazećeg Bajrama. Prvo parcelu za mezar odredila, pa tek potom zaplakala. Brojao je Adnan materine suze što impregniraju žensku odlučnost, a činilo mu se da po njega niko ne bi krenuo na ovako dalek put.
- Mene bi jednostavno zagrnuli zemljom u prvoj rupi pokraj puta. Ili bi me pokopali u zajedničkoj grobnici bijelosvjetskih siromaha, dva reda iznad Mozarta.
Tako razabire ubogi putnik preplašen dalekim putem. Adnanu treba oprostiti. Mlad je i teško razumije fenomen emotivnog odnosa majke i prvorođenog djeteta. Simplificirano promatra događaje, isprepadan brojnim graničnim prijelazima koji mu predstoje. Ratno Sarajevo nikada nije napuštao zbog dugogodišnje barbarske opsade, a nenaviklom namjerniku putovanje dođe kao kazna. On, u svojoj post-ratnoj percepciji, očekuje da granična policija i svi carinici svijeta imaju duge brade, kokarde i oštru kamu zadjenutu za pojas. Rat je multiplicirao državne granice koje treba preći u nakani da dopremi bratove posmrtne ostatke. Plaši ga predstojeći let iz Zagreba, preko Beča za New York i dalje za New Jersey. Strah, valja, poduplati. Itinerarij pretpostavlja i povratak kući. Dva dana poslije, istim putem nazad, u društvu odbačenog oklopa koji je trideset godina štitio dušu starijeg brata Latifa.
Tehnički, sve to jako dobro zvuči. Nek' nema magle i nek' bude kerozina. Niko ne pita Adnana Jel' te, bolan, strah aviona? Niko ne veli Hoćeš li se snaći, jado? Uzmi ovo malo novca i hvataj se autobusa do Zagreba, a onda u zrak, pa kako Bog odredi.
A Bog, sistematični analitičar svih naših pluseva i minusa, sve okrene na dobro. Okrenuće i ovo, hoće- Inšallah!



(Zagreb- Beč)


- Na zagrebačkom aerodromu Pleso možete sresti i ponekog Zagrepčanina!- ironično primjeti Adnan, iznenađen mnoštvom stranaca u haotičnom kretanju aerodromskim atrijem. Posmatra govor, boju tena i položaj očiju okolnih putnika i jasno razaznaje bahate Ruse u masi malenih Kineza i tamnoputih Arapa s bosanskom putovnicom. Mnoštvo je tu poslovnog svijeta, tranzicija ih redom naoružala parnim brojem mobitela, pa hodaju aerodromskim terminalom i razgovaraju s obije ruke prinešene uhu, kao da klanjaju jaciju u pokretu. Prva asocijacija, koja se bosanskom muslimanu učini logičnom, iz ove perspektive izgleda potpuno apsurdno- malo je vjerovatno da iko od prisutnog mnoštva prakticira namaz. Barem ne javno. Danas u europskim zračnim lukama nije popularno biti musliman.
Ta je istina Adnanu dobro znana i tjera ga da se još dublje zavuče u ljušturu vlastite nesigurnosti. Aerodromska kakofonija tvori ogromne akustične zidove, koji u potpunosti okružuju i izoliraju bosanskog putnika. Stotine različitih sudbina, gura se u redovima i vuče ogromnu prtljagu oslonjenu na dva malena kotača. Osobnim paradoksom smatra činjenicu da se u ovolikom mnoštvu ljudi osjeća najusamljenijim čovjekom na svijetu. Poluprazni ruksak, s kojim je krenuo na put, privlači pozornost sigurnosnog osoblja. Trpi ispitivačke poglede na sebi.
- Kako se vremena mijenjaju. Nekada su sumnjivi bili ljudi s velikom prtljagom, a danas je svaki maleni ranac potencijalna eksplozivna naprava!- razmišlja Adnan dok šalje glupave osmjehe namrgođenim redarstvenicima.
Stid ga je odsustva sadržaja u njegovoj transportnoj torbi. Kao da prokleti ranac definira njegov mizerni život. Želio bi imati ogromni Samsonite kovčeg, biti u žurbi, nositi vrećice s natpisom Duty Free Shop, galamiti i imitirati bezbrižan život kao ostali putnici u zračnoj luci. Ali on to nije, jer oni imaju posao, imaju dom s pokošenim travnjakom, u domu svoju obitelj i živog starijeg brata.
Bezvoljno ustade i krenu do toaleta. Umi se temeljito, opra ruke i želudac do vrha napuni vodom da bi donekle zavarao sve veću glad. Rukama ispegla umorno lice, skloni šake i pogleda svoj odraz u oljuštenom ogledalu. Tražio je linije koje bi mu vratile sjećanje na Latifa. Izdaleka, počesto su ih znali pomješati i nazvati imenom onog drugog. Četiri godine razlike izgubilo se negdje u pubertetu. Adnan se približi ogledalu i dah mu zamuti vlastiti lik. Zateče se izgubljen u beskonačnoj petlji amnezije. Sliku brata u misli ne može dozvati. Sjećanje mu opsjedaju besmislene životne situacije, potaknute kontekstom aerodromskog toaleta. Adnan jasno čuje Latifov glas iz kućnog wc-a, kako pjevuši spontano izmišljenu rimu:
Ne mogu, ne mogu da se olakšam/
puno suhe hrane jedem u akšam…
Ali, bratovog se lika ne može sjetiti. Zato bježi natrag u čekaonicu, da se utopi u masi ljudi s checkiranim avionskim kartama.
Metalne klupe u čekaonici mijenjaju svrhu i postaju neudobni kreveti putnicima s kratkim snom i dugim čekanjem leta. Adnan izabra mjesto pored para bijelih sportskih čarapa i spusti umorno tijelo na hladni aluminij. Pogleda i druge klupe u prostoriji tražeći slobodno mjesto pored nekog gospodina s crnim čarapama, koje u principu manje smrde od bijelih. Uzalud. Klupe su ispunjene nervoznim putnicima, koji su vrijeme kratili snom ili čitanjem. I on iz džepa izvadi pogužvanu kuvertu u namjeri da njen sadržaj još jednom utvrdi. Na uši stavi slušalice, pritisnu play i udahnu duboko. Zagleda se u papir i klimnu glavom kao da razumije sve što je napisano. Napisano- ne napisano, Latifa više među živim nema.
Ibrica je pjevao o "silnom sultanu što, u Stambolu, na prijestolju sjedi". Sestra je, mimo njegovog znanja, ljubovala s mlad- vezirom po bratovom haremu, a takve se stvari teško opraštaju. Ova sevdalinka ne pominje bratov gnijev, ni sestrine suze. Sultan je izvađen iz realnog konteksta, širok je i pravdoljubiv. Oprašta sve. Ljubav pobjedi uvijek, no samo u pjesmama. Takva je želja običnih ljudi koji pišu stihove, njima trebaju bajkoviti svršeci kakvih u realnom životu hronično manjka. U Adnanovoj pjesmi brat bi Latif bio još uvijek nasmijan i živ, ali sudbina mu nije dodijelila takve rime.
Pismo iz Amerike iznenadilo je stanovnike malenog sokaka na Bistriku. Latif se nikada nije javljao kući. Možda ga je bilo stid sopstvenog bijega iz opkoljenog Sarajeva. Možda su Gracići predstavljali balast njegovom novom životu, koji je htio započeti daleko od sarajevskog ratnog pakla. Ludima sreće ne manjka, on se jedne ratne večeri jednostavno zavukao u autobusko spremište i sakrio se iza putničkih torbi u vlasništvu jevrejske djece koja su napuštala razoreni grad. U Adnanovom sjećanju se čvrsto urezao posljednji kadar zajedničkog životnog filma- bratov glas koji mu razočarano dovikuje:
- Istrijebite se međusobno, međedi jedni!
Od tada je prošlo puno Bajrama, a da pismo kući stiglo nije. To bi Adnan mogao oprostiti. Latif nije bio pretjerano sklon pisanju. Oralan tip. Iz nekadašnje JNA su, za dvanaest mjeseci vojničkog roka, majki stigla tek tri pisma. Jedno, ispisano na papirnoj salveti, sazdano od dvije rečenice. Prva- trocifren broj "155", a zadnja: "Prijatno septembar, muuuuu junci!" Mati je kopnila misleći kako njen prvijenac i zjenica oka pati u Armiji, pa loše vijesti mora šifrovano slati kući! Čula je ona svašta o vojnim bezbjednjacima. "Onima- u- Valjevu ko god dođe iz Sarajeva Mladi je musliman." Zadnje pismo, smotra vojničkog folklora, mater je još više zbunilo. Mogla je i preseliti, a da ne sazna da Gušter uši ima i da čizma može glavu da sačuva. Presjek Latifa i pisane riječi oduvijek je bio samo prazan skup!
Vijesti o Latifu stizale su posredno, dobro uhodanim obavještajnim kanalima mahale. Izvor informacija bio je susjed Mevludin Tokić. Njegov brat Sabahudin radio je u New Jersey kao construction worker, mada je u bosanskoj školi završio samo za zidara. Mevludin brata promovira u sveca- Constuction worker i tačka!
- Zna Amerika koliko on vrijedi, a zna i to da ni čemu ne služi ova naša škola.
Sabahudin je u pismima opisao Latifovu sudbinu u obećanoj zemlji. Mevludin glasno čita sadržaj, dobro pazeći da mu ne promakne koja ružna riječ:
- Latif radi u čeličani, kao operater na presi rabljenog metala. Ni američke prese nisu k'o u ostalog svijeta. Ova kompletnog Cadilaca pretvori u metalnu palačinku samo jednim pritiskom na dugme. Automatizacija je hamala zamjenila tasterom.
Tu bi Mevludin, nakratko, prekidao čitanje dajući svoje viđenje tehnološkog progresa zapadne civilizacije:
- Bože, poštedi nas automatizacije, sačuvaj radna mjesta za svoje dobre Bosance!
U početku, svaka vijest o bratu bila je "Latif u čeličanu, Latif iz čeličane". Između- devet sati škripanja prese od koje trnu metalne plombe u zubima, a u ustima se stvori gorkast okus oksidacije. Jede se ako se šta ponese od kuće. Obrok je topao, ukoliko ga držiš na suncu do polusatne pauze.
U jednom od Sabahudinovih pisama provukla se vijest da se Latif priženio Amerikankom. Mevludin se krkanski smije i veli:
- 'Alal vjera! Nije Latif štanc'o samo za presom!
Nakon još jedne spontane upadice nastavio je čitati bratov rukopis:
- Ukoliko hoćeš Bosanca zajebati, onda ga oženi Amerikankom. Latif je u miraz dobio i dvoje djece. Beverly ne propušta večernje izlaske, a Latif ostane kod kuće i šuti, savio se oko one dvije curice baš k'o da ih je sam napravio. Ujutro stavi djecu u kola, pa pravac Jersey elementary school, a potom još sat vremena vožnje do Eagle Steel Company. Kod Amera nema zajebavanja na poslu. Devet sati rokaj za presom, bez puš pauze i bez odlaska u ćenifu! Svaki dolar ovdje krvavo se zaradi!
- Nije Mevludinovom bratu svaka za povjerovati. K'o da je on šta bolji- oženio Makedonku! - pravdao je Adnan brata pred nasmijanim susjedstvom.
Prvo i jedino pismo koje je Adnanovoj kući stiglo iz Amerike bilo je pisano na engleskom jeziku. Adnan ga je učio u školi osam godina, ali nerado. Ono engleskog što zna naučio je iz filmova. Mevludin je lingvista u bistričkoj mahali. Uz kavu i hurmašice prevede pismo, onako kako ga on razumije:
- Ovo pismo piše pravni zastupnik čeličane Eagle Steel Company iz New Jerseya. Muštuluka neće biti. Porodica se zvanično obavještava o Latifovoj tragičnoj smrti ispod uredno podmazanog klipa Caterpillarove hidraulične prese.
Pravo je egzaktna nauka, ljudska se sudbina opiše u tri rečenice.
- Kompanija se pravno ograđuje od smrti jer je uposlenik, kršeći radnu disciplinu, samoincijativno ušao u komoru prese bez zaštitnog šljema za glavu. Zbog činjenice da isti nije poštovao odredbe Zakona o zaštiti na radu, kompanija nije dužna trpjeti bilo kakav odštetni zahtjev!
Iskreno vaš, Michael Gross, legal advisor of Eagle Steel Co.!




(Beč- New York)


Svijet je bitno drugačiji, ako ga posmatramo iz ptičije perspektive. Da su stari Slaveni svoju ekspanziju pravili aero flotom, zasigurno bi prostor brdovitog Balkana zaobišli u velikom luku. Planinski reljef je dominantna geografska struktura, koju razbija tek poneki raštrkani gradić uglavljen u prvu slobodnu kotlinu. Sreća pa Slaveni nisu bili klaustrofobični. Nije im smetalo pustiti korijenje na tijesnom prostoru, okruženom gustim šumama četinara i gologlavim planinskim vrhovima. Iz zraka se jasno uočava početak Austrije. Adnan zadivljeno posmatra malena jezerca s vikend naseljima, tik pored uređenih poljoprivrednih površina, koje se neprimjetno naslanjaju na indutrijsku infrastrukturu. Beč, već iz aviona, odaje izgled prave prijestolnice projektovane u cikličnom razvoju od centra prema periferiji, gdje je smještena zračna luka s dugim poletnim stazama. Sivi beton je u potpunosti išaran tragovima kočenja avionskih guma. Jedan par crnih linija ispisao je i zrakoplov Croatia Airlinesa.
Bečki aerodrom Adnana podsjeti na davno gledani SF film o megapolisu budućnosti. Usred mermera aerodromskog atrija stoji fontana s bujnom vegetacijom kao u sred Amazona. Puzavice tropskih biljaka pletu svoju gustu strukturu oko stuba fontane. Voda ih zaljeva, padajući na dizajnerov potpis ugraviran u mozaiku na dnu fontane. Zidove ukrašavaju veliki monitori s reklamnim sloganima i plastičnnim ljepoticama s umjetnim osmjehom. Kalkulirana demonstracija topline ne može odagnati dominantan osjećaj alijenacije. Adnan gleda ljude kako se autonomno kreću i govore uhodane fraze, uz kurtoazni osmjeh koji podrazumijeva androidska etika. Raznobojna odjeća predefinira status putnika. Jednostavnim pogledom možeš odrediti ko leti business razredom, a ko će se gurati u ekonomskoj klasi leta. Bogati vrijeme rado troše u aerodromskom restoranu s nemoralnim cijenovnikom, a ostala većina gravitira hladnim klupama za kratak i bolan odmor. Pored njih frekventno prolaze zelene uniforme djelatnika aerodromskog obezbjeđenja. Psi se odlično snalaze u novom biotopu, pažljivo njuše nagomilani prtljag i zijevaju umoreni dosadnom rutinom. Iz usta vire očnjaci veliki kao džamijski crijep. Ljudi ih zaobilaze u velikom luku, za svaki slučaj. S rogatim se nije bosti. Samo se djeci njemački ovčari mogu učiniti zanimljivim.
- Četvorogodišnji je rat bio vrijeme društvene hibernacije! Bosanci i Hercegovci nemaju ideju koliko se duhovno promijenio vanjski svijet, dok smo se bezobzirno klali poput neandertalaca!
Adnan, s nevjericom, posmatra stare aktere u novim, zamjenjenim ulogama. U aerodromskom kafeu sjede tamnoputi Indijci neprekidno tipkajući na svojim prenosnim računalima. Srču kavu iz velikih šalica i bulje u flat screen. Odjenuti su u siva zapadnjačka odijela s čijih ramena bi se pahulje prhuti morale uklanjati grtalicom za snijeg. Kraj fontane, preko puta, sjede i meditiraju britanski i američki državljani s crnim točkama na čelu, uredno ogrnuti u sari živopisnih boja. Kroz opću larmu čuje se:
- Om...Om...Om...Om....
Adnan ne želi svoju fascinaciju pretvoriti u isprazno iščuđavanje nad blještavilom aerodromskog enterijera. Odluči pobjeći u svoj intimni svijet, sakriven iza čvrsto nataknutih slušalica portabl discmana. Hipnotiziranim pogledom posmatra veliki zidni displej s treperećim brojevima i uredno ispisanim avionskim polascima, tražeći potvrdu leta za New York. Ibricin drhtavi glas započne novu pjesmu, a titraje membrane mozak posloži u sjetne riječi najdraže sevdalinke:
... Tebi majko misli lete,
preko polja i planina,
iz daleka primi pozdrav
od jedinog tvoga sina...
Pred sklopljene oči dođoše stare slike. Prisjeti se Sarajeva i majčinog u zemlju prikovanog pogleda ispunjenog nevjericom, dok je slušala Mevludinov prevodilački pokušaj. Prevodilac je hvatao zrak ustima ribe uhvaćene u vlažnom blatu plićaka. Ponovo je pročitao dio pisma o Latifovoj nesretnoj smrti i kršenju radne discipline.
Majčina šutnja je trajala neugodno dugo. Progovorila je samo jednu isprekidanu rečenicu:
- Hoću Latifa... u Sarajevu... prije Bajrama!
Nastao je muk što vapi da se prekine mudrom riječju u pogan čas.
- Mogli su, vala, umjesto onog papira u kuvertu smotati i poslati Latifa!- izusti Mevludin i odmah se pokaja. Jezik mu uvijek "za prsa" brži od pameti. I još, budala, veli:
- Bar je kompaniji uštedio jedan zdrobljen plastični šljem, a oni se njemu ovako zahvaljuju. Lijepo moj brat kaže, svaki se dolar tamo krvavo se zaradi.
Mati preču Mevludinove riječi i pusti sijelo da se polako raziđe. Tek kada je ostala nasamo s Adnanom našla je snage da tiho izusti:
- Na mezaru ćemo se halaliti, a poslije ono pašče da mi u kuću više ne dolazi!
Pašče je Mevludin, za tu metaforu Adnanu ne treba prijevod. Poganim jezikom i crnim humorom oduvijek je palio mostove. Mevludin je svakako bio Latifova raja, a njegovo društvo poseban je svijet. Adnan je disao zrak sasvim drugačije atmosfere.
Sličnost braće Gracić bila je fizičke prirode, u suštini su rasli po dijametralno različitim obrascima. Pravom braćom su ih smatrali samo najbliži članovi porodice. Latif je slušao rock, a Adnan je obožavao bosansku sevdalinku. Stariji brat je jurio djevojke, a mlađi nogometnu loptu. Prvi brat je, mrtav- hladan, napustio Bosnu, dok je drugi mislio da je borba za domovinu pitanje časti i elementarne ljudskosti. Latif nije pisao pisma, a Adnan svoja napisana nije znao na koju američku adresu da pošalje.
To što se Latif oženio Amerikankom trebalo je imponovati primitivnom mentalitetu mahale. Adnanu nije. Smetalo mu što je Beverly ostavila muža- američkog vojnika, dok se još borio u zaljevskom ratu. Od postanka svijeta ženska je sveta obaveza da čeka povratak muža- ratnika, a ovu vragolanku je nimalo patriotski zasvrbilo među nogama, pa je zaskočila prvu bosansku izbjeglicu.
...U tuđini ja sam sada
daljina nas rastavila
da li ću te ikad više
ja vidjeti majko mila...
Muka je Adnanu od gladi, puta i tuđeg svijeta. Dodatnu nervozu unose dresirani psi, koji ga neprestano njuše tražeći skriveni eksploziv. Barbar se crveni na schengenskom graničnom prijelazu. Glumi nekog ko istinski pripada ovom izmišljenom svijetu. Psi odustaju, privučeni karakterističnim mirisom tijela tamnoputih muškaraca. Zelene uniforme maltretiraju kurdske žene i njihove muževe u kariranim blejzerima. Djeca plaču sklonjena u drhtavom majčinom naručju, dok očevi mole visoke plave policajce na Adnanu nerazumljivom jeziku. Previše loših znakova, ali on ne gubi nadu. Nada je kapetan što posljednji napušta nakrivljeni brod. Adnan ima bijelu boju kože, Adnan sluša muziku, u ruci drži pismo pisano alfabetom i nikog ne provocira. Neće mu valjda uzeti za zlo to što izdiše ugljični dioksid, dok provjetrava svoja umorna pluća.
Sabahudin ga je nazvao iz Amerike, prije samog polaska na put, i dao mu jedinstven turistički savjet:
- Kad putuješ avionom nemoj se kurčiti i budi krajnje kooperativan. Od 11-tog rujna, svijet više nije onaj stari. Stoga zaboravi na ponos, klimaj glavom i glumi budalu veću nego što jesi. To je najbolji način da skratiš maltretiranja od strane aerodromskog osoblja i dospiješ tamo kud si naumio!
Nakon tri sata upornog čekanja, sintetički ženski glas pozva putnike da se pripreme za let broj 1427. Adnan pristupi dugoj koloni putnika s avionskim kartama do New Yorka. Trncima nadražene noge počeše ga izdavati. U ruci je držao bosanski pasoš koji putnika inkriminira bez počinjenog grijeha. Prepozna analogiju s ratnim događajima i opsova prokletsvo svog naroda- da poniženi stoje u redovima za vize prepušteni na milost egzekutorima europske birokracije.
Službenik aerodromskog obezbjeđenja u civilnom odijelu poziva sve američke državljane da u letjelicu uđu preko reda. Debeli putnici u bijelim snikersicama polako krenuše put tamnog koridora razerviranog samo za odabrane.
U poseban red stadoše putnici s američkim vizama. Adnana obuze lagana panika. Šta ako otkriju da je musliman? Europa je, u vlastitom strahu, jasno postavila znak jednakosti između islama i terorizma. Šta odgovoriti kad ne zna ni kuda ide, ni ko će ga tamo dočekati? Vratiće ga kući ovako gladnog i izmrcvarenog, a ko će onda bratovo tijelo donjeti iz dalekog svijeta? Kako će stati pred majku, pogledati one njene oči i reći Pare sam potrošio, a Latifa kući nisam vratio?
Carinski je službenik listao putovnice, zagledao pečate prijethodnih putovanja, pa onda nepristojno dugo zadržavao pogled na licima preplašenih putnika. Tamnoputi stanovnici azijskog potkontinenta privukli su njegovu pozornost. Hindusi s turbanima pretrpješe detaljan pregled. Zbog izgubljenog vremena, ostatak reda je prošao skraćenu proceduru pregleda. Adnan je propušten bez zadržavanja. Bjelina njegove kože bila je službeniku potreban i dovoljan argument za nesmetan prolaz. Adnan požuri da pristigne kolonu ljudi koja se ukrcavala u unutrašnjost letjelice Austrian Airlinesa. Strah poče lagano da popušta, ustupajući mjesto zatomljenom osjećaju gladi. Obradova se skorašnjem ručku što ga, uz osmjeh, služe stjuardese u tijesnim crvenim odorama.
U avionu se smjesti do prozora i kao svaki funkcionalni vjernik zamoli Boga da letjelicu poštedi turbulencija i da na usko susjedno sjedište guzove ne spusti neko iz gomile debelih putnika, imunih na sva maltretiranja aerodromskih kontrolnih punktova.
- Neće valjda sjesti kraj mene, oni ne putuju ekonomskom klasom!
Skovao je rezervni plan. Ako ga krene maler, i Svevišnji ga od buke mlaznih motora ne uspije čuti, na glavu će nabiti slušalice i jednostavno prespavati let. Od prevelikog umora mu se oči same sklapaju.
Lagano baci pogled i kroz poluspuštene očne kapke primjeti putnika kako se parkira na susjednom mjestu. Ugodno se iznenadi.
- Allah je jedan, sve vidi i sve čuje!
Upravo je pored njega pozicionirao prelijepu djevojku, utegutu u tijesni top Gapove trenirke. Patent zatvarač se mučio da obuzda nestrpljive ženske grudi u nakani da provale napolje. Adnan se sjeti erotskog filma Emanuella i nezaboravne ljubavne scene tokom noćnog leta avionom. Film je gledao skupa sa starijim bratom. Latif je kupio karte jer Adnan nije imao potrebnih dvanaest godina da bi gledao erotski film u kinu Apolo. Sjeća se bratovog trijumfalnog osmjeha dok pojašnjava scenu s obnaženom glumicom zavaljenom u stolicu od pletenog pruća:
- Gledaj, lafčino, i dobro upamti! Ovakve koke karaju odlikaši!
Lagano podrhtavanje letjelice Adnana vrati u surovu realnost. Djevojka se konačno smilovala sopstvenim grudima i otkopčala trenirku. Ispod nje se ukazaše dvije nestvarne dojke stiješnjene bijelom pamučnom majicom. Silikonska intervencija ne smije biti isključena kao opcija. Na bijelom se pamuku vijori američka državna zastava, a ispod nje natpis: "I ADORE OUR SOLDIERS!" Još jedan vatreni pobornik rata u Zaljevu. Ukrućene bradavice dodale su još dvije zvijezde na Zvijezdama posuti stijeg (Stars sprangled banner).
Adnan uputi kurtoazan osmjeh, pa brzo spusti upustvo u slučaju pada letjelice na svoje krilo u namjeri da prekrije spontanu erekciju. Ponovo je zavrtio discman i krajičkom oka pratio nadimanje djevojčinih grudi. Dizajnirane su u savršenu hiperbolu estetske hirurgije i mogao bi ih gledati sve do sudnjeg dana.
Putnica se u avionu osjećala kao kod kuće. Očito nije letjela prvi put. Pila je bijelo vino iz malih flašica, konstantno tražeći novu isporuku. Srk, srk pa onda:
- Another bottle, please!
Adnan zna za besplatan ručak, ali nije siguran da li se piće plaća tokom leta. Pije vodu i mjerka Amerikankine grudi. Još jedna riđokosa Britney. Sudeći po bratovom iskustvu Amerikanke bi trebale imati slabost prema stasitim Bosancima. Ta mu je spoznaja dala hrabrosti da prihvati igru tjelesnih signala. Gledao je saputnicu u oči, smješkajući se pri svakom novom gutljaju vina. Kad bi putnica okrenula glavu da naruči još vina, Adnan bi spustio pogled niz obnaženi stomak saputnice. Ispod pupka probušenog srebrenom alkicom nazirala se traka malenih svijetlih dlačica, koje su nestajale ispod metalnog gumba pripijenih traperica.
- Al' ga ova pije. Mora da joj se gadno upalio ručak!
Adnan sluša muziku i povremeno škilji, odlučan da igra na kartu vremena. Latif je, za vrijeme pijanih derneka, izmišljao nove zakone termodinaike. Tvrdio je da elastičnost gume ženskih gaćica opada proporcionalno brzini unošenja alkohola u organizam.
- Već poslije druge čaše nađu se ispod koljena, a da vlasnica to i ne osjeti. Poslije toga, jedini limit vaša je mašta!
Da, opet se vraćaju riječi i događaji, ali bratov lik još uvijek ne može dozvati u sjećanje. Latif bi ovakvu prigodu već davno eksploatirao u vlastitu korist.
- Vino bi pili iz jedne čaše i gugutali ljubavne fraze, izbodeni Amorovim strelicama kao general Custer kod Little Big Horna!- pomisli verbalno hendikepirani putnik.
Adnanov engleski jezik, pokupljen iz hollywoodskih filmova, nije dovoljan za ovakvu vrstu komunikacije. Mora se osloniti na svoj, karijesom nagrđeni, osmjeh i vitko tijelo izgladnjelog gladijatora.
Protok vremena je stvarao električne naboje. Pijana ženka odluči da preuzme inicijativu. Pokaza prstom na slušalice Adnanovog discmana i on shvati da bi Amerikanka željela čuti ono što normalan svijet u njegovoj mahali povazdan sluša. Kavalirskom manirom postavi slušalice na riđokosu glavu. Djevojka uputi osmjeh zahvalnosti i prepusti se orijentalnim zvucima.
Ibricu je zatekla u klimaksu refrena pjesme "U Stambolu, na Bosforu":
...ALLAH ILELAH SELAM ALEJKUM,
AAAALLLLAAAAHHHH ILELLLLAH SELAM ALEJKUM!
Djevojku obuze putničko blijedilo. Turbulencija zraka i alkohol nespojiva su kombinacija. Naglo ustade sa sjedišta i žurno odgega u pracu toaleta.
Adnan pomisli na kiselkasti smrad povraćanja i to uništi goreću požudu koju je osjećao od početka leta. Topla piletina servirana uz nezačinjenu rižu polako mu je počela obarati pritisak. Očni kapci dobiše težinu olova. Konačno ga je sustigao nagomilani umor i stresne situacije kojima je bio izložen proteklog dana.
- Ipak ću prespavati ostatak puta, a grudi djevojke- patriote neka miluju žuljevite ruke američkih marinaca!
Spavao je dugo sanjajući Latifovu pjesmu iz zaključanog wc-a, **anje u Iraku, svoju mahalu što ga na put zlurado ispraća i 11. rujan. Iscrpljen putovanjem probudi se kasno, iznenađen odsustvom buke avionskih motora. Neugodno se iznenadi kad primjeti da se nalazi sam u utrobi letjelice.
- Nisu me valjda odveli dalje od posljednje stanice!
U zraku više nije, u to je siguran. Ili u Americi cukama rastu krila. Izvana se čuo uporan lavež pasa, pa ga znatiželja natjera da prstima protrlja oči i uvjeri se da više nije u snu.
Pogleda kroz prozor i osjeti kako se, pred velikim čudom, opuštaju mišići donje vilice. Gledao je dvije crne policijske marice ofenzivno parkirane ispred letjelice. Pristup avionu bio je blokiran mnoštvom policajaca u crnim uniformama i neprobojnim prslucima. U nevjerici je zurio u crno- bijele varijante iste facijalne grimase, poklopljene tamnim vizirima zaštitnih šljemova. U tom se trenu, potaknut paničnim strahom, po prvi put jasno prisjeti Latifovog lika. Prizor je trajao kratko. Bratova slika nestade usljed režanja pasa i krčanja policijskih motorola. Ugleda i pijanu saputnicu, u stiješnjenoj majici američkog patriote, kako prstom pokazuje u pravcu njegovog prozora. Policajci su jedva uspijevali obuzdati bijesne njemačke ovčare u naporu da se otmu čvrsto stegnutoj uzici i potrče ka avionu.
Adnan zbroji dva i dva.
- Razdraženi psi dugo su i gromko lajali u slavu i čast američke demokracije!

[aNTropocentrio]

POLJA, broj 447; septembar/oktobar 2007.

Stvarno odličan časopis!

[Orhanowski]

Boris Dežulović

The King




Kad smo pomislili da je krčmenje umjetničke zaostavštine Elvisa F. Tuđmana završeno s posthumnim luksuznim boxom "Basement Tapes" - kojega je još 2000. godine, dok se The King u grobu još ni okrenuo nije, objavila Mesic-Music, izdavačka kuća njegova nekadašnjeg studijskog muzičara Stipe The Smile Mesića - i da producentski lešinari više jednostavno nemaju što iskopati iz podruma njegova legendarnog studija na Pantovčaku, ovih se dana pojavio novi kompilacijski album Kingovih originalnih snimaka, jednostavno nazvan Worst Of.


Mnogo se prašine podiglo kad se saznalo da album ne izdaje neka mala nezavisna kuća, već jedan od majora, ugledni Haag Records. Kako je njihova čuvena šefica Carla del Ponte, Lady Del, došla do tih snimaka, ostalo je obavijeno velom tajne. Poznavatelji prilika u glazbenoj industriji pretpostavljaju da su snimci do Haaga došli prije nego što je kontrolu nad Elvisovim naslijeđem preuzela obiteljska kompanija Tuđman Family.

U općoj gužvi nad Kraljevim odrom - kad su spretni poduzetnici iz pantovčačkih krugova za male pare dilali mastere sa sirovim snimcima Tuđmanovih sessiona - jedan set vrpci završio je navodno u rukama G.G.-a, marginalne figure tadašnjeg new wavea, kratkotrajne rebelije protiv etabliranog i samodovoljnog glazbenog mainstreama, takozvane "zagrebačke krize". G.G., pravim imenom Goran Granić, ostao je iz tog doba upamćen upravo po posveti Kralju, pjesmi "Tuđman Calling", uspjeloj suradnji s Ivanom Škrabalom na kultnom albumu Zagreb Paket Aranžman (SZUPer Sound, 1996). Sjetit ćete se sigurno tog zaraznog refrena: «Misliš li da će se Tomac dobro držati kod predsjednika?», pita G.G., a Ivo odgovara - «To nije za telefon».

G.G. je nakon Tuđmanove smrti zajedno s Mesićem i Ivicom Maybe-Baby Račanom neko vrijeme kontrolirao fundus iz podruma pantovčačkog studija, da bi - tvrde dobro upućeni - negdje prije četiri-pet godina ustupio Lady Del 87 snimaka, uglavnom ad-hoc suradnji s nekim od najvećih imena tadašnje scene, od Gojka Šuška - legendarnog Džordža Šuša - do Fikreta The Big Daddy Abdića.

Četrnaest novih, do sad neobjavljenih Tuđmanovih snimaka, nastalih između 1992. i 1994., po svemu sudeći dio su tog paketa, što znači da rasprodaja njegove zaostavštine ni izbliza nije gotova. Glavešine iz Haag Recordsa ništa nisu prepustile slučaju: posthumni Kraljev album izlazi uoči osme godišnjice njegove smrti, ali i shopping groznice božićnih praznika. Kad se sve to zna, preostaje jedino pitanje: je li barem sve to vrijedilo?

I odmah da kažemo - vrijedilo je.

Worst Of predstavlja Franju The Kinga onakvog kakvog ga pamtimo: energičnog, sirovog, inovativnog i nespremnog na kompromise. Ako ovako moćno zvuče nasumični pabirci iz njegova podruma, morate se zapitati što bi tek čovjek takve energije radio da je danas živ. Ovaj album nudi odgovor i na to pitanje: osim vještim trgovcem, Haag Records se, naime, pokazao i kao ozbiljan izdavač sasvim dostojan svoje reputacije, pa su ti pabirci ipak pomno izabrani i složeni u zaokruženu cjelinu. Ukratko, Worst Of nije samo marketinška zbrda-zdola-rasprodaja-bola, već promišljeni izdavački, gotovo autorski koncept.

Album otvara "Take Me To The River", Tuđmanov duet s Jadrankom Prlićem, pomalo zaboravljenim kumom hercegovačke hip-hop scene, u kojemu se njih dvojica obračunavaju s omraženim reperskim rivalima s istočne obale. "Mislim da će dijelu Srba s manjim teritorijem biti dopušteno da se pripoji Srbiji", pjeva Jadranko u dojmljivoj "Take Me To The River", spretnom prijevodu originalnog naziva "Siđi do reke": "U tom smislu mi trebamo imati razumnu politiku i kretati se prema najistočnijoj mogućoj rijeci kad se budu definirale granice."

To je, međutim, samo zagrijavanje. Već u sljedećoj, "Napalm pade na behar na voće", prevedenoj kao "Apocalypse Now", Tuđman slušatelju definira te granice: "Gornji Vakuf i Bugojno moraju ostati pod našom kontrolom", pjeva The King i u furioznom finišu - već ga vidimo kako u svom neponovljivom stilu njiše kukovima i ustima - dodaje: "Ono što ste radili napalm bombe neke eksplozije moraju biti korištene da uplašite Jugoslavensku armiju i kasnije neke Muslimane".

Treća pjesma, "To je moja stvar" - prevedena kao "Take A Walk On The Wild Side" - majstorski je session odrađen s Elvisovim stalnim i provjerenim suradnicima, od generala Praljka i Lucića, do generala Tusa i Vrbanca. Tuđman ovdje preispituje unutrašnje motive suvremenog otuđenog čovjeka: "I oni ovdje ne žele ići na tu stranu to ne motivira naše ljude", pjeva general Vrbanac. "Zašto bi on išao u Bosnu? Objašnjenje da se borimo za hrvatsku stvar da to tako kažem više ne može motivirati naše ljude."

Četvrtu stvar Tuđman je u svojim zapisima naslovio kao "Moja polovina", a izdavač objavio kao "This Land Is Our Land". Riječ je o skici pjesme koja je trebala biti himna velikog Live-aid-projekta za Herceg-Bosnu: "Prije nekoliko mjeseci sam dao zadatke ministru Šušku i generalu Bobetku o našoj pomoći i angažmanu u Herceg Bosni", kaže The King i ponavlja refren: "Rekao sam da će tu buduće granice hrvatske države biti postavljene."

"To je Novi Travnik Vitez, Busovača, Mostarska linija problem Gornjeg Vakufa i Bugojna treba biti riješen što je prije moguće", pjeva on svojim prepoznatljivim hrapavo-podvriskujućim vokalom. Ili, u engleskom prijevodu: "This land is my land this land is your land from Novi Travnik to the Mostarska Line", i onda: "This land is my stuff this land is our stuff from Bugojno City to the Gornji Vakuff".

U pjesmi "Pekar, lekar, geometar" ("Blood, sweets and cookies") Kralj propituje duboku unutarnju dramu modernog čovjeka: "Duboko u sebi sam znao da će biti ali nisam znao da će biti tako krvavo da će morati doći do rješenja srpskog pitanja". U refrenu tu dramu duhovito promišlja metaforom o običnom hrvatskom pecivu - cro-issantu - pa kaže: "Ali isto tako da se treba baviti sigurnošću Hrvatske hrvatskog teritorija u svjetlu tog neodrživog oblika pereca ove države u obliku pereca koju imamo ove naše granice se jedva mogu očuvati."

Sljedeća pjesma, "Bez kralja ne valja", objavljena kao "No King, No Thing", odnosno "Monarchy in RH", razorna je kritika hrvatskog društva, u kojoj se Kralj autoironično obračunava s vlastitom karizmom: "Ovdje se određuju granice buduće hrvatske države one će vjerojatno biti veće nego što je ijedan hrvatski vladar ili kralj imao pod svojom kontrolom u povijesti."

Slijedi "I Can't Get No (Annexation)", ili "Krivo srastanje" ("Ne moramo se bojati činjenice da će se Republika Srpska pripojiti Srbiji jer će se Herceg Bosna pripojiti Hrvatskoj") pa tri rasna bluesa - "Jedna mala s Pala na ramenu mi spava", "Promised Land" i "Bosno moja poharana" ("Who Let The Dogs Out") - u kojima pjesnički snažno progovara o kompleksnoj temi preuzimanja tuđe krivice: "Drugim riječima unutar Hrvatske imat ćemo barem pola Bosne i onda će ti lajavci i oni koji ne shvaćaju da sam ja bio taj koji je zagovarao podjelu Bosne moći sami doći do zaključka da Zapad ne samo provodi nego nas čak prisiljava da prihvatimo podjelu Bosne".

Muzički možda najmoćnija na cijelom albumu je urnebesna, trominutna punk-rock žestica "Fuck You All!", u kojoj The King pjeva o neprilagođenom mladiću koji ne pristaje na sveopću kontrolu i diktaturu informatičkog društva: "Izetbegovićev je posljednji izgovor da Srbi i Mladić napadaju Bjelašnicu no ispada da je CIA uspjela organizirati stalni nadzor nad Izetbegovićevim i Mladićevim kontaktima Mladić je dao sočan komentar: jebite se svi!"

Nasuprot njoj, u raskošno aranžiranom i orkestriranom ljubavnom duetu "Tajna veza" ("Secret Love"), Tuđman i Fikret The Big Daddy Abdić šapuću jedno drugom nježne stihove, pa Kralj tako u jednom trenutku pjeva: "Potpiši tajni sporazum ovdje koji bi značio da će u slučaju raspada zapadna Bosna biti uključena u Hrvatsku kao pokrajina."

U drugoj velikoj baladi, "Zelene oči" ("Can't Help Falling In Love"), Tuđman pjeva o klasičnom ljubavnom trokutu: "Reći ću vam nešto što ne smijete dalje širiti. Sa Izetbegovićem imamo dogovor o prijateljstvu koje treba biti kreirano između Muslimanske Republike i Hrvatske ali isto tako imamo sporazum sa Abdićem da kada dođe do raspada Zapadna Bosna bude integralni dio Hrvatske." Ta tema ga gotovo opsesivno zanima, pa i u sljedećoj pjesmi "Kupit ću ti top" ("Brothers In Arms") pjeva - "To je paklena stvar taj bosanski lonac danas Srbi i Muslimani surađuju Srbi prodaju Muslimanima metke, granate i posuđuju im tenkove za novac".

Album zatvara jedan od najsnažnijih Kraljevih songova uopće, monumentalna "U Stambolu na SFOR-u" ("Dead Flowers"), u kojoj Tuđman hrabro ustaje protiv ustaljenih društvenih stereotipa, i ponavlja svoju revolucionarnu tezu o dobrim stranama genocida. Naizgled samo još jedna ljubavno-trokutasta pjesma ("Oni pjevaju možete li to vjerovati 'Od Istanbula do Trsta neće biti krsta’ i stoga obični ljudi tamo obični Hrvati jednostavno se lakše slažu sa Srbima nego s Muslimanima") u nastavku se pretvara u istinski Tuđmanov testament, nešto poput njegove vizionarske "Imagine": "Starčević nam je u svom tom hrvatskom duhu ostavio nešto što smo platili da su muslimani najbolji Hrvati cvijet hrvatskog naroda. Taj je cvijet i Pavelić ostavio također i tako dalje razumijete ali meni je bilo jasno bilo mi je jasno gospodo da je to etničko čišćenje bio užas(...) ali to zlo koje se događa ima nešto dobro u sebi jer stvara uvjete za dugotrajniju normalizaciju."

Na kraju preslušavanja ove iznimne kolekcije i najvećem skeptiku bit će jasno da je Worst Of mnogo više od samo još jedne prigodničarske ploče - što bi se reklo, spomen-ploče. Kralj je mrtav, živio Kralj! Njegove pjesme, naime, i danas zvuče jednako snažno i svježe, kao da je Kralj jutros ustao iz mirogojske grobnice i ušao u studio.

Slušajući Worst Of i gledajući onu krivu ploču na Mirogoju, i vi ćete pomisliti isto što i ja: Elvis just left the cemetery.

[Orhanowski]

Slavoj Zizek

STA JE TO JEVREJIN?


Francuski pisci i filozofi vodili su nedavno zustre polemike o svom buducem predsedniku. No, daleko vazniji intelektualni dogadjaj u Francuskoj predstavlja rasprava o delu filozofa Alena Badjua (Alain Badiou). Da budem precizniji: rec je o koordiniranom napadu na njegov misaoni opus. Napad na Badjua zapoceo je serijom clanaka u listu"Mond". Usledila je lavina tekstova u literarnom casopisu "Les temps modernes" i, najzad, Erik Marti (Eric Martys) objavio je knjigu "Polemika sa filozofom Alenom Badjuom" (izdavac Gallimard, 2007). Crvena nit, koja se provlaci kroz sve te napade je u optuzbi da je Badju antisemit i da zapravo tiho i necujno negira holokaust. Napad na Badjua nije dosao posle pojava njegovog glavnog, vaznog dela "Logika sveta" (Logiques des Mondes, 2006) vec po publikovanju jedne njegove male knjige. Rec je o njegovim sabranim politickim esejima "Circonstances 3" koje je sastavio zajedno sa Sesil Vinter (Cecile Winter). Tu je, izmedju ostalog, i prilog "O imenu Jevrejin". U tom eseju Badju kritikuje sto se holokaust instrumentalizuje u politicke svrhe, te se zalaze da se ponovo ozivi jevrejski identitet i to na univerzalnim, opstim osnovama. Predlaze da se izraelsko-palestinski problem resi osnivanjem jedne jedinstvene drzave.
Teze su prouzrokovale strastvenu diskusiju. Ovo je najbolji znak koliko je ta tema vazna. U polemici ucestvuju pre svega bivsi djaci psihoanaliticara Zaka Lakana. Rasprava sadrzi i odredjenu ironicnu notu. Diskusija se, naime, vodi uglavnom izmedju bivsih maoista. Njima je nekada pripadao i sam Badju. Ljubitelji maoisticke ideje bili su i Zan-Klod Milner (Jean-Claude Milner), Bernar -Anri Levi (Bernard-Henri Levy), Zak-Alen Miler (Jacques-Alain Miller), Fransoa Renjo (Francois Regnault) i Alen Finkelkraut (Alain Finkielkraut). Zbog te ideje mnoga prijateljstva su prekinuta, unistena.
U srzi polemike je pitanje: koji cilj valja da slede politicari? Da vode racuna o opstim stvarima koje treba, dakle, da se odnose na sve ljude? Ili je cilj politicara neki ograniceni, poseban cilj koji, ocevidno, mora biti povezan sa odredjenim identitetom?
"Jevrejski maoisti" kazu: "Biti`Jevrejin predstavlja taj specijalni slucaj, koji zahteva narocitu brigu". Ovu misao zastupaju ostri Badjuovi kriticari kao Fransoa Renjo. "Jevreji" simbolizuju sve one snage koje se suprotstavljaju globalnim strujanjima. Globalni trend zahteva da se uklone sve prepone i ogranicenja. Ime "Jevrejin" oznacava principijelnu vernost svemu sto covek jeste, sto predstavlja njegov identitet. On predstavlja otpor protiv svega sto poziva na totalno uklanjanje svih pregrada. On se protivi razvoju, koji ide ka "utapanju" i nestajanju svih stabilnih identiteta i simbola u globalnom, modernom vremenu.
Fransoa Renjo prebacuje levici, a iznad svega Alenu Badjuu, da oni od Jevreja zahtevaju - i to u daleko vecoj meri nego od ostalih etnickih grupa -da se "odreknu svog imena", te da traze da Jevreji odustanu od pruzanja otpoia globalnom trendu, koji ima za cilj da se u njemu "utope" svi identiteti. U liberalnom, multikulturnom svetu svim je grupama, po Renjou, izgleda, dozvoljeno da zadrze svoje identitete - sem Jevrejima.
Alen Badju i pristalice odlucno su odbacile kritiku Renjoa i istomisljenika. Oni jednostavno tvrde da zele ostati verni opstim principima. Badju i prijatelji objasnjavaju: "Ova misao valja da ostane i da zastupa univerzalni princip.
Ona, dakle, ne treba da dobije nikakav narocit, poseban sadrzaj, bez razlike da li je tu rec o etnickoj, religioznoj ili bilo kojoj drugoj stvari. "Badju je zato prosto okrenuo njihovu tezu i tvrdi: "Ko hoce da slobodi postavi granice, taj time priznaje da je projekat emancipacije propao."
I zaista, protivnici Badjua neprestano nas upozoravaju na "totalitarne" opasnosti svakog radikalnog pokreta koji ima za cilj emancipaciju. Oni od nas zahtevaju da prihvatimo konacnost i ogranicenost naseg polozaja. Jevrejski zakon predstavlja najvazniju meru ove konacnosti. Zbog toga su svi istorijski pokusaji koji su imali za cilj da se ovaj jevrejski zakon premosti i zameni u korist jedne sveopste, univerzalne ljubavi (da li je tu rec o hriscanstvu ili staljinizmu), nuzno zavrsili u totalitarnom teroru. Jer kakrakteristika svake totalitarne pojave jeste da odbija da prizna ljudsku konacnost.
Jednom recju: Jevreji i njihova vernost zakonu predstavljaju poslednju prepreku pobedi univerzalnih principa. Njihov zakon suprotstavlja se trendu koji ima za cilj da se ostvare moderno "utapanje" i sjedinjenje, te da tako dodje do savladavanja svih pregrada u jednu sveobuhvatnu jedinstvenu celinu. Oni kritikuju Badjua jer on, navodno, svojim totalitarnim univerzalizmom zahteva takvo resenje jevrejskog pitanja, koje predstavlja "konacno resenje" - i vodi unistenju Jevreja...

[Orhanowski]

Miroslav Krleza

O BOGU


...Kada se divlji i neuki barbarin, primitivac, zavjetuje bogovima, ta je pojava sasvim naravna, jasna i razumljiva. Kada god kod jednog rimskog porodjaja, u drugom ili trecem stoljecu nase ere, prisustvuje dvadesetak bogova i boginja (veoma skupo placenih vrhunaravnih zastitnika za sretan tok ovog obiteljskog dogadjaja), i to je jos uvijek sasvim naravna pojava. Razumljivo je i to da drevni sveci u bozjem ducanu zaradjuju jos i dan -danasnji nerazmjerno vise nego zivi: tu se jos uvijek barokna plastika ispreplice sa suvremenom psihoanalizom. Ali kakvo sredstvo za spavanje je danas potrebno visokoucenoj gospodi, koja pise filozofske traktate, i u koju svrhu produciraju ovaj svoj spoznajnoteorijski galimatijas, kakav se danas objavljuje u sve vecim kolicinama?
Da nesretna majka nad umirucim djetetom kleci pred sadrenim kipom lurdske bozice, to je bio placljivi motiv evropskog zanr-slikarstva devedesetih godina proslog stoljeca, to je bila slikarska moda na bazi filistarski izoblicenog ukusa, kakav se i danas, po zakonu inercije, propovijeda kao likovni uzor u mnogim zemljama i slikarskim provincijama. Ali kakvo je to filozofsko zanr-slikarstvo koje se njeguje danas, u ime egzaktnonaucne misli, gotovo na svim evropskim katedrama? Pred kim i cime klece ova gospoda mislioci, i zasto?...

[rikardoreis]

nakon ovog uzimam Karamazove po treci put, da pokusam do kraja ovaj put


SMRT

Zemlja je smrtnim sjemenom posijana
Ali smrt nije kraj.
Jer smrti zapravo i nema
I nema kraja.
Smrću je samo obasjana
Staza uspona od gniijezda do zvijezda.

Mak Dizdar

[repeater]

Norman Mailer u razgovoru sa Gunther Grassom. Jedan od njegovih posljednjih javnih nastupa
http://www.nypl.org/research/chss/pep/p ... fm?id=2678
[audio program linkovan na stranici]

[StLouis]

Hvala InfraRedRidinghood za Dostojevskog, procitao sam Karamazove i rado cu opet. najvecim psiholog svih vremena...bunar bez dna, svijet bez ogranicenja - bas kao sto je i covjekova dusa - neuhvatljiva.

[rikardoreis]

Kazimjež Brandis - Varšavske bilježnice

...Dok smo boravili u Berlinu, vrlo često sam pomišljao na Gombroviča...U Berlinu je bolovao. Doputovao je iz Pariza; u početku je pokušavao da oko sebe okupi gruupicu onih koji su bili na stipendijskom boravku kao i on, svakodnevno je dolazio u kafanu i čekao satima za stolom. Prije rata u Varšavi je imao svoj sto u kafani „Zodijak“, kasnije je imao kafanski sto u Buenos Airesu. Sada je odlučio da ga preseli u Berlin. Ali nije uspio. A pomišljao je o njemu još u Parizu, i prilikom jednog susreta s Bitorom, koji je takođe bio pozvan u Berlin, rekao mu je: - Pa, do viđenja u Berlinu, tamo ćemo moći da razgovaramo o suštinskim pitanjima! – Tome se Bitor veoma začudio i nasmijao. Ugledni pariski pisac nije priznavao ozbiljan razgovor, takve vrste raspravljanja o suštinskim pitanjima on nije priznavao. Kao svi pariski književnici koji sebe cijene, on se iskazivao pišući. U tim sredinama razgovori služe ili za razmjenu obavještenja ili za površnu razonodu; nije prihvaćeno da se misao forsira, da se razgovara ozbiljno. Gombrovilev prijedlog mora da se Bitoru učinio provincijalnim i veoma slovenskim. Slovenske rasprave! Pa to je Tolstoju rekao fotograf iz Tule, kada je pozvan da načini snimke u Jasnoj Poljani i kad su ga poslužili bijelom kafom: „Lave Nikolajeviču, postoji li Bog?“ na šta je Tolstoj upitao njega da li je nekad razgledao mikrobe kroz mikroskop.
„Kada bi takvog mikroba upitali da li postoji fotograf iz Tule šta mislite da bi odgovorio?“ Gombroviču je kafanski sto bio neophodan da bi raspravljao o suštinskim pitanjima. Sjedio je u berlinskoj kafani (možda kod Meringa) čekajući da neko naiđe...i niko nije dolazio. Najzad je kapitulirao sjećam se fragmenta njegova „Dnevnika“, opisa dosadnih berlinskih časova koje je, da bi se utješio, preračunavao u dolare koje je primio.
...u Poljskoj je rasla njegova legenda. Bio je odsutan, a odsutnost se u Varšavi cijeni. Ali u ovome slučaju bila je to posebno podsticajna odsutnost. Stvoriti od poljaštva pojam namijenjen Zapadu, prekovati provincijski kompleks u filozofsko oružje, to niko prije njega nije uspio – niko od poljske cijevi za baršč nije načinio interkontinentalnu raketu. Neko od nekadašnjih posjetilaca „Zodijaka“ nedavno se prisjetio oglasa koji je jedan od Vitoldovih prijatelja dao u novine: „Pretvaram mane u vrline“. I potpisao je oglas Gombrovičevim imenom.

[aNTropocentrio]

A "quick and dirty" look at rhetoric and persuasion.
by Kuririn
12 December 1998

Introduction : Regarding the destructive use of rhetoric: The only remedy is for as many people as possible to learn something about how words work so that they will be armored against unscrupulous attacks on their minds and on their pocketbooks. The best defense against being over-powered by the rabble-rouser or bilked by the unethical advertiser is to become thoroughly aware of the power of words and to learn to distinguish legitimate appeals from illegitimate ones.


Persuasion and Power : Persuasion represents power. Perhaps the highest compliment ever paid the power of oratory, the prime form of persuasion in the world of ancient Greece and Rome, is embodied in the story of the death of Cicero. After Mark Antony had caused Cicero to be assassinated, and his head and hands were exposed in the Forum, Fulvia, Antony's wife, stuck a gold pin through the tongue of the dead man to take vengeance on its power.

Anyway if the desire for power was once the spur that drove the young (American, Frenchman, Greek &c) to a study of classics, it still remains the fundamental motive for the exercise of persuasion. Today such occasions are multiplied a thousand fold, but numerous as they are, they are lost in the more massive manifestations of persuasion that pour from printing presses crowd the television screens, fill the airwaves, and blot out the landscape as our automobiles whirl down the highways. Demosthenes and Cicero have been replaced as the masters of persuasion by courses in salesmanship and psychology, charm schools, and other implementations of Dale Carnegie's famous formula "How to Win Friends and Influence People."

The engineering of consent is central to a democratic, industrial society. We live in the age of the advertising man, propaganda expert, and motivation analyst. What was once a limited exercise is now incessant and universal, and the stakes played for go higher every day.

Arguments and Persuasion (contrasting the two) : Argument and persuasion are often lumped together, and their interrelation is indeed intimate. One cannot understand this interrelation unless the two "terms" are sharply distinguished. It is true that people sometimes say, "I am not persuaded of the truth of that argument." But in that case, they're using the word persuade (or the word argument) in a more general sense then is intended (here in this context).

The end of argument, strictly conceived is truth--truth as determined by the operation of reason. The end of persuasion, on the other hand, is assent--assent to the will of the persuader. This distinction between the end of the argument and that of persuasion is crucial, but to profit fully from it we must realize another distinction. The end of argument is achieved only one way, by the operation of reason; but the end of persuasion may be achieved in a number of ways, sometimes used singly, but more often in combination. For instance, Aristotle, in his Rhetoric, remarks on three modes of persuasion, the first dependent on the character and credibility of the persuader, the second on the persuader's ability to stir emotions of those whom he aims to persuade, and the third on the proof of "a truth or an apparent truth."

Arguments and Persuasion (deeper analysis; identification) : We may say (returning again to the differences between arguments and persuasion) that the characteristic end of each (arguments and persuasion) implies a different germ situation. (That from which anything springs; origin; first principle; as, the germ of civil liberty.) The germ situation out of which argument grows is doubt, and argument us. involves some form of conflict. When conflict is involved in argument, the conflict cannot be resolved unless those contending share some common ground; and the minimal requirement for such a common ground is an agreement to accept the dictates of reason. In persuasion, on the contrary, the persuader earnestly seeks to eliminate conflict from the germ situation, and if doubt exists he maintains that it must be shared and resolved in a joint effort marked by mutual good will. Ther persuader's characteristic assertion is that any difference between his point of view and that of the persuadee is the result of only a slight misunderstanding that can readily be cleared up by a little friendly discussion, for they are two persons of essentially identical interests . In other words, what the persuader seeks is the broadest possible common ground with the persuadee, something that goes far beyond the ground necessary for argument. Kenneth Burke author of A Grammar of Motives puts it this way "You persuade a man only in so far as you can talk his language by speech, gesture, tonality, order, image, attitude, idea, identifying your ways with his." Identification, not conflict, is what the persuader seeks, this is the key to his method (and understanding).

Arguments and Persuasion (deeper analysis; experiment) The next time you got to a public meeting on a controversial issue try to heckle the speaker. If he is expert in his business, he will have diagnosed his audience and will know what attitude the majority will take to your attack. If he thinks you have support, or feels that he has not yet found a sympathetic relation with the audience, he will almost certainly say (something like): "Now that is a very good question; let's try to think it through together." Or: "I'm glad you brought that up. Perhaps we can pool our efforts and ..." OR: "That's an interesting way to go at the problem. I've been trying to state it, but you've done it so much better than I ever could." Even when the speaker feels that he already has sympathetic relations with the audience, he may so value his roe as a conciliator that he will pay you, the heckler, this deference. If on the other hand, he is secure in his audience and chooses to answer your aggression with aggression of his own, trying wittily to make a a fool of you for the delight of the public, he is still seeking identification with his audience by provoking and entering into their sadistic pleasure in your humiliation.

Identification (deeper analysis and support of fravia+ from Aristotle)
The persuader cannot achieve identification or exploit the persuadee's relation to a group unless he knows the audience. From the time of Aristotle's Rhetoric on, writers on persuasion have tried to classify audiences with the hope of establishing basic appeals. Aristotle made a basic (and particularly shrewd) classification by age (similar to fravia'+ claim). The young, he said, are optimistic, energetic, brave, loyal, idealistic, quick to love or anger, but they lack calculation, are prey to fads, have no steady goals, and overestimate their own knowledge. The old are skeptical, suspicious, avaricious, dispassionate, comfort-loving, and doubtful of aspiration. But men in the prime may combine the best qualities of youth and age. The important idea here is that writers (throughout time) have suggested many such classifications ... which are essential to the operations of publishing, advertising, public relations, and politics. An advertising man makes classifications in relation to his product, and it is not likely that he will advertise milk coates in a magazine concerned with poetry. Politicians temper their speeches to their audiences: what might get applause in Boston might be suicide in the mid-west (you get the idea). Any "good" persuader will instinctively classify his audience. (Note this well!)

An Addition, by Kuririn, 9 January 1999

/* some more "things" (it leaves out children) which by advertisers standards are the best thing (due to their tax-free income and their developing need to spend and their inability to conceptualize money in general), nor does it mention single-parent families (divorce/death). I also wanted to add in a couple of sections from Tocqueville (particulary) "The taste for self-comfort in america" and better still "why the americans are are often so restless in the midst of their prosperity" . but i doubt it's very good to quote long from great authors (defies moderation). */

--begins--------

Bachelor stage: young, single people not living at home. *Few financial burdens. Fashion opinion leaders. Recretion-oriented. Buy basic kitchen equipment, basic furniture, cars, vactions, stereos, computers.

Newly married couples: young, no children. *Better off finacially than they will be in near future. Highest purchase rate and highest average purchase of durables. Buys cars, refrigerators, stoves, sensible and durable furniture, vacations.

Full nest I: youngest under six. *Home purchasing at peak. Liquid assest low. Dissatisfied with financial position and amount of money saved. Interested in new products. Buy washers, dryers, TV baby food, chest rubs and cough medicines, vitamins, dolls, wagons, sleds, skates.

Full nest II: youngest child six or over. *Financial position better. Some wives work. Less influenced by advertising. buy larger-sized packages, multiple-unit deals. Buy many foods, cleaning materials (machines), bicycles, music lessons pianos.

Full nest III: older couples with dependent children. *Financial position still better. More wives work. Some children get jobs. Hard to influence with advertising. High average purchase of durables. Buy new, more tastefull furniture, auto travel, nonecessary appliances, boates, dental services, magazines.

Empty nest I: Older couples, no children living with them, head in labour force. *Home ownership at peak. Most satisfied with financial position and money saved. Interested in travel, recreation, self-education. Make gifts and contributions. Not interested in new products. Buy vactions, luxururies, home improvements.

Empty nest II: Older married couples, no children living at home, head retired. *Drastic cut in income. Keep home. Buy medical appliances, medical-care products that aid health, sleep and digestion.

Solitary survivor, in labour force. *Income still good, but likely to sell home.

Solitary survivor, retired. *Same medical and product needs as other retired group drastic cut in income.

(source William D. Wells & George Gubar, "Life Cycle Concept in Marketing Research," Journal of Marketing Research, Nov. 1996, pp. 355-63)

--ends-----------------------------

Aristotle's three modes of persuasion (deeper yet): As stated before Aristotle's three modes of persuasion are (quoted again for your convenience)
dependent on the character and credibility of the persuader.
the persuader's ability to stir emotions of those whom he aims to persuade.
on the proof of "a truth or an apparent truth.
So having pointed out that Aristotle bases the first mode of persuasion on the character and credibility of the persuader let's take a look at what this might mean. The persuader may have, of course, a prestige that precedes his utterance and predisposes the audience to accept him; but there is also the immediate effect, the quality of the person on the platform, on the television screen, or behind the printed page. If the personality of the persuader is not acceptable, identification will be granted grudgingly (if at all). The courses in salesmanship echo Aristotle with brutal simplicity: the first thing you have to sell is yourself. Over the centuries, vats of ink have been spilt analyzing this process, but common sense remains the best guide. There are certain qualities that tend to detract from the appeal that the speaker might have for most listeners or readers. The man will little self-confidence can expect to win little confidence (from others). The man eaten up with self-adulation can expect little admiration. The man who does not respect others can expect little respect. The man who does not know his own mind can scarcely control the minds of others. The man who cannot give sympathy rarely gets it (and so on).

The second mode of persuasion of Aristotle (and a look at slanting and suggestion). Cicero, the master advocate, declared that all emotions "must be intimately known [by the orator], for all the force and art of speaking as a persuader must be employed in allaying or exciting the feelings of those who listen," This clearly, is where the arts of the propagandist, politician, advertising man --and even the poet-- intersect. This is the point, too, that most radically distinguishes persuasion from argument...
The answer lies in the psychical fact, long ago unearthed, that an emotion, however aroused, seeks a justification and a target. The man who has an angry nature goes through life seeking excuses for his anger and targets to vent it. The man with a loving heart, likewise, goes about seeking justification and targets. Furthermore, emotional agitation makes a person vulnerable to suggestion. "Emotional occasions," said William James, "especially violent ones, are extremely potent in precipitating mental rearrangements." Thus the persuader, having worked up the emotion, of whatever nature, goes on to provide the content suitable to his intentions; and this content defines the target for the action he desires. Emotion always craves its appropriate fulfillment. But the persuader may also work, and sometimes more effectively, with long-term emotional attitudes that may represent desires and needs of which the persuadee may be scarcely conscious--or which he may even deny. The advertisement for instance (an old advertisement) for the "expensive" Cadillac (automobile) shoes the vehicle against the background of a baronial establishment, and the gloating owners are, of course, a young, elegant, and beautiful couple, almost as much in love with each other as they are with the car Thus all the hidden, unrealistic yearnings of some balding, no-longer-young but still minor executive--the yearnings for lost youth, good looks, fashion, social standing, ample means, sexual conquest, and true love, and the need to express aggressive impulses on the highway with 350 horsepower--all flow together to guide the hand that signs the contract for the convenient time-payment plan. What is most important (aside from cultivating your awareness of the psychological appeals of literature and the potent effects of the technique of persuasion is to constantly scrutinize your own responses. (Note this well!).

Slanting and Suggestion: By slanting is meant the method by which, without violating facts in any narrow sense, the persuader suggests such interpretations as are desired by the persuader. Slanting can be seen in its crudest form in single words or phrases used for connotative values. For example. Mr.(?) is, literally considered, a politician and a senator. The editorial of a newspaper supporting him refers to him as a "statesman" or a "dedicated public servant." But an editorial in an opposition newspaper prefers to call him a "party hack" or a "politico." The literal referent--Mr.(?)-- is the same in both cases, but the aura of connotation is, clearly not. And this leads us from the general question of connotation in persuasion to that of metaphor; for metaphor, too, involves the "smuggling in of emotion" and the control of responses. Let us take an example, the insult visited upon Edward Livingston, an extremely able politician of the early 19th century, by John Randolph of Roanoke, another politician and a famous wit. Livingston, said Randolph "is a man of splendid qualities, but utterly corrupt. Like rotten mackerel, in the moonlight he shines and stinks." The insult covers Livingston's very reputation for brilliance into a liability. The brilliance becomes, in the metaphor, an index to the corruption: the same rotting fish that shines also stinks --the putrescence that exudes adds to the glitter. And consider the use of the word moonlight, which implies that the rotting fish would not seem so brilliant by the light of day; then it would be recognized simply for what it is.

The third mode of persuasion and a little bit more then I'm done! The third being that of achieving assent by proving "a truth or an apparent truth." First to the psychological phenomenon known as rationalization which provides a sort of bridge between emotion in persuasion and logic in persuasion. Rationalization is the use of reason not to seek truth but to justify desires, attitudes, belief, decisions, or actions already determined on emotional grounds. In rationalization the forms of reason are used to work either or both of two kinds of deception: to deceive the self or to deceive others . "Man cannot bear very much reality," (T.S Eliot --"Burnt Norton") and rationalization is man's built-in medicine against reality. We live by self-flattering illusions and self-exculpating alibis. When we catch the ball, we say: "Look, I caught the ball!" When we miss the ball, we say "My hand slipped." Furthermore, we commonly live by decisions that we consider to be reasonably made and reasonably acted on, but that actually are determined by motives that are unconscious, or that we choose to avoid considering. So rationalization is characteristically follows actions, decision, attitude or belief. Its function is to make the past comfortable to live with. Its role is not to initiate but to justify ...To sum this thing up, what distinguishes rationalization from valid reasoning is the motive from which it springs. Even a maniac may be faultlessly logical in argument, but we have to his inspect his premises and his obsessions. (Right?). Now Aristotle held that persuasion has not only to do with "truth," but with "apparent truth," and indeed the most obvious connection of persuasion with logic is its connection with the distortions of logic that we call fallacies. In studying persuasion, as in studying argument, one of the most fruitful fields to explore is that of fallacies. With one difference however: in studying fallacies for argument, you study what you want to avoid in your own argument and to detect in that of others; in studying them for persuasion you, study what, unless you have moral scruples, you may sometimes profitably use. Certainly if you want to study fallacies in persuasion there are a heap load examples in advertising, political speeches, sermons, and commencement addresses. (See at top of page link to my links there is an address to a good page on common fallacies).


Finale

Within this century, there has been, as a result of technological development, and as a result of the concentration of financial control, a constant diminution of local and individual channels of expression and debate. Furthermore, public relations experts have tended to narrow the ground of thought and debate--that is, to fix key points that have immediate impact and propaganda value rather than long-range significance. Moreover, the experts tend to reduce differences between persons and platforms, on the theory that in the clarification of issues more persuasive power is lost then gained. For example, various observers have noted that the opinions of candidates for office tend to get more alike as election day approaches. Also what is called the "image" of a man is more important then the man himself or what he stands for, in politics or in other activities. Raymond K. Price, one of the architects of President Nixon's election in 1968, is reported to have declared in the early stages of the campaign that rational arguments would "only be effective if we get people to make the emotional leap..." So the fundamental danger in the massive process of persuasion is the danger that all criteria of thought and judgement will be eroded or perverted, is most clearly revealed in what is called saturation techniques which depend on slogans rather than ideas, repetition rather than discussion, on hypnosis rather than awareness. This danger to thought and judgement is, of course, aggravated by the contempt for , or at least condescension toward, the public that characterizes at least a segment of the professional persuaders, and attitude fairly well indicated by the following remarks of the Whitaker of the famous public relations firm of Whitaker and Baxter:
The average American, when you catch him after hours, as we must, doesn't want to be educated; he doesn't want to improve his mind; he doesn't want to work, consciously, at being a good citizen. But there are two ways you can interest him in a campaign, and only two that we have ever found successful. Most every American loves a contest...So you can interest him if you put on fight... Then, too, most every American likes to be entertained. He likes the movies, he likes mysteries; he likes fireworks and parades...So if you can't fight , PUT ON A SHOW!... (Patrick Marsh: Persuasive Speaking)

On a last note...Aldous Huxley pointed out, in the early optimism engendered by general literacy and a free press, people were naive enough to believe that there were only two kinds of propaganda, the true and the false. They "did not foresee what in fact has happened, above all in our Western capitalist democracies--the development of a vast mass communication industry, concerned in the main neither with the truth nor the false, but with the unreal, the more or less totally irrelevant." And it might also be added that, in the end, the contempt for, or condescension toward, the public affects the public's own view of itself; it becomes cynical toward its own opinions, more or less dimly realizing that those opinions may be a product of manipulation and are lacking in both intellectual and moral content. SO the final contempt, and condescension, is to assume that it does not matter by what process assent is achieved if the assent is to a "good" thing--a good product,show,firm,candidate, or idea. (AND now-a-days commercials don't even take this approach...n.b., the television commercial of the kid who receives his first paycheck (at a fast food restaurant) and while his boss is praising his success of a well worked week, and his future potential (he realizes that the check is just enough to cover a nintendo (or some game) and quits.) Now the process doesn't matter nor does the assent, heh.

[aNTropocentrio]

Public opinion enslavement and soul
by Kuririn, April 2000

The great democratic danger is enslavement to public opinion. The tyranny of the majority as this danger is frequently refered to is in essence oppositional to the claim of democracy (or the founding principle of democracy). The claim of a democracy is that every mand decides for himself (independent of any imposed authority), i.e., Each man decides for himself what is good or bad. Differently stated democratic man applies reason to make judgements which do not accept any authority outside of natural reason. The great danger for democracy then appears based on a limitation of the natural ruling class in a democracy.

In a democracy the prejudices normally associated with relgion, class and family are leveled not only in principle but also in fact. This follows naturally from the former statement concerning democratic man's dependence on his own faculties to discern what is good and bad, i.e., the dependence of democratic man on his own reason. In other words each man in a democracy is his own authority or in effect a self-governing body. Men who actively seek for an authority outside of their own reason will not find it within established tradition or that tradition as a tie to the ancient is no longer accessible for men who seek such an authority.
In other words, this does not mean that there is no access to ancient thought (e.g., the University) but that the promulgation of antique wisdom or authority in a democracy is not rooted in such a way that supports the illusion of pernamence hence the issue that antique wisdom or simply rootedness in tradition's inability to be established as a coercive structure (or an influenceing structure). But since very few democratic men school themselves in the use of reason beyond mere self-interest (self-interest which is supported by the regieme) they actually require an authority. Such a thought becomes particulary interesting when one considers Book II of the Republic, in particular the discussion between Socrates and Glaucon concerning the development of a city in speech (the city of sows).
The city of sows is according to Socrates -the true city- in which men have no other concern than there own bodily needs. The issue underlying this city in speech points to the distinction between what is natural and what conventional in our behavior and desires -- also what is the limit of convention based in nature. Rousseau takes nature to be the body and plausibly suggests that the body has relatively few needs and that it could not make man social or in need of other human beings in any significant or binding way. See Republic 369e-370a, and 372d-e for the possibility that Socrates agrees at least this far: the body has few needs and if it were all, we would be self-sufficient. Were we to apply art to the needs of the body we begin to speak in terms of human flourishing or fulfilment -- each can provide for himself, but one man can bring one art to greater perfection, so specialization and cooperation allow art to advance. But bringing an art to perfection is not enough to satisfy a human being; the city of sows is comically half-souled: its citizens lack any thymos, they kill their own babies and never seek luxuries because they realize that this would lead to war in the long run. The luxurious or feverish city is taken up by Socrates without much protest except to say that the former was the "true city" which means that cities can provide the body with what it needs and, if we did not have souls, the body would not need much. It is only because we have souls that are unsatisfied that we confuse the needs of the soul with the body and have to provide our body with so many things. This includes lovers and wives.
So the Republic also shows that human beings mistake the needs of the soul for those of the body.
Therefore, while the body only needs grain and vegetables to thrive, we try to feed the hunger in our soul with relish upon relish. Since relishes cost money, captialism thrives on this dissatisfaction of soul, as it encourages consumption of material goods and thereby enslavement to the market where you can buy these things and sell yourself to earn the money to buy more. Captialism is therefore a vicious circle, depriving the soul and feeding it ersatz nourishment. Only the rarest of individuals will recognize his true needs for what they are while still young and flexible in soul. Old regimes offered some world interpretation that resembled philosophy in hierarchical form if not content; they therefore provided some guidance or "pointed" towards philosophy. Today only the University can do so by preserving these old ways of thinking, and philosophy alongside them, and supporting withal the "illusion of permanence" which otherwise would have to be offered by the regime or not at all. The issue is then not explicitly limited to capitalism but democracy itself. In other words I want to emphasize the extent to which democracy and not merely capitalism is our cave, and hence the true nature of that which has to be overcome.

Now, in a democracy where men do not have recourse to a tradition should they require authority they will not find one rooted in tradition. On the one hand this opens up the problem stated at the beginning of the paragraph (no doubt what supports the moral authority of the majority given that a single man who doubts his own good or ends being unable to turn to a natural authority in himself turns to the only available power, i.e., the soveeriengty of the will of the people). On the other hand this appears to presuppose that men are not in the absolute sense connecting the idea of what is good with self-interest as an end which is good. Since even the self-interest about which they calculate--the ends--may become doubtful. Differently stated self-interest as an end which is supported by the regieme is not enough for some men (becomes a matter for doubt) and as such indicates that something else is needed which must exist (perhaps) independently from the regieme but necessarily supported by it. I suspect that this is the place for the University. The underlying implication is that very few men have the capacity to rely on their own faculties naturally in the fullest sense or that very few men are completely self-sufficent. In other words "The active presence of a tradition in a man's soul gives him a resource agains the ephemeral {or the prevailing passions which are subject to change easily from moment to moment} the kind of resource that only the wise can find simply within themselves."

All in democracy are equal and therefore apparently the opposite of slaves. However, as is always the case, the political model stamps its character into the souls of the citizens. Only this one does so invisibly, by destroying alternative ways of thought in the name of liberating its citizens. Although all are free to make their own decisions pertaining to their own life, collective action is absolutely necessary to secure these rights, maintain law and order, deal with foreign nations, etc. The modern democratic solution is, faute de mieux, the will of the majority (represened by the legislature, executive, and justice system with juries). By analogy this carries over into psychology. Each citizen claims to be independent and follow his own opinion when it comes to private life; we all are taught to take pride in being ourselves. However, we are also taught to be team players. Not only politics but daily life requires cooperation and therefore consensus of opinion. Someone has to accomidate someone else, and when all are considered equal, it would be the height of vainglory for a minority to ask the majority for a significant concession. They might beg but they could have no moral claim, "no sense of superior right." Unlike open tyrants, the majority rulers do not require you not to contradict their opinions. However, they break the "inner will to resist" by denying that anyone is or can be better than anyone else, and therefore that proud disdain of the masses can be more than pathology. More than its physical might, the majority dominates with its control of juries (and editorial columns, etc.) and therefore of the semblance of justice. This is the confusion of nature and convention. N.B., the necessity for men to have an unscientific admixture of "nature and convention" --e.g., responding to natural needs (desires etc.) by embracing conventional solutions (marriage for love, etc.) In any event, since no firm voices declare principles contrary to democracy, one of many possible and humanly constructed regimes appears to wield the only natural or possible claim to justice. No alternative remains visible within democracies, and democracy is therefore the only regime that does not somehow point beyond itself, or leave any sign to direct the wayward soul dissatisfied with its neighborhood but not knowing where to go.

Americans talk a lot about individual right, and in fact they admire and applaud nonconformity -- so long as it conforms to the content of dominant opinions. This is done by anticipating where public opinion is going next, or radicalizing what is already held to be true, flattering the masses that they are capable of free thought when in fact they merely roll about in the mud like pigs. One example suffices, i.e., that of Marxists, who decry captialist democracy and bourgeois vulgarity in the name of a proletarian revolution -- a radicalized version of the working man's desire for more respect and less work and the white collar man's guilt about those less successful than he. This only underlines the nature of a democractic prejudice -- the equal right of all to pleasure or "indolency of body" as Locke put it..

No one likes to believe that what he can see is limited by circumstances, no matter how easily he recognizes this effect in others.
Kuririn, April 2000

[repeater]

Bruno Schulz (12.07. 1892 – 19.11.1942)

...
Te nedelje su proticale u znaku čudne sanjivosti.

Kreveti po ceo dan nezastrti, pretrpani posteljinom izgužvanom i uvaljanom od teških snova, stajali su kao duboke lađe spremne da otplove u mokre i složene lavirinte neke crne Venecije bez zvezda. U gluvo jutro Adela nam je donosila kafu. Lenjo smo se odevali u hladnim sobama, pri svetlu sveće koja se mnogokratno ogledala u crnim oknima prozora. Ta jutra su bila puna smušenog kretanja, dugog traženja po raznim fiokama i ormanima. Po celom stanu se čulo šljapkanje Adelinih papučica. Kalfe su palile fenjere, uzimale iz majčinih ruku ključeve od radnje i izlazile u gust, uzvitlani mrak. Majka nije mogla da izađe nakraj s toaletom. Sveće su dogorevale u svećnjaku. Adela bi se zamajala negde u dalekim sobama ili na tavanu, gde je prostirala rublje. Nemoguće je bilo dozvati je. Još mlada, mutna i prljava vatra u peći lizala je hladne, sjajne izrasline čađi u grlu dimnjaka. Sveća se gasila, soba je tonula u mrak. S glavama na stolnjaku, između ostataka doručka padali smo poluodeveni u san. Ležeći licima na krznenom trbuhu mraka, otplivali bismo na njegovom talasavom dahu u bezzvezdano ništavilo. Budilo nas je šumno Adelino spremanje. Majka nije mogla da izađe nakraj sa toaletom. Pre no što bi završila sa češljanjem, pomoćnici su se vraćali na ručak. Mrak na trgu je dobijao boju zlaćanog dima. U jednom trenutku iz tog dimnog meda, iz tih mutnih ćilibara, mogle su se razviti boje najlepšeg popodneva. Ali srećni trenutak je prolazio, amalgam osvita je precvetavao, narasli ferment dana, skoro već završen, ponovo je padao u nemoćno sivilo. Sedali smo za sto, pomoćnici su trljali ruke crvene od hladnoće i, iznenada, proza njihovih razgovora donosila je odjednom puni dan, sivi i prazni utorak, dan bez tradicije i bez lika. Ali kada se na stolu javljala činija sa ribom u staklastim pihtijama, dve velike ribe koje su ležale jedna pored druge, glavama prema repovima kao figura zodijaka, raspoznavali smo u njima grb toga dana, kalendarski amblem bezimenog utorka, i žurno smo ga delili između sebe, puni olakšanja, što je dan u njemu našao svoj lik.

Pomoćnici su ga jeli pobožno, s dostojanstvom kalendarske ceremonije. Miris bibera se širio po sobi. A kad bismo hlebom pokupili ostatak pihtija sa svojih tanjira, u mislima pretresajući heraldiku sledećih dana u nedelji, a u činiji bi ostale samo glave sa iskuvanim očima – svi bismo osećali da je dan savladan zajedničkim snagama i da se sa ostatkom više nije računalo.

Ustvari sa tim ostatkom koji joj je bio predat na milost i nemilost, Adela se nije mnogo cifrala. Uz lupu lonaca i pljuskove hladne vode energično je likvidirala tih nekoliko sati do sumraka, koje bi majka prespavala na otomanu. Za to vreme je u trpezariji već pripreman dekor večeri. Polda i Paulina, švalje, širile bi se u njoj sa rekvizitima svoga faha. Uneta na njihovim ramenima, ulazila bi u sobu ćutljiva, nepokretna gospođa od dlaka i krpa s drvenom kuglom mesto glave. Ali postavljena u ugao, između vrata i peći, ta tiha dama postajala je gospodar situacije. Iz svoga ugla, stojeći mirno, ćutke je nadzirala rad devojaka. Puna kriticizma i nemilosti primala je njihovo obigravanje i umiljavanja, s kojim su se spuštali pred njom na kolena, mereći delove haljine, obeležene belim fircom. Pažljivo i strpljivo su služile ćutljivi idol, koga ništa nije moglo zadovoljiti. Taj moloh je bio neumoljiv, kako samo mogu biti ženski molosi, i stalno ih je ponova slao na posao, a one, vretenaste i vitke, nalik na drvene kaleme sa kojih se odvija konac, i tako pokretljive kao oni, baratale su veštim rukama iznad te gomile svile i sukna, šuškale mašinom, pritiskujući pedal lakiranom, jevtinom kožicom, a oko njih je rasla gomila otpadaka, raznobojnih ostataka i krpica, kao ispljuvane ljuske i pleva oko dva prefinjena i rasipna papagaja. Krive čeljusti makaza otvarale su se sa škripom, kao kljunovi tih šarenih ptica.

Devojke su nemarno gazile po šarenim parčićima, gacajući besvesno kao po smetlištu nekog mogućeg karnevala, u staretinarnici neke neostvarene maskarade. Otresale su krpice sa sebe smejući se nervozno, očima su golicale ogledala. Njihove duše, brzo čarobnjaštvo njihovih ruku nije bilo u dosadnim haljinama, koje su ostajale na stolu, nego u tim stotinama odsečenih komadića, u tom lakomislenom i plašljivom iverju, kojim su mogli zasuti ceo grad, kao šarenom fantastičnom mećavom. Iznenada bi im postalo vrućina pa su otvarale prozor, da bi u nestrpljivosti svoje samoće, u gladi stranih lica, videle makar i bezimeno lice pritisnuto uz prozor. Hladile su zažarene obraze pred zimskom noći koja je nadolazila iza zavesa – otkrivale su vrela dekoltea, pune uzajamne mržnje i rivalstva, spremne da se bore za pjeroa kog bi im tamni dah noći bacio na prozor. Ah! kako su malo one tražile od stvarnosti. Sve su imale u sebi, imale su i previše svega u sebi. Ah! bio bi im dovoljan pjero ispunjen piljevinom, jedno dve reči, na koje su odavna čekale, da bi mogle da uđu u svoju davno pripremljenu ulogu, onu koja se odavno gurala na usta, punu slatke i strašne gorčine, koja ih je divlje uzbuđivala, kao stranice romana gutane po noći zajedno sa suzama ronjenim niz crvene pečate na licu.
...

odlomak iz price Manekeni objavljenoj u Prodavnice cimetove boje.
prevod s poljskog dr Stojan Subotin.

[Ergot]

ANN AM BOSNIA
Iain Crichton Smith

'S e snaidhpear a bh' ann, ann am Bosnia. Cha leig sinn a leas ainm a chur air. Oir bha e ga fhalach fhèin co-dhiù. Bhiodh e na shuidhe ann an craoibh agus bhiodh e a' cuimseachadh a ghunna air drochaid a bha fodha, ach pìos math air falbh. Na faiceadh e saighdear bhon armailt eile bhiodh e feuchainn ri mharbhadh. Chaidh a theaghlach fhèin a mharbhadh, a mhac a bha dà bhliadhna dheug, 's a bhean. Bhiodh droch nàdar ga lìonadh fad na tìde.
Bha àm ann a bhiodh daoine is boireannaich a' danns air an drochaid ud ann an Sarajevo. Bhiodh fear a' cluiche accordion agus bhiodh an danns a' dol air adhart air an oidhche 's a' ghealach anns an adhar, gealach ìosal dhearg. Air oidhcheannan foghair bhiodh e fhèin 's a bhean a' danns air an drochaid ud nuair a bha iad òg. Ach a-nis bha fòirneart air feadh na dùthcha.
Bha e faireachdainn uabhasach aonaranach a-nis. Leis an fhìrinn innse cha robh caraidean aige. Cha robh miann còmhraidh idir air. Bhiodh e na shuidhe anns a' chraoibh a' bruadarachadh air a mhnaoi 's air a mhac. Mar a bhiodh e toirt a mhic a chluich air ball-coise. 'S mar a bhiodh a bhean a' gàirnealaireachd.
Anns na làithean sin cha b' e saighdear a bh' ann idir. 'S e fear a bh' ann a bhiodh a' peantadh thaighean. Bhiodh a mhac uaireannan a' tighinn còmhla ris. Cha robh e ach dà bhliadhna dheug nuair a chaidh a mharbhadh. Dhùin e a shùilean leis a' phian.
Bha duilleagan nan craobh ùr is uaine. Air an adhbhar sin chan fhaiceadh duine e. Uaireannan bhiodh e a' sealltainn suas don adhar far am faiceadh e an-dràsta 's a-rithist plèanaichean NATO. Abair thusa gu robh iad a' dol luath 's a' fàgail sreath gheal às an dèidh. Bha na duilleagan cùbhraidh is ùr mun cuairt air.
Chunnaic e balach le peile a' dol tarsainn air an drochaid. Thog e an gunna gu a ghualainn ach mus d' fhuair e air cuimseachadh air bha am balach air a dhol seachad. Bhiodh am balach mu aois a mhic fhèin. Thàinig an droch nàdar air ais a-rithist. Bha am balach seo beò 's bha a mhac fhèin marbh. Cha robh sin ceart. Bha am balach a' dol air tòir uisge anns an tobair le peile buidhe. Bha geansaidh dearg air. Chunnaic e e cho soilleir ri càil. Cha b' urrainn dha crùbadh nuair a thilleadh e oir bhiodh am peile làn bùirn. Ach an toiseach bha e na chrùban. Cha bhiodh e na chrùban nuair a thilleadh e.
Bha na duilleagan ùr. 'S e an t-earrach a bh' ann. Bha an saoghal ga ùrachadh fhèin. Ach, air an latha earraich ud, bha e a' cluinntinn nan gunnachan. Cha robh aon duine anns an armailt a bha cho cinnteach ris le gunna, le raidhfil. Ge bith de cho fada air falbh 's a bha an targaid. Nuair a bha e na pheantair cha robh fhios aige gu robh an tàlant ud aige. 'S ann a bha e ga shamhlachadh fhèin ri clamhan ann an craoibh. Clamhan searbh, cinnteach.
Chunnaic e a mhac aig àm Nollaige. Bha e a' tighinn sìos an staidhre 's a shùilean a' leudachadh nuair a chunnaic e na prèasantan. Bha e casruisgte. Cha robh càil air an t-saoghal coltach ri àgh ann an aodann leanaibh. Ach a-nis bha e marbh agus thàinig an droch nàdar air ais a-rithist.

Agus anns a' mhionaid thàinig am balach air ais. Bha e tòrr na bu shlaodaiche a-nis oir bha am peile aige na làimh. 'S math dh'fhaodte gu robh iad den bheachd nach toireadh an snaidhpear ionnsaigh air balach dà bhliadhna dheug. Chunnaic e a-rithist an geansaidh dearg 's am peile buidhe. Bha iad dìreach mar rudan a chitheadh tu ann an dealbh.

"Carson a chuir iad a-mach thu?" dh'èigh e na inntinn ris a' bhalach. "Cha robh gnothach aca do chur a-mach agus fhios aca gu robh mis' an seo is gu robh mi nam aonar mar a bhios mi a chaoidh tuilleadh."

Bha gach nì a' tachairt cho slaodach mar gum biodh an saoghal air stad. Bha fhios aige nam marbhadh e am balach gum biodh e air atharrachadh mòr a dhèanamh. Cha deidheadh e air ais a chaoidh gu bhith na pheantair thaighean mar a bha e uair.

Ach aig a' cheart àm bha e a' faireachdainn cho droch-nàdarrach. Bha an saoghal mar gum b' eadh [biodh] dearg air a bheulaibh, cho dearg ris a' gheansaidh a bha am balach a' caitheamh.

Bha tìm a' leantainn 's a' leudachadh. A-nis bha e a' dol a bhruthadh an trigeir. Cha leigeadh e leas ach suathadh ann. Bha am balach air am peile a chur sìos. "Tha mi dol ga mharbhadh," ars esan ris fhèin. "Anns a' mhionaid seo." Agus thug e sùil air uaireadair. Bha e beagan an dèidh aon uair deug. Agus anns a' mhionaid thionndaidh am balach ris 's e a' fosgladh a ghàirdeanan. 'S dè bh' air ach aodann a mhic fhèin.

Is e a' caitheamh na h-anaraig uaine a chleachd a bhith air. 'S e a mhac fhèin a bh' ann, a' tionndadh ris 's bha fhios aige nam marbhadh e am balach seo gu marbhadh e a mhac fhèin a-rithist. Bha sin cho soilleir dha. Bha fallas a' sruthadh sìos aodainn fhèin 's air cùl amhaich. Bha an gunna air chrith na làmhan. 'S drochaid Sarajevo fodha. Agus a mhac fhèin a' coiseachd air 's a' coimhead ris. 'S am peile bùirn na shuidhe ri thaobh.

"Mo mhac, mo mhac," dh'èigh e. Ach cha robh duine a-nis ri fhaicinn. Bha an drochaid falamh. Bha chorp gu lèir a’ sruthadh le fallas, ’s bha deòir na shùilean. Thàinig isean is shuidh e anns a’ chraoibh anns an robh e. Isean beag donn. Agus cnuimh na bheul. Agus chuala e plèana a’ dol seachad os a chionn.

Bha an t-isean a' gluasad an siud 's an seo, cho an-fhoiseil. Ach bha an t-earrach ann. Bhiodh iad a' togail neadan.

Thàinig e sìos às a' chraoibh. Fodha air an talamh chunnaic e sneadhain nan deann ruith an siud 's an seo. O, nach iad a bha luath.

A' ruith an siud 's an seo. Cha robh e airson seasamh orra.

Thionndaidh e ar falbh bhon chraoibh. Bha e a' dol a leigeil seachad dreuchd snaidhpeir. Bha e a' faireachdainn an droch nàdar ga fhàgail. Bha e faireachdainn falamh. Na inntinn bha e a' coimhead a mhic a' fosgladh a ghàirdeanan.

Shad e air falbh an gunna 's thòisich e ri coiseachd. Cha mharbhadh e duine tuilleadh. Ge bith dè dhèanadh iad air, cha mharbhadh e duine tuilleadh.

'S bha e faireachdainn cho aotrom, cho aotrom ri na duilleagan uaine, cho aotrom ris an eun a bha na shuidhe air gèig. Cho aotrom ris a' ghaoith. Cho aotrom ris an earrach. Mar gum biodh e a' dol a thòiseachadh às ùr, às aonais a' ghunna. A' dol a thòiseachadh às ùr air latha earraich. Ann am Bosnia.

[Ergot]

In this interview with Alif conducted in writing in the fall of 2004, Terry Eagleton responds to questions raised concerning his work and Said's. Eagleton describes his relationship with Said and how it evolved, the occasional intersection between memoir and literary criticism (as in the case of Said's Out of Place), the overlap between nationalism and anti-colonialism, the role of Michel Foucault, Erich Auerbach, Raymond Williams, and Theodor Adorno. Eagleton comments on Said's reading of Jane Austen and Joseph Conrad, Said's style and attitude towards different contemporary theoretical and critical trends, and Said's activism. He discusses his own position concerning 'politics of form,' 'aesthetic autonomy,' and the consequence of the 'privatisation of cultural production.'

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Ferial Ghazoul: At what point in your academic career did you know Edward Said and how was your response on first reading him or meeting him? How did your response to Said develop?

Terry Eagleton: My first encounter with Edward Said was when he wrote to congratulate me on my book Marxism and Literary Criticism, which must have been in 1976. I read Beginnings as soon as it was published, and then in 1978-the year of Orientalism-I was invited by Fred Jameson to speak at Yale; he and I having taught together a couple of years earlier in California. On the way home, I stopped off at Columbia and spoke to a seminar Said was running; I can't remember what about. So this was our first meeting in person. I remember I had my eldest son with me, who was nine years old at the time, and having heard that Said was an Arab, he was very disappointed on meeting him that he wasn't accompanied by a camel and wasn't wearing a head-dress. (My son is now a Thai-speaking famine researcher with a well-known relief organisation, so perhaps he knows a bit better). Said and I then met on several occasions over the years, mostly in London, Oxford, and Dublin. A few years before he died I dedicated one of my books to him, and he responded with a typically warm-hearted letter of thanks. That was the last contact we had.

Dalia Mostafa: Both you and Said wrote memoirs about your childhood recollections and early youth (Out of Place by Said and The Gatekeeper by you), while reflecting on family relations as well as political and cultural changes taking place in your own respective environments. How is a memoir important for the cultural theorist or the cultural critic in their life-long journey of writing? Do such self-portraits help understand the theoretical and critical positions of their authors?

Terry Eagleton: I'm not sure that memoirs are particularly important for cultural theorists. Said's is, of course, because his life was so vital a context for his work. His personal career embodied various public or 'world-historical' shifts and conflicts, and his work represents a quite extraordinarily subtle, intimate point of intersection between a general history and an individual one. The same might be said of someone like Raymond Williams. I wouldn't say this was true of most cultural thinkers, however, and in general I'm a little suspicious of the idea that the work necessarily reflects the life. For all we know, Jane Austen might have run a brothel and Joseph Conrad might never have clapped eyes on the ocean. It wouldn't make any difference to the impact of their work. I really don't know quite why I wrote The Gatekeeper, but then I don't really know why I write any of my books. I just find myself writing them. Sometimes, looking back after a number of years, I begin to get a glimmering of what the motivation of a particular book was. But it's rarely what I thought it was at the time.

Barbara Harlow: "Nationalism," "colonialism," "literature" are the keywords of the title to the 1990 publication (University of Minnesota Press) of three essays--yours, another by Fredric Jameson, and the third by Edward Said--essays that were originally published as Field Day pamphlets in 1988. Would you comment on the changed resonance, or even meaning, that those terms might have acquired over the intervening years?

Terry Eagleton: I've spent quite a lot of time since writing that pamphlet trying to figure out how one can be an anti-colonialist without being a nationalist. It so happens that nationalism has been overwhelmingly the ideological form which anti-colonial struggles have assumed in the modern age, for all kinds of intriguing reasons. But I doubt that there's any logical or necessary bond between the two. Socialists, for example, have always been anti-colonialists, long before this stuff became fashionable in universities. Anti-colonialism is a precious inheritance from the radical Enlightenment, whereas nationalism is a Romantic doctrine, slightly later in date.

Since writing the Field Day pamphlet I've actually been living in Ireland, so the issues have taken on a sharper focus for me. Most Irish opponents of British colonialism on the island are nationalists--which is to say, from my own viewpoint, that they support the right cause for the wrong reasons. I don't, for example, accept the view that the simple fact of being a distinctive ethnic group automatically entitles you to political self-determination. Nor, incidentally, did Lenin--a mighty foe of imperialism, of course. I think this Romantic, rather sentimental belief in the unity of the ethnos has created an immense amount of political mayhem and misery. There's no simplistic correlation between 'nation' and 'state,' though that's too complex a narrative to develop here.

In my view, the Irish or the Egyptians, like any other people, have a right to self-determination because they are human beings, not because they are Gaels or Egyptians. It's democracy which matters, not ethnicity. Anyway, not all of the Irish are Gaels, which is another defect of this doctrine. I think Said would have broadly agreed with this case. He was an internationalist, a cosmopolitan critic of colonial power, not a Romantic nationalist.

As for literature: well, let's say very generally that in the epoch of modernity, with what one might call the privatisation of cultural production, literature doesn't really matter all that much, has very little resonance in the public sphere (or what vestiges of that somewhat mythical sphere remain). Where literature does matter, very acutely, is in those societies which are still trying to break into modernity (a mixed blessing, to be sure!)--which is to say, so-called neo-colonial nations. Here literature can clearly play a powerful role in the process of identity-formation. It retains a public resonance which is largely pre-modern. Many ordinary men and women have heard of Pablo Neruda, whereas not many have heard of T. S. Eliot. So the only place where literature remains 'political' is exactly not in the up-to-date metropolitan nations. It's among those peoples who still need to find a tongue for themselves, and can do so in part through imaginative writing.

Barbara Harlow: Seamus Dearie, editor of the Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing, wrote in his introduction to Nationalism, Colonialism and Literature that its three essays share the "conviction that we need a new discourse for a new relationship between our idea of the human subject and our idea of human communities. What is now happening in Northern Ireland (constitutionally an integral part of the United Kingdom)," Dearie went on, "is only one of the many crises that have made the need for such a discourse peremptory. In Africa, South America, the Middle East, the Soviet Union, and Eastern Europe, the nature of the crisis is more glaringly exposed and its consequences seem both more ominous and far-reaching in their effects." That was "then," but in the current "now," and given the drastic and dramatic changes that have transpired in each of the arenas that Dearie cites, what do you consider to be the current and most urgent imperatives for a "new discourse for a new relationship between our idea of the human subject and our idea of human communities"?

Terry Eagleton: Seamus Deane is an old friend of mine, but I must confess I'm not sure what "a new discourse for a new relationship between our idea of the human subject and our idea of human communities" means. It sounds to me like one of those rather blurred phrases typical of literary critics, more suggestive than meaningful. We don't need a new discourse for this relationship: we have one, a very ancient and venerable one, and it's known as ethics. But this is an area the political left has greatly neglected. They've made the disastrous error of believing that ethics is primarily about personal relationships, and therefore not political. The Christian right in the USA believes just the same: for them, ethics is about the bedroom, not the boardroom. It concerns the foetus, not the battle for Falluja; adultery but not armaments. Against this, I've tried to argue that for a mainstream ethical tradition from Aristotle to Aquinas and Marx, the ethical always means the politico-ethical.

Barbara Harlow: Declan Kiberd, another noted Irish critic, wrote in the Irish Times of the three contributors to Nationalism, Colonialism and Literature (and cited on the back cover of the volume), that "nlike the more usual type of 'foreign expert' invited in by the native middle-class to do for its members what they cannot do for themselves, these men have been more concerned to learn than to preach." Is there, do you think, still the same distinction to be made between the concerns of learning and the impulse to preach? As a corollary, and considering the respective trajectories of your own and Edward Said's subsequent careers, has the relationship between "foreign experts" and "native middle-classes" altered at all, particularly in regard to the avocations and advocacies engaged in on the part of literary critics in a post-bi-polar world order?

Terry Eagleton: The word 'preaching' isn't at all pejorative for me, as it is for most liberals these days. One of the most venerable and fascinating of all literary genres is the sermon. Today, people in the West use the word 'preach' to indicate a kind of self-righteous hectoring. But theology has always understood that the basis of all effective preaching is personal humility. And of course humility is central to Islam. There's absolutely nothing wrong in telling people what you think they ought to do, as long as you tell them respectfully, and as long as they are free to reject it.

To dismiss this as 'dominative,' or whatever the fashionable term might be, logically entails that nobody can tell you what to do either. And that's highly convenient for you. If it's odiously patronising for the West to tell the amusingly-called underdeveloped world how to behave, since cultures are supposedly incommensurate, then this applies the other way round as well. The same goes for the word 'didactic,' which actually simply means 'pertaining to teaching,' with no necessary hint of bullying, as well as the word 'dogma,' which means simply 'things taught.' I have no liberal terror of any of these terms. I see nothing wrong with a didactic art, which for liberals is a contradiction in terms.

Let me illustrate the point with an anecdote. An Oxford don once gave a lecture at Ruskin College in Oxford, which is a college for working-class trade unionists. He began with the standard self-deprecating liberal gestures about wanting to learn rather than teach, not really knowing anything about the matter in hand, and so on. A gruff voice then called out from the back: 'You're paid to know!'

If middle-class Western specialists have something useful to say to people who lack their privileges, then they should say it, without false modesty or fruitless guilt. If they haven't, they should shut up. It doesn't matter where the knowledge comes from. Only liberal educators worry about that, not the dispossessed, who can't afford to be so fussy. I learnt a lot from my Cambridge Tutor, one of the most conservative and outrageously overprivileged men I've ever met. Anyway, it's a mistake to think that dominative powers don't listen. Often they listen very carefully, so as to refine their technologies of manipulation.

Ibrahim Fathy: Was Said in Orientalism able to make a dialectical synthesis of Foucauldian ruptures and Auerbach's continuity, or did he refuse any kind of synthesis all together?

Terry Eagleton: I think it's vital to appreciate that Edward Said wasn't primarily a theorist. One might say that he was more important than that. In fact, he ended up quite hostile to so-called theory. His trajectory was really from Auerbach to Foucault and back to Auerbach. His great fellow US radical, Noam Chomsky, is equally scornful of theory. Theory is partly (though only partly) part of the problem to which it offers a solution, as Karl Kraus remarked about psychoanalysis. In a letter to me, Said once referred tartly to certain strains of post-colonial theory as 'gobbledygook.' (He could, of course, be very acerbic, which, given the vile personal assaults on him, is hardly surprising).

Said was, intellectually speaking, a quite old-fashioned humanist who was forced by the exigencies of history into kinds of intellectual work which challenged the tradition in which he was bred. Perhaps he would have liked simply to listen to opera rather than write about Palestine. His aim, like that of every radical, was to get to the point politically where writing about oppression would no longer be necessary, since it would have been overcome. Then we can all get on with enjoying Schumann and writing about colour imagery in the early D. H. Lawrence. When we can do that with a good conscience, it will be a sign that we've succeeded. The quicker we can dispense with radical politics, the better. Beware of any political radical who hasn't grasped that simple fact. But radical politics are like social class and nationhood: to get rid of them, you first have to have them.

This wariness of theory makes Said's work a lot more interesting than that of a theorist who had been, so to speak, born and bred to the trade. The New Historicists, for example. It meant that he assailed Western culture from a standpoint which was steeped in that culture, which had a deep affection for it, and that kind of critique is always harder for a governing power to ward off than a merely external one. He had absolutely no patience with what one might call theoreticism. Given his urgent political situation, it simply wouldn't have been possible for him. So there is a sense in which to lump Said together with, say, Roland Barthes or Harold Bloom, or even with Jameson, is to commit what the philosophers would call a category mistake. If he was interested in Foucault early on, it was partly because Foucault was a political activist like himself, who saw ideas pragmatically rather than abstractly.

Said and I once crossed swords in a session in London when he spoke up against theory, and I claimed rather glibly that this itself was a theoretical position. He dismissed this case, a move which at the time I thought was wrong, but which I now suspect to be right. It involves an illicit word-play on the term 'theory.' On the other hand, Said's nervousness of theory had its limits. He steered well clear of Marxism, for example. Was he even a socialist? It's significant that we don't really know, or at least I don't. All I can say is that if he wasn't, he ought to have been. There was a whole dimension of leftist politics which seemed closed to him, no doubt partly because of his well-heeled background.

Andrew Rubin: What, in your opinion, is the greatest contribution that Edward Said made to the field of literary and cultural criticism and theory? It has been argued by the critic Abdirahman Hussein that critics have often almost entirely overlooked the importance of Said's second book Beginnings: Intentions and Method, which Said had written several years prior to Orientalism, the work for which he is most renowned. Do you think there are aspects of Said's work that have been overlooked, underestimated, or even overestimated, and in what ways would you revise or alter the more or less current reception to which his work has been subjected?

In many ways I see Said's work as tirelessly and restlessly attempting to provide the conditions for a non-dominative and non-coercive form of knowledge, the antithesis of the coercive and Western forms of knowledge and power that he challenged in Orientalism. His work is, in my estimation, in no way complete, though he certainly did his best intellectually and even physically to complete it. But we live in a world where knowledge and power continue to be exerted in real ways at an extraordinary cost to the lives of human beings. Now that Edward Said has passed away, where do we go on from here? What is to be done?

Terry Eagleton: I agree that Said's strictly literary work has been rather underestimated in the clamour around his more post-colonial writing. Beginnings has always struck me as a remarkably innovative but oddly neglected text. It was a victim of his own later celebrity. Let me say what I don't think was one of his major contributions: he wasn't a great stylist. He wrote lucidly and gracefully, but with nothing like the extraordinary flair and imaginative brio of, say, a Jameson, a Barthes, or a Foucault. It is remarkable how many modern theorists, despite the fact that they're often condemned for being 'anti-aesthetic,' are superb writers. On the whole, it's their acolytes who get theory a bad name by writing so atrociously.

Perhaps Said's sheer erudition has been a little underestimated as well. He wasn't in the traditional sense a scholar, but his knowledge was quite formidable, ranging as it did over so many areas. You had the feeling that he knew exactly what was new and exciting in Iranian poetry, or the Icelandic novel, but that he had also just absorbed a huge amount of research about the oil industry. Only Jameson matches this range; I myself couldn't begin to approach it.

Where does his death leave us? Grossly bereft and impoverished, in a savage, bloody political epoch when we need all the illumination we can muster. I am most sorry that Edward is dead. We have lost the kind of rare spirit which comes only once in a generation or so. But I'm not particularly sorry that he isn't alive to witness a world in which Iraqi children are being incinerated so that the West can protect its profits. He is well free of such obscenities. What then is to be done? Well, what did Said do when he learned he was terminally ill? He kept on fighting. Because even if the left is defeated in the end, and the prospects for global justice frankly don't look too brilliant at present, we can still have the comfort of knowing that we did the right thing, despite everything. If you can stare death in the face and still act in the name of the living, then you have won for yourself the ultimate freedom. Then you really are unconquerable. This is what Edward Said did.

Ibrahim Fathy: In Edward Said's Beginnings (1975), he writes:

t is significant that the desire to create an alternative
world, to modify or augment the real world through the
act of writing (which is one motive underlying the novelistic
tradition in the West) is inimical to the Islamic
world-view. The prophet is he who has completed a
world-view; thus the word heresy in Arabic is synonymous
with the verb "to innovate" or "to begin." Islam
views the world as a plenum, capable of neither diminishment
nor amplification. (81)



It is puzzling to find echoes of the orientalists' simplistic reductionism applied by Said to forms of narration in Arabic literature, that are complex, rich, and far from homogeneity. Would you consider this a gross concession, on Said's part, to ideas he spent most of his life refuting?

Terry Eagleton: I, too, was surprised by this argument, and I'm interested in Ibrahim Fathy's claim that it is simplistic. In any case, innovation isn't everything. Making things new has a very long history. The avant-garde is a deeply archaic phenomenon. Euripides was bang up to date. History is a series of innovations which have grown old and stale. And nobody values innovation more than the Texan oilmen. Contrast with this Walter Benjamin's concern for the revolutionary potential of tradition. Only avant-gardists and Americans commit the crass error of believing that originality is always to be prized. Fascism was one of the twentieth century's great political innovations. And what, after all, is it to be original? If a lecturer claims that the lawnmower is a twentieth-century invention, there will always be somebody at the back of the hall who insists that they've just unearthed one from an ancient Celtic burial site.

Dalia Mostafa: Edward Said criticized Joseph Conrad's work on the Empire, while pinpointing the paradox embedded in his fiction, particularly when referring to Heart of Darkness and Nostromo. In his introduction to Culture and Imperialism, Said wrote:

... Conrad was both anti-imperialist and imperialist, progressive
when it came to rendering fearlessly and pessimistically
the self-confirming, self-deluding corruption
of overseas domination, deeply reactionary when it came
to conceding that Africa or South America could ever
have had an independent history or culture, which the
imperialists violently disturbed but by which they were
ultimately defeated. (xx)



In the context of the development of the English novel at the turn of the twentieth century, and in the light of your new book The English Novel: An Introduction, how do you view Said's interpretation of this paradox in Conrad?

Terry Eagleton: Said's dialectical view of Conrad seems to me far superior to those who either praise him as a proto-post-colonial theorist, or dismiss him out of hand as a racist and imperialist. He was indeed in a sense both. Heart of Darkness (a text which I personally think is grossly overrated in aesthetic terms, but I'm almost in a minority of one on this subject), announces: 'Look, Westerners are just as much savage brutes as the Africans.' Is this a pro- or anti-imperialist attitude? E. M. Forster's A Passage to India says: 'Look, India is such a vast, impossible sprawling chaos that the West's petty-minded schemes for subduing it are ridiculous.' Is this pro- or anti-imperialist?

The true ambivalences of Conrad, however, seem to me to lie in questions of form rather than abstractable political content. Heart of Darkness, for example, is both surrealist modernist 'textuality' and traditional sea tale. To those who simply extract political attitudes from literary works, I would say: look for the politics of form. That's where everything happens, not what the author or work 'says.' Don't just stare through the signifier to the signified. Don't talk about sexual or ethnic stereotypes while cavalierly ignoring tone, pitch, pace, texture, syntax, address, rhythm, register, narrative structure. So there you are, you see: I'm just an old-fashioned product of the Cambridge English School. Just as Edward Said was an old-fashioned product of Lionel Trilling's Columbia. But as Trotsky wisely remarked, we Marxists have always lived in tradition.

Rana El Harouny: Jane Austen defines "an ideal English self," a self that prides itself on its "decency," and "morality." To challenge Jane Austen is therefore to challenge the English notion of "self-hood," and moral legitimacy. Edward Said, however, does exactly this in his essay "Jane Austen and Empire." Said argues that as a national icon, Austen belongs to a literary canon that was used by Empire to project to the colonial enterprise the very virtues that English literature inscribed to the nation. Furthermore, he argues that the tendency of orthodox/conservative scholars to disembody Austen and transcendentalize the moral values and ethical framework that her novels espouse from any contextual contingencies is part of a larger historical (and seemingly Machiavellian) attempt to divorce English literature from politics. Said, however, develops this radical intellectual framework based on a conventional, conservative view (or myth) of a passive author, disengaged from the public sphere, in effect, decontextualized. This has resulted in a slew of equally radical counter-criticism, in the main from feminist and new historicist critics. What is interesting about this criticism is that although it leaves Said's central premise more or less unscathed, his central paradox of a humane Austen nonetheless accepting the injustices of imperialism is de-ranged. Recontextualizing Jane Austen unravels Said's contention that Mansfield Park should be seen in the main "as resisting or avoiding that other setting which [its] formal inclusiveness, historical honesty, and prophetic suggestiveness cannot completely hide."

Said, in his delivery, focuses on teasing out the silences in Mansfield Park. What, in your opinion, however, are the silences in his own work that have provided such fodder for counter-criticism? Furthermore, is it fair to argue that Said, in failing to properly position Austen within the social, cultural, and political milieu of her time, is guilty of forcefully projecting his own postcolonial agenda onto her work: guilty, in fact, of abstraction, the sin of Empire; turning their Jane, into his Jane?

Terry Eagleton: Even though I myself first commissioned that essay, as part of a volume of essays in homage to Raymond Williams, I always had a few doubts about whether it didn't overdo the imperial theme in Austen. Just as I'm not convinced that Culture and Imperalism, the volume in which the essay finally ended up, really validates its case about the centrality of imperialism in nineteenth-century English literature. Of course one must historicise Austen, and I myself try to do this in a very brief, scrappy way in a recent book (The English Novel: An Introduction). Austen is indeed a conservative, striving to recall the English gentry to a classical code of values in order to consolidate its power at a moment when it is under threat from radical changes in the English countryside. It is threatened not least by a dissolute haute bourgeoisie which seems to have abandoned all tradition of moral responsibility and paternal concern for the lower orders in its possessive egoism and moral brittleness.

What I admire about Austen (among hundreds of other commendable qualities) is her traditional rather than modern conception of morality. She sees it, as did Aristotle, Aquinas, and Marx, as a matter of public conduct, not as the inner light, interior emotions, what you happen to be feeling, what you find aesthetically alluring, and the like. She's an extremely tough-minded ethical realist in an increasingly corrupt, sentimentalist culture. She isn't in the least a liberal, for both good and ill, however much English critics try' to turn her into one. (They try to do the same to Joyce, and just about any writer you care to mention). I feel that Said's splendid essay, in focusing so tightly on the colonial question, misses many of these matters in its resolute one-sidedness.

What are the silences in his work? Well, for a start he has nothing whatsoever to say about Salford, the grimy little town in which I was born. I put it in this facetious way because of course every writer's work is full of millions of silences. Nobody can say everything at once-which is why it's so foolish to accuse someone who's writing of, say, women in Victorian England of not speaking of social class or the environment or sanitation or cruelty to donkeys as well. Some silences are simply empirical, but others are symptomatic. I've mentioned one eloquent silence in Said's work already: socialism. Or, if you like, classical leftist politics in general. Another might be theology, which of course all the Western left are dreadfully embarrassed by, even though religion is far and away the most successful, hugely popular symbolic form history has ever witnessed. How far can a liberal secularist like Said tackle questions of 'Orientalist' culture without venturing into this area?

Andrew Rubin: Edward Said has long expressed throughout his writing, lectures, and interviews a commitment to questioning and even undermining the tradition of Western Literature by emphasizing the overlapping and interdependent relationships between cultures. For Said, culture is never monolithic, never homogenous, never totalizing, never singular, but the result of sometimes dominant but an always shifting relationship between cultures. Culture is always politics for Said.

In your book The Idea of Culture, which you dedicate to Edward Said, you provide an account of various valences of the concept of culture by examining the works of figures such as Matthew Arnold, T. S. Eliot, Raymond Williams, and Edward Said, among others. Do you think that there is in Said's work a fundamental distinction between culture as politics, on the one hand, and the aesthetics on the other? That is to say, how does Said--who throughout his writings considers the literary works of Jane Austin, Flaubert, Henry James, Rudyard Kipling, Joseph Conrad, T. S. Eliot, and Thomas Mann, among others, to be works of great artistic and aesthetic achievement--how does he interpret them also as works of culture and as politics if they are also, and at the same time, for entirely autonomous reasons, great works of art? What is the distinction in your mind between the role of the aesthetic and the role of culture in Edward Said's vast oeuvre?

Terry Eagleton: I don't know whether Said believed that culture and politics are the same thing, but I don't happen to believe this myself. Culture means, roughly speaking, a distinctive way of life; and though all ways of life are subtly caught up in processes of power (which is how, generally speaking, I'd define politics), they aren't in my view reducible to them. The 'expansionist' use of the word 'politics' on the left--'Everything is political!'--risks emptying the term of meaning and depriving it of a cutting-edge, like any semantic overstretching. Culture and politics occupy distinct temporalities: culture is a longue duree, politics a matter of the conjuncture.

Equally, I don't regard the aesthetic as reducible to either culture or politics, and I doubt that Said did either. When I spoke earlier of the 'politics of form,' I meant that politics or ideology in artefacts is distilled first and foremost in the minutiae of their aesthetic substance. The very autonomy of the aesthetic (which is, incidentally, an historical and material phenomenon, not--as so many on the left seem to think--merely a false perception of works of art), itself speaks political volumes.

Nor do I by any means regard aesthetic autonomy as merely 'reactionary,' and I don't think Said did either. We owe it to perhaps the finest of all Marxist aestheticians--Theodor Adorno--to be able to recognise the art-work's autonomy of traditional social functions as at once progressive and dominative, emancipatory and enslaving. The other side of the left's dual mistake here, in believing that aesthetic autonomy is (a) just a matter of a false perception, and (b) always and everywhere to be politically regretted, is its naive belief that to inscribe a work in its material or historical context is ipso facto radical. Not in the least. Most European historicism has been a right-wing, not a leftwing tradition. Not all conservatives are card-carrying formalists. And so on. Lots of confusions are possible here.

Despite all that, however, I do think that Said probably kept his aesthetics rather apart from his politics. Palestrina and Palestine don't mix very easily. This is part of what I meant earlier by saying that he was really a traditional humanist forced by a historical crisis into a political stance which was partly askew to the cultural traditions he inherited. No doubt he needed his private utopian moments, like the rest of us, in contrast to the quotidian world of politics, and music seems to have been the chief name for this in his life. Who would begrudge it to him?

We should of course look at art historically; but we should beware in doing so of falling into a new kind of leftist puritanism, for which aesthetic delight can be seen only as a privileged distraction from the grimly essential business of politics. On the contrary, as Oscar Wilde might have said but probably didn't: we're in radical politics because we want to get to the point where such delights--which have no need to justify themselves at any stern-faced tribunal of Utility or History--will be available for everyone. We're aiming for a point at which we can leave all this debilitating political strife behind us and simply live in the fullness of our own and one another's being. That's 'aestheticist' alright--but, I think, in all the best political ways. We want a society in which people will be positively astonished to learn that once, a long time ago, people went hungry, and that other people made such a fuss of largely irrelevant matters like class or gender or ethnicity. In the meanwhile, the aesthetic may be one of our few lonely anticipations of this eminently desirable condition, deformed and denatured though it is by the fact that at the moment one person's civilisation is another's barbarism.

Ferial Ghazoul: Both you and Edward Said admire Raymond Williams immensely, though not uncritically. Said contributed to your edited book, Raymond Williams: Critical Perspectives (1989); and when you wrote your book, The Idea of Culture (2000)--using the title of an essay written by Raymond Williams (1993)--you dedicated the book to Edward Said. Is there a rapport--what Said would call affiliation--between you and Said specifically because of the Williams connection? In what sense do you diverge from Said in your assessment of, and attraction to, Williams?

Terry Eagleton: Like Said, Williams was never really a 'theorist.' Indeed, I don't think I ever heard him use the word. Both men shared a deep suspicion of disembodied abstractions (not that theory has to be that), and both had a remarkably quick, deep sense of material process, of tangible actualities. Both of them spun exceptionally original bodies of work out of lived personal experience, without for a moment confusing or conflating the two spheres. Both lived through key historical eras: in Williams's case, the second world war, in which he was a tank commander; in Said's case, the wave of mid-twentieth-century colonial independence, which is to say the single most successful emancipatory movement which modernity has so far witnessed.

These historical grand narratives deeply infiltrated their work, though more guardedly and obliquely in Williams's case. Both men felt vulnerable and isolated, and could be defensive in reaction to this. Both were hugely admired by the left, and mocked and detested by the powers of this world, as any worthwhile individual will be. In both cases, the written work reverberated with the sense of a powerful, complex, resourceful personality, though Said was more combative, acerbic, and impatient than Williams, who provided living disproof of the most dreary of all cliches: that youth is radical, but grows more 'moderate' as it ages. Williams actually moved further to the left as he got older. Two men from remarkably different backgrounds (Williams plebeian, Said patrician) met on the common ground of marginality--rather as, when Williams met Jacques Derrida (and you could hardly think of two intellectuals more different in style), the Welsh working-class socialist found an instant rapport with the Algerian Sephardic Jew.

Andrew Rubin: Late in his life Edward Said became increasingly preoccupied with the concept of Spatstil, or late style, a critical category that he had borrowed from Theodor Adorno, who had written about Beethoven's late style at length by arguing that rather than an author's late works providing a complete and unproblematic closure of the author's life and of all their previous works, the late style of works was fundamentally fragmented, rebarbative, discontinuous, and dissonant. Said found examples of this in works such as Shakespeare's The Tempest, Sophocles's Oedipus at Colonus, and Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus, among others. Said seemed to be fundamentally interested in the cultural politics of the irreconcilable. While he never fully elaborated how this would look as a form of cultural politics, this direction that his work took in his final years seemed to be a great concern in his writings as well as in his seminars.

Having written what is in my opinion one of the most masterful explications of Theodor Adorno's view of the relationship between aesthetics and politics ("Art After Auschwitz: Theodor Adorno" in your book, The Ideology of the Aesthetic [1990]), what do you think Said might have meant or what would have been entailed by this interest in the category of irreconciliation? He often argued that the situation of teaching and the role of the intellectual was one that taught students as well as readers to work through these irreconciliations--whether these irreconciliations took the form of the relationship between Israel and Palestinians or the relationship between literature and the world which it inhabits. Terry Eagleton: It's generally thought that youth is combative, while middle age is mild, pacific, and resigned. But in a sense it's the other way round: youth has a passion for absolute transformation, for closure, whereas middle age--even when it still clings to this passion--is more wryly aware of the irreconcilable, the irredeemable, the inevitability of dissonance, conflict, and fragmentation. (Why, incidentally, do we instinctively think of fragmentation as a bad thing? Why, when we see fragments, do we automatically itch to put them together again? Might Melanie Klein provide part of the answer?) Perhaps this is partly because the middle-aged are closer to death, which is a sign of all that can't be abolished. Death is the dissonance which is here to stay.

So yes, there can be a fetish of reconciliation as much as of anything else, one against which Adorno warned us when he cryptically observed that an emancipated society "would by no means form a totality.' For him, modernist aesthetics meant thinking reconciliation in the light of the unavoidable persistence of dissonance. And might not things just grind to a halt without it? We should beware of thinking of dissonance or conflict as inherently negative. Without contraries, no progression. For both Adorno and Benjamin, only God can restore what is broken, so that totality as practised by human beings becomes a form of idolatry. Without fragmentation, we would not even know that wholeness was possible. Works of art must be unfinished, imperfect, to avoid being fetishes, and to remind us that there is a history out there still to be made. So we have to work these fragments through in the psychoanalytic sense of the term 'working through'--which is to say, becoming aware that the unity and totality of the transcendental signifier is part of our sickness and delusion, not of our cure.

Rana El Harouny: Post-9/11, we live in a world where America's hegemonic ambitions are thinly cloaked by a vulgar and empty rhetoric of freedom and democracy. What seems to have arisen in this new era is a new kind of colonialism, one that specifically exists in the Middle East. Given the urgency of events in this region, and the bulldozer-like subtlety and efficiency with which the American media has effaced the humanity and individuality of its so-called "enemies," perhaps the label of post-colonialism (associated with Said) in general, and Said's Orientalism in particular, should be revisited and adapted to this new political reality of "contained subversion." In your opinion, is there need for such an evolution, and, if so, in what direction?

Terry Eagleton: Yes, freedom now means the anarchy of the marketplace, and democracy the installation of states compliant to the USA's predatory ends. Within the West, democracy means which individuals in what are really one-party states will be selected to act as executors of the ends of corporate capitalism for the next few years. So we're living in hard times, as Said didn't need to be told--though there are also new forms of resistance, as there always are. And it may well be that the post-colonial label (which incidentally covers a multitude of sins) doesn't match up to this new reality. There's nothing really post-colonial about the US invasion and occupation of Iraq, or indeed about the situation in Northern Ireland.

I don't know this for sure, but I suspect that one of Said's deepest professional regrets was unwittingly to have helped to originate a style of thought (so-called post-colonialism) with which he was in many ways profoundly out of sympathy. He was out of sympathy with it partly for philosophical reasons (he remained a classical-style humanist and in some ways a child of Enlightenment, as most post-colonialists are not), and partly for political ones (post-colonialism could serve as a welcome distraction from the problems of a stalled class-struggle within the West itself, as well as generating a lot of modish new 'discourses' for a post-political age to indulge itself with). The good news, however, is that his work has been so powerful that it has survived what it started. One is not always well served by one's disciples--though I must confess that I'm a little exceptional in that regard, since if I can be said to have any disciples at all, they have on the whole done me proud.

[Ergot]

za Eagletona.

A, kako æemo proèitati onog Smitha?

Skupite sergiju da ga prevedem

[danas]

Gori si od kakvog otimača dječjih lizala.

neka bona legolasa

[Ergot]

Gori si od kakvog otimaèa djeèjih lizala.

Ergot u filmu Otimaci izgubljenog Chupa Chupsa.

[repeater]

ako se pika eagleton na engl., zasto ne i zizek .. iz novog broja lrb-a.

Resistance Is Surrender
Slavoj Žižek

One of the clearest lessons of the last few decades is that capitalism is indestructible. Marx compared it to a vampire, and one of the salient points of comparison now appears to be that vampires always rise up again after being stabbed to death. Even Mao’s attempt, in the Cultural Revolution, to wipe out the traces of capitalism, ended up in its triumphant return.

Today’s Left reacts in a wide variety of ways to the hegemony of global capitalism and its political supplement, liberal democracy. It might, for example, accept the hegemony, but continue to fight for reform within its rules (this is Third Way social democracy).

Or, it accepts that the hegemony is here to stay, but should nonetheless be resisted from its ‘interstices’.

Or, it accepts the futility of all struggle, since the hegemony is so all-encompassing that nothing can really be done except wait for an outburst of ‘divine violence’ – a revolutionary version of Heidegger’s ‘only God can save us.’ ... nastavak

[repeater]

btw. infra, ove godine ti poklanjam samovar za bozic.
kao znak zahvalnosti za sve ove 'harasoje' price i pjesme.

[danas]

ako se pika eagleton na engl., zasto ne i zizek .. iz novog broja lrb-a.

Resistance Is Surrender
Slavoj Žižek

One of the clearest lessons of the last few decades is that capitalism is indestructible. Marx compared it to a vampire, and one of the salient points of comparison now appears to be that vampires always rise up again after being stabbed to death. Even Mao’s attempt, in the Cultural Revolution, to wipe out the traces of capitalism, ended up in its triumphant return.

Today’s Left reacts in a wide variety of ways to the hegemony of global capitalism and its political supplement, liberal democracy. It might, for example, accept the hegemony, but continue to fight for reform within its rules (this is Third Way social democracy).

Or, it accepts that the hegemony is here to stay, but should nonetheless be resisted from its ‘interstices’.

Or, it accepts the futility of all struggle, since the hegemony is so all-encompassing that nothing can really be done except wait for an outburst of ‘divine violence’ – a revolutionary version of Heidegger’s ‘only God can save us.’ ... nastavak

bogati, imas li onaj clanak od zizeka kad kaze da bi radije pisao reklame za abercrombie ili gap nego za americke akademske magazine