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#176

Posted: 14/03/2007 22:00
by Orhanowski
Kad sam zadnji put bio u Ljubljani, prije gotovo dvanaest godina, još je taj grad bio pun Jugoslavije. Fasade i izlozi podsjećali su na nju, a gradskim podzemljem miljele su izbjeglice iz susjednih država. Mladi Bosanci, Srbi i Hrvati, zajedno sa ovdašnjim rođacima iz osamdesetih, svirali su po mračnim klubovima, priređivali kojekakve protestne performance, koncerte i kazališne predstave. Rat ih je, paradoksalno, na kratko povezao jače nego uniforma koju su svojedobno zajedno nosili, valjda i zato što su znali da mir neće biti zajednički.

Da više nema Jugoslavije, ja tada nisam shvatio po zastavi na Starom gradu ili grbu na kapi policajca pred hotelom Slon, već tek kad mi je taj policajac htio naplatiti kaznu zato što sam ulicu prešao izvan obilježenog pješačkog prijelaza. U nas su, naime, zebre i dan danas neautohtone životinje, na ulici kao i na Brionima, i ja sam ljubaznom slovenskom policajcu pokušao objasniti kako se ja na zebre na raskršću ne mogu naviknuti baš kao i na činjenicu da se hotel usred Ljubljane zove Slon. Čovjek je shvatio da sam ja južnjak, oprostio mi je moj zoološki tradicionalizam, upozorivši me na kraju da barem opušak cigarete ne bacim na ulicu, a ja sam shvatio da Jugoslavija više ne stanuje u Ljubljani.

Ovih sam dana, nakon mnogo godina, šetao opet Tromostovjem. I Slon i zebre bili su na istom mjestu, ali čini se da su ti Titovi brionski ljubimci sve što je ostalo od klanjevine Slovenaca, Hrvata i Srba. Ponašao sam se stoga kako dolikuje dvodnevnom Ljubljančaninu: šetao sam sa svežnjem slovenskih novina pod rukom, uljudno pozdravljao stare gospođe na biciklima, zainteresirano slušao ulične svirače i ubacivao im kovanice eura u šešire, te glasno podvikivao na besposlene prosjake u najboljim godinama, podsjećajući ih da u Renaultovoj tvornici u Novom Mestu rade Bugari i Rumunji. Nisam pušio na ulici, prelazio sam je na obilježenim pješačkim prijelazima, po četiri-pet puta, gore-dolje, da svi vide kako ja nisam neodgojeni južnjak. Čak sam razmišljao da kupim skije za skijaške letove i da ih nehajno prebacim preko ramena, kao pravi alpski Slovenac, ali sam shvatio da bi to bilo malo preupadljivo. Onda sam zaustavio jednog klinca, gimnazijalca koji je šetao tuda s djevojkom, i pitao ga gdje je najbliži muzički dućan, da malo obnovim svoju kolekciju slovenske glazbe, zaostalu još iz vremena kad su Predin, Kreslin i Lovšin bili vrlo "in". Klinac me, međutim, nije razumio ni riječi, i ja sam shvatio da, makar sa skijama na ramenima i perfektnim slovenskim manirima, i makar slovenski čitam manje-više bez problema, na slovenskom znam reći samo "adijo pamet, stara kurba, adijo svet", te izrecitirati braću Ameršek, braću Petrič i ostalu slovensku braću. Cijelo vrijeme ja sam, naime, podrazumijevao da svi Slovenci znaju hrvatski, onako kako ga znaju hotelski recepcioneri, konobari, prodavačice i policajci, koji skriveni iza stupova hotela Slon vrebaju južnjake i na perfektnom hrvatskom znaju brojiti od jedan do sto eura.
Pričao sam s prijateljima iz Dnevnika i oni su mi potvrdili da mladi Slovenci sve manje znaju ili pak uopće ne govore hrvatski. Naravno, jednako kao što mladi Hrvati ne znaju ćirilicu i nemaju pojma, kad gledaju srpski film, što su vazduh, kiseonik ili pantalone. Mi, sredovječni veterani slovenskog punka i dalmatinskih šumaraka, pripadamo zadnjoj generaciji koja ima zajednička sjećanja, mi smo zadnja generacija koja se razumije, posljednji Mohikanci koji se u ljubljanskoj gostilni i dalmatinskoj konobi još osjećaju svoji na svome. Posljednji koji, pokazujući pasoše na Bregani, još imaju osjećaj da ih zajebava Skrivena kamera.
Pričali smo o vremenima kad nam nisu trebali pasoši i kad smo - jebote, kako to nadrealno zvuči - autostopom, bez dinara u džepu, putovali od Vardara do Triglava. Kao svi mrzovoljni sredovječni grintavci, rogoborili smo o našoj nepismenoj djeci, o malim Hrvatima koji pojma nemaju tko je Brane Oblak, i malim Slovencima koji će sutra u Makarskoj na perfektnom engleskom pitati policajca gdje je najbliža zebra. I žalili djecu kojoj su granični prijelazi gušće raspoređeni nego benzinske crpke. I naravno, bili bolno u krivu.
Netko je spomenuo kako je sin njegovog prijatelja, koji vjerojatno nikad nije bio ni u Zagrebu, jednog dana sjeo u auto i otišao časkom u München, kao da ide u Mercator, ja sam spomenuo kako moja Dora silno želi jednog dana studirati u Italiji, i shvatio sam kako je njihova Jugoslavija malo veća od naše, i kako će oni sutra u nekoj portugalskoj gostionici ili francuskom bistrou biti svoji na svome kao ja danas u Ljubljani. Imat će svoja neka zajednička sjećanja, na ljetovanje će ići u Grčku ili na Crno more, na koncerte u London ili Berlin, a na vječiti derbi u Milano ili Glasgow. I smijat će se starcima kojima je domovina bio rječnik, a ne atlas.
I neka im je s tom domovinom više sreće nego s našom. Pameti ionako već sad imaju više. Mi smo se sa svojom odavno pozdravili: adijo pamet, stara kurba, dobar dan, svet!


Orhan Orhanowski :D





Sala, i ovo je Boris Dezulovic :thumbup:

#177

Posted: 15/03/2007 20:16
by Nancy Drew
...

#178

Posted: 15/03/2007 21:39
by pitt
dok jos nisu ukinuli access za digitalnu biblioteku :D:D

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NARRATIVES AND RIGHTS: ZLATA'S DIARY AND THE CIRCULATION OF STORIES OF SUFFERING ETHNICITY
Sidonie Smith. Women's Studies Quarterly. New York: Spring 2006.Vol.34, Iss. 1/2; pg. 133, 20 pgs


At this historical moment, the human rights regime is the primary global project for managing injustice and immiseration around the world (Farmer 2003,49), and life stories are at once ground and grist of rights work, rights instrumentalities, and rights politics. This conjunction of life narration, broadly defined, and contemporary human rights activisms, is indeed, as Kay Schaffer and I argue in Human Rights and Narrated Lives: The Ethics of Recognition, a productive and problematic yoking of the decidedly intimate with the global.' Since the language of human rights is the contemporary lingua franca for addressing the problem of suffering (Ignatieff 2001, 7), the attachment of personal storytelling to the discourse and the institutions of the human rights regime enables survivors of and witnesses to injury and harm to make their grievances public and to draw attention to specific environments of suffering around the world. At the same time, this yoking of personal narrative and international rights politics affects the kinds of life stories and the narrative subject positions that can gain a global audience.

Take, for instance, the post-Cold War resurgence of ethnic nationalism, with the attendant reorganization of politics in Eastern Europe, that has set large numbers of people in motion-into refugee camps, resettlement programs, and diasporic communities in receiving nations such as the United States. Under violent assault, displaced, haunted by traumatic memories, members of ethnic communities turn to life storytelling to extend global recognition of the violence unleashed against people on the basis of their ethnic identification. Their acts of narration emerge out of local contexts of rights violations. But to the extent that local movements "go international," these witnesses participate through their storytelling in global processes that create a climate for the intelligibility, reception, and recognition of new stories about ethnicity under assault. Gillian Whitlock calls this breakthrough to public attention a "discursive threshold" (2000,144).

Through their stories of ethnic suffering, witnesses expose the violence inflicted by those pursuing the project of ethnic nationalism as a goal of state formation. They also reveal the complexities and conundrums involved in telling stories of ethnic difference and grievance through frameworks and institutions founded on the concept of abstract universality. For many witnesses, the embeddedness of stories of ethnic suffering in the discourses, institutions, and practices of the human rights regime provides the previously unheard and invisible a narrative framework, a context and occasion, an audience, and a subject position from which to makes claims. And yet, in order to circulate their stories within the global circuits of the human rights regime and bring crises of violence and suffering to a larger public, witnesses give their stories over to journalists, publishers, publicity agents, marketers, and rights activists whose framings of personal narratives participate in the commodification of suffering, the reification of the universalized subject position of innocent victim, and the displacement of historical complexity by the feel-good opportunities of empathetic identification.

This case of personal storytelling in the regime of human rights suggests how it is that life narration reproduces, is animated by, and contributes to a paradox at the heart of human rights discourse and practice: the uneasy enfolding of the universal in the ethnic particular. Elicited, framed, produced, circulated, and received within the contemporary regime of human rights, the life story of ethnic suffering at once ennobles an authentic (and sentimentalized) voice of suffering and depersonalizes that voice precisely because of the commodification of suffering in the global flows of the human rights regime. Emerging from a local site of ethnic struggle, the story enters the Westerndominated global circuits, through which it can lose its local specificity. It can reach global audiences far from its point of origin, there to be interpreted and reproduced in unpredictable ways, some of which might universalize suffering and elide difference.

In this essay, I cannot possibly do justice to the complexities of the conjunction of life storytelling and the contemporary regime of human rights, as that conjunction captures and complicates transnational ethnic formations and the remembering of suffering at this historical moment. What I can do here is locate one published narrative of besieged ethnicity in Eastern Europe that circulated in the United States, Zlata Filipovic's Zlata's Diary, and elucidate some of the contradictory effects of the commodification of narratives of suffering ethnicity through a rights regime that attaches abstract universality to ethnic difference under assault. I do so in order to assay what we might learn about the mobilization and globalization of personal stories of ethnic suffering in a human rights regime that serves as one of the central "managers" of ethnicity today.2

ZLATA'S DIARY AND THE ETHICS OF ETHNIC IDENTITIES

Reflecting on the dynamic relay between the ethnic, the national, and the diasporic, Ien Ang notes that "the rise of militant, separatist neonationalisms in Eastern Europe and elsewhere in the world signals an intensification of the appeal of ethnic absolutism and exclusionism which underpin the homeland myth, and which is based on the fantasy of a complete juncture of'where you're from' and 'where you're at'" (2001, 34). She notes, as have Bruce Robbins and Eisa Stamatopoulou, the power of "the principle of nationalist universalism," or what she describes as "the fantasmatic vision of a new world order consisting of hundreds of self-contained, self-identical nations" (Ang 2001, 34; Robbins and Stamatopoulou 2004, 425). The struggle to enforce this new world order was dramatically and traumatically witnessed in the events in the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s. In the midst of the "new Europe," the people of the former Yugoslavia found themselves the subjects of salient ethnicities.

In the wake of President Tito's death and the loss of Soviet hegemony in Eastern Europe, the former Yugoslavia fractured into ethnic and (tenuously) multiethnic states. Croatia and Slovenia declared independence in 1991. In early March 1992, the government of Bosnia-Herzegovina held a referendum on independence from the Yugoslav federation (dominated by Serbia), which was boycotted by the Bosnian Serbs. The Bosnian parliament declared independence on April 5,1992. Before official recognition of the decision by the European Community on April 6, however, wars for ethnic dominance and hegemony erupted in Bosnia. secessionist Serb paramilitaries armed and launched their bid to gain control of the new country for annexation to the Republic of Serbia. Immediately, the city of Sarajevo came under siege, one that would last until a cease-fire went into effect in late 1995. Inhabitants of the mountain-surrounded, multiethnic city of Sarajevo, which had gained the world's attention when it hosted the international athletes and spectators of the 1984 Olympic Games, found themselves trapped inside the blockaded city, forced to organize their everyday lives so as to evade sniper bullets and mortar attacks and to find scarce food and medical supplies. Bosnian Serb paramilitaries, supported by Slobodan MiloSevic in the Republic of Serbia, pursued a policy of genocide ("ethnic cleansing") for which they are now being held accountable in the international war crimes trials at The Hague. By early 1994 the United Nations reported that some ten thousand people had lost their lives or gone missing, among them fifteen hundred children; another fifty-six thousand had been wounded, including fifteen thousand children.3 Eventually, the international community intervened, taking action against the besieging Serbs. As the Serbian paramilitaries lost ground, peace negotiations gained momentum. In October 1995, the United Nations brokered a cease-fire in Bosnia; in December the Dayton Accords were signed, establishing the blueprint for postwar stability, which would involve two autonomous governmental entities, the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina (or the Muslim-Croat Federation) and the Republika Srpska. In late February 1996 the Bosnian government declared the siege of Sarajevo officially over.

Throughout the four-year siege, journalists assigned to Sarajevo reported on the realities of life lived under siege, the deaths of noncombatants, and devastation of the city and its infrastructure. They brought their stories of the siege to an international public. Yet foreign journalists were not the only ones to provide stories of ethnic cleansing and ethnicity under assault to the wider world. Slatko Dizdarevic's Sarajevo: A War Journal (1993) chronicled the early years of the siege. Then in late 1993 another personal story reached an international audience, this one the diary of a young girl.

For a two-year period from September 1991 to October 1993, the young Zlata Filipovic kept a diary in which she recorded her everyday life in an increasingly besieged Sarajevo. Through her diaristic record of that everyday life, the young Bosnian-Croat described, and sometimes reflected upon, the disintegration of a cosmopolitan way of life and the gradual disruption and degradation of middle-class familiality through the war of ethnic nationalisms and the genocidal assault by Bosnian Serb paramilitaries. In the summer of 1993, Zlata shared her diary with her teacher, who subsequently found a publisher in Sarajevo. Through the sponsorship of the International Centre for Peace, the diary was originally published in Croat by UNICEF. With the recognition of the diary in Bosnia, Zlata became a "celebrity" victim, labeled "the young Anne Frank" of Sarajevo. Recognizing the affective appeal and power of personalizing the story of the siege through its refraction in the eyes of the young girl, international journalists covering the war turned their attention to "Zlata's" story.

Several months after its publication in Sarajevo, a French photographer took a copy of Zlata's diary to Paris, where Le Robert LaffontFixot made a successful bid to become its French publisher. Le Robert Laffont-Fixot also provided the money and means to fly Zlata and her family from Sarajevo to Paris just before Christmas 1993. In early 1994 the French translation of the diary appeared as Journal de Zlata. In this instance, life writing functioned as a means of life saving. The material diary became a commodity through which a life's sheer survival and betterment could be exchanged. Zlata's diary writing gained her and her family escape from snipers and the bombs of the siege and enabled her to start a new life in Paris (and subsequently Ireland).

From Paris the diary traveled to New York City, where it was auctioned off in a sale conducted by its French publisher. With a bid of $560,000, Viking Penguin (a subsidiary of Penguin Books) won the rights to publish Zlata's Diary: A Child's Life in Sarajevo and did so in March 1994. After publication in the United States, the diary began to reach an ever-widening mass audience. Irene Webb of International Creative Management subsequently bought the rights to represent the book in any movie deal. As reported in the New York Times, on January 19, 1994, Webb announced: "It's like the 'Diary of Anne Frank,' but with a happy ending" (Lyall 1994, C20). Upon publication, the Englishlanguage version of the diary circulated broadly within the United States, becoming "an extraordinary national best seller," according to the book cover. Eventually it moved into the social studies curricula in the nation's public schools. As one Web site announces: "Zlata's diary brings Sarajevo home as no news report ever could" (The Unsung Heroes of Dialogue).

In the years after the diary's publication, Zlata became a "spokeschild" for the conditions of ethnic genocide and displacement in the former Yugoslavia, appearing through the auspices of the United Nations as an ambassador speaking on behalf of the children of Bosnia. International attention brought increased interest in the conditions in the former Yugoslavia and, after the cessation of fighting, in the rights of the child internationally. In 1995 Zlata appeared as a special guest at the 1995 Children's World Peace Festival in San Francisco. The attention garnered by the diary and its circulation within the United States and Europe produced an aura-effect around Zlata herself, elevating her and legimating her as a "universal" voice of the child suffering from human rights abuses. Since those years, Zlata has continued as an activist on behalf of the human rights of children, helping to launch UNICEF reports on the impact of armed conflict on children. Her diary continues to be highlighted as suggested reading on Web sites mounted by activists working on behalf of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. During the summer of 2004, a stage version of Zlata's Diary, produced by Communicado Productions, toured Scotland. Though no longer a child, Zlata continues to speak on behalf of besieged childhood from her home in Dublin.

REFLECTIONS ON THIS STORY OF SUFFERING ETHNICITY

lnterethnic Appeals and the Production of Collective Memory

Through the publication of the diary in the West, "Zlata" becomes a marketable archetype of the suffering victim of ethnic nationalism in extremis. The publication of her story of lost childhood, of innocence under assault, is meant to lend immediacy to calls for intervention on the part of the international community in the ethnic war in Bosnia and the organized acts of genocide carried out in service to nationalist myths and the nationalist "fantasy of a utopie space to be occupied by all those who suffered 'the same' violence at the hands of the enemy" (Wilson 1996, 16)/ And yet the case of Zlata's diary suggests how interethnic the appeal to ethnicity under assault becomes.

Within Zlata's diary and within its zones of circulation and reception, Jewish ethnicity comes to underwrite the aura of suffering of a largely unmarked Croatian ethnicity. Here is an instance in which one ethnicity gets attached to another ethnicity globalized in world memory through a particular mode of life writing, the child's diary. Zlata herself invokes the comparison to Anne Frank early in her Diary. Like Anne Frank she chooses a name for her diary. Writing on Monday, March 30, 1992, she opens her entry with "Hey, Diary! You know what I think? Since Anne Frank called her diary Kitty, maybe I could give you a name too" (Filipovié 1994, 27). In all subsequent entries Zlata addresses the diary as "Mimmy," projecting an affectionate and interested interlocutor and keeper of her secrets. Moreover, already in 1993 in Sarajevo, Zlata, at thirteen, was called "the young Anne Frank" (Di Giovanni 1994, v). The identification of Zlata's story with the story of Anne Frank, its modeling upon the earlier text, its adoption of the earlier diarist's mode of address to an interlocutor; all these citations suggest the way in which the "authenticity" of this contemporary girl, this "Zlata," derives from the earlier editing and marketing of "Anne Frank" as a figure of universalized innocence and heroic suffering whose celebrity can be borrowed in making claims about the struggle against racial violence and ethnic cleansing.

In Zlata's self-positioning in her diary as a modern-day Anne Frank and in the marketing of "Zlata" as a new "Anne Frank," both narrator and marketer assume the global resonance of the iconic figure of Anne Frank, assume that "Anne Frank" will be collectively remembered as having been tragically lost in the Holocaust. The affective appeal of the Sarajevan girl's story of lost childhood becomes intelligible to a broad educated readership through the global aftereffects of collective world memory of another "ethnic" girl's narrative of lost girlhood and lost life. The haunting remains of "Anne Frank," and the aura of the Holocaust as paradigmatic event of twentieth-century genocide, attaches itself to this "child's" narrative as Zlata and her publishers attach her story to that of Anne Frank, who has through her widely read Diary, as the Web site for the Anne Frank Foundation puts it, "become a world-wide symbol representing all victims of racism, anti-Semitism and fascism. She stands for victims who lived at the same time as she did just as much as for the victims of today. The foremost message contained in her Diary sets out to combat all forms of racism and anti-Semitism" (Anne Frank Foundation). In this instance, Jewish ethnicity functions as an ethnicity of reference in the globalization of the human rights regime.

This aspect of the production and circulation of Zlata's Diary within the regime of human rights points to ethnic remembering and storytelling as an historical effect of transethnic comparisons; an interethnic energy distributed across unevenly remembered events in world memory. The forces of globalization, Clifford Bob notes, offer victims and activists responding to ethnic violence "symbols of oppression and repertoires of contention" through which to organize and project their local grievances in an international arena (2002, 134). Brent Edwards argues that "the level of the international is accessed unevenly by subjects with different historical relations to the nation" (2003, 7). I would adapt his argument to make the point that the level of the transnational is accessed unevenly by ethnic subjects with different historical relations to the global circuits of world memory.

The Depoliticization of a Globalized Ethnic Suffering

In her critique of the sentimentalization of suffering, Karyn Ball has called for the comparative study of traumatic histories, in order, she writes, "to forge links among traumatic histories that would raise Americans' historical consciousness and promote their sense of civic responsibility" (2000,15). Ball's is a call for comparative studies of histories of suffering, necessary to complicating any one model of traumatic remembering, any one paradigm for understanding witness testimony, and any singular model of possibilities for recovery and recognition. In one sense we might read Zlata's Diary as pursuing, at once consciously and unwittingly, what Ball describes as a "strategy of comparison in order to forge links among traumatic histories" by yoking "Zlata" and "Anne Frank." Here is a strategy of comparison in action. And yet this strategy of comparison from the ground up, as it were, and through the perspective of an adolescent immersed in a globalized popular culture, may not so much illuminate the incommensurable differences and the specificities of ethnic histories as have the effect of flattening history through an appeal to empathetic, depoliticized sentimentality.

As a text commanding response and responsible action, Zlata's Diary is represented and marketed in ways that sentimentalize the suffering Bosnian-Croat subject by lifting that subject outside history and politics. The commodification of stories of ethnic suffering obscures the complex politics of historical events, stylizes the story to suit an educated international audience familiar with narratives of individual triumph over adversity, evokes emotive responses trained on the feelgood qualities of successful resolution, and often universalizes the story of suffering so as to erase incommensurable differences and the horror of violence. The commodification of the young girl's diary gives us a version of the story of "Anne Frank"-but with a happy ending.

Yet there is more to the relationship established between the contemporary Zlata and the 1940s Anne Frank. The forces of commodification have framed the earlier diary as well. In successive decades since its initial publication, The Diary of Anne Frank has been edited and interpreted, reedited and reinterpreted, marketed and circulated, to give some of its audiences an "Americanized" "Anne Frank" situated not in a determinative ethnicity but situated as an adolescent subject inspiring hope and promise "for everyone." As an early reviewer of the stage version of the Diary wrote in 1955, "Anne Frank is a Little Orphan Annie brought into vibrant life" (New York Daily News, October 6, 1955, qtd. in Rosenfeld 1991). Alvin H. Rosenfeld suggests that the early version of the diary and the 1955 stage play based on the diary as adapted by Goodrich and Hackett present "an image of Anne Frank that would be widely acceptable to large numbers of people in the postwar period . . . one characterized by such irrepressible hope and tenacious optimism as to overcome any final sense of a cruel end" (251-52). He further elaborates how the play and its reviews erase the haunting marks of ethnic difference, eliding references to the Jewishness of the Frank family and playing up the figure of the "universal" teenager struggling with her own adolescence and hopeful about the future. The Jewish particularities of the Anne Frank who lived in the attic and died in Bergen Belsen are suppressed in order to broadcast a story of universal inspiration. Made into a story that "speaks" to "everyone" about what Hanno Loewy points to as "the personalized world of family experience" (1999, 156), the diary of Anne Frank becomes a story that can no longer speak of ethnic difference. The iconic "Anne Frank" becomes an abstract universal "detached from her own vivid sense of herself as a Jew" (Rosenfeld 1991, 257). Rosenfeld defines Anne Frank as a "contemporary cultural icon" (244), whose name is so well known that "[t]o the world at large" the 1.5 million children who perished in the Holocaust "all bear one name-that of Anne Frank" (243).5 "Anne Frank" has become the child that died in the genocidal Holocaust.

The production, circulation, and reception of Zlata's story of ethnicity under assault as "the deepest truth about the Bosnia situation" has had the effect of "leech[ing]," according to David Rieff, "the Bosnian tragedy of its complexity" (1994, 32). If the category of the ethnic, and the global visibility and saliency of particular ethnic identifications, are historical effects of a modernity founded on the articulation of universal categories of abstract equality (see Kazanjian 2003, 4-27), then the trackings of ethnicities enfolded in one another at once create a superfluity of the particularities of difference and cancel differences through the abstract equality (a universalism) of those who share suffering. The figure of the child commodified in the global flows of the rights regime and its management of ethnicity becomes the sentimental public face of ethnic trauma and the violence of ethnic nationalism, the essentialized figure of the community's "victim" and its victimization. To put it another way, "Zlata," with her invocation of "Anne Frank," becomes a universalized category, ethnicity's besieged child.

The Remains of Ethnic Suffering

The commodification of ethnic suffering also contributes to the ethnic as a site of sentimental attachment. For members of communities experiencing contemporary displacement, ethnicity can function as a trace of continuity across rupture; and stories of ethnic suffering can offer occasions for constituting the remembered past as a resource for understanding identities in the social present (Eller 1997). When Zlata's Diary enters into circuits of consumption in the United States and Western Europe-through the purchase of publishing and the film rights-the narrative begins to circulate in venues where it can be invoked as a marker of Croatian ethnicity under assault, or a lost Bosnian cosmopolitanism, thereby sustaining nationalist narratives of suffering and loss so often central to the imagination of the ethnic as a site of sentimental attachment. Because reading narratives of suffering and loss is not only "a profoundly personal act, belonging to a psychological sphere, but... also the effect of inhabiting various cultural spaces" (Bennett and Kennedy 2003, 7), published narratives such as this diary produce an archive of memories of "ethnicity." The story might thereby set in motion new releases of affective energies (Guattari 2000, 36); and those energies can be put to use in the social struggles over competing rememberings of "Bosnia" and its wars of ethnic nationalisms. This story can become a part of the cultural stories, the reservoir of collective memory upon which ethnic nationalism is both founded and sustained.

For some, then, Zlata's Diary participates in the production and circulation of new collective memories (for members of the diasporan Croatian community in the United States, for instance), offering a future site of melancholy, what David Eng and David Kazanjian define as the "psychic and material practices of loss and its remains" (2003, 5). It puts in play residual glimpses of the past as remembered tradition of interethnic community or ethnic grievance. Contributing to "a contemporary landscape of memory" (Bennett and Kennedy 2003, 8) through which future subjects may negotiate their ethnic attachments and pasts, the personal diary may underwrite future historical grievances. This narrative of loss told through the voice of the "innocent" child becomes a site of melancholy which "creates a realm of traces open to signification, a hermeneutic domain of what remains of loss" (Eng and Kazanjian 2003, 4). The child becomes the sentimental public figure of ethnic trauma.

The Universalized Innocence of Ethnic Appeals

The marketing of Zlata as a victim/commentator on suffering ethnicity presents the young girl in the subject position of unassailable innocent. As Kay Schaffer and I note in Human Rights and Narrated Lives (2004), some survivors of human rights abuses are more easily equated with the subject position of victim than others. The child is, as Hughes D'aeth suggests in his discussion of the film Rabbit-Proof Fence (2002), easily the most accessible and readily believable of victim identities. In the context of human rights campaigns, life narrators are expected to take up the subject position of "innocent" victims; and they are expected to be able to occupy that position with moral authority. And yet the person whose rights are violated cannot always be assumed to occupy the subject position of innocent victim. The marketing of sentimental suffering, especially through a child "s-eye narrative viewpoint and the trope of childhood lost, obscures the permeability of the categories of victim and perpetrator, and obscures the relationship of perpetrator to beneficiary. Such stories reinforce the differentiated identities of ethnic victim and ethnic perpetrator, reinforce rather than confuse the moral alignment of innocence and victimization. Begging the question of innocence in childhood, we might say that in human rights discourse and campaigns, "the child" is given to speak for the better part of "ourselves," the better part of human nature, the better part of our community. Rieff, in his critique of Zlata's Diary, assails the way in which the child is made to speak wisdom, to be positioned as the voice of knowledge (1994,33).6

The "innocence" effect is produced through Zlata's self-conscious invocation of the trope of lost childhood and her shifting terms of reference. Within her diary, Zlata is self-conscious about the importance of her narrative, its possible attraction to others. She even writes about becoming a "personality" after the initial publication of the diary. And once interest is expressed in her diary, she begins to reflect on the situation in Sarajevo in rather poignant ways. Zlata's self-consciousness about her celebrity and her recognition of her role as representative child of Sarajevo emphasizing the tragedy of "lost childhood" (a discourse that comes from the journalists and advocates who take up her story) undoes the truth effect of "innocent child" and the "child's-eye view" otherwise produced through the diary. Already, within the production of the diary, the politics of commodified sentimentality are evident.

The innocence effect is also reinforced through the packaging of Zlata's Diary and the paratextual use of photographs that visualize the young girl's story as a sentimentalized drama of lost childhood. One photograph in particular captures "innocence" and the "production of innocence" at the same time. There is a photo of Zlata in bed, framed by the caption "Zlata, who loves books, reads by candlelight." To get the picture for mass distribution through global media, the candlelight has to be photographed; photographed, it is overwhelmed and rendered inauthentic by the light from the flash of the bulb. Through such visuals, the authenticity of sentimental childhood is at once produced and exposed as artificial, as the reviewer for Newsweek noted ("Child of War," 1994, 27). My point here is not that the diary is "inauthentic" or "suspect" as witness testimony. It is, rather, that the commercialization of the diary and its capture in what Lauren Berlant has described as "sentimental politics," here a politics of the ethical (soliciting response and responsibility across social divides), obscures the difficult politics of histories of difference and violence. We see here the modernist project of producing the authority of universalized innocence.

Saving Whose Child

The paratextual apparatus of the "introduction" to the diary invites the reader to act in response to this child witness and her story. In her preface, journalist Janine Di Giovanni orients the reader to the text to come, prompting the reader to adopt an activist stance. She writes: "Zlata kept a careful record of the chilling events-the deaths, the mutilations, the sufferings. When we read her diaries, we think of desperation, of confusion and of innocence lost, because a child should not be seeing, should not be living with this kind of horror. Her tragedy becomes our tragedy because we know what is happening in Sarajevo. And still, we do not act" (1994, xii). Di Giovanni establishes a reading praxis that foregrounds the figure of the innocent child and the trope of innocence lost, orienting a global middle-class readership to the "representative" story of all the suffering children of Sarajevo.

Di Giovanni assumes an adult audience implicated, as surrogate parents, in this tragedy. The journalist can address these readers as passive bystanders to massive human suffering. For the journalist introducing the narrative to the Western reader, the point is to spur an affect of shame. Here, as elsewhere in the era of humanitarianism and human rights, images of children and lost childhoods are invoked to shame individuals, communities, nations, and that imagined "international community" into action. Those images become invitations to rescue. And the reader is addressed as the universal parent, called to respond as the parent of all children. The diary and its paratext shift the register of appeal from the particularity of the ethnic subject under duress to the universal abstraction of the child of human rights. But the appeal of "the child" in need of saving is that the child is everybody's child and thus nobody's specific child, living in a specific location.

There is yet another large audience for Zlata's diary, other young people in classrooms in Europe and the United States. An "innocent" victim of and witness to ethnicity besieged, Zlata writes from her location within a middle-class family. And her diary is marketed to a broad middle-class readership educated about, familiar with, and prepared to respond to stories of childhood suffering. The published version includes a cast of family characters and a photo album, with images of the wholesome, open-faced, smiling Zlata, a figure of the innocent child tugging on the sympathies of the reader. The home is a middle-class one, the occasions of the photos birthday parties and family outings. The photo album appeals to Western readers-both adults and children, presenting a home and a family the educated reader can imagine inhabiting.

Throughout the diary, Zlata's citation of global popular culture resonates in its references with the lives of young people in Western Europe and the United States. The constant citation of a global popular culture (a popular culture whose primary, though by no means whole, point of reference is the United States) situates the subject of the diary in a nondifierentiated space of consumer adolescence and global youth culture. In this, Zlata is "representative" of a commodified and "universal" adolescent subject knowledgeable about and attentive to the products, icons, celebrities, and self-descriptions of the global marketplace. As she interweaves comments on the common references of global youth culture and the trope of childhood lost, Zlata assumes the subject position of the universal middle-class child anxious about childhood itself.7

The international community looked on, watched the war in Bosnia on nightly news, and failed to take decisive action to intervene in the early years of the siege. Zlata's Diary made, and continues to make, good reading in the social studies courses of U.S. and European classrooms. But as Thomas Keenan argues so persuasively in his exploration of the mutually constituting intersection of endless images of suffering and political inaction, "images, information, and knowledge will never guarantee any outcome, nor will they force or drive any action. They are, in that sense, like weapons or words: a condition, but not a sufficient one" (2002, 114). And yet Zlata herself gained stature as a spokesperson for the UN's covenant on the rights of the child. She and her story continue to spur occasions for children from around the world to connect through organized and online activities. In this, Zlata and her diary have participated in and contributed to a new arena of human rights activism.

We can, however, turn the argument around once again. Lisa Makman has observed that children themselves have now become the crusading upholders of the rights of the child to a childhood perceived by increasing numbers of people in industrialized democracies as under assault. Makman tracks recent UN discourse about "the world's children" and attributes this focus on childhood under assault to cultural anxieties, circulating in the mainstream media in the United States, about the "ero[sion]" of a "universal" innocent childhood caused by the influences of new technologies and global media (2002, 289, 291) Through the commodification of stories of ethnic suffering and the sentimentalized "channels of affective identification and empathy" (Berlant 1999, 53), ethnicity's besieged child is becoming the universally besieged child of a universally besieged childhood.

CONCLUSION

As a marker of identity and difference, ethnicity is an effect of modernity rather than a residue from the past prior to modernity. Ethnicity, Jack David Eller suggests, is "a radical appropriation and application of otherness to the practical domain" (1997). Thus, modernity involves what Rey Chow describes as "the systematic codification and management of ethnicity" (1998, 11). The contemporary regime of human rights is a primary site for this project of codification and management. In human rights campaigns targeted on ethnic rights in the midst of ethnic nationalism in extremis, ethnicity has to be "managed" as immobile difference through a modernist fiction of a totalizing ethnicity (a definitive inside to a collectivity) under assault from an outside (see Chow 1998). Moreover, human rights discourse and campaigns are responses to, and in turn engage in, the production of salient ethnicities and ethnicities of reference.

This case study of Zlata's Diary and the problematics of ethnic suffering exposes the "logical contradictions" and "epistemic paradoxes" (Kadir 2003, 14) enfolded within and enfolding the production, circulation, and reception of personal narratives in the regime of human rights. Abstract universality and ethnic difference are both "mythographic reductions" at once underwriting, energizing, and reconfiguring the human rights regime. Through the pathways and byways of global circuits localized and local circuits globalized, the tensions binding abstract universality and ethnic difference release energies that reconnect, diverge, and converge around the international community's struggle with injustice and suffering. I have used Zlata's Diary to reflect on the circuits of ethnicity as sentimental politics in the regime of human rights. And so let me conclude with some observations about the conjunction of the human rights regime and narrations of suffering ethnicity.

Narratives enlisted in and attached to human rights campaigns participate in the articulation of a history of suffering and loss attached to ethnic identity and the articulation of communal fictions of ethnicity (imaginings and grievances). Narratives of suffering and loss bind communities sharing some common "ethnic" past (or language, culture, defining events), across their local, national, and diasporic differences at the same time that they appeal to others who do not share that ethnic marker. They provide historical information, intergenerational communication, rallying cries, sites of healing. They offer a means to claim rights and demand redress and also to claim a shared past and shared tradition. They ignite an affective charge attached to identity under assault, project a figure of the victim for political mobilization, and serve as a means of shaming a nation and the international community into acknowledging and redressing claims. Because they are so critical to the contemporary regime of human rights, stories such as that presented in Zlata's Diary become cultural capital, for individuals and for ethnic communities. Sometimes the publication and circulation of a specific narrative becomes a "focusing event" (Bob 2002, 136, citing Kingdon 1984, 99-100) that galvanizes international attention and action, as was the case with Rigoberta Menchu's I, Rigoberta Menchu: An Indian Woman in Guatemala (1984), which gained recognition for the situation of Guatemala's indigenous community in its struggle against a repressive state.8

Emanating from local settings that are inflected by and inflect the global, life stories are taken up in a host of different, formal and informal, material and symbolic, sites and networks where they undergo further transformations. In effect, narratives of suffering such as Zlata's Diary are produced, circulated, and received within an intricate, uneven, and overlapping set of spheres: the local, the national, the regional, the global. They also travel within overlapping, uneven, and intersecting zones of ethnic identification and affiliation: the diasporic, the transethnic; the national ethnic, and the local ethnic-all heterogeneous zones of identification and historical tracings differently located, differently accessed. Moreover, such stories, as we have seen, unfold through and enfold overlapping, uneven, and contradictory appeals to ethnic singularity and abstract universality at once.

Finally, commodifled narratives of suffering ethnicity enter a global field saturated with multiple modes of appeal and cues to interpretation. They reach for readers/viewers/the public, calling that public into definition (as a middle-class public of parents and children; as an ethnic public of dispersed Bosnia Croat refugees). As with all such appeals, suggests Thomas Keenan, "the public is the possibility of being a target and of being missed" (2002,108).

[Footnote]
NOTES
I am indebted to Kay Schaffer for her comments on certain aspects of the framing and marketing of Zlata's Diary. I am indebted to Laurie McNeill for conversation about Anne Frank's diary. I am also indebted to John Cords and Elspeth Healey for their research assistance.
1. In our study, we look expansively at the multiple sites of personal story-telling attached to human rights campaigns: published life narratives, fact-finding in the field, handbooks and Web sites, nationally based human rights commissions, human rights commission reports, collections of testimonies, stories in the media, and the scattered everyday venues through which narratives circulate.
2. See Chow on the management of ethnicity (1998, 11).
3. See the Final Report of the United Nations Commission of Experts established pursuant to Security Council Resolution 780 (1992), submitted May 27, 1994 (United Nations 1994).
4. Wilson here cites the work of Glenn Bowman and his discussion of the ways in which "the narrating of past mass violations plays a constitutive role in the formation of all nationalisms" (qtd. in Wilson 1996, 16). Wilson does not give a reference for the Bowman paper.
5. As Rosenfeld makes clear, "Anne Frank" is remembered differently in different communities at different historical moments. After analyzing the Americanization of "Anne Frank," he goes on to explore the reception of the diary by Germans and by Jewish writers and intellectuals and concludes that "in both Germany and Israel one finds a common history marked by a common symbol but shaped by very different motives and yielding diverse interpretations of the past" (1991, 277).
6. Rieff also indicts the way she is made to speak as a commentator on behalf of Bosnian innocence. Comparing the versions of the diary published in Paris and in the United States and the interpolations added to the Viking Penguin edition, he notes the addition of references to political events and critiques of the leaders and their antics (1994, 33-34).
7. Stuart Hall has cautioned that cultural formations may work in contradictory ways. There is at once the force of homogenization and universalization across national and ethnic differences through appeals to global mass culture. There is also the incorporation and reflection back through global mass culture of the specific context of ethnic difference and its histories of suffering (1997, 32). I may be overstating the former case here.
8. For a discussion of the publication and reception of Menchu's narrative, see Schaffer and Smith (2004,29-31) and the essays in Arias 2001.

[Reference]
WORKS CITED
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Arias, Arturo, ed. 2001. The Rigoberta Menchu Controversy. With a response by David Stoll. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Ball, Karyn. 2000. "Trauma and Its Institutional Destinies." Cultural Critique 46 (Fall):1-44.
Bennett, Jill, and Roseanne Kennedy. 2003. World Memory: Personal Trajectories in Global Time. London: Palgrave.
Berlant, Lauren. 1999. "The Subject of True Feeling: Pain, Privacy, and Politics." In Cultural Pluralism, Identity Politics, and the Law, ed. Austin Sasat and Thomas R. Kearns. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.
Bob, Clifford. 2002. "Globalization and the Social Construction of Human Rights Campaigns." In Globalization and Human Rights, ed. Alison Brysk. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.
"Child of War: The Diary of Zlata Filipovie." 1994. Newsweek, February 28. 24-27.
Chow, Rey. 1998. "Introduction: On Chinesencss as a Theoretical Problem." Boundary 2 25(3):1-24.
Di Giovanni, Janine. 1994. Introduction to Zlata's Diary: A Child's Life in Sarajevo. New York: Penguin.
Dizdarevic, Slatko. 1993. Sarajevo: A War Journal. Trans. Anselm Hollo. New York: Fromm International.
Edwards, Brent. 2003. The Practice of Diaspora: Literature, Translation, and the Rise of Black Internationalism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Eller, Jack David. 1997. "Ethnicity, Culture, and 'the Past." Michigan Quarterly Review 36(4):552-601.
Eng, David L., and David Kazanjian. 2003. Loss: The Politics of Mounting. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California.
Farmer, Paul. 2003. Pathologies of Power: Health, Human Rights, and the New War on the Poor. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Filipovic, Zlata. 1994. Zlata's Diary: A Child's Life in Sarajevo. New York: Penguin.
Guattari, Félix. 2000. The Three Ecologies. Trans. Ian Pindar and Paul Sutton. London: Athlone.
Hall, Stuart. 1997. "The Local and the Global: Globalization and Ethnicity." In Culture, Globalization, and the World-System: Contemporary Conditions for the Representation of Identity, ed. Anthony D. King. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Hughes D'aeth, Tony. 2002. "Which Rabbit-Proof Fence? Empathy, Assimilation, Hollywood" Australian Humanities Review, September. http://www.lib.latrobe. edu.au/AHR/archive/Issue-September-2002/hughesdaeth.htm.
Ignatieff, Michael. 2001. Human Rights as Politics and Idolatry. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Kadir, Djelal. 2003. "Introduction: America and Its Studies." PMLA 118(1):9-24.
Kazanjian, David. 2003. The Colonizing Trick: National Culture and Imperial Citizenship in Early America. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Keenan, Thomas. 2002. "Publicity and Indifference (Sarajevo on Television)." PMLA 117(1):104-16.
Kingdon, John. 1984. Agendas, Alternatives, and Public Policies. 2nd ed. New York: Harper-Collins.
Loewy, Hanno. 1999. "Saving the Child: The 'Universalisation' of Anne Frank." Trans. Russell West. In Marginal Voices, Marginal Forms: Diaries in European Literature and History, ed. Rachael Langford and Russell West. Amsterdam: Rodopi.
Lyall, Sarah. "Auction of a War Diary." 1994. New York Times, January 19. sec. C20.
Makman, Lisa Hermine. 2002. "Child Crusaders: The Literature of Global Childhood." The Lion and the Unicom 26:287-304.
Menchu, Rigoberta. 1984. I, Rigokerta Menchu: An Indian Woman in Guatemala. London: Verso.
Rieff, David. 1994. "Youth and Consequences: Zlata's Diary: A Child's Life in Sarajevo." New Republic, March 28, 31-35.
Robbins, Bruce, and Eisa Stamatopoulou. 2004. "Reflections on Culture and Cultural Rights." South Atlantic Quarterly 103(2/3):419-34.
Rosenfeld, Alvin H. 1991. "Popularization and Memory: The Case of Anne Frank." In Lessons and Legacies: The Meaning of the Holocaust in a Changing World, ed. Peter Hayes. Evanston: Northwestern University Press.
Schaffer, Kay, and Sidonie Smith. 2004. Human Rights and Narrated Lives: The Ethics of Recognition. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
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Whitlock, Gillian. 2000. The Intimate Empire: Reading Women's Autobiography. London: Cassell.
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[Author Affiliation]
Professor SIDONIE SMITH is Martha Guernsey Colby Collegiate Chair of English and Women's Studies at the University of Michigan. From 1996 to 2001, she was director of women's studies at Michigan. Her books include Moving Lives: Women's Twentieth Century Travel Narratives (University of Minnesota Press 2001); Reading Autobiography: A Guide to Interpreting Life Narratives (with Julia Watson, University of Minnesota Press 2002); and the coedited volume Interfaces: Women/Autobiography/Performance/Image (with Julia Watson, University of Michigan Press 2002), and Indigenous Australian Voices: A Reader (with Jennifer Sabbioni and Kay Schaffer, Rutgers University Press 1998). Her most recent book is Human Rights and Narrated Lives (Palgrave MacMillan, 2004), co-written with Kay Schaffer

#179

Posted: 15/03/2007 21:43
by pitt
Book Reviews

Landscapes of War: From Sarajevo to Chechnya By Juan Goytisolo

Anas Malik 1 1Xavier University Cincinnati, Ohio1Xavier University Cincinnati, Ohio
Landscapes of War: From Sarajevo to Chechnya
By Juan Goytisolo
San Francisco: City Lights Books, 2000 Translated from the Spanish by Peter Bush.


Landscapes of War: From Sarajevo to Chechnya brings together Juan Goytisolo's columns for the Spanish daily El Pais, and other outlets. A reputable Spanish literary figure and essayist, Goytisolo draws on wide-ranging, provocative quotations, recalls his travels through places in different decades, and tells stories that transport his readers through big historical shifts with a human touch. Goytisolo's book offers insights on Islam and conflict in the Bosnian, Algerian, Chechnyan, and Palestinian contexts.

Although Goytisolo is clearly well-read in social analysis, his book does not follow a systematic social scientific methodology. As Goytisolo himself admits, the ideas in his book are "interim, problematic, and malleable [ . . . ] free from any corpus of dogma or instruments of ideological pressure" (p. 209). His collection is meant as an exploration into hypotheses rather than a definitive effort to prove or disprove. The work gives new meaning to the catchphrase "the personal is political": Goytisolo's personal travels and observations provide a morally-informed window on political change and tumult in the most ravaged war zones in the European conscience.

Peter Bush has translated the text into English, and one senses that the translation tried to capture more than the literal word, but also something of the feel of reading newspaper columns in Spanish. Subjects zip with irregular rapidity from location to location in geography and history. Goytisolo speaks Arabic, yet introduces at least one curious translation: the Qur'anic word for Christian (nasrani) is rendered as "European." There are far fewer paragraph breaks than one would find in the typical American or British essay. The reader used to English essays is occasionally left a little disoriented. I cannot tell whether this is because something is lost in translation, or whether it is an engineered effect with which the translator sought to replicate the Spanish reader's experience.

The great moral crisis of ethnic cleansing in Europe provides grist for Goytisolo's mill. European "small-minded egoism" and foot-dragging encouraged Serbian irredentist aggressions. Bosnian Serb leader Karadzic and Serbian Prime Minister Milosevic engaged in a thinly veiled "division of labor," playing hawk and dove to public opinion, a strategy Karadzic later replicated with his general Ratko Mladic. European justifications for passivity and inaction treated these divergences as genuine differences rather than simply a good cop-bad cop routine. European "selfish indifference" — demonstrated by the silence that greeted the Kosovo repression and the abolition of Kosova's autonomy statute — whetted Milosevic's appetite for expansion. Goytisolo expresses outrage at the complacent European attitude toward genocide when the Holocaust was in living memory.

The catalog of iniquities extends from Bosnian bloodshed to Western silence in response to the election-canceling military coup in Algeria (which followed the Islamic Salvation Front's electoral victory), to Russian brutality against Chechens, and to Palestinian despair and deprivation. The author paints "international law" as a shallow rhetorical fig leaf for selfish action or inaction on the part of European and American leadership. Without directly referring to a popular distinction in international relations theory, he takes the "idealist" or "liberal" official norms seriously, and juxtaposes them with the "reality" of self-interested, narrow, and cynically amoral pursuit of national interest by the great powers of our time. This is a tradition in journalistic political critique that is not unique. Goytisolo simply marshals more direct experiences and insights than most. Readers will not be surprised to see the British journalist Robert Fisk listed in the brief acknowledgments.

But Goytisolo's jabs are not aimed at Western powers alone. He additionally targets the presumed "progressive" revolutionary Algerian regime, one that despite early optimism lost the faith of a generation. A burgeoning youthful population is left adrift with "worthless" educational certificates and few employment prospects; even sport, a possible outlet, is hard to find. Goytisolo is perhaps strongest when he depicts Islamism as a politics of mass participation. It is politics as representation and manipulation, the struggle to establish an ideological frame and master narrative. When asked about reducing Islam from its full theological and cultural aspects to a narrow social program, FIS representatives say that "the people demand bread and justice, not Ibn Khaldun and Ibn Arabi." A particularist Qur'anic interpretation is imbued with universalist pretensions, and then acts as an ideological enabler to mass recruitment and political agitation.

If the FIS had been allowed to step into power, Goytisolo argues, it would no longer be able to hide from difficult choices behind messianic rhetoric. In power, the FIS's behavior would have had to make pragmatic choices in order to survive. Their clay feet would have returned politics to more everyday contestations. Goytisolo's insights here echo those made by Graham Fuller and other analysts in arguing that militant ideologues are likely to be mundane, comprehensible pragmatists when in positions of authority rather than destabilizing and unpredictable zealots.

In an interesting reflective cul-de-sac, Goytisolo briefly compares Spain and the Arab Muslim world, and finds parallel destinies, albeit with a three century gap. He argues that both civilizations declined as they sought to stamp out new ideas, diversity, and difference, a stark contrast to the previous eager assimilation of Western, Eastern, Indian, and Mediterranean learning. Ibn Khaldun's "melancholy" thus anticipates Cervantes' presentiment on Spain. The forced conversion of moriscos (Spanish Muslims), the abolition of the statute allowing Muslims to stay, and the decree expelling the Jews had not abolished a medieval caste separation- hidalgo pride (the "sons of something," claimants to pure-stock lineage and old Castilians) justified top dog status, the "Jewish" professions were in the middle, and moriscos were at the bottom. Goytisolo finds the morisco equivalent in modern Saudi society, where Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and Filipinos are found in humble stations.

This book is embedded within a "modernity versus tradition" frame, one that describes fundamentalism as a reaction to modernity and the encroachment on tradition and traditional space. This common view (underpinning the Fundamentalisms Project edited by Scott Appleby and Martin Marty, for example) may be criticized for not adequately interrogating the label "modernity" as well as for presuming a near-Platonic "good society" model and teleological historical process. Some acknowledgement and anticipation of such critiques would have strengthened Goytisolo's case; his reliance on his assertions could lead readers to conclude that he has not considered the alternatives.

Goytisolo suggests that Arabs and Muslims are reacting to a massive humiliation brought on by the fall from political and cultural ascendancy to subjugation and subservience. He describes a crucial clash between Muslims of different persuasions and stripes. The rationalist, poetic, historical, and mystical cultural elements are often suppressed or shunted aside. Goytisolo believes in the modernity project, an enlightened stage in a teleological history that is stymied by obscurantists and those who seek refuge in self-sufficient orthodoxy and retreat into petrified values. This brief discussion is exceptionally well-phrased and carries polemic value for believers in pluralism and inclusiveness.

Goytisolo's parting reflections are a plea to support a dialogue of civilizations over a clash of civilizations. He compares these efforts to the 15th century Juan de Segovia, a Spanish bishop who ordered that the Qur'an be translated in order to further mutual understanding, and recommended a three-stage solution: a truce of armed hostilities, steps to improve diplomatic, commercial, and cultural ties, and as trust grew, a religious authorities' conference to determine the common ground between the warring sides. This remarkably progressive and novel idea in its times — a classic effort at problem-solving and conflict resolution — never gained serious traction, as he was relegated to isolation in a Swiss monastery. Goytisolo and his intellectual fellow-travelers could be latter-day de Segovias who, if only listened to, might change history's course with an ecumenical vision. This readable work, valuable for general readers, and with food for thought for specialists, may end up with de Segovia's fate. Nevertheless, its call to engagement is noble and necessary amid the escalating hostilities in our era.

#180

Posted: 17/03/2007 00:21
by Orhanowski
Dok se hrvatski muži iživljavaju nad turistima, homoseksualcima i ostalim vanjskim neprijateljima, njihove žene prokazuju mafijaše i narkodilere te se hvataju u koštac s hrvatskim unutrašnjim prijateljima


Nekad se to zvalo “Ništa nas ne smije iznenaditi”. Bio je to jedan od sumanutijih patenata paranoidnog zrelog socijalizma: tradicionalna društvena akcija, u kojoj je jedna grupa građana iz kvarta pokušavala izvršiti državni udar u Mjesnoj zajednici, a druga ih je u tome uspješno sprječavala.

Nekome sa strane moglo je izgledati da budni čuvari socijalizma svake godine pobjeđuju zato što u akciji “Ništa nas ne smije iznenaditi” ništa nije prepušteno slučaju: plan državnog udara smišljali su stratezi društvene samozaštite, pa je uvijek budni Grgo iz škvera, odani komunist i rekorder među dobrovoljnim davateljima krvi, svaki put znao gdje je Jozo iz samoposluge, zloglasni emigrantski terorist, postavio eksploziv.

Dok su se hrvatski muži obračunavali s golim Španjolkama, Ljerka Krajnović je s pet tisuća označenih eura ušla u grotlo medicinske mafije i raskrinkala korupciju
Stvar je bila u tome da Jozo nije imao šanse jer je Grgo uvijek bio budan. I njega su, kao i nas, učili da je neprijatelj među nama: možda baš Jozo iz samoposluge, ili onaj sumnjivi turist s fotoaparatom. Žene i klinci, iz razumljivih razloga, nikad nisu sudjelovali u tim opasnim akcijama. Žene su kod kuće umornim revolucionarima pravile ručak, a nas djecu stari su partizani učili kako rogačem pisati nevidljive protuokupatorske parole, koje postanu uočljive tek nakon nekoliko sati. Instruktori općenarodne obrane, strogi isluženi udbaši, upozoravali su nas kako nikad, ali nikad!, ne smijemo podignuti s tla kemijsku olovku ili kutiju cigareta, jer sve može biti pakleni stroj, demonstrirajući kako otvarajući bačenu kutiju Marlbora možemo aktivirati eksploziv.

Zato je ekipa NNNI - “Ništa nas ne smije iznenaditi” - uvijek pobjeđivala ekipu NNNS - “Neprijatelj nikad ne spava”. U međuvremenu je uvijek budni Grgo, iscrpljen nakon godina nesanice, najzad zaspao i stvar je otišla u vražju mater. Kad se probudio, vanjski i unutrašnji neprijatelji već su razorili Jugoslaviju, a njegovi drugovi i partijski sekretari postali državotvorni hrvatski domoljubi. Grgo se nije iznenadio: odavno njega više ništa nije moglo iznenaditi.

Tako je i u suverenoj Hrvatskoj preživio revolucionarni refleks općenarodne obrane i društvene samozaštite. Promijenili su se država i poredak koje valja braniti, te njihovi vanjski i unutrašnji neprijatelji. Princip je, međutim, isti: građanin obični, pokorni u službi opće sigurnosti. Čitali ste toliko puta o uspjesima obnovljene akcije “Ništa nas ne smije iznenaditi” - svaki put kad su budni građani policiji i novinskim redakcijama slali hotelske račune na kojima je pisalo “Poreč, Jugoslavija”, i kutije sardina na kojima je stajalo “Made in Yugoslavia”. Ili javljali Vjesniku kako je novogradnja pokraj Trešnjevačkog trga u Zagrebu obojana u bojama srpske zastave. “Ne bih se usudio tvrditi da nije riječ o hotimičnim podvalama”, objašnjavao je tih godina u Obzoru akademik Dubravko Jelčić. “Netko će ih možda nazvati diverzijom, netko sabotažom, a u svakom slučaju specijalnim ratom protiv Hrvatske: organizacija zagrebačkog tramvajskog prometa možda je najuvjerljiviji primjer za ovo što vam kažem.”

Ankica Lepej

Dok su prvoborci gerile protiv specijalnog rata dojavljivali povjerljive informacije o diverziji u organizaciji zagrebačkog tramvajskog prometa, ova je žena, po cijenu otkaza i sudskog progona, raskrinkala dvoličnost i krinogenost Tuđmanova režima
Specijalni rat - nastavak agresije na Hrvatsku - završio je, dakako, pobjedom NNNI-veterana, ali to nije značilo da su građani mogli na spavanje. Ovoga ljeta akcija “Ništa nas ne smije iznenaditi” upozorava na novu opasnost: tzv. turiste.

Milijuni tih naizgled bezopasnih veseljaka u kratkim hlačama i šarenim majicama svake se godine spuštaju na hrvatsko more, s njima brojni provokatori, agenti i neprijatelji svega hrvatskog i katoličkog. Nisu se ni stišali odjeci slučaja iz zagrebačke katedrale, gdje su budni građani uhvatili turskog turista u trenutku kad je ispljunuo hostiju, a već su budni građani u Splitu pohvatali organiziranu bandu mladih Španjolki koje su kupajući se na javnoj plaži gole, sve se ljubeći i mazeći, svirepo udarile u temelje kršćanske Hrvatske. Splitski su muži žrtvovali i na oltar domovinske sigurnosti prinijeli i vlastitu galebarsku reputaciju, izmišljotinu bezbožnog komunizma: gole su Španjolke prijavljene policiji i najurene s plaže, brže nego je i onaj domaći izdajnik, što je u prikrajku masturbirao, uspio svršiti.

Pamtimo kako je nedavno u istom gradu uspješnom akcijom budnih građana uhvaćen i onesposobljen onaj nizozemski špijun što je kamerom snimao ljudske i prirodne resurse Republike Hrvatske. Organiziranom akcijom budnih građana osujećen je i desant homoseksualaca na Hvar, kao i diverzija čeških turista koji su na tom otoku razbili stari kameni križ.

Ipak, možda je najpotresnija priča iz Pregrade kraj Varaždina, gdje su budni građani otkrili da im djeca na maturalnu ekskurziju u Španjolsku putuju bosanskim autobusom - čak da su i vozači Bosanci - te o toj stravičnoj sabotaži obavijestili uvijek budni Večernji list. Budni su građani tako osujetili pakleni plan islamskih terorista, onako kako su u Kaštelima osujetili humanitarni koncert bombaša samoubojice Halida Bešlića.

Primijetili ste kako su u ovim širokim društvenim akcijama glavne uloge vodili budni hrvatski muževi. Gdje su, međutim, hrvatske žene? Da vidimo: dok su se hrvatski muži u plićaku splitske plaže obračunavali s golim Španjolkama, jedna je žena, bivša rukometašica Ljerka Krajnović, s pet tisuća označenih eura ušla u grotlo medicinske mafije i raskrinkala korupciju u hrvatskom zdravstvu. Dok su se hrvatski muži na otocima obračunavali sa sumnjivim strancima i homoseksualcima, jedna je žena, pravaška zastupnica Ruža Tomašić, sama raskrinkala otočku narkomafiju. Stvar je simptomatična: dok se debeljuškasti heroji akcije “Ništa nas ne smije iznenaditi” - uvijek u čoporu, osiguranih leđa, s glavom u torbi koliko i kad su, prije dvadeset godina, hvatali Jozu iz samoposluge - iživljavaju nad turistima, homoseksualcima, pjevačima narodne glazbe i ostalim vanjskim neprijateljima, njihove se žene hvataju u koštac s hrvatskim unutrašnjim prijateljima.

Vesna Balenović


















Dok je pokret otpora iz trešnjevačkog kafića prijavljivao molere što novogradnje farbaju u bojama srpske zastave, po cijenu otkaza i sudskog progona ova je žena raskrinkala mafiju u državnoj naftnoj kompaniji
Dok su prvoborci gerile protiv specijalnog rata dojavljivali povjerljive informacije o diverziji u organizaciji zagrebačkog tramvajskog prometa, jedna je žena, Ankica Lepej, po cijenu otkaza i sudskog progona raskrinkala dvoličnost i kriminogenost Tuđmanova režima. Dok je pokret otpora iz trešnjevačkih kafića prijavljivao molere što novogradnje farbaju u bojama srpske zastave, jedna je žena, Vesna Balenović, po cijenu otkaza i sudskog progona raskrinkala mafiju u državnoj naftnoj kompaniji.

Dok su se veterani državnih udara u Mjesnoj zajednici hvatali u koštac s proizvođačima sardina kojima na etiketi još uvijek piše “Made in Yugoslavia”, jedna je žena, Biserka Kolić, po cijenu otkaza i sudskog progona raskrinkala financijske malverzacije u Ministarstvu pomorstva. Najzad, dok je spomenuta riječka gospođa, riskirajući život vlastitog oca, držala korumpirano zdravstvo za jaja, vrli su se muži iz hrvatskih medija po bilo koju cijenu upinjali raskrinkati njen identitet.

Akcija “Ništa nas ne smije iznenaditi” ide tako i dalje. Mirno spavajte, dragi čitatelji, jer Grgo iz škvera, Jozo iz samoposluge i ostali hrvatski neiznenaditelji motre na sigurnost u vašem kvartu, katedralama i plažama. Netko će reći da ne riskiraju mnogo, ali ti ne znaju temeljni postulat koncepcije društvene samozaštite: ne dovesti se bez prijeke potrebe u opasnost. Osim toga, otkako su nerazumne žene dobile otkaz, netko treba i zarađivati, zar ne?

#181

Posted: 17/03/2007 13:03
by amrino
Ne bih da vas prekidam :D ali moram da pitam:
@StLuis- sta bi sa "u nama zivi Vuk"?! :?

#182

Posted: 17/03/2007 13:42
by Orhanowski
MIROSLAV KRLEZA-GIGANT MISLI!



...Odvajati tijelo od misli,najcistiji je besmisao.Nitko jos u povijesti ljudske misli nije ukazao ni na jednu pomisao koja ne bi bila vezana za ljudsko tijelo.Bez covjeka nema ljudske misli,misao,to je covjek!...
("DAVNI DANI")

...Misao po svojoj svrsi ne razlikuje se od magnetske igle,u vezi s navigacijom.Misao daje iskustvu smjer,ali sto ce nam i"najcistija"misao o plovidbi na sretnije kontinente ili"misao"o etickom smislu nase civilizacije,kada sve cime smo okruzeni predstavlja negaciju tih pojmova...
("MARGINALIJE NA TEMU O SPOZNAJNOTEORIJSKOJ MAGIJI",ogled)

...Od Hobbesa do Voltairea,od Goye do Tolstoja probija se ljudska misao kao svjetiljka kroz neprozirne zavjese tmine,pobjedjujuci u kristalnim objektivacijama,estetskim i socijalnim...
("FRASCISCO JOSE GOYA Y LUCIENTES",ogled)

...Dante i Shakespeare su najvjerniji pratioci svog vremena,a vragometno huda snaga njihovih psovki vulkanski je dokaz da se zivot slobodne misli ni pod halucinantnim medijevalnim terorom nije gasio...
(1942.)

...I ljudska misao zivi,kao sve ljudsko,o hljebu.Ako je gladna,ona trabunja,a do dana danasnjeg ljudska misao nije se zapravo jos nijedanput do sita najela na ovozemaljskim gozbama,koje,nazalost,
nisu simpozioni pameti nego terevenke gluposti...
("DAVNI DANI")

...Zivimo jos uvijek u takvim nazovi-civilizacijama,koje su po svojim osnovnim premisama magicne;
ljudskom mislju vladaju i danas vjere,carobnjaci i sarlatani...
("O NEKIM NAIVNOMATERIJALISTICKIM ELEMENTIMA U HIPOKRITOVU DJELU",ogled)

...Kada je covjek izmislio rijec"natprirodno"ili"vrhunaravno",on time nije rekao mnogo vise nego kada kaze"prirodno"i"naravno".U jednom i u drugom slucaju,covjek tom svojom frazom nije rekao nista stvarno.Slika Boga je ljudski odraz bijedne ljudske misli,koja je poslije mnogo tisuca godina doista zavrijedila da se oslobodi veriga...
("MISAO KAO TAKVA PO SEBI I O SEBI")

...Nema ni jedne jedine misli bez njoj suprotstavljenog zbivanja,a misliti znaci vrsiti trajnu kriticku smotru nad podacima materijalnih utisaka,odvajajuci nepodudarne od podudarnih,fiktivne od doista postojecih,te se taj proces vrsi"po zakonu unutrasnjeg reda",po ordinarnoj frazi koja vonja na antipaticne sobe policijskih kancelarija,sto se na kraju podudara s istinom stanje fakata,jer tako doista i jeste,da je ljudska misao trajno uhapsena,posto istoga trenutka,kada je rijec o bilo kakvom"zakonu"
ili o"ozakonjenom stanju",covjek se osjeca bespomocan kao lisen svoje misaone slobode,po zakonu nekog antimisaonog policijskog reda i propisa.
Hod normalne ljudske pameti zapravo je neobicno polagan i ljudska se misao mucno i naporno probija kroz magle mnogobrojnih obmana,koje u obliku vjerskih ili naucnih uvjerenja prate covjekovu sjenku,
kao neprozirna vela priproste lakovjernosti..."
("VARIJACIJE NA MEDICINSKE TEME",ogled)

...Ljudska misao tece od pocetka usporedo s ispitivanjem ljudskog tijela.Ljudsko tijelo i ljudska misao prozimaju se i ispreplicu unutar razvojnog toka ljudske spoznaje,pak se dogadjalo tokom historije ljudskog razuma,da je u ispitivanju tijela uvijek dolazilo do nesnalazenja,do zastoja i do bespredmetnog lutanja kada bi se ljudska misao odbila od tijela u predjele slicne prividjenjima,kakva se javljaju u masti koja luta sferama apstraktne shematike,povezane s jedne strane na tjelesnu,
iskustvom ovjerovljenu stvarnost,a druge strane lutajuci nepreglednim predjelima razigrane uobrazilje...
("ARETEJ",pogovor)

..."Da je Misao covjeku prirodjena",djetinjasta ova pretpostavka prati ljudsku historiju kao hijena.Na
golgotskom putu mudrosti,da ce omastiti svoju njusku truplom ljudske pameti i pozderati je konacno...
("MARGINALIJE NA TEMU O SPOZNAJNOTEORIJSKOJ MAGIJI",ogled)

#183

Posted: 20/03/2007 23:43
by Orhanowski
EMINA

Sinoc, kad se vracah sa Siroka Brijega,
Vidjeh Kujundziluk, granatirah njega;
Kad tamo, u hladu pustih rusevina,
S Cedricom u ruci stajase Emina.

Ajsi, ajsa, jamasa -
Konvoj jase ustasa.

Mostar nazvah svojim, al - tako mi Knina -
Ne htje ni da cuje balijka Emina.
Thornberry joj Cedric doturio vode,
A ona ga, kurva, ne pusta da ode.

Ajsi, ajsa, jamasa -
Tenka jase ustasa.

S Huma plotun puknu, niz mahale puste
Rastjera joj njene jedinice guste,
Al Thornberry Cedric i fesovi plavi
Pokazase prstom prema mojoj glavi.

Ajsi, ajsa, jamasa -
S konja sjase ustasa.

Heliodrom pepun, jes' - tako mi Knina -
Al u njeg ne udje prokleta Emina.
Samo me je Cedric pogledao mrko
Kad je rod Eminin u logoru crko.

Ajsi, ajsa, jamasa -
prava krsi ustasa.

Emina se sece, a Cedric ne krece -
Ni Hrvatska vojska vise pomoc' nece.
Ja pusta li grada! Tako mi Arkana,
Perisic je segrt Praljka Slobodana.

Ajsi, ajsa, jamasa -
Mostar rusi ustasa.


Predrag Lucic

#184

Posted: 20/03/2007 23:59
by black
Edinin san

Aleksandar Hemon


Nisam imao namjeru da pišem o odluci Međunarodnog suda pravde kojom se Srbija oslobađa odgovornosti za genocid u Bosni i Hercegovini. Bilo mi je dosta zanimljivo što je Sud malo naružio Srbiju što nije spriječila zločin - da je Milošević po Arkanu poslao poruku Mladiću i Karadžiću da se u Bosni ne preteruje jer nije, bre, lepo, mnogi bi životi bili spaseni, ali eto, misle sudije, došlo je do nesretnog nesporazuma - ali nisam imao da kažem ništa što već nije rečeno. Odavno bi trebalo svima sve biti jasno pa nisam mislio da ima ikakve potrebe da ja nešto dodajem ili objašnjavam - ne moram ni ja svakom loncu biti poklopac. Ali onda mi se javila Edina, čitateljka iz Tuzle, koja mi je rekla da je nedavno sanjala kompletnu moju kolumnu. "U tekstu se osjetila tuga", napisala mi je Edina, "u velikoj mjeri uzrokovana haškom odlukom o BiH i Srbiji i genocidu. Kao da su te ideje iznevjerile." Strašno je (i) laskavo za pisca kad mu se nenapisani tekstovi javljaju u podsvijesti i morama vjernih čitalaca, ali ono što je najjače i najvažnije u Edininom snu je ta tuga koja je i njena i moja.

Lako je, naravno, vidjeti kakva je politička, moralna i pravna tragedija odluka Međunarodnog suda pravde, ali u trenutku kad je Bosna i Hercegovina podnijela tužbu protiv Jugoslavije/Srbije priznala je legitimitet suda i pravosnažnost buduće odluke i sad tu nema nazad. Otud je jedna od posljedica Odluke neizbježno suočavanje s činjenicom da je Republika šumska odgovorna za genocid spomenut u Odluci i da je ista zločinačka tvorevina izdžikljala iz masovnih grobnica te da je shodno tome dejtonska Bosna i Hercegovina politička, moralna i pravna nakarada kojoj nema premca u modernoj historiji. Nema nikakve dileme da će političke elite sva tri konstitutivna naroda na različite, na samo njima svojstvene načine, to suočavanje uspješno i profitabilno izbjeći te tako zadržati svoje tamne entitetske vilajete. Nakon Odluke, genocid je, 'ajde da kažemo, zvanično postao neugodna činjenica, zbog koje će biti malo teže, ali nikako teško, održavati etničko-kriminogeni poredak današnje bosanske države.

Ništa od gorespomenutog do kraja ne objašnjava tugu koju je Edina sanjala (i koju sam ja zaista osjećao nakon Odluke), niti to što je tuga toliko duboko usađena u našu zajedničku podsvijest - podsvijest koja je zajednička upravo u onoj mjeri u kojoj dijelimo tu tugu. Da postoji bosanski duh, ta bi mu tuga bila konstitutivna činjenica. Ta tuga dolazi od osjećaja da je svijet moralno nakrivo nasađen, da je uvijek takav bio i da ga nikad, niko neće ispraviti. Ideja koja je izdata u Edininom snu je kantovska, racionalna, prosvjetiteljska ideja da je svijet definisan zvjezdanim nebom nad nama i moralnim zakonom u nama, da nas taj moralni zakon goni da se protežemo ka tim zvijezdama, da je pravda metafizička neophodnost ljudskog bivanja. Drugim riječima, za naše ljudsko postojanje u moralno organizovanom svijetu neophodan je osjećaj da će zločini - kad-tad - biti kažnjeni, da će pravda - kako-tako - stići zločince. Vjera da je Bog pravedan pruža utjehu vjerniku, ali ne i ateističnom humanisti kao što sam ja, tim prije što u svijetu u kojem ima višak nepravde neophodnijom izgleda sila kojom bi se pravda uspostavila. Otud globalni i lokalni, bosanski, porast u apokaliptičnom vjerskom fanatizmu, otud Bog sve skloniji osveti i vjernici sve manje opraštanju i pošteni ateisti koji imaju noćne more nafilovane očajem.

Teško je ne vidjeti odluku Međunarodnog suda kao još jedan poraz ideje o moralnoj ustanovljenosti svijeta, kao još jednu pobjedu ideje - bez koje bi bili nemogući kako Republika šumska, tako i rat u Iraku - da se zločin, brate, uvijek lijepo isplati. Sad se vidi da treba samo, kako bi se zločin isplatio, pustiti one koji se bakću sa moralnim imperativima i sličnim naivnim razbibrigama da se iscrpe uzastopnim porazima, treba sačekati da srebreničke majke izumru i silovane žene poudaju, treba dočekati vrijeme kad nije uopšte teško zamisliti zločin bez zločinaca i sud pravde bez pravde, treba izgraditi moralno-nakaradnu državu u kojoj je moguće genocid interpretirati kao elementarnu nepogodu. Tuga u Edininom snu tako dolazi od osjećaja da je ovo dunjaluk u kojem pošteno ljudsko biće ne može na sabahu ustati a da se ne suoči sa svakojakim zlom, sa rutinskim lažima i svakodnevnom nepravdom, sa slikama i pričama o fukari koja nemilice gine u suludim mesijanskim projektima, sa oblačnim nebom nad nama i moralnim rasulom u nama.

Ne znam za Edinu, ali ja već decenijama deveram sa raznovrsnim historijskim i ljudskim katastrofama tako što negdje duboko u sebi održavam plamičak vjerovanja da je ono što se desilo u Bosni moralni izuzetak, da dejtonska Bosna ne mora da postoji, da je ono što se dešava u Americi i Iraku nešto što ne bi trebalo da se dešava zato što nije pravo, da će Karadžić, Mladić, Bush i ini na kraju krajeva zaplatiti, da će im neka pravedna sila dohakati. Da bih ostao na površini u poplavi zla, neophodno mi je bilo vjerovanje da je bolji i pravedniji svijet uvijek logičnija opcija i da će jednog dana, usljed kosmičke moralne racionalnosti, sve doći na svoje. Ali, nakon serije spektakularnih moralnih katastrofa od kojih je zadnja odluka Međunarodnog suda, taj je plamičak sve teže i teže održavati. Ako se ugasi, onda postoje samo dvije opcije: ili se pragmatično priključiti onima lišenim bilo kakvog moralnog imperativa ili priznati apsolutnost poraza i prihvatiti retroaktivni besmisao vlastitog života. Tuga u Edininom snu je, tako, zapravo strah od realne i konstantne mogućnosti potpunog obezljuđenja.

Za sada, srećom, ni Edina ni ja nismo došli do te tačke. U Edininom snu se ukazao "tračak dobroga" u obliku žene koju volim - "jedino toplo biće" s kojim mogu "dijeliti ljudska osjećanja". Tako je Edina isanjala - i sebi i meni i svima nam - jedini mogući izlaz iz današnjeg i svagdašnjeg moralnog bespuća: kad svijet izgori do temelja, bolju kuću moramo graditi sa onim najbližima, sa onima sa kojima dijelimo snove.

I moram li na kraju reći da je ovo kolumna iz Edininog sna i da sam je ja samo otkucao…

#185

Posted: 21/03/2007 00:14
by Saian
E Aco hvala ti na ovoj misli zadnjoj, ko bratu :)



zaboravih bleki i tebi hvala za tekst, kad vec ne za muziku :D :D :D

#186

Posted: 21/03/2007 00:22
by black
Saian wrote:E Aco hvala ti na ovoj misli zadnjoj, ko bratu :)



zaboravih bleki i tebi hvala za tekst, kad vec ne za muziku :D :D :D
pa napisi tamo sta zelis pa potrazim ti :D

#187

Posted: 21/03/2007 00:35
by Daphna
AHMED MURADBEGOVIĆ

ŽENI

Ženo! Tvoja čast je grubo povrijeđena
Vrijednost tvog života jadna je i huda
Tu na svijetu živiš nikada ne viđena
kao sablast crna, što tminom vrluda.

A ljepota tvoja gizdava i moćna
K'o vilinska bajka, slavom ovjenčana,
Povlači se svijetom kao avet noćna
Što užase sije usljed bijela dana!

I duša ti čista, kao prazna knjiga
U bezdanu grudi zapuštena ječi
Iste slasti bola i ljepotu briga
Zanos svijetlih misli i božanstvo riječi...

I dok u tvom srcu kipi, s bojom mlijeka,
čežnja za životom, k'o molitva bijela
Tvoj će život proteć' k'o podzemna rijeka
S prigušenim šumom zakopanih vrela!

O neznana ženo, pruži bijelu ruku
Vratimo se svijetu, k'o nađena djeca
On nas vječno zove u turobnom zvuku
Jedna mlade pjesme što moli i jeca!

Digni se i pođi, ponosna i lijepa
Razumno i mirno, s puno ljudske časti
Pred tvojom će slavom požudna i slijepa
Gomila, što bjesni, na koljena pasti!

#188

Posted: 21/03/2007 12:54
by Orhanowski
InfraRedRidinghood wrote:AMERICAN NAILS

DUBRAVKA UGREŠIĆ


Image

Byt' mozno del'nym čelovekom
I dumat' o krase nogtej:
K cemu besplodno sporit' s vekom
Obyčaj despot mez ljudej.
O kako bi bilo fino da i ona pise na ruskom jeziku, pa da nista od napisanog ne razumim :D

#189

Posted: 21/03/2007 17:02
by Saraswati
Ja tako volem ovu pricicu :) :) :)

#190

Posted: 21/03/2007 19:49
by rikardoreis
tnx, InfraRedRobinHoodovko :)

tvoje danasnje postiranje je, uglavnom, sve sto me od stampe zanima...

#191

Posted: 21/03/2007 21:17
by Saian
evo infra malo chika Tome


"PISMO TATI U KAFANU"

Dragi tata
mi smo dobro
jedino je
meni koljeno modro
a imam modricu i na licu
udario sam se o stolicu
žureći k prozoru
kad si se ti u zoru
na sav glas psujući
s bocom u ruci
vraćao kući

Mama ti čisti
i pegla hlače
kriomice od mene
plače
seka je u krevetu već
a ja sam upravo stavio na peć
večeru tvoju
da ti topla bude
jer hladno jelo nije za ljude


Skoro ću i ja u krevet
pao si mi na pamet
kako si uvijek u kafani
dok smo mi kod kuće sami…


Što da ti kažem više
više mi se zapravo i ne piše
najbolje je da pismo sam svršiš
kad partiju karata završiš
ionako te ne zanima porodica
važnija ti je u kafani stolica
a mi te isto volimo
i da kući dođeš
molimo


ŠTO STE ME ZAJEBALI

Naučili ste me voljeti
prevarili me
zbunili
i osudili



"TU-AUTO VRAG TI PIZ ODNI"

joj ca letidu isprid nosa
ove rugobe tonobili
svu su nan radnju usmrdili
i tisinu prikinili

di mi je sad moj tovar sivac
di su njegove drage use
miga bi s njima pa zareva
najlipju pismu vrilog lita
-ija ija-

i bolje da si mi krepa sivce
sićan kad si na misec rika
evo su nekidan i njegovu lipost razotkrili

nista mi vise ni ostalo
od cista zvuka loze i jutra
necujem tvoju pismu sivce
kvragu i oni oktan super


Image


http://www.toma.dalmatino.de/

chlanovi benda TBF se shale pa kazhu da TBF znachi Toma Bebich fan :) :) :)

#192

Posted: 21/03/2007 21:33
by black
skriven iza zida kisnih kapi,
promrzao, stojim ispod nadstresnice, pusim i gledam u krugove
kisnih kapi na povrsini bare...

#193

Posted: 21/03/2007 21:42
by rikardoreis
Saian wrote:evo infra malo chika Tome


"PISMO TATI U KAFANU"

Dragi tata
mi smo dobro
jedino je
meni koljeno modro
a imam modricu i na licu
udario sam se o stolicu
žureći k prozoru
kad si se ti u zoru
na sav glas psujući
s bocom u ruci
vraćao kući

Mama ti čisti
i pegla hlače
kriomice od mene
plače
seka je u krevetu već
a ja sam upravo stavio na peć
večeru tvoju
da ti topla bude
jer hladno jelo nije za ljude


Skoro ću i ja u krevet
pao si mi na pamet
kako si uvijek u kafani
dok smo mi kod kuće sami…


Što da ti kažem više
više mi se zapravo i ne piše
najbolje je da pismo sam svršiš
kad partiju karata završiš
ionako te ne zanima porodica
važnija ti je u kafani stolica
a mi te isto volimo
i da kući dođeš
molimo


ŠTO STE ME ZAJEBALI

Naučili ste me voljeti
prevarili me
zbunili
i osudili



"TU-AUTO VRAG TI PIZ ODNI"

joj ca letidu isprid nosa
ove rugobe tonobili
svu su nan radnju usmrdili
i tisinu prikinili

di mi je sad moj tovar sivac
di su njegove drage use
miga bi s njima pa zareva
najlipju pismu vrilog lita
-ija ija-

i bolje da si mi krepa sivce
sićan kad si na misec rika
evo su nekidan i njegovu lipost razotkrili

nista mi vise ni ostalo
od cista zvuka loze i jutra
necujem tvoju pismu sivce
kvragu i oni oktan super


Image


http://www.toma.dalmatino.de/

chlanovi benda TBF se shale pa kazhu da TBF znachi Toma Bebich fan :) :) :)

Toma je chudo...podsjeca me glasom na T.Waittsa...
al haj ti to Aleku reci :D

#194

Posted: 21/03/2007 22:06
by repeater
Pay attention to the world

In a previously unpublished essay, written just before her death in 2004, Susan Sontag makes a passionate case for the moral superiority of the novel in a mass-media age

Susan Sontag
Saturday March 17, 2007

Long ago - it was the 18th century - a great and eccentric defender of literature and the English language - it was Doctor Johnson - wrote, in the preface to his Dictionary: "The chief glory of every people arises from its authors." An unconventional proposition, I suspect, even then. And far more unconventional now, though I think it's still true. Even at the beginning of the 21st century. Of course, I am speaking of the glory that is permanent, not transitory.
I'm often asked if there is something I think writers ought to do, and recently in an interview I heard myself say: "Several things. Love words, agonize over sentences. And pay attention to the world."

Needless to say, no sooner had these perky phrases fallen out of my mouth than I thought of some more recipes for writer's virtue.

For instance: "Be serious." By which I meant: never be cynical. And which doesn't preclude being funny.

And ... if you'll allow me one more: "Take care to be born at a time when it was likely that you would be definitively exalted and influenced by Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoy, and Turgenev, and Chekhov."

A great writer of fiction both creates - through acts of imagination, through language that feels inevitable, through vivid forms - a new world, a world that is unique, individual; and responds to a world, the world the writer shares with other people but is unknown or mis-known by still more people, confined in their worlds: call that history, society, what you will.

But of course, the primary task of a writer is to write well. (And to go on writing well. Neither to burn out nor to sell out.) To write is to know something. What a pleasure to read a writer who knows a great deal. (Not a common experience these days ... ) Literature, I would argue, is knowledge - albeit, even at its greatest, imperfect knowledge. Like all knowledge.

Serious fiction writers think about moral problems practically. They tell stories. They narrate. They evoke our common humanity in narratives with which we can identify, even though the lives may be remote from our own. They stimulate our imagination. The stories they tell enlarge and complicate - and, therefore, improve - our sympathies. They educate our capacity for moral judgment.

When I say the fiction writer narrates, I mean that the story has a shape: a beginning, a middle (properly called a development), and an end or resolution. Every writer of fiction wants to tell many stories, but we know that we can't tell all the stories - certainly not simultaneously. We know we must pick one story, well, one central story; we have to be selective. The art of the writer is to find as much as one can in that story, in that sequence ... in that time (the timeline of the story), in that space (the concrete geography of the story). "There are so many stories to tell," muses the alter ego voice in the monologue that opens my last novel, In America. "There are so many stories to tell, it's hard to say why it's one rather than another, it must be because with this story you feel you can tell many stories, that there will be a necessity in it; I see I am explaining badly ... It has to be something like falling in love. Whatever explains why you chose this story hasn't explained much. A story, I mean a long story, a novel, is like an around-the-world-in-eightydays: you can barely recall the beginning when it comes to an end."

A novelist, then, is someone who takes you on a journey. Through space. Through time. A novelist leads the reader over a gap, makes something go where it was not.

There is an old riff I've always imagined to have been invented by some graduate student of philosophy (as I was once myself), late one night, who had been struggling through Kant's abstruse account in his Critique of Pure Reason of the barely comprehensible categories of time and space, and decided that all of this could be put much more simply.

It goes as follows:

"Time exists in order that everything doesn't happen all at once ... and space exists so that it doesn't all happen to you."

By this standard, the novel is an ideal vehicle both of space and of time. The novel shows us time: that is, everything doesn't happen at once. (It is a sequence, it is a line.) It shows us space: that is, what happens doesn't happen to one person only.

In other words, a novel is the creation not simply of a voice but of a world. It mimics the essential structures by which we experience ourselves as living in time, and inhabiting a world, and attempting to make sense of our experience. But it does what lives (the lives that are lived) cannot offer, except after they are over. It confers - and withdraws - meaning or sense upon a life. This is possible because narration is possible, because there are norms of narration that are as constitutive of thinking and feeling and experiencing as are, in the Kantian account, the mental categories of space and time.

In other words - and once again - the novel tells a story. I don't mean only that the story is the content of the novel, which is then deployed or organized into a literary narrative according to various ideas of form. I am arguing that having a story to tell is the chief formal property of a novel; and that the novelist, whatever the complexity of his or her means, is bound by - liberated by - the fundamental logic of storytelling.

The essential scheme of storytelling is linear (even when it is antichronological). It proceeds from a "before" (or: "at first") to a "during" to a "finally" or "after". But this is much more than mere causal sequence, just as lived time - which distends with feeling and contracts with the deadening of feeling - is not uniform, clock time. The work of the novelist is to enliven time, as it is to animate space.

The dimension of time is essential for prose fiction, but not, if I may invoke the old idea of the two-party system in literature, for poetry (that is, lyric poetry). Poetry is situated in the present. Poems, even when they tell stories, are not like stories.

One difference lies in the role of metaphor, which, I would argue, is necessary in poetry. Indeed, in my view, it is the task - one of the tasks - of the poet to invent metaphors. One of the fundamental resources of human understanding is what could be called the "pictural" sense, which is secured by comparing one thing with another. Here are some venerable examples, familiar (and plausible) to everyone:

time as river flowing
life as dream
death as sleep
love as illness
life as play/stage
wisdom as light
eyes as stars
book as world
human being as tree
music as food
etc, etc

A great poet is one who refines and elaborates the great historical store of metaphors and adds to our stock of metaphors. Metaphors offer a profound form of understanding, and many - but hardly all - novelists have recourse to metaphor. The grasp of experience through metaphor is not the distinctive understanding that is offered by the great novelists. Virginia Woolf is not a greater novelist than Thomas Bernhard because she uses metaphors and he does not.

The understanding of the novelist is temporal, rather than spatial or pictural. Its medium is a rendered sense of time - time experienced as an arena of struggle or conflict or choice. All stories are about battles, struggles of one kind or another, that terminate in victory and in defeat. Everything moves toward the end, when the outcome will be known.

"The modern" is an idea, a very radical idea, that continues to evolve. We are now in a second phase of the ideology of the modern (which has been given the presumptuous name of "the postmodern"). This beginning of "the modern" in literature took place in the 1850s. A century and a half is a long time. Many of the attitudes and scruples and refusals associated with "the modern" in literature - as well as in the other arts - have begun to seem conventional or even sterile. And, to some extent, this judgment is justified. Every notion of literature, even the most exacting and liberating, can become a form of spiritual complacency or self-congratulation.

Most notions about literature are reactive - in the hands of lesser talents, merely reactive. But what is happening in the repudiations advanced in the current debate about the novel goes far beyond the usual process whereby new talents need to repudiate older ideas of literary excellence.

In North America and in Europe, we are living now, I think it fair to say, in a period of reaction. In the arts, it takes the form of a bullying reaction against the high modernist achievement, which is thought to be too difficult, too demanding of audiences, not accessible (or "user-friendly") enough. And in politics, it takes the form of a dismissal of all attempts to measure public life by what are disparaged as mere ideals.

In the modern era, the call for a return to realism in the arts often goes hand in hand with the strengthening of cynical realism in political discourse.

The greatest offense now, in matters both of the arts and of culture generally, not to mention political life, is to seem to be upholding some better, more exigent standard, which is attacked, both from the left and the right, as either naive or (a new banner for the philistines) "elitist".

Proclamations about the death of the novel - or in its newer form, the end of books - have, of course, been a staple of the debate about literature for almost a century. But they have recently attained a new virulence and theoretical persuasiveness.

Ever since word-processing programs became common place tools for most writers - including me - there have been those who assert that there is now a brave new future for fiction.

The argument goes as follows.

The novel, as we know it, has come to its end. However, there is no cause for lament. Something better (and more democratic) is going to replace it: the hypernovel, which will be written in the nonlinear or nonsequential space made possible by the computer.

This new model for fiction proposes to liberate the reader from the two mainstays of the traditional novel: linear narrative and the author. The reader, cruelly forced to read one word after another to reach the end of a sentence, one paragraph after another to reach the end of a scene, will rejoice to learn that, according to one account, "true freedom" for the reader is now possible, thanks to the advent of the computer: "freedom from the tyranny of the line ". A hypernovel "has no beginning; it is reversible; we gain access to it by several entrances, none of which can be authoritatively declared to be the main one ". Instead of following a linear story dictated by the author, the reader can now navigate at will through an "endless expansion of words ".

I think most readers - surely, virtually all readers - will be surprised to learn that structured storytelling, from the most basic beginning-middle- end scheme of traditional tales to more elaborately constructed, nonchronological and multi-voiced narratives, is actually a form of oppression rather than a source of delight.

In fact, what interests most readers about fiction is precisely the story - whether in fairy tales, in murder mysteries, or in the complex narratives of Cervantes and Dostoyevsky and Jane Austen and Proust and Italo Calvino. Story - the idea that events happen in a specific causal order - is both the way we see the world and what interests us most about it. People who read for nothing else will read for plot.

Yet hyperfiction's advocates maintain that we find plot "confining" and chafe against its limitations. That we resent and long to be liberated from the age-old tyranny of the author, who dictates how the story will turn out, and wish to be truly active readers, who at any moment in reading the text can choose between various alternative continuations or outcomes of the story by rearranging its blocks of text. Hyper fiction is sometimes said to mimic real life, with its myriad opportunities and surprising outcomes, so I suppose it is being touted as a kind of ultimate realism.

To this, I would answer that, while it is true that we expect to organize and make sense of our lives, we do not expect to write other people's novels for them. And one of the resources we have for helping us to make sense of our lives, and make choices, and propose and accept standards for ourselves, is our experience of singular authoritative voices, not our own, which make up that great body of work that educates the heart and the feelings and teaches us to be in the world, that embodies and defends the glories of language (that is, expands the basic instrument of consciousness): namely, literature.

These proclamations that the book and the novel in particular are ending can't simply be ascribed to the mischief wreaked by the ideology that has come to dominate departments of literature in many major universities in the United States, Britain and western Europe. The real force behind the argument against literature, against the book, comes, I think, from the hegemony of the narrative model proposed by television.

A novel is not a set of proposals, or a list, or a collection of agendas, or an (open-ended, revisable) itinerary. It is the journey itself - made, experienced and completed.

Completion does not mean that everything has been told. Henry James, as he was coming to the end of writing one of his greatest novels, The Portrait of a Lady, confided to himself in his notebook his worry that his readers would think that the novel was not really finished, that he had "not seen the heroine to the end of her situation". (As you will remember, James leaves his heroine, the brilliant and idealistic Isabel Archer, resolved not to leave her husband, whom she has discovered to be a mercenary scoundrel, though there is a former suitor, the aptly named Caspar Goodwood, who, still in love with her, hopes she will change her mind.) But, James argued to himself, his novel would be rightly finished on this note. As he wrote: "The whole of anything is never told; you can only take what groups together. What I have done has that unity - it groups together. It is complete in itself."

We, James's readers, may wish that Isabel Archer would leave her dreadful husband for happiness with loving, faithful, honorable Caspar Goodwood: I certainly wish she would. But James is telling us she will not.

Every fictional plot contains hints and traces of the stories it has excluded or resisted in order to assume its present shape. Alternatives to the plot ought to be felt up to the last moment. These alternatives constitute the potential for disorder (and therefore of suspense) in the story's unfolding.

The pleasure of fiction is precisely that it moves to an ending. A novel is a world with borders. For there to be completeness, unity, coherence, there must be borders. Everything is relevant in the journey we take within those borders. One could describe the story's end as a point of magical convergence for the shifting preparatory views: a fixed position from which the reader sees how initially disparate things finally belong together.

There is an essential - as I see it - distinction between stories, on the one hand, which have, as their goal, an end, completeness, closure, and, on the other hand, information, which is always, by definition, partial, incomplete, fragmentary.

This parallels the contrasting narrative models proposed by literature and by television.

Literature tells stories. Television gives information.

Literature involves. It is the recreation of human solidarity. Television (with its illusion of immediacy) distances - immures us in our own indifference.

The so-called stories that we are told on television satisfy our appetite for anecdote and offer us mutually canceling models of understanding. (This is reinforced by the practice of punctuating television narratives with advertising.) They implicitly affirm the idea that all information is potentially relevant (or "interesting"), that all stories are endless - or if they do stop, it is not because they have come to an end but, rather, because they have been upstaged by a fresher or more lurid or eccentric story.

By presenting us with a limitless number of nonstopped stories, the narratives that the media relate - the consumption of which has so dramatically cut into the time the educated public once devoted to reading - offer a lesson in amorality and detachment that is antithetical to the one embodied by the enterprise of the novel.

In storytelling as practiced by the novelist, there is always - as I have argued - an ethical component. This ethical component is not the truth, as opposed to the falsity of the chronicle. It is the model of completeness, of felt intensity, of enlightenment supplied by the story, and its resolution - which is the opposite of the model of obtuseness, of non-understanding, of passive dismay, and the consequent numbing of feeling, offered by our mediadisseminated glut of unending stories.

Television gives us, in an extremely debased and un-truthful form, a truth that the novelist is obliged to suppress in the interest of the ethical model of understanding peculiar to the enterprise of fiction: namely, that the characteristic feature of our universe is that many things are happening at the same time. ("Time exists in order that it doesn't happen all at once ... space exists so that it doesn't all happen to you.")

To tell a story is to say: this is the important story. It is to reduce the spread and simultaneity of everything to something linear, a path.

To be a moral human being is to pay, be obliged to pay, certain kinds of attention.

When we make moral judgments, we are not just saying that this is better than that. Even more fundamentally, we are saying that this is more important than that. It is to order the overwhelming spread and simultaneity of everything, at the price of ignoring or turning our backs on most of what is happening in the world.

The nature of moral judgments depends on our capacity for paying attention - a capacity that, inevitably, has its limits but whose limits can be stretched. But perhaps the beginning of wisdom, and humility, is to acknowledge, and bow one's head, before the thought, the devastating thought, of the simultaneity of everything, and the incapacity of our moral understanding - which is also the understanding of the novelist - to take this in.

Perhaps this is an awareness that comes more easily to poets, who don't fully believe in storytelling. The supremely great early-20th-century Portuguese poet and prose writer, Fernando Pessoa, wrote in his prose summum, The Book of Disquiet:

I've discovered that I'm always attentive to, and always thinking about two things at the same time. I suppose everyone is a bit like that ... In my case the two realities that hold my attention are equally vivid. This is what constitutes my originality. This, perhaps, is what constitutes my tragedy, and what makes it comic.

Yes, everyone is a bit like that ... but the awareness of the doubleness of thinking is an uncomfortable position, very uncomfortable if held for long. It seems normal for people to reduce the complexity of what they are feeling and thinking, and to close down the awareness of what lies outside their immediate experience.

Is this refusal of an extended awareness, which takes in more than is happening right now, right here, not at the heart of our ever-confused awareness of human evil, and of the immense capacity of human beings to commit evil? Because there are, incontestably, zones of experience that are not distressing, that give joy, it becomes, perennially, a puzzle that there is so much misery and wickedness. A great deal of narrative, and the speculation that tries to free itself from narrative and become purely abstract, inquires: why does evil exist? Why do people betray and kill each other? Why do the innocent suffer?

But perhaps the problem ought to be rephrased: why is evil not everywhere? More precisely, why is it somewhere - but not everywhere? And what are we to do when it doesn't befall us? When the pain that is endured is the pain of others?

Hearing the shattering news of the great earthquake that leveled Lisbon on November 1, 1755, and (if historians are to be believed) took with it a whole society's optimism (but obviously, I don't believe that any society has only one basic attitude), the great Voltaire was struck by the inability to take in what happened elsewhere. "Lisbon lies in ruins," Voltaire wrote, "and here in Paris we dance."

One might suppose that in the 20th century, in the age of genocide, people would not find it either paradoxical or surprising that one can be so indifferent to what is happening simultaneously, elsewhere. Is it not part of the fundamental structure of experience that "now" refers to both "here" and "there"? And yet, I venture to assert, we are just as capable of being surprised - and frustrated by the inadequacy of our response - by the simultaneity of wildly contrasting human fates as was Voltaire two and a half centuries ago. Perhaps it is our perennial fate to be surprised by the simultaneity of events - by the sheer extension of the world in time and space. That here we are here, now prosperous, safe, unlikely to go to bed hungry or be blown to pieces this evening ... while elsewhere in the world, right now ... in Grozny, in Najaf, in the Sudan, in the Congo, in Gaza, in the favelas of Rio ...

To be a traveler - and novelists are often travelers - is to be constantly reminded of the simultaneity of what is going on in the world, your world and the very diff erent world you have visited and from which you have returned "home".

It is a beginning of a response to this painful awareness to say: it's a question of sympathy ... of the limits of the imagination. You can also say that it's not "natural" to keep remembering that the world is so ... extended. That while this is happening, that is also happening.

True.

But that, I would respond, is why we need fiction: to stretch our world.

Novelists, then, perform their necessary ethical task based on their right to a stipulated shrinking of the world as it really is - both in space and in time.

Characters in a novel act within a time that is already complete, where everything worth saving has been preserved - "washed free ", as Henry James puts it in his preface to The Spoils of Poynton, "of awkward accretion" and aimless succession. All real stories are stories of someone's fate. Characters in a novel have intensely legible fates.

The fate of literature itself is something else. Literature as a story is full of awkward accretions, irrelevant demands, unpurposeful activities, uneconomical attention.

Habent sua fata fabulae, as the Latin phrase goes. Tales, stories, have their own fate. Because they are disseminated, transcribed, misremembered, translated.

Of course, one would not wish it otherwise. The writing of fiction, an activity that is necessarily solitary, has a destination that is necessarily public, communal.

Traditionally, all cultures are local. Culture implies barriers (for example, linguistic), distance, nontranslatability. Whereas what "the modern" means is, above all, the abolition of barriers, of distance; instant access; the leveling of culture - and, by its own inexorable logic the abolition, or revocation, of culture.

What serves "the modern" is standardization, homogenization. (Indeed, "the modern" is homogenization, standardization. The quintessential site of the modern is an airport; and all airports are alike, as all new modern cities, from Seoul to São Paulo, tend to look alike.) This pull toward homogenization cannot fail to affect the project of literature. The novel, which is marked by singularity, can only enter this system of maximum diff usion through the agency of translation, which, however necessary, entails a built-in distortion of what the novel is at the deepest level - which is not the communication of information, or even the telling of engaging stories, but the perpetuation of the project of literature itself, with its invitation to develop the kind of inwardness that resists the modern satieties.

To translate is to pass something across borders. But more and more the lesson of this society, a society that is "modern", is that there are no borders - which means, of course, no more or less than: no borders for the privileged sectors of society, which are more mobile geographically than ever before in human history. And the lesson of the hegemony of the mass media - television, MTV, the internet - is that there is only one culture, that what lies beyond borders everywhere is - or one day will be - just more of the same, with everyone on the planet feeding at the same trough of standardized entertainments and fantasies of eros and violence manufactured in the United States, Japan, wherever; with everyone enlightened by the same open-ended flow of bits of unfiltered (if, in fact, often censored) information and opinion.

That some pleasure, and some enlightenment, may be derived from these media is not to be denied. But I would argue that the mindset they foster and the appetites they feed are entirely inimical to the writing (production) and reading (consumption) of serious literature.

Every novelist hopes to reach the widest possible audience, to pass as many borders as possible. But it is the novelist's job to keep in mind the spurious cultural geography that is being installed at the beginning of the 21st century.

On the one hand, we have, through translation and through recycling in the media, the possibility of a greater and greater diffusion of our work. On the other hand, the ideology behind these unprecedented opportunities for diff usion, for translation - the ideology now dominant in what passes for culture in modern societies - is designed to render obsolete the novelist's prophetic and critical, even subversive, task, and that is to deepen and sometimes, as needed, to oppose the common understandings of our fate.

Long live the novelist's task.

· At the Same Time by Susan Sontag will be published by Hamish Hamilton on April 5

Guardian Unlimited © Guardian News and Media Limited 2007

#195

Posted: 21/03/2007 22:06
by Orhanowski
IVAN SUPEK (1915.-2007.)
ODLAZAK HERETIKA

8. ožujka, 2007.



U Zagrebu je ovoga ponedjeljka umro Ivan Supek, jedna od najosebujnijih ličnosti u čitavoj hrvatskoj kulturnoj, znanstvenoj i političkoj povijesti. Vijest o smrti objavljena je, po Supekovoj želji, tek u srijedu, nakon tihog pogreba, što samo po sebi dovoljno govori o skromnosti svojstvenoj istinskim velikanima.

Rođen je 1915. u Zagrebu, fiziku, matematiku i filozofiju je studirao u Zürichu, Parizu, Zagrebu i Leipzigu, gdje je doktorirao kod velikog Wernera Heisenberga i uskoro postao njegov asistent. Bio je prijatelj i suradnik najznačajnijih fizičara XX. stoljeća, ali kao uvjereni pacifist svoje ogromno znanje i talent nije htio zloupotrijebiti za izradu nuklearnog oružja. Osnovao je Institut "Ruđer Bošković" i s njega bio izbačen nakon što je odbio zahtjev Aleksandra Rankovića da se posveti stvaranju jugoslavenske atomske bombe. Rezigniran, prestaje se baviti znanošću i počinje pisati filozofska djela, romane i drame.

Supekov politički angažman presudno je obilježen njegovim suprotstavljanjem moćnicima. Kao deklarirani antifašist biva zatvaran od Gestapoa, kao sudionik hrvatskog nacionalnog pokreta 1971. dospijeva u petnaestogodišnju izolaciju, a kao beskompromisni kritičar HDZ-ovske demokrature biva optužen od Franje Tuđmana da je zajedno s Feralom i ostalim "unutrašnjim neprijateljima" te "inozemnim centrima moći" pripremao ni manje ni više nego atentat na tzv. predsjednika svih Hrvata. U vrijeme optužbe za ovu urotu, Supek je bio predsjednik Hrvatske akademije znanosti i umjetnosti.

Možda najtočniju rečenicu o tome kako je Ivan Supek kao dosljedni humanist bio neshvatljiv i neprihvatljiv za dogmate svih boja, ispisao je Mirko Kovač, i to na stranicama ovoga lista: "Za boljševike je Supek bio krležijanski ljevičar, a možebiti i trockist, za seljačku partizaniju građanski intelektualac i zapadnjak, za komuniste opasni socijaldemokrat i liberal, za marksiste revizionist i 'prokleti individualist', za srpske nacionaliste ustaša i srbožder, za ustaše 'komunjara' i Jugoslaven, za hrvatske nacionaliste mondijalist, za klerikalce mason, za komunističke znanstvenike književnik, za socrealističke pisce fizičar, za sadašnje udbaše i neofašiste na vlasti neprijatelj hrvatske države, a za desničare humanistički univerzalist, što je najgora moguća pozicija i intelektualna prijevara, jer humanizam je za njih nova pošast i 'religija bez Boga koja se širi iz Amerike', eda bi naš vrli svijet razorila."

Duboko zahvalni za sve što smo imali sreću naučiti od ovog velikog čovjeka, opraštamo se od Ivana Supeka prisjećajući se njegovih razgovora s Feralovim novinarima, na koje je uvijek rado pristajao...

* Hrvatskoj je potrebna puna sloboda, stvaralačka sloboda, jer ona nije državna institucija, ona nije samo njeno rukovodstvo, već sve ono što narod živi, njeno kulturno stvaralaštvo. (1994.)

* Nacionalizam moramo potpuno odbaciti, a istinsko se domoljublje vezuje s humanizmom i internacionalizmom. U hrvatskoj su tradiciji te vrijednosti bile vrlo izražene, još od vremena humanizma i prosvjetiteljstva, preko braće Radića, sve do antifašizma. (1996.)

* Dužnost države je da širi humanizam i demokraciju, a ne da potiče najniže nagone i porive. (1996.)

* Moralno iskvareni sistem koji se zasniva na tajkunskom gospodarstvu, trgovini, kriminalu i švercu, ne može trpjeti nikakvu kritiku ni slobodno mišljenje. On samim time dolazi u konflikt s inteligencijom i nosi obilježje antiintelektualizma. (1998.)

* Tuđmanov pokret krenuo je s idejama nastalima u ustaškoj emigraciji, o pomirbi ustaša i boljševika. Takva ideja apsolutno je neprihvatljiva za demokraciju i nije mi jasno kako Crkva odmah nije uvidjela da su te ideje nespojive s kršćanstvom i da se kršćanstvo ne može pomiriti ni s boljševizmom ni s fašizmom. Crkva bi danas trebala progovoriti ne samo o grijehu na socijalnom planu, nego i o grijehu ideologije i politike koju je dosad prihvaćala. (1998.)

* HDZ-ov nacionalizam išao je za tim da ideju nacije upotrijebi za stvaranje totalitarnog režima zasnovanog na obožavanju države. To je apsurdno, jer država treba biti servis naroda, a ne svrha kojoj se svi podvrgavaju. Ta ideja u osnovi je bila fašistička, jer fašizam je nastupao s imperativom da svi ljudi služe državi. (2000.)

* Antun Radić je jako davno rekao da se ekstremni hrvatski nacionalisti bore za državu samo zato da bi mogli opljačkati narod. On je to govorio misleći na frankovce, a njegova strepnja ostvarila se s dolaskom Franje Tuđmana na vlast. Uvijek će u Hrvatskoj biti ljudi koji će se preko nacionalizma pokušavati uspeti na vlast s nakanom da opljačkaju narod. (2000.)

* Kada je riječ o izlasku zemlje iz krize, sve zapravo ovisi o tome hoće li mladi dobiti priliku. Hrvatska nužno mora dati šansu mladim ljudima, jer su oni još neiskvareni i u toj dobi odolijevaju činjenici da je čovjek pokvarljiva životinja. (2002.)

* Hrvatska lokomotiva bez mudrosti i elana, ložena najviše partijskim i osobnim interesima, odvući će zemlju u neokolonijalnu podčinjenost multinacionalnim kompanijama i velesilama. Umjesto da rasprodamo svoje obiteljsko srebro i postanemo prokuristi stranih firma, konobari, sobarice, kuhari, kurve i emigranti u svojoj domovini, spasiti se možemo jedino razvojem industrije, poljoprivrede i obrta s osloncem na znanost i cijelu kulturu. (2003.)

* Ovo u čemu danas živimo je kapitalistički fundamentalizam koji nije ništa bolji od vjerskih fundamentalizama. (2006.)

#196

Posted: 22/03/2007 09:27
by Orhanowski

#197

Posted: 22/03/2007 12:22
by Nancy Drew
...

#198

Posted: 29/03/2007 12:08
by Nancy Drew
...

#199

Posted: 05/04/2007 20:30
by Nancy Drew
...

#200

Posted: 08/04/2007 20:15
by danas
nadam se da nije problem sto je na engleskom.... :)

Nathan Englander: For the Relief of Unbearable Urges


The beds were to be separated on nights forbidden to physical intimacy, but Chava Bayla hadn't pushed them together for many months. She flatly refused to sleep anywhere except on her menstrual bed and was, from the start, impervious to her husband's pleading.

"You are pure," Dov Binyamin said to the back of his wife, who--heightening his frustration--slept facing the wall.

"I am impure."

"This is not true, Chava Bayla. It's an impossibility. And I know myself the last time you went to the ritual bath. A woman does not have her thing--"

"Her thing?" Chava said. She laughed, as if she had caught him in a lie, and turned to face the room.

"A woman doesn't menstruate for so long without even a single week of clean days. And a wife does not for so long ignore her husband. It is Shabbos, a double mitzvah tonight--an obligation to make love."

Chava Bayla turned back again to face her wall. She tightened her arms around herself as if in an embrace.

"You are my wife!" Dov Binyamin said.

"That was God's choice, not mine. I might also have been put on this earth as a bar of soap or a kugel. Better," she said, "better it should have been one of those."


That night Dov Binyamin slept curled up on the edge of his bed--as close as he could get to his wife.

After Shabbos, Chava avoided coming into the bedroom for as long as possible. When she finally did enter and found Dov dozing in a chair by the balcony, she went to sleep fully clothed, her sheitel still on top of her head.

As he nodded forward in the chair, Dov's hat fell to the floor. He woke up, saw his wife, picked up his hat, and, brushing away the dust with his elbow, placed it on the nightstand. How beautiful she looked all curled up in her dress. Like a princess enchanted, he thought. Dov pulled the sheet off the top of his bed. He wanted to cover her, to tuck Chava in. Instead he flung the sheet into a corner. He shut off the light, untied his shoes--but did not remove them--and went to sleep on the tile floor beside his wife's bed. Using his arm for a pillow, Dov Binyamin dreamed of a lemon ice his uncle had bought him as a child and of the sound of the airplanes flying overhead at the start of the Yom Kippur War.


Dov Binyamin didn't go to work on Sunday. Folding up his tallis after prayers and fingering the embroidery of the tallis bag, he recalled the day Chava had presented it to him as a wedding gift--the same gift his father had received from his mother, and his father's father before. Dov had marveled at the workmanship, wondered how many hours she had spent with a needle in hand. Now he wondered if she would ever find him worthy of such attentions again. Zipping the prayer shawl inside, Dov Binyamin put the bag under his arm. He carried it with him out of the shul, though he had his own cubby in which to store it.

The morning was oppressively hot; a hamsin was settling over Jerusalem. Dov Binyamin was wearing his lightest caftan but in the heat wave it felt as if it were made of the heaviest wool.

Passing a bank of phones, he considered calling work, making some excuse, or even telling the truth. "Shai," he would say, "I am a ghost in my home and wonder who will mend my tallis bag when it is worn." His phone card was in his wallet, which he had forgotten on the dresser, and what did he want to explain to Shai for, who had just come from a Shabbos with his spicy wife and a house full of children.

Dov followed Jaffa Street down to the Old City. Roaming the alleyways always helped to calm him. There was comfort in the Jerusalem stone and the walls within walls and the permanence of everything around him. He felt a kinship with history's Jerusalemites, in whose struggles he searched for answers to his own. Lately he felt closer to his biblical heroes than to the people with whom he spent his days. King David's desires were far more alive to Dov than the empty problems of Shai and the other men at the furniture store.

Weaving through the Jewish Quarter, he had intended to end up at the Wall, to say Tehillim, and, in his desperate state, to scribble a note and stuff it into a crack just like the tourists in their cardboard yarmulkes. Instead, he found himself caught up in the crush inside the Damascus Gate. An old Arab woman was crouched down behind a wooden box of cactus fruit. She peeled a sabra with a kitchen knife, allowing a small boy a sample of her product. The child ran off with his mouth open, a stray thorn stuck in his tongue.

Dov Binyamin tightened his hold on the tallis bag and pushed his way through the crowd. He walked back to Mea Shearim along the streets of East Jerusalem. Let them throw stones, he thought. Though no one did. No one even took notice of him except to step out of his way as he rushed to his rebbe's house for some advice.


Meir the Beadle was in the front room, sitting on a plastic chair at a plastic table.

"Don't you have work today?" Meir said, without looking up from the papers that he was shifting from pile to pile.

Dov Binyamin ignored the question. "Is the Rebbe in?'

"He's very busy."

Dov Binyamin went over to the kettle, poured himself a mug of hot water, and stirred in a spoonful of Nescafe. "How about you don't give me a hard time today?"

'Who's giving a hard time?" Meir said, putting down the papers and getting up from the chair. "I'm just telling you Sunday is busy after a day and a half without work." He knocked at the Rebbe's door and went in. Dov Binyamin made a blessing over his coffee, took a sip, and, being careful not to spill, lowered himself into one of the plastic chairs. The coffee cut the edge off the heat that, like Dov, sat heavy in the room.


The Rebbe leaned forward on his shtender and rocked back and forth as if he were about to topple.

"No, this is no good. Very bad. Not good at all." He pulled back on the lectern and held it in that position. The motion reminded Dov of his dream, of the rumbling of engines and a vase--there had been a blue glass vase--set to rocking on a shelf. "And you don't want a divorce?"

"I love her, Rebbe. She is my wife."

"And Chava Bayla?"

"She, thank God, has not even raised the subject of separation. She asks nothing of me but to be left alone. And this is where the serpent begins to swallow its tail. The more she rejects me, the more I want to be with her. And the more I want to be with her, the more intent she becomes that I stay away."

"She is testing you."

"Yes. In some way, Rebbe, Chava Bayla is giving to me a test."

Pulling at his beard, the Rebbe again put his full weight on the lectern so that the wood creaked. He spoke in a Talmudic singsong:

"Then you must find the strength to ignore Chava Bayla, until Chava Bayla should come to find you--and you must be strict with yourself. For she will not consider your virtues until she is calm in the knowledge that her choices are her own."

"But I don't have the strength. She is my wife. I miss her. And I am human, too. With human habits. It will be impossible for me not to try and touch her, to try and convince her. Rebbe, forgive me, but God created the world with a certain order to it. I suffer greatly under the urges with which I have been blessed."

"I see," said the Rebbe. "The urges have become great."

"Unbearable. And to be around someone that I feel so strongly for, to look and be unable to touch--it is like floating through heaven in a bubble of hell."

The Rebbe pulled a chair over to the bookcases that lined his walls. Climbing onto the chair, he steadied himself, then removed a volume from the top shelf. "We must relieve the pressure."

"It is a fine notion. But I fear that it's impossible.

"I'm giving you a heter," the Rebbe said. "A special dispensation." He went over to his desk and flipped through the book. He began to scribble on a pad of onionskin paper.

"For what?"

"To see a prostitute."

"Excuse me, Rebbe?"

"Your marriage is at stake, is it not?"

Dov bit at his thumbnail and then rushed the hand, as if it were something shameful, into the pocket of his caftan.

"Yes," he said, a shake entering his voice. "My marriage is a withered limb at my side."

The Rebbe aimed his pencil at Dov.

"One may go to great lengths in the name of achieving peace in the home."

"But a prostitute?" Dov Binyamin asked.

"For the relief of unbearable urges," the Rebbe said. And he tore, like a doctor, the sheet of paper from the pad.

Dov Binyamin drove to Tel Aviv, the city of sin. There be was convinced he would find plenty of prostitutes. He parked his Fiat on a side street off Dizengoff and walked around town.

Though he was familiar with the city, its social aspects were foreign to him. It was the first leisurely walk he had taken in Tel Aviv and, fancying himself an anthropologist in a foreign land, he found it all quite interesting. He was usually the one under klix. Busloads of American tourists scamper through Mea Shearim daily. They buy up the stores and pull klix cameras from their hip packs, snapping pictures of real live Hasidim, like the ones from the stories their grandparents told. Next time he would say "Boo!" He laughed at the thought of it. Already he was feeling lighter. Passing a kiosk, he stopped and bought a bag of pizza-flavored Bissli. When he reached the fountain, he sat down on a bench among the aged new immigrants. They clustered together as if huddled against a biting cold wind that had followed them from their native lands. He stayed there until dark, until the crowd of new immigrants, like the bud of a flower, began to spread out, to open up, as the old folks filed down the fountain's ramps onto the city streets. They were replaced by young couples and groups of boys and klix who talked to each other from a distance but did not mix. So much like religious children, he thought. In a way we are all the same. Dov Binyamin suddenly felt overwhelmed. He was startled to find himself in Tel Aviv. already involved in the act of searching out a harlot, instead of
home in his chair by the balcony, worrying over whether to take the Rebbe's advice at all.

He walked back toward his car. A lone cabdriver leaned up against the front door of his Mercedes, smoking. Dov Binyamin approached him, the heat of his feet inside his shoes becoming more oppressive with every step.

"Forgive me," Dov Binyamin said.

The cabdriver, his chest hair sticking out of the collar of his T-shirt in tufts, ground out the cigarette and opened the passenger door "Need a ride, Rabbi?"

"I'm not a rabbi."

"And you don't need a ride?"

Dov Binyamin adjusted his hat. "No. Actually no."

The cabdriver lit another cigarette, flourishing his Zippo impressively. Dov took notice, though he was not especially impressed.

"I'm looking for a prostitute."

The cabdriver coughed and clasped a hand to his chest.

"Do I look like a prostitute?"

"No, you misunderstand." Dov Binyamin wondered if he should turn and run away. "A female prostitute."

'What's her name?"

"No name. Any name. You are a taxi driver. You must know where are such women." The taxi driver slapped the hood of his car and said, "Ha," which Dov took to be laughter. Another cab pulled up on Dov's other side.

"What's happening?" the second driver called.

"Nothing. The rabbi here wants to know where to find a friend. Thinks it's a cabdriver's responsibility to direct him."

"Do we work for the Ministry of Tourism?" the second driver asked.

"I just thought," Dov Binyamin said. His voice was high and cracking. It seemed to elicit pity in the second driver.

"There s a cash machine back on Dizengoff."

"Prostitutes at the bank?" Dov Binyamin said.

"No, not at the bank. But the service isnt free." Dov blushed under his beard. "Up by the train station in Ramat Gan--at the row of bus stops."

"All those pretty ladies aren't waiting for the bus to Haifa." This from the first driver, who again slapped the hood of his car and said, "Ha!"


The first time past, he did not stop, driving by the women at high speed and taking the curves around the cement island so that his wheels screeched and he could smell the burning rubber. Dov Binyamin slowed down, trying to maintain control of himself and the car, afraid that he had already drawn too much attention his way. The steering wheel began to vibrate in Dov's shaking hands. The Rebbe had given him permission, had instructed him. Was not the Rebbe's heter valid? This is what Dov Binyamin told his hands, but they continued to tremble in protest.

On his second time past, a woman approached the passenger door. She wore a matching shirt and pants. The outfit clung tightly, and Dov could see the full form of her body. Such immodesty! She tapped at the window. Dov Binyamin reached over to roll it down. Flustered, he knocked the gearshift, and the car lurched forward. Applying the parking brake, he opened the window the rest of the way.

"Close your lights," she instructed him. 'We don't need to be onstage out here."

"Sorry," he said, shutting off the lights. He was comforted by the error, not wanting the woman to think he was the kind of man who employed prostitutes on a regular basis.

"You interested in some action?"

"Me?"

"A shy one," she said. She leaned through the window, and Dov Binyamin looked away from her large breasts. "Is this your first time? Don't worry. I'll be gentle. I know how to treat a black hat."

Dov Binyamin felt the full weight of what he was doing. He was giving a bad name to all Hasidim. It was a sin against God's name. The urge to drive off, to race back to Jerusalem and the silence of his wife, came over Dov Binyamin. He concentrated on his dispensation.

"What would you know from black hats?" he said.

"Plenty," she said. And then, leaning in farther, "Actually, you look familiar." Dov Binyamin seized up, only to begin shaking twice as hard. He shifted into first and gave the car some gas. The prostitute barely got clear of the window.

When it seemed as if he wouldn't find a suitable match, a strong-looking young woman stepped out of the darkness.

"Good evening," he said.

She did not answer or ask any questions or smile. She opened the passenger door and sat down.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Saving you the trouble of driving around until the sun comes up." She was American. He could hear it. But she spoke beautiful Hebrew, sweet and strong as her step. Dov Binyamin turned on his headlights and again bumped the gearshift so that the car jumped.

"Settle down there, Tiger," she said. "The hard part's over. All the rest of the work is mine."


The room was in an unlicensed hostel. It had its own entrance. There was no furniture other than a double bed and three singles. The only lamp stood next to the door.

The prostitute sat on the big bed with her legs curled underneath her. She said her name was Devorah.

"Like the prophetess," Dov Binyamin said.

"Exactly," Devorah said. "But I can only see into the immediate future."

"Still, it is a rare gift with which to have been endowed."

Dov shifted his weight from foot to foot. He stood next to the large bed unable to bring himself to bend his knees.

"Not really," she said. "All my clients already know what's in store."

She was fiery, this one. And their conversation served to warm up the parts of Dov the heat wave had not touched. The desire that had been building in Dov over the many months so filled his body that he was surprised his skin did not burst from the pressure. He tossed his hat onto the opposite single, hoping to appear at ease, as sure of himself as the hairy-chested cabdriver with his cigarettes. The hat landed brim side down. Dov's muscles twitched reflexively, though he did not flip it onto its crown.

"Wouldn't you rather make your living as a prophetess?" he asked.

"Of course. Prophesying's a piece of cake. You don't have to primp all day for it. And it's much easier on the back, no wear and tear. Better for you, too. At least you'd leave with something in the morning." She took out one of her earrings, then, as an afterthought, put it back in. "Doesn't matter anyway. No money in it. They pay me to do everything except look into the future."

"I'll be the first then," he said, starting to feel almost comfortable. "Tell me what you see."

She closed her eyes and tilted her head so that her lips began to part, this in the style of those who peer into other realms. "I predict that this is the first time you've done such a thing."

"That is not a prophecy. It's a guess." Dov Binyamin cleared his throat and wiggled his toes against the tops of his shoes. "What else do you predict?"

She massaged her temples and held back a naughty grin.

"That you will, for once, get properly laid."

But this was too much for Dov Binyamin. Boiling in the heat and his shame, he motioned toward his hat.

Devorah took his hand.

"Forgive me," she said, "I didn't mean to be crude."

Her fingers were tan and thin, more delicate than Chava's. How strange it was to see strange fingers against the whiteness of his own.

"Excluding the affections of my mother, blessed be her memory, this is the first time I have been touched by a woman that is not my wife."

She released her grasp and, before he had time to step away, reached out for him again, this time more firmly, as if shaking on a deal. Devorah raised herself up and straightened a leg, displayed it for a moment, and then let it dangle over the side of the bed. Dov admired the leg, and the fingers resting against his palm.

'Why are we here together?" she asked--she was not mocking him. Devorah pulled at the hand and he sat at her side.

"To relieve my unbearable urges. So that my wife will be able to love me again."

Devorah raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

"You come to me for your wife's sake?"

"Yes."

"You are a very dedicated husband."

She gave him a smile that said, You won't go through with it. The smile lingered, and then he saw that it said something completely different, something irresistible. And he wondered, as a shiver ran from the trunk of his body out to the hand she held, if what they say about American women is true.

Dov walked toward the door, not to leave, but to shut off the lamp.

"One minute," Devorah said, reaching back and removing a condom from a klix pocket--no more than a slit in the smooth black fabric of her pants. Dov Binyamin knew what it was and waved it away.

"Am I really your second?" she asked.

Dov heard more in the question than was intended. He heard a flirtation; he heard a woman who treated the act of being second as if it were special. He was sad for her wondering if she had ever been anyone's first. He did not answer out loud, but instead nodded, affirming.

Devorah pouted as she decided, the prophylactic held between two fingers like a quarter poised at the mouth of a jukebox. Dov switched off the light and took a half step toward the bed. He stroked at the darkness, moving forward until he found her hair, soft, alive, without any of the worked-over stiffness of Chava's wigs.

"My God," he said, snatching back his hand as if he had been stung. It was too late, though. That he already knew. The hunger had flooded his whole self. His heart was swollen with it, pumping so loudly and with such strength that it overpowered whatever sense he might have had. For whom then, he wondered, was he putting on, in darkness, such a bashful show? He reached out again and stroked her hair, shaking but sure of his intent. With his other arm, the weaker arm, to which he bound every morning his tefillin, the arm closer to the violent force of his heart, he searched for her hand.

Dov found it and took hold of it, first roughly, as if desperate. Then he held it lightly, delicately, as if it were made of blown glass--a goblet from which, with ceremony, he wished to drink. Bringing it toward his mouth, he began to speak.

"It is a sin to spill seed in vain," he said, and Devorah let the condom fall at the sound of his words.


Dov Binyamin was at work on Monday and he was home as usual on Monday night. There was no desire to slip out of the apartment during the long hours when he could not sleep, no temptation, when making a delivery in Ramot, to turn the car in the direction of Tel Aviv. Dov Binyamin felt, along with a guilt that he could not shake, a sense of relief. He knew that he could never be with another woman again. And if it were possible to heap on himself all the sexual urges of the past months, if he could undo the single night with the prostitute to restore his unadulterated fidelity, he would have them tenfold. From that night of indulgence he found the strength to wait a lifetime for Chava's attentions--if that need be.

When Chava Bayla entered the dining room, Dov Binyamin would move into the kitchen. When she entered the bedroom, he would close his eyes and feign sleep. He would lie in the dark and silently love his wife. And, never coming to a conclusion, he would rethink the wisdom of the Rebbe's advice. He would picture the hairy arm of the cabdriver as he slapped the hood of his taxi. And he would chide himself. Never, never would he accuse his wife of faking impurity, for was it not the greater sin for him to pretend to be pure?

It was only a number of days from that Sunday night that Chava Bayla began to talk to her husband with affection. Soon after, she touched him on the shoulder while handing him a platter of kasha varnishkes. He placed it on the table and ate in silence. As she served dessert, levelesh, his favorite, Dov's guilt took on a physical form. What else could it be? What else but guilt would strike a man so obviously?

It began as a concentrated smoldering that flushed the whole of his body Quickly intensifying, it left him almost feverish. He would excuse himself from meals and sneak out of bed. At work, frightened and in ever-increasing pain, he ran from customers to examine himself in the bathroom. Dov Binyamin knew he was suffering from something more than shame.

But maybe it was a trial, a test of which the Rebbe had not warned him. For as his discomfort increased, so did Chava's attentions. On her way out of the shower, she let her towel drop in front of him, stepping away from it as if she hadn't noticed, like some Victorian woman waiting for a gentleman to return her hankie with a bow. She dressed slowly, self-consciously, omitting her undergarments and looking to Dov to remind her. He ignored it all, feeling the weight of his heart--no longer pumping as if to burst, but just as large--the blood stagnant and heavy. Chava began to linger in doorways so that he would be forced to brush against her as he passed. Her passion was torturous to Dov, forced to keep his own hidden inside. Once, without any of the protocol with which they tempered their lives, she came at the subject head-on. "Are you such a small man," she said, "that you must for eternity exact revenge?" He made no answer. It was she who walked away, only to return sweeter and bolder. She became so daring, so desperate, that he wondered if he had ever known the true nature of his wife at all. But he refused, even after repeated advances, to respond to Chava Bayla in bed.


She called to him from the darkness.

"Dovey, please, come out of there. Come lie by me and we'll talk. Just talk. Come Doveleh, join me in bed."

Dov Binyamin stood in the dark in the bathroom. There was some light from the street, enough to make out the toilet and the sink. He heard every word his wife said, and each one tore at him.

He stood before the toilet, holding his penis lightly, mindful of halacha and the laws concerning proper conduct in the lavatory. Trying to relieve himself, to pass water, he suffered to no end.

When he began to urinate, the burning worsened. He looked down in the half darkness and imagined he saw flames flickering from his penis.

He recalled the words of the prostitute. For his wife's sake, he thought, as the tears welled in his eyes. This couldn't possibly be the solution the Rebbe intended. Dov was supposed to be in his wife's embrace, enjoying her caresses, and instead he would get an examination table and a doctor's probing hands.

Dov Binyamin dropped to his knees. He rested his head against the coolness of the bowl. Whatever the trial, he couldn't bear it much longer. He had by now earned, he was sure, Chava Bayla's love.

There was a noise; it startled him; it was Chava at the door trying to open it. Dov had locked himself in. The handle turned again, and then Chava spoke to him through the door's frosted-glass window.

"Tell me," she said. "Tell me: When did I lose my husband for good?"

Every word a plague.

Dov pressed the lever of the toilet, drowning out Chava Bayla's voice. He let the tears run down his face and took his penis full in his hand.

For Dov Binyamin was on fire inside.

And yet he would not be consumed.