M. Kunić, Zapisi o "Malom princu"
Dogodi se tako - dva se bića susretnu...
Dogodi se da ulože i vrijeme i strpljenje u međusobno pripitomljavanje.
I krajičkom oka izdaleka, i jasnim pogledom oči u oči, duše se počnu prelijevati. Poteknu i bujice riječi, bogati, sadržajni razgovori o bitnim, vječnim temama.
Vrijeme se, oskudno i izmrvljeno svakodnevnošću životnih obveza, znade - posvećeno prijateljskom blizinom - umnožiti poput ribica i hljebova u Kristovoj ruci. Slapovi prijateljske blizine preliju se i preko krhkih posuda, u kojima nam je čuvati neprocjenjivo blago prisnosti, i na sve koji se nađu u blizini prijateljstvom blagoslovljenih bića. Riječ i govor prijateljstva rosa je što plodi suho tlo ovozemnosti.
No, kako "sve ima svoje vrijeme...", pa ima i "vrijeme govorenja i vrijeme šutnje", tako i govor među srodnima dosegne puninu. Kad srca priđu dovoljno blizu, otkrije se da i nije mnoštvo riječi i razgovora bilo ono što je prijatelje zbližilo. Slap riječi bio je samo povratak Izvoru, vraćanje u šutnju, koja je zadnji izraz svake riječi. I pravim prijateljima često više ne treba ni razgovor, ni pismo, ni blizina, ni susretanje. Duše su im nastanjene Riječju koja govori u šutnji, Šutnjom koja nadahnjuje njihov govor, pogled, suzu, stisak ruke, treptaj duha.
Godinama pokušavam govorenjem izgladiti nesporazume - među susjedima, između znanaca, u braku, s rođenom djecom. Godinama čeznem za riječju koja će me do kraja izreći, koja će me do kraja primiti u se a ona izmiče, izmiče. U ponekoj se riječi prepoznam, za ponekom mi poleti srce, poneka me zaboli do dna duše, ponekoj se čitav život nadam.
A Riječ se smiješi, bliska a neizreciva, žuđena a nedokučiva, posve nama predana a nedostupnim svjetlom sakrivena. Svaki joj se dan može prići malo bliže. Postojano. S povjerenjem, ne žaleći vrijeme.
Posve blizu, vrijeme će dorasti do vječnosti.
Povjerenje do sigurnosti.
Čežnja do ispunjenja.
Riječ do Šutnje.
Price, pjesme, intervjui...
Moderator: Chloe
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lilia
- Posts: 47
- Joined: 22/08/2007 21:33
#602
* * * * * - Oriah Mountain Dreamer
Reci mi za cim bolno zudis. ne zelim cuti jos jednu pricu o neskaldnoj obitelji koja je izgovor za tvoje trenutne ljudske slabosti. dopusti mi da okusim tvoje price u slanim suzama koje cu ti skinuti s trepavica. ceznem za dugom polaganom setnjom putevima koji vode do mesta upoznavanja. zelim da se spiralno vrtimo jedno oko drugog, gotovo se doticuci, dok ne osetimo toplinu zraka izmedju nas. zelim da ne pozurujemo putovaje kusajuci jedno drugom mirise, dopustajuci im da se dugo zadrze u nasim nosnicama, duboko ih udisuci, pustajuci da nasa tela i srca potpuno okuse poriv da se priblizimo jedno druom pre nego se pomaknemo da to ucinimo.
zelim da mi se udvaras istinom. neka se price koje otkrivaju nase zivote vrte jedna oko druge raznobojnim nitima. nemoj mi odmah ispricati previse. ne skrivaj nista. ispricaj mi price svog srca, ponudi mi ih poput savrsenih bisera koji izranjaju iz dubine mora da bi se nasli na istoj niski. svaki se nezno naslanja na one druge, blistajuci duginim bojama i orosen kapljicama vode iz koje izlazi. za deset godina zelim cuti tvoju pricu iz detinjstva, koju nikad pre nisam cula, i osetiti odusevljenje i neprestano divljenje jer svaki nas susret kao da je prvi. svaku sliku pokazi mi polako. tako da mogu dugo sediti i u njenim detaljima traziti tebe, naznake sebe i nagovestaje nas. zelim uzivati u razgovoru koji tece glatko celu noc te otkriti da mozemo ostati u tisini zajedno danima, dok nasu bliskost sve vise pojacava samoca koju delimo.
i ako cemo biti ljubavnici, prvi put ili nakon puno puta ponovo, neka vodjenje ljubavi bude ispunjeno sramezljivim otkrivanjem onoga kako je bilo ili kako je moglo biti u sesnaestoj: danas, poljubac koji dugo ostaje u zraku, dodir na vratu koji osecam jos satima; sutra nezan povetarac dodira koji se siri preko mojih grudi i od kojeg mi zastaje dah. zelim uzivati u beskraju dodira koji se stapaju u jedan u drugog. zelim sve usporiti, biti vlazna, zeljno iscekujuci sto ce uslediti, tako da budem svesna, da znam kad potpuno u mene udjes, bilo svojim telom, svojom pricom ili tek trenutkom koji prolazi izmedju nas.
to je zudnja jedne ljudske duse za drugom, koju cujemo telom i srcem. tesko mi je priznati tu bolnu zudnju. brine me da bi njena vrednost mogla biti tek sporedna - kao sredstvo za ostvarivanje cilja...
Reci mi za cim bolno zudis. ne zelim cuti jos jednu pricu o neskaldnoj obitelji koja je izgovor za tvoje trenutne ljudske slabosti. dopusti mi da okusim tvoje price u slanim suzama koje cu ti skinuti s trepavica. ceznem za dugom polaganom setnjom putevima koji vode do mesta upoznavanja. zelim da se spiralno vrtimo jedno oko drugog, gotovo se doticuci, dok ne osetimo toplinu zraka izmedju nas. zelim da ne pozurujemo putovaje kusajuci jedno drugom mirise, dopustajuci im da se dugo zadrze u nasim nosnicama, duboko ih udisuci, pustajuci da nasa tela i srca potpuno okuse poriv da se priblizimo jedno druom pre nego se pomaknemo da to ucinimo.
zelim da mi se udvaras istinom. neka se price koje otkrivaju nase zivote vrte jedna oko druge raznobojnim nitima. nemoj mi odmah ispricati previse. ne skrivaj nista. ispricaj mi price svog srca, ponudi mi ih poput savrsenih bisera koji izranjaju iz dubine mora da bi se nasli na istoj niski. svaki se nezno naslanja na one druge, blistajuci duginim bojama i orosen kapljicama vode iz koje izlazi. za deset godina zelim cuti tvoju pricu iz detinjstva, koju nikad pre nisam cula, i osetiti odusevljenje i neprestano divljenje jer svaki nas susret kao da je prvi. svaku sliku pokazi mi polako. tako da mogu dugo sediti i u njenim detaljima traziti tebe, naznake sebe i nagovestaje nas. zelim uzivati u razgovoru koji tece glatko celu noc te otkriti da mozemo ostati u tisini zajedno danima, dok nasu bliskost sve vise pojacava samoca koju delimo.
i ako cemo biti ljubavnici, prvi put ili nakon puno puta ponovo, neka vodjenje ljubavi bude ispunjeno sramezljivim otkrivanjem onoga kako je bilo ili kako je moglo biti u sesnaestoj: danas, poljubac koji dugo ostaje u zraku, dodir na vratu koji osecam jos satima; sutra nezan povetarac dodira koji se siri preko mojih grudi i od kojeg mi zastaje dah. zelim uzivati u beskraju dodira koji se stapaju u jedan u drugog. zelim sve usporiti, biti vlazna, zeljno iscekujuci sto ce uslediti, tako da budem svesna, da znam kad potpuno u mene udjes, bilo svojim telom, svojom pricom ili tek trenutkom koji prolazi izmedju nas.
to je zudnja jedne ljudske duse za drugom, koju cujemo telom i srcem. tesko mi je priznati tu bolnu zudnju. brine me da bi njena vrednost mogla biti tek sporedna - kao sredstvo za ostvarivanje cilja...
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black
- Posts: 18556
- Joined: 19/06/2004 16:00
- Location: ispod tresnje
#603
IDEJA FIKCIJE POBJEĐUJE NAŠU ČOVJEČNOST
Susan Sontag
Davno nekada – bilo je to 18. stoljeće – veliki i ekscentrični branitelj književnosti – bio je to Doktor Johnson – napisao je, u predgovoru svoga Rječnika: “Glavna slava svakog naroda potiče od njegovih autora”.
Kakav nekonvencionalan stav, mislim, čak i u ono doba. Da ne govorim koliko je nekonvencionalan danas, premda ga smatram istinitim i na početku 21. stoljeća. Naravno, govorim o slavi koja je trajna, ne prolazna.
Ponekad me pitaju postoji li nešto što bi, po mom mišljenju, pisci morali raditi, pa sam se nedavno prigodom jednog intervjua čula kako govorim: “Nekoliko stvari. Voljeti riječi, mučiti se oko rečenica. Posvetiti pažnju svijetu”.
Ove kitnjaste riječi nisam još ni izgovorila a već sam se sjetila još nekih recepata književničke vještine.
Naprimjer: “Biti ozbiljan”. Pod tim mislim: nikad ne biti ciničan, što ne isključuje biti smiješan.
I ako mi dozvolite, još jedan: “Pobrinite se da se rodite u vrijeme u kojem još postoji vjerovatnoća da vas oduševljavaju i na vas utiču Dostojevski, Tolstoj i Čehov”.
Istina je, što god da se kaže o tome kako bi trebao izgledati idealni pisac, uvijek će ostati mogućnost da se još ponešto doda.
Veliki pisac fikcije stvara novi, jedinstveni, individualni svijet – pomoću djelovanja imaginacije, pomoću jezika koji se čini neizbježnim, pomoću zapovjednih formi – i odgovara svijetu, svijetu koji dijeli s drugima ali kojega ne poznaju ili ga pogrešno znaju mnogi drugi ljudi, zatvoreni u svoje svjetove. Nazovite to historijom, društvom, kako god. Pisci koji su nam najvažniji upravo su oni koji proširuju naše svijesti, naše sklonosti i naše znanje.
Naravno, glavni zadatak spisateljice je da dobro piše. (I da nastavi dobro pisati. Ni da sagori niti da se proda.) Na kraju – to jest, sa stajališta književnosti – ozbiljna spisateljica ne predstavlja nikoga niti bilo što, osim samu ili samoga sebe. Sebe i uzvišeni cilj književnosti.
Književnost je, tvrdim, znanje – premda, čak i kad je vrhunska, nesavršeno znanje. Kao što je sve znanje. Čak i danas, književnost ostaje jedan od naših temeljnih načina razumijevanja. Veliki romanopisac je onaj koji dosta dobro razumijeva kompleksnosti: kompleksnost društva i kompleksnost privatnog života – porodičnih veza, porodičnih osjećanja, moć Erosa, mnoge nivoe osjećanja i borbe.
Gotovo sve u našoj raskalašnoj kulturi poziva nas da simplificiramo stvarnost, da prezremo mudrost. Velika je količina mudrosti u dragocjenom književnom naslijeđu koja nastavlja da nas uzdržava, koja predstavlja nenadomjestivi doprinos našoj čovječnosti artikuliranjem kompleksnog shvaćanja ljudskog srca i proturječnosti inherentnih životu, književnosti i historiji.
Književnost je jedna vrsta odgovornosti – samoj književnosti i društvu. Pod književnošću podrazumijevam književnost u normativnom smislu, smislu po kojem književnost inkarnira i brani visoke standarde. Pod društvom podrazumijevam društvo također u normativnom smislu koji sugerira da veliki pisac fikcije, pišući iskreno o društvu u kojem ona ili on živi, ne može uvesti, ali može pobuditi (pa makar i njihovim odsustvom) bolje standarde pravde i iskrenosti za koje se imamo pravo (neki će reći dužnost) boriti u nužno nesavršenim društvima u kojima živimo.
Očito, pisca romana, priča i komada smatram moralnim posrednikom. Po mom shvaćanju, pisac fikcije koji je privržen književnosti nužno je neko ko razmišlja o moralnim problemima: o onome što je pravedno a što nepravedno, o onome što je bolje a što gore, što je odbojno a što vrijedno poštovanja, što je za žaljenje a što potiče radost i odgovaranje. To ne znači moraliziranje u bilo kom direktnom ili sirovom smislu.
Ozbiljni pisci fikcije o moralnim problemima razmišljaju praktično. Oni pričaju priče. Oni pripovijedaju. Oni pobuđuju našu čovječnost u pripovijestima s kojima se možemo identificirati premda je riječ o životima koji su tako udaljeni od naših. Oni stimuliraju našu imaginaciju. Priče koje pričaju proširuju i kompliciraju – te stoga poboljšavaju – naše simpatije. Oni obrazuju našu moć moralnog prosuđivanja.
Kada kažem da pisac fikcije pripovijeda mislim na to da njegova priča ima oblik: početak, sredinu (ispravno nazvanu razvojem) i kraj, ili razrješenje. Svaki pisac fikcije želi ispričati mnoge priče, ali znamo da ne možemo ispričati sve priče – zasigurno ne simultano. Znamo da moramo odabrati jednu, dobro, jednu centralnu priču: Moramo biti selektivni. Umijeće pisca je u pronalaženju što je moguće više toga u toj priči, u toj sekvenci, u tom vremenu (vremenski raspored priče, u tom prostoru, konkretnoj geografiji priče).
“Toliko je mnogo priča za ispričati” snatri glas alter ega u monologu koji otvara moj roman “U Americi”. Toliko je mnogo priča za ispričati i teško je reći zašto odabrati jednu a ne onu drugu. To mora da je stoga što pričajući ovu osjećaš da možeš ispričati mnoge, da će u njoj biti neke nužnosti... To mora biti nešto poput zaljubljivanja. Ko god objašnjava zašto odabrati baš ovu priču i nije mnogo objasnio. Priča, mislim jedna duga priča, roman je poput puta oko svijeta za osamdeset dana: jedva da se sjećaš početka kad se približiš kraju...
Ispričati priču je reći: Ovo je važna priča. Znači reducirati rasprostrtost i simultanost svega na nešto linearno, na stazu.
Biti moralnim bićem znači posvetiti, biti obaveznim da se posvete određene vrste pažnje.
Kada donosimo moralne sudove, ne govorimo naprosto da je ovo bolje od onoga. Još fundamentalnije, mi tada govorimo kako je ovo važnije od onoga. Riječ je o uređivanju sveobuhvatne rasprostrtosti i simultaniteta svega po cijenu ignoriranja ili okretanja leđe većini onoga što se zbiva u svijetu.
Priroda moralnih sudova ovisi o našoj sposobnosti posvećivanja pažnje – sposobnosti koja, neizbježno ima svoje granice, ali čije se granice daju razvlačiti.
Ali možda početak mudrosti i poniznosti jeste nakloniti glavu pred mišlju, razarajućom mišlju o simultanosti svega i nemogućnosti vlastitog moralnog razumijevanja – koje je također razumijevanje romanopisca – da ga shvati.
Možda je ovo svjesnost koja ide lakše pjesnicima koji ne vjeruju mnogo u pripovijedanje. Neuporedivo rano u dvadesetom stoljeću portugalski pjesnik i prozni pisac Fernando Pessoa napisao je u svojoj knjizi proze “Knjiga nemira”:
“Otkrio sam da sam uvijek pozoran i da uvijek mislim na dvije stvari istovremeno. Pretpostavljam da smo svi mi dijelom takvi... U mom slučaju dvije stvarnosti koje mi okupljaju pažnju su podjednako žive. To je ono što konstituira moju originalnost. To je možda i ono što konstituira moju tragediju i što je čini smiješnom”.
Da, svako je dijelom takav, ali svjesnost dvojnosti mišljenja jedna je neugodna pozicija, izuzetno neugodna ako ju održavamo duže vrijeme. Izgleda da je normalno što ljudi reduciraju kompleksnost onog što osjećaju i misle i što gase svjesnost koja leži izvan njihovog neposrednog iskustva.
Nije li ovo odbijanje proširene svjesnosti koja se proteže na ono više nego što se dešava upravo sada i upravo ovdje upravo u srcu naše uvijek zbunjene svjesnosti ljudskoga zla i beskrajne sposobnosti ljudskih bića da čine zlo? Zbog toga što postoje, nedvojbeno, zone iskustva koje nisu uznemirujuće, koje pružaju radost, ostaje zagonetkom otkud toliko mnogo patnje i pokvarenosti. Velik dio pripovijesti i spekulacije koji se pokušava osloboditi od pripovijedanja i postati čisto apstraktan, pita: “Zašto postoji zlo? Zašto ljudi izdaju i ubijaju druge? Zašto nedužni pate?”
Ali možda problem trebamo preformulirati: Otkud to da zlo nije posvuda? Preciznije, zašto je negdje a ne svugdje? I šta treba da uradimo kada nas ono ne zadesi? Kada je bol koja se trpi bol drugoga?
Nakon što je čuo vijest o zemljotresu koji je sravnio Lisabon 1. 11. 1755. godine i (ako je vjerovati historičarima) uništio optimizam cijelog jednog društva (očito ne vjerujem da društva imaju samo jedno osnovno osjećanje) veliki Voltaire bio je pogođen našom okorjelom nesposobnošću da shvatimo ono što se drugdje dešava. “Lisabon leži u ruševinama”, piše Voltaire, “a mi u Parizu plešemo”.
Moglo bi se pomisliti da danas, u doba genocida, ljudima neće biti paradoksalna ili iznenađujuća indiferentnost spram onog što se zbiva simultano posvuda. Nije li to dio fundamentalne strukture iskustva da se ono “sad” odnosi i na “ovdje” i na ono “tamo”? Pa ipak, usuđujem se ustvrditi, mi smo podjednako iznenađeni i frustrirani našom nesposobnošću da odgovorimo na simultanost beskrajno kontrastnih ljudskih sudbina kao što je to bio Voltaire prije dva i pol stoljeća. Možda je to naša vječna sudbina da bivamo uvijek iznenađeni simultanošću događaja, čistim širenjem svijeta u vremenu i prostoru. Da se mi nalazimo ovdje, prosperitetni, sigurni, da u krevet idemo siti i čitavi, za razliku od drugih mjesta u svijetu, upravo sada u Groznom, Nadžafu, u Sudanu, u Kongu, u Gazi, u sirotinjskim dijelovima Rija...
Biti putnik – a pisci su često putnici – znači biti stalno podsjećan na simultanost onog što se zbiva u svijetu, vašem svijetu i vrlo različitom svijetu koji posjećujete i iz kojeg se vraćate kući.
Početak je odgovora na ovu bolnu svjesnost reći: to je pitanje simpatije, granica imaginacije. Možete također reći da nije “prirodno” stalno imati na umu da je svijet u tolikoj mjeri proširen. Da dok se dešava ovo, dešava se također i ono.
Istina.
Ali, odgovorila bih, zato nam treba fikcija: da proširimo naš svijet.
Susan Sontag
Davno nekada – bilo je to 18. stoljeće – veliki i ekscentrični branitelj književnosti – bio je to Doktor Johnson – napisao je, u predgovoru svoga Rječnika: “Glavna slava svakog naroda potiče od njegovih autora”.
Kakav nekonvencionalan stav, mislim, čak i u ono doba. Da ne govorim koliko je nekonvencionalan danas, premda ga smatram istinitim i na početku 21. stoljeća. Naravno, govorim o slavi koja je trajna, ne prolazna.
Ponekad me pitaju postoji li nešto što bi, po mom mišljenju, pisci morali raditi, pa sam se nedavno prigodom jednog intervjua čula kako govorim: “Nekoliko stvari. Voljeti riječi, mučiti se oko rečenica. Posvetiti pažnju svijetu”.
Ove kitnjaste riječi nisam još ni izgovorila a već sam se sjetila još nekih recepata književničke vještine.
Naprimjer: “Biti ozbiljan”. Pod tim mislim: nikad ne biti ciničan, što ne isključuje biti smiješan.
I ako mi dozvolite, još jedan: “Pobrinite se da se rodite u vrijeme u kojem još postoji vjerovatnoća da vas oduševljavaju i na vas utiču Dostojevski, Tolstoj i Čehov”.
Istina je, što god da se kaže o tome kako bi trebao izgledati idealni pisac, uvijek će ostati mogućnost da se još ponešto doda.
Veliki pisac fikcije stvara novi, jedinstveni, individualni svijet – pomoću djelovanja imaginacije, pomoću jezika koji se čini neizbježnim, pomoću zapovjednih formi – i odgovara svijetu, svijetu koji dijeli s drugima ali kojega ne poznaju ili ga pogrešno znaju mnogi drugi ljudi, zatvoreni u svoje svjetove. Nazovite to historijom, društvom, kako god. Pisci koji su nam najvažniji upravo su oni koji proširuju naše svijesti, naše sklonosti i naše znanje.
Naravno, glavni zadatak spisateljice je da dobro piše. (I da nastavi dobro pisati. Ni da sagori niti da se proda.) Na kraju – to jest, sa stajališta književnosti – ozbiljna spisateljica ne predstavlja nikoga niti bilo što, osim samu ili samoga sebe. Sebe i uzvišeni cilj književnosti.
Književnost je, tvrdim, znanje – premda, čak i kad je vrhunska, nesavršeno znanje. Kao što je sve znanje. Čak i danas, književnost ostaje jedan od naših temeljnih načina razumijevanja. Veliki romanopisac je onaj koji dosta dobro razumijeva kompleksnosti: kompleksnost društva i kompleksnost privatnog života – porodičnih veza, porodičnih osjećanja, moć Erosa, mnoge nivoe osjećanja i borbe.
Gotovo sve u našoj raskalašnoj kulturi poziva nas da simplificiramo stvarnost, da prezremo mudrost. Velika je količina mudrosti u dragocjenom književnom naslijeđu koja nastavlja da nas uzdržava, koja predstavlja nenadomjestivi doprinos našoj čovječnosti artikuliranjem kompleksnog shvaćanja ljudskog srca i proturječnosti inherentnih životu, književnosti i historiji.
Književnost je jedna vrsta odgovornosti – samoj književnosti i društvu. Pod književnošću podrazumijevam književnost u normativnom smislu, smislu po kojem književnost inkarnira i brani visoke standarde. Pod društvom podrazumijevam društvo također u normativnom smislu koji sugerira da veliki pisac fikcije, pišući iskreno o društvu u kojem ona ili on živi, ne može uvesti, ali može pobuditi (pa makar i njihovim odsustvom) bolje standarde pravde i iskrenosti za koje se imamo pravo (neki će reći dužnost) boriti u nužno nesavršenim društvima u kojima živimo.
Očito, pisca romana, priča i komada smatram moralnim posrednikom. Po mom shvaćanju, pisac fikcije koji je privržen književnosti nužno je neko ko razmišlja o moralnim problemima: o onome što je pravedno a što nepravedno, o onome što je bolje a što gore, što je odbojno a što vrijedno poštovanja, što je za žaljenje a što potiče radost i odgovaranje. To ne znači moraliziranje u bilo kom direktnom ili sirovom smislu.
Ozbiljni pisci fikcije o moralnim problemima razmišljaju praktično. Oni pričaju priče. Oni pripovijedaju. Oni pobuđuju našu čovječnost u pripovijestima s kojima se možemo identificirati premda je riječ o životima koji su tako udaljeni od naših. Oni stimuliraju našu imaginaciju. Priče koje pričaju proširuju i kompliciraju – te stoga poboljšavaju – naše simpatije. Oni obrazuju našu moć moralnog prosuđivanja.
Kada kažem da pisac fikcije pripovijeda mislim na to da njegova priča ima oblik: početak, sredinu (ispravno nazvanu razvojem) i kraj, ili razrješenje. Svaki pisac fikcije želi ispričati mnoge priče, ali znamo da ne možemo ispričati sve priče – zasigurno ne simultano. Znamo da moramo odabrati jednu, dobro, jednu centralnu priču: Moramo biti selektivni. Umijeće pisca je u pronalaženju što je moguće više toga u toj priči, u toj sekvenci, u tom vremenu (vremenski raspored priče, u tom prostoru, konkretnoj geografiji priče).
“Toliko je mnogo priča za ispričati” snatri glas alter ega u monologu koji otvara moj roman “U Americi”. Toliko je mnogo priča za ispričati i teško je reći zašto odabrati jednu a ne onu drugu. To mora da je stoga što pričajući ovu osjećaš da možeš ispričati mnoge, da će u njoj biti neke nužnosti... To mora biti nešto poput zaljubljivanja. Ko god objašnjava zašto odabrati baš ovu priču i nije mnogo objasnio. Priča, mislim jedna duga priča, roman je poput puta oko svijeta za osamdeset dana: jedva da se sjećaš početka kad se približiš kraju...
Ispričati priču je reći: Ovo je važna priča. Znači reducirati rasprostrtost i simultanost svega na nešto linearno, na stazu.
Biti moralnim bićem znači posvetiti, biti obaveznim da se posvete određene vrste pažnje.
Kada donosimo moralne sudove, ne govorimo naprosto da je ovo bolje od onoga. Još fundamentalnije, mi tada govorimo kako je ovo važnije od onoga. Riječ je o uređivanju sveobuhvatne rasprostrtosti i simultaniteta svega po cijenu ignoriranja ili okretanja leđe većini onoga što se zbiva u svijetu.
Priroda moralnih sudova ovisi o našoj sposobnosti posvećivanja pažnje – sposobnosti koja, neizbježno ima svoje granice, ali čije se granice daju razvlačiti.
Ali možda početak mudrosti i poniznosti jeste nakloniti glavu pred mišlju, razarajućom mišlju o simultanosti svega i nemogućnosti vlastitog moralnog razumijevanja – koje je također razumijevanje romanopisca – da ga shvati.
Možda je ovo svjesnost koja ide lakše pjesnicima koji ne vjeruju mnogo u pripovijedanje. Neuporedivo rano u dvadesetom stoljeću portugalski pjesnik i prozni pisac Fernando Pessoa napisao je u svojoj knjizi proze “Knjiga nemira”:
“Otkrio sam da sam uvijek pozoran i da uvijek mislim na dvije stvari istovremeno. Pretpostavljam da smo svi mi dijelom takvi... U mom slučaju dvije stvarnosti koje mi okupljaju pažnju su podjednako žive. To je ono što konstituira moju originalnost. To je možda i ono što konstituira moju tragediju i što je čini smiješnom”.
Da, svako je dijelom takav, ali svjesnost dvojnosti mišljenja jedna je neugodna pozicija, izuzetno neugodna ako ju održavamo duže vrijeme. Izgleda da je normalno što ljudi reduciraju kompleksnost onog što osjećaju i misle i što gase svjesnost koja leži izvan njihovog neposrednog iskustva.
Nije li ovo odbijanje proširene svjesnosti koja se proteže na ono više nego što se dešava upravo sada i upravo ovdje upravo u srcu naše uvijek zbunjene svjesnosti ljudskoga zla i beskrajne sposobnosti ljudskih bića da čine zlo? Zbog toga što postoje, nedvojbeno, zone iskustva koje nisu uznemirujuće, koje pružaju radost, ostaje zagonetkom otkud toliko mnogo patnje i pokvarenosti. Velik dio pripovijesti i spekulacije koji se pokušava osloboditi od pripovijedanja i postati čisto apstraktan, pita: “Zašto postoji zlo? Zašto ljudi izdaju i ubijaju druge? Zašto nedužni pate?”
Ali možda problem trebamo preformulirati: Otkud to da zlo nije posvuda? Preciznije, zašto je negdje a ne svugdje? I šta treba da uradimo kada nas ono ne zadesi? Kada je bol koja se trpi bol drugoga?
Nakon što je čuo vijest o zemljotresu koji je sravnio Lisabon 1. 11. 1755. godine i (ako je vjerovati historičarima) uništio optimizam cijelog jednog društva (očito ne vjerujem da društva imaju samo jedno osnovno osjećanje) veliki Voltaire bio je pogođen našom okorjelom nesposobnošću da shvatimo ono što se drugdje dešava. “Lisabon leži u ruševinama”, piše Voltaire, “a mi u Parizu plešemo”.
Moglo bi se pomisliti da danas, u doba genocida, ljudima neće biti paradoksalna ili iznenađujuća indiferentnost spram onog što se zbiva simultano posvuda. Nije li to dio fundamentalne strukture iskustva da se ono “sad” odnosi i na “ovdje” i na ono “tamo”? Pa ipak, usuđujem se ustvrditi, mi smo podjednako iznenađeni i frustrirani našom nesposobnošću da odgovorimo na simultanost beskrajno kontrastnih ljudskih sudbina kao što je to bio Voltaire prije dva i pol stoljeća. Možda je to naša vječna sudbina da bivamo uvijek iznenađeni simultanošću događaja, čistim širenjem svijeta u vremenu i prostoru. Da se mi nalazimo ovdje, prosperitetni, sigurni, da u krevet idemo siti i čitavi, za razliku od drugih mjesta u svijetu, upravo sada u Groznom, Nadžafu, u Sudanu, u Kongu, u Gazi, u sirotinjskim dijelovima Rija...
Biti putnik – a pisci su često putnici – znači biti stalno podsjećan na simultanost onog što se zbiva u svijetu, vašem svijetu i vrlo različitom svijetu koji posjećujete i iz kojeg se vraćate kući.
Početak je odgovora na ovu bolnu svjesnost reći: to je pitanje simpatije, granica imaginacije. Možete također reći da nije “prirodno” stalno imati na umu da je svijet u tolikoj mjeri proširen. Da dok se dešava ovo, dešava se također i ono.
Istina.
Ali, odgovorila bih, zato nam treba fikcija: da proširimo naš svijet.
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FFK as Lucy01
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- Joined: 20/04/2005 17:57
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#604
A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME
Stephen W. Hawking
Our Picture of the Universe
Any physical theory is always provisional, in the sense that it is only a hypothesis: you can never prove it. No matter how many times the results of experiments agree with some theory, you can never be sure that the next time the result will not contradict the theory. On the other hand, you can disprove a theory by finding even a single observation that disagrees with the predictions of the theory... Each time new experiments are observed to agree with the predictions the theory survives, and our confidence in it is increased; but if ever a new observation is found to disagree, we have to abandon or modify the theory. 11
Today scientists describe the universe in terms of two basic partial theories - the general theory of relativity and quantum mechanics... The general theory of relativity describes the force of gravity and the large-scale structure of the universe, that is, the structure on scales from only a few miles to as large as a million million million million (1 with twenty-four zeros after it) miles, the size of the observable universe. Quantum mechanics, on the other hands, deals with phenomena on extremely small scales, such as a millionth of a millionth of an inch. Unfortunately, however, these two theories are known to be inconsistent with each other - they cannot both be correct. 12
The discovery of a complete unified theory, therefore, may not aid the survival of our species. It may not even affect our life-style. But ever since the dawn of civilization, people have not been content to see events as unconnected and inexplicable. They have craved an understanding of the underlying order in the world. Today we still yearn to know why we are here and where we came from. Humanity's deepest desire for knowledge is justification enough for our continuing quest. And our goal is nothing less than a complete description of the universe we live in. 14
Space and Time
In addition to his laws of motion, Newton discovered a law to describe the force of gravity, which states that every body attracts every other body with a force that is proportional to the mass of each body. Thus the force between two bodies would be twice as strong if one of the bodies (say, body A) had its mass doubled. This is what you might expect because one could think of the new body A as being made of two bodies with the original mass. Each would attract body B with the original force. Thus the total force between A and B would be twice the original force. And if, say, one of the bodies had twice the mass, and the other had three times the mass, then the force would be six times as strong. One can now see why all bodies fall at the same rate: a body of twice the weight will have twice the force of gravity pulling it down, bit it will also have twice the mass. According to Newton's second law, these two effects will exactly cancel each other, so the acceleration will be the same in all cases. 16
... if one sets aside for a moment the rotation of the earth and its orbit round the sun, one could say that the earth was at rest and that a train on it was travelling north at ninety miles per hour or that the train was at rest and the earth was moving south at ninety miles per hour. 17
[James Clerk] Maxwell's equations predicted that there could be wavelike disturbances in the combined electromagnetic field, and that these would travel at a fixed speed, like ripples on a pond. If the wavelength of these waves is a meter or more, they are what we now call radio waves. Shorter wavelengths are known as microwaves (a few centimeters) or infrared (more than a ten thousandth of a centimeter). Visible light has a wavelength of between only forty and eighty millionths of a centimeter. Even shorter wavelengths are known as ultraviolet, X rays, and gamma rays. 19
... at 10 percent of the speed of light an object's mass is only 0.5 percent more than normal, while at 90 percent of the speed of light it would be more than twice its normal mass. As an object approaches the speed of light, its mass rises ever more quickly, so it takes more and more energy to speed it up further. It can in fact never reach the speed of light, because by then its mass would have become infinite, and by the equivalence of mass and energy, it would have taken an infinite amount of energy to get it there. For this reason, any normal object is forever confined by relativity to move at speeds slower than the speed of light. Only light, or other waves that have no intrinsic mass, can move at the speed of light. 21
... the meter is defined to be the distance travelled by light in 0.000000003335640952 seconds, as measured by a caesium clock. 22
The theory of relativity does, however, force us to change fundamentally our ideas of space and time. We must accept that time if not completely separate from and independent of space, but is combined with it to form an object called space-time. 24
... we do not know what is happening at the moment farther away in the universe: the light that we see from distant galaxies left them millions of years ago and in the case of the most distant object that we have seen, the light left some eight thousand million years ago. Thus, when we look at the universe, we are seeing it as it was in the past. 30
Bodies like the earth are not made to move on curved orbits by a force called gravity; instead, they follow the nearest thing to a straight path in curved space, which is called a geodesic. A geodesic is the shortest (or longest) path between two nearby points.
The mass of the sun curves space-time in such a way that although the earth follows a straight path in four-dimensional space-time, it appears to us to move along a circular orbit in three-dimensional space. 32
Light rays too must follow geodesics in space-time... this means that light from a distant star that happened to pass near the sun would be deflected through a small angel, causing the star to appear in a different position to an observer on the earth. 34
The Expanding Universe
The nearest star, called Proxima Centauri, is found to be about four light-years away, or about twenty-three million million miles. Most of the other stars that are visible to the naked eye lie within a few hundred light-years of us. 37
We now know that our galaxy is only one of some hundred thousand million that can be seen using modern telescopes, each galaxy itself containing some hundred thousand million stars... We live in a galaxy that is about one hundred thousand light-years across and is slowly rotating; the stars in its spiral arms orbit around its center about once every several hundred million years. 38
Newton, and others, should have realized that a static universe would soon start to contract under the influence of gravity. But suppose instead the universe expanding. If it was expanding fairly slowly, the force of gravity would cause it eventually to stop expanding and then to start contracting. However, if it was expanding at more than a certain critical rate, gravity would never be strong enough to stop it, and the universe would continue to expand forever. 42
A remarkable feature of the first kind of Friedmann model is that in it the universe is not infinite in space, but neither does space have any boundary. Gravity is so strong that space is bent round onto itself, making it rather like the surface of the earth. If one keeps traveling in a certain direction on the surface of the earth, one never comes up against an impassable barrier or falls over the edge, but eventually comes back to where one started. 47
The present evidence therefore suggests that the universe will probably expand forever, but all we can really be sure of is that even if the universe is going to recollapse, it won't do so for at least another ten thousand million years, since it has already been expanding for at least that long. This should not unduly worry us: by that time, unless we have colonized beyond the Solar System, mankind would long since have died out, extinguished along with our sun! 49
The Uncertainty Principle
Einstein never accepted that the universe was governed by chance; his feelings were summed up in his famous statement "God does not play dice."
It [quantum mechanics] governs the behavior of transistors and integrated circuits, which are essential components of electronic devices such as televisions and computers, and is also the basis of modern chemistry and biology. The only areas of physical science into which quantum mechanics has not yet been properly incorporated are gravity and the large-scale structure of the universe. 60
Elementary Particles and the Forces of Nature
Aristotle believe that all the matter in the universe was made up of four basic elements, earth, air, fire, and water .These elements were acted on by two forces: gravity, the tendency for earth and water to sink, and levity, the tendency for air and fire to rise...
Aristotle believed that matter was continuous, that is, one could divide a piece of matter into smaller and smaller bits without any limit: one never come up against a grain of matter that could not be divided further. 67
There are a number of different varieties of quarks: they are thought to be at least six "flavors," which we call up, down, strange, charmed, bottom, and top. Each flavor comes in three "colors," red, green, and blue. 69
... a particle of spin 1 is like an arrow: it looks different from different directions. Only if one turns it round a complete revolution (360 degrees) does the particle look the same. A particle of spin 2 is like a double-headed arrow: it look the same if one turns it round half a revolution (180 degrees)... there are particles that do not look the same if one turns them through just one revolution: you have to turn them through two complete revolutions! Such particles are said to have spin ½. 71
We now know that every particle has an antiparticle, with which it can annihilate. There could be whole antiworlds and antipeople made out of antiparticles. However, if you meet your antiself, don't shake hands! You would both vanish in a great flash of light. 73
The value of the grand unification energy is not very well know, but it would probably have to be at least a thousand million million GeV. The present generation of particle accelerators can collide particles at energies of about one hundred GeV, and machine are planned that would raise this to a few thousand GeV. But a machine that was powerful enough to accelerate particles to the grand unification energy would have to be as big as the Solar System - and would be unlikely to be funded in the present economic climate. 79
... one can calculate that the probable life of the proton must be greater than ten million million million million million years (1 with thirty-one zeros). 80
Black Holes
... a star that was sufficiently massive and compact would have such a strong gravitational field that light could not escape: any light emitted from the surface of the star would be dragged back by the star's gravitational attraction before it could get very far... Such objects are what we now call black holes... 86
As the star contracts, the gravitational field at its surface gets stronger and the light cones get bent inward more. This makes it more difficult for light from the star to escape, and the light appears dimmer and redder to an observer at a distance. Eventually, when the star has shrunk to a certain critical radius, the gravitational field at the surface becomes so strong that the light cones are bent inward so much that light can no longer escape. According to the theory of relativity, nothing can travel faster than light. Thus if light cannot escape, neither can anything else... 90
The event horizon , the boundary of the region of space-time from which it is not possible to escape, acts rather like a one-way membrane around the black hole... One could well say of the event horizon what the poet Dante said of the entrance to Hell: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." Anything or anyone who falls through the event horizon will soon reach the region of infinite density and the end of time. 94
... the movement of the earth in its orbit round the sun produces gravitational waves. The effect of the energy loss will be to change the orbit of the earth so that gradually it gets nearer and nearer to the sun, eventually collides with it, and settles down to a stationary state. The rate of energy loss in the case of the earth and the sun is very low - about enough to run a small electric heater. This means it will take about a thousand million million million million years for the earth to run into the sun... 94
We also now have evidence for several other black holes in systems like Cygnus X-1 in our galaxy and in two neighbouring galaxies called the Magellanic Clouds. The number of black holes, however, is almost certainly very much higher; in the long history of the universe, many stars must have burned all their nuclear fuel and have had to collapse. The number of black holes may well be greater even than the number of visible stars, which totals about a hundred thousand million in our galaxy alone. 100
Black Holes Ain't So Black
... the lower the mass of the black hole, the higher its temperature. So as the black hole loses mass, its temperature and rate of emission increase, so it loses mass more quickly. What happens when the mass of the black hole eventually becomes extremely small is not quite clear, but the most reasonable guess is that it would disappear completely in a tremendous final burst of emission, equivalent to the explosion of millions of H-bombs. 114
A black hole with a mass of a few times that of the sun would have a temperature of only one ten millionth of a degree above absolute zero... If the universe is destined to go on expanding forever, the temperature of the microwave radiation will eventually decrease to less than that of such a black hole, which will then begin to lose mass. But, even then, its temperature would be so low that it would take about a million million million million million million million million million million million years to evaporate completely. 114
... One such black hole could run ten large power stations, if only we could harness its power. This would be rather difficult, however: the black hole would have the mass of a mountain compressed into less than a million millionth of an inch, the size of the nucleus of an atom! If you had one of these black holes on the surface of the earth, there would be no way to stop it from falling through the floor to the center of the earth... So the only place to put such a black hole, in which one might use the energy it emitted, would be in orbit around the Earth - and the only way that one could get it to orbit the earth would be to attract it there by towing a large mass in front of it... 115
One can therefore say that the observations of the gamma ray background do not provide any positive evidence for primordial black holes, but they do tell us that on average there cannot be more than 300 in every cubic light-year in the universe. This limit means that primordial black holes could make up at most one millionth of the matter in the universe. 116
The Origin and Fate of the Universe
At the big bang itself, the universe is thought to have had zero size, and so to have been infinitely hot. But as the universe expanded, the temperature of the radiation decreased. One second after the big bang, it would have fallen to about ten thousand million degrees. This is about a thousand times the temperature at the center of the sun, but temperatures as high as this are reached in H-bomb explosions. 123
About one hundred seconds after the big bang, the temperature would have fallen to one thousand million degrees, the temperature inside the hottest stars. 124
Within only a few hours of the big bang, the production of helium and other elements would have stopped. And after that, for the next million years or so, the universe would have just continued expanding, without anything much happening. 125
Our own sun contains about 2 percent of these heavier elements [oxygen and carbon] because it is a second- or third- generation star, formed some five thousand million years ago out of a cloud of rotating gas containing the debris of earlier supernovas. Most of the gas in that cloud went to form the sun or got blown away, but a small amount of the heavier elements collected together to form the bodies that now orbit the sun as planets like the earth. 126
If the rate of expansion one second after the big bang had been smaller by even one part in a hundred thousand million million, the universe would have recollapsed before it ever reached its present size. 128
"We see the universe the way it is because we exist." 130
According to this theory [strong anthropic principle], there are either many different universes or many different regions of a single universe, each with its own initial configuration and, perhaps, with its own set of laws of science. In most of these universes the conditions would not be right for the development of complicated organisms; only in the few universes that are like ours would intelligent beings develop and ask the question: "Why is the universe the way we see it?" The answer is then simple: If it had been different, we would not be here! 131
There are something like ten million million million million million million million million million million million million million million (1 with eighty zeroes after it) particles in the region of the universe that we can observe. Where did they all come from? The answer is that, in quantum theory, particles can be created out of energy in the form of particle/antiparticle parts. But that just raises the question of where the energy came from. The answer is that the total energy of the universe is exactly zero. The matter in the universe is made out of positive energy. However, the matter is all attracting itself by gravity. Two pieces of matter that are close to each other have less energy than the same two pieces a long way apart, because you have to expend energy to separate them against the gravitational force that is pulling them together. Thus in a sense, the gravitational field has negative energy. In the case of a universe that is approximately uniform in space, one can show that this negative gravitational energy exactly cancels the positive energy represented by the matter. So the total energy of the universe is zero.
Now twice zero is also zero. Thus the universe can double the amount of positive matter energy and also double the negative gravitational energy without violation of the conservation of energy.
"It is said that there's no such thing as a free lunch. But the universe is the ultimate free lunch." 136
One could say: "The boundary condition of the universe is that it has no boundary." The universe would be completely self-contained and not affected by anything outside itself. It would neither be created nor destroyed. It would just BE. 144
The idea that space and time may form a closed surface without boundary also has profound implications for the role of God in the affairs of the universe. With the success of scientific theories in describing events, most people have come to believe that God allows the universe to evolve according to a set of laws and does not intervene in the universe to break these laws. However, the laws do not tell us what the universe should have looked like when it started - it would still be up to God to wind up the clockwood and choose how to start it off. So long as the universe had a beginning, we could suppose it had a creator. But if the universe is really completely self-contained, having no boundaries or edge, it would have neither beginning nor end: it would simply be. What place, then, for a creator? 149
The Arrow of Time
Imaginary time is indistinguishable from directions in space. If one can go north, one can turn around and head south; equally, if one can go forward in imaginary time, one ought to be able to turn around and go backward. This means that there can be no important difference between the forward and backward directions of imaginary time. On the other hand, when one looks at "real" time, there's a very big difference between the forward and backward directions, as we all know. Where does this difference between the past and the future come from? Why do we remember the past but not the future? 151
Disorder increases with time because we measure time in the direction in which disorder increases. 156
The progress of the human race in understanding the universe has established a small corner of order in an increasingly disordered universe. If you remember every word in this book, your memory will have recorded about two million pieces of information: the order in your brain will have increased by about two million units. However, while you have been reading this book, you will have converted at least a thousand calories or ordered energy, in the form of food, into disordered energy, in the form of heat that you lose to the air around you by convection and sweat. This will increase the disorder of the universe by about twenty million million million million units - or about ten million million million times the increase in order in your brain - and that's if you remember everything in this book. 161
The Unification of Physics
Why don't we notice all those extra dimensions, if they are really there? Why do we see only three space and one time dimension? The suggestion is that the other dimensions are curved up into a space of very small size, something like a million million million million millionth of an inch. This is so small that we just don't notice it; we see only one time and three space dimensions, in which space-time is fairly flat. It is like the surface of an orange: if you look at it close up, it is all curved and wrinkled, but if you look at it from a distance, you don't see the bumps and it appears to be smooth. So it is with space-time: on a very small scale it is ten-dimensional and highly curved, but on bigger scales you don't see the curvature or the extra dimensions. 173
... if there were a complete set of laws, that would infringe God's freedom to change his mind and intervene in the world. It's a bit like the old paradox: Can God make a stone so heavy that he can't lift it? But the idea that God might want to change his mind is an example of the fallacy, pointed out by St. Augustine, of imagining God as a being existing in time: time is a property only of the universe that God created. Presumably, he knew what he intended when he set it up! 176
A complete, consistent, unified theory is only the first step: our goal is a complete understanding of the events around us, and of our own existence. 179
Conclusion
Einstein once asked the question: "How much choice did God have in constructing the universe?"
Even if there is only one possible unified theory, it is just a set of rules and equations. What is it that breathes fire into the equations and makes a universe for them to describe?... Why does the universe go to all the bother of existing? Is the unified theory so compelling that it brings about its own existence? Or does it need a creator, and, if so, does he have any other effect on the universe? And who created him? 184
... if we do discover a complete theory, it should in time be understandable in broad principle by everyone, not just a few scientists. Then we shall all, philosophers, scientists, and just ordinary people, be able to take part in the discussion of the question of why it is that we and the universe exist. If we find the answer to that, it would be the ultimate triumph of human reason - for then we would know the mind of God. 185
Stephen W. Hawking
Our Picture of the Universe
Any physical theory is always provisional, in the sense that it is only a hypothesis: you can never prove it. No matter how many times the results of experiments agree with some theory, you can never be sure that the next time the result will not contradict the theory. On the other hand, you can disprove a theory by finding even a single observation that disagrees with the predictions of the theory... Each time new experiments are observed to agree with the predictions the theory survives, and our confidence in it is increased; but if ever a new observation is found to disagree, we have to abandon or modify the theory. 11
Today scientists describe the universe in terms of two basic partial theories - the general theory of relativity and quantum mechanics... The general theory of relativity describes the force of gravity and the large-scale structure of the universe, that is, the structure on scales from only a few miles to as large as a million million million million (1 with twenty-four zeros after it) miles, the size of the observable universe. Quantum mechanics, on the other hands, deals with phenomena on extremely small scales, such as a millionth of a millionth of an inch. Unfortunately, however, these two theories are known to be inconsistent with each other - they cannot both be correct. 12
The discovery of a complete unified theory, therefore, may not aid the survival of our species. It may not even affect our life-style. But ever since the dawn of civilization, people have not been content to see events as unconnected and inexplicable. They have craved an understanding of the underlying order in the world. Today we still yearn to know why we are here and where we came from. Humanity's deepest desire for knowledge is justification enough for our continuing quest. And our goal is nothing less than a complete description of the universe we live in. 14
Space and Time
In addition to his laws of motion, Newton discovered a law to describe the force of gravity, which states that every body attracts every other body with a force that is proportional to the mass of each body. Thus the force between two bodies would be twice as strong if one of the bodies (say, body A) had its mass doubled. This is what you might expect because one could think of the new body A as being made of two bodies with the original mass. Each would attract body B with the original force. Thus the total force between A and B would be twice the original force. And if, say, one of the bodies had twice the mass, and the other had three times the mass, then the force would be six times as strong. One can now see why all bodies fall at the same rate: a body of twice the weight will have twice the force of gravity pulling it down, bit it will also have twice the mass. According to Newton's second law, these two effects will exactly cancel each other, so the acceleration will be the same in all cases. 16
... if one sets aside for a moment the rotation of the earth and its orbit round the sun, one could say that the earth was at rest and that a train on it was travelling north at ninety miles per hour or that the train was at rest and the earth was moving south at ninety miles per hour. 17
[James Clerk] Maxwell's equations predicted that there could be wavelike disturbances in the combined electromagnetic field, and that these would travel at a fixed speed, like ripples on a pond. If the wavelength of these waves is a meter or more, they are what we now call radio waves. Shorter wavelengths are known as microwaves (a few centimeters) or infrared (more than a ten thousandth of a centimeter). Visible light has a wavelength of between only forty and eighty millionths of a centimeter. Even shorter wavelengths are known as ultraviolet, X rays, and gamma rays. 19
... at 10 percent of the speed of light an object's mass is only 0.5 percent more than normal, while at 90 percent of the speed of light it would be more than twice its normal mass. As an object approaches the speed of light, its mass rises ever more quickly, so it takes more and more energy to speed it up further. It can in fact never reach the speed of light, because by then its mass would have become infinite, and by the equivalence of mass and energy, it would have taken an infinite amount of energy to get it there. For this reason, any normal object is forever confined by relativity to move at speeds slower than the speed of light. Only light, or other waves that have no intrinsic mass, can move at the speed of light. 21
... the meter is defined to be the distance travelled by light in 0.000000003335640952 seconds, as measured by a caesium clock. 22
The theory of relativity does, however, force us to change fundamentally our ideas of space and time. We must accept that time if not completely separate from and independent of space, but is combined with it to form an object called space-time. 24
... we do not know what is happening at the moment farther away in the universe: the light that we see from distant galaxies left them millions of years ago and in the case of the most distant object that we have seen, the light left some eight thousand million years ago. Thus, when we look at the universe, we are seeing it as it was in the past. 30
Bodies like the earth are not made to move on curved orbits by a force called gravity; instead, they follow the nearest thing to a straight path in curved space, which is called a geodesic. A geodesic is the shortest (or longest) path between two nearby points.
The mass of the sun curves space-time in such a way that although the earth follows a straight path in four-dimensional space-time, it appears to us to move along a circular orbit in three-dimensional space. 32
Light rays too must follow geodesics in space-time... this means that light from a distant star that happened to pass near the sun would be deflected through a small angel, causing the star to appear in a different position to an observer on the earth. 34
The Expanding Universe
The nearest star, called Proxima Centauri, is found to be about four light-years away, or about twenty-three million million miles. Most of the other stars that are visible to the naked eye lie within a few hundred light-years of us. 37
We now know that our galaxy is only one of some hundred thousand million that can be seen using modern telescopes, each galaxy itself containing some hundred thousand million stars... We live in a galaxy that is about one hundred thousand light-years across and is slowly rotating; the stars in its spiral arms orbit around its center about once every several hundred million years. 38
Newton, and others, should have realized that a static universe would soon start to contract under the influence of gravity. But suppose instead the universe expanding. If it was expanding fairly slowly, the force of gravity would cause it eventually to stop expanding and then to start contracting. However, if it was expanding at more than a certain critical rate, gravity would never be strong enough to stop it, and the universe would continue to expand forever. 42
A remarkable feature of the first kind of Friedmann model is that in it the universe is not infinite in space, but neither does space have any boundary. Gravity is so strong that space is bent round onto itself, making it rather like the surface of the earth. If one keeps traveling in a certain direction on the surface of the earth, one never comes up against an impassable barrier or falls over the edge, but eventually comes back to where one started. 47
The present evidence therefore suggests that the universe will probably expand forever, but all we can really be sure of is that even if the universe is going to recollapse, it won't do so for at least another ten thousand million years, since it has already been expanding for at least that long. This should not unduly worry us: by that time, unless we have colonized beyond the Solar System, mankind would long since have died out, extinguished along with our sun! 49
The Uncertainty Principle
Einstein never accepted that the universe was governed by chance; his feelings were summed up in his famous statement "God does not play dice."
It [quantum mechanics] governs the behavior of transistors and integrated circuits, which are essential components of electronic devices such as televisions and computers, and is also the basis of modern chemistry and biology. The only areas of physical science into which quantum mechanics has not yet been properly incorporated are gravity and the large-scale structure of the universe. 60
Elementary Particles and the Forces of Nature
Aristotle believe that all the matter in the universe was made up of four basic elements, earth, air, fire, and water .These elements were acted on by two forces: gravity, the tendency for earth and water to sink, and levity, the tendency for air and fire to rise...
Aristotle believed that matter was continuous, that is, one could divide a piece of matter into smaller and smaller bits without any limit: one never come up against a grain of matter that could not be divided further. 67
There are a number of different varieties of quarks: they are thought to be at least six "flavors," which we call up, down, strange, charmed, bottom, and top. Each flavor comes in three "colors," red, green, and blue. 69
... a particle of spin 1 is like an arrow: it looks different from different directions. Only if one turns it round a complete revolution (360 degrees) does the particle look the same. A particle of spin 2 is like a double-headed arrow: it look the same if one turns it round half a revolution (180 degrees)... there are particles that do not look the same if one turns them through just one revolution: you have to turn them through two complete revolutions! Such particles are said to have spin ½. 71
We now know that every particle has an antiparticle, with which it can annihilate. There could be whole antiworlds and antipeople made out of antiparticles. However, if you meet your antiself, don't shake hands! You would both vanish in a great flash of light. 73
The value of the grand unification energy is not very well know, but it would probably have to be at least a thousand million million GeV. The present generation of particle accelerators can collide particles at energies of about one hundred GeV, and machine are planned that would raise this to a few thousand GeV. But a machine that was powerful enough to accelerate particles to the grand unification energy would have to be as big as the Solar System - and would be unlikely to be funded in the present economic climate. 79
... one can calculate that the probable life of the proton must be greater than ten million million million million million years (1 with thirty-one zeros). 80
Black Holes
... a star that was sufficiently massive and compact would have such a strong gravitational field that light could not escape: any light emitted from the surface of the star would be dragged back by the star's gravitational attraction before it could get very far... Such objects are what we now call black holes... 86
As the star contracts, the gravitational field at its surface gets stronger and the light cones get bent inward more. This makes it more difficult for light from the star to escape, and the light appears dimmer and redder to an observer at a distance. Eventually, when the star has shrunk to a certain critical radius, the gravitational field at the surface becomes so strong that the light cones are bent inward so much that light can no longer escape. According to the theory of relativity, nothing can travel faster than light. Thus if light cannot escape, neither can anything else... 90
The event horizon , the boundary of the region of space-time from which it is not possible to escape, acts rather like a one-way membrane around the black hole... One could well say of the event horizon what the poet Dante said of the entrance to Hell: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." Anything or anyone who falls through the event horizon will soon reach the region of infinite density and the end of time. 94
... the movement of the earth in its orbit round the sun produces gravitational waves. The effect of the energy loss will be to change the orbit of the earth so that gradually it gets nearer and nearer to the sun, eventually collides with it, and settles down to a stationary state. The rate of energy loss in the case of the earth and the sun is very low - about enough to run a small electric heater. This means it will take about a thousand million million million million years for the earth to run into the sun... 94
We also now have evidence for several other black holes in systems like Cygnus X-1 in our galaxy and in two neighbouring galaxies called the Magellanic Clouds. The number of black holes, however, is almost certainly very much higher; in the long history of the universe, many stars must have burned all their nuclear fuel and have had to collapse. The number of black holes may well be greater even than the number of visible stars, which totals about a hundred thousand million in our galaxy alone. 100
Black Holes Ain't So Black
... the lower the mass of the black hole, the higher its temperature. So as the black hole loses mass, its temperature and rate of emission increase, so it loses mass more quickly. What happens when the mass of the black hole eventually becomes extremely small is not quite clear, but the most reasonable guess is that it would disappear completely in a tremendous final burst of emission, equivalent to the explosion of millions of H-bombs. 114
A black hole with a mass of a few times that of the sun would have a temperature of only one ten millionth of a degree above absolute zero... If the universe is destined to go on expanding forever, the temperature of the microwave radiation will eventually decrease to less than that of such a black hole, which will then begin to lose mass. But, even then, its temperature would be so low that it would take about a million million million million million million million million million million million years to evaporate completely. 114
... One such black hole could run ten large power stations, if only we could harness its power. This would be rather difficult, however: the black hole would have the mass of a mountain compressed into less than a million millionth of an inch, the size of the nucleus of an atom! If you had one of these black holes on the surface of the earth, there would be no way to stop it from falling through the floor to the center of the earth... So the only place to put such a black hole, in which one might use the energy it emitted, would be in orbit around the Earth - and the only way that one could get it to orbit the earth would be to attract it there by towing a large mass in front of it... 115
One can therefore say that the observations of the gamma ray background do not provide any positive evidence for primordial black holes, but they do tell us that on average there cannot be more than 300 in every cubic light-year in the universe. This limit means that primordial black holes could make up at most one millionth of the matter in the universe. 116
The Origin and Fate of the Universe
At the big bang itself, the universe is thought to have had zero size, and so to have been infinitely hot. But as the universe expanded, the temperature of the radiation decreased. One second after the big bang, it would have fallen to about ten thousand million degrees. This is about a thousand times the temperature at the center of the sun, but temperatures as high as this are reached in H-bomb explosions. 123
About one hundred seconds after the big bang, the temperature would have fallen to one thousand million degrees, the temperature inside the hottest stars. 124
Within only a few hours of the big bang, the production of helium and other elements would have stopped. And after that, for the next million years or so, the universe would have just continued expanding, without anything much happening. 125
Our own sun contains about 2 percent of these heavier elements [oxygen and carbon] because it is a second- or third- generation star, formed some five thousand million years ago out of a cloud of rotating gas containing the debris of earlier supernovas. Most of the gas in that cloud went to form the sun or got blown away, but a small amount of the heavier elements collected together to form the bodies that now orbit the sun as planets like the earth. 126
If the rate of expansion one second after the big bang had been smaller by even one part in a hundred thousand million million, the universe would have recollapsed before it ever reached its present size. 128
"We see the universe the way it is because we exist." 130
According to this theory [strong anthropic principle], there are either many different universes or many different regions of a single universe, each with its own initial configuration and, perhaps, with its own set of laws of science. In most of these universes the conditions would not be right for the development of complicated organisms; only in the few universes that are like ours would intelligent beings develop and ask the question: "Why is the universe the way we see it?" The answer is then simple: If it had been different, we would not be here! 131
There are something like ten million million million million million million million million million million million million million million (1 with eighty zeroes after it) particles in the region of the universe that we can observe. Where did they all come from? The answer is that, in quantum theory, particles can be created out of energy in the form of particle/antiparticle parts. But that just raises the question of where the energy came from. The answer is that the total energy of the universe is exactly zero. The matter in the universe is made out of positive energy. However, the matter is all attracting itself by gravity. Two pieces of matter that are close to each other have less energy than the same two pieces a long way apart, because you have to expend energy to separate them against the gravitational force that is pulling them together. Thus in a sense, the gravitational field has negative energy. In the case of a universe that is approximately uniform in space, one can show that this negative gravitational energy exactly cancels the positive energy represented by the matter. So the total energy of the universe is zero.
Now twice zero is also zero. Thus the universe can double the amount of positive matter energy and also double the negative gravitational energy without violation of the conservation of energy.
"It is said that there's no such thing as a free lunch. But the universe is the ultimate free lunch." 136
One could say: "The boundary condition of the universe is that it has no boundary." The universe would be completely self-contained and not affected by anything outside itself. It would neither be created nor destroyed. It would just BE. 144
The idea that space and time may form a closed surface without boundary also has profound implications for the role of God in the affairs of the universe. With the success of scientific theories in describing events, most people have come to believe that God allows the universe to evolve according to a set of laws and does not intervene in the universe to break these laws. However, the laws do not tell us what the universe should have looked like when it started - it would still be up to God to wind up the clockwood and choose how to start it off. So long as the universe had a beginning, we could suppose it had a creator. But if the universe is really completely self-contained, having no boundaries or edge, it would have neither beginning nor end: it would simply be. What place, then, for a creator? 149
The Arrow of Time
Imaginary time is indistinguishable from directions in space. If one can go north, one can turn around and head south; equally, if one can go forward in imaginary time, one ought to be able to turn around and go backward. This means that there can be no important difference between the forward and backward directions of imaginary time. On the other hand, when one looks at "real" time, there's a very big difference between the forward and backward directions, as we all know. Where does this difference between the past and the future come from? Why do we remember the past but not the future? 151
Disorder increases with time because we measure time in the direction in which disorder increases. 156
The progress of the human race in understanding the universe has established a small corner of order in an increasingly disordered universe. If you remember every word in this book, your memory will have recorded about two million pieces of information: the order in your brain will have increased by about two million units. However, while you have been reading this book, you will have converted at least a thousand calories or ordered energy, in the form of food, into disordered energy, in the form of heat that you lose to the air around you by convection and sweat. This will increase the disorder of the universe by about twenty million million million million units - or about ten million million million times the increase in order in your brain - and that's if you remember everything in this book. 161
The Unification of Physics
Why don't we notice all those extra dimensions, if they are really there? Why do we see only three space and one time dimension? The suggestion is that the other dimensions are curved up into a space of very small size, something like a million million million million millionth of an inch. This is so small that we just don't notice it; we see only one time and three space dimensions, in which space-time is fairly flat. It is like the surface of an orange: if you look at it close up, it is all curved and wrinkled, but if you look at it from a distance, you don't see the bumps and it appears to be smooth. So it is with space-time: on a very small scale it is ten-dimensional and highly curved, but on bigger scales you don't see the curvature or the extra dimensions. 173
... if there were a complete set of laws, that would infringe God's freedom to change his mind and intervene in the world. It's a bit like the old paradox: Can God make a stone so heavy that he can't lift it? But the idea that God might want to change his mind is an example of the fallacy, pointed out by St. Augustine, of imagining God as a being existing in time: time is a property only of the universe that God created. Presumably, he knew what he intended when he set it up! 176
A complete, consistent, unified theory is only the first step: our goal is a complete understanding of the events around us, and of our own existence. 179
Conclusion
Einstein once asked the question: "How much choice did God have in constructing the universe?"
Even if there is only one possible unified theory, it is just a set of rules and equations. What is it that breathes fire into the equations and makes a universe for them to describe?... Why does the universe go to all the bother of existing? Is the unified theory so compelling that it brings about its own existence? Or does it need a creator, and, if so, does he have any other effect on the universe? And who created him? 184
... if we do discover a complete theory, it should in time be understandable in broad principle by everyone, not just a few scientists. Then we shall all, philosophers, scientists, and just ordinary people, be able to take part in the discussion of the question of why it is that we and the universe exist. If we find the answer to that, it would be the ultimate triumph of human reason - for then we would know the mind of God. 185
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FFK as Lucy01
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#605
Evo jedna kratka prica od ovogodisnje dobitnice Nobelove nagrade za knjizevnost Doris Lessing.
Through the Tunnel
Going to the shore on the first morning of the holiday, the young English boy stopped at a turning of the path and looked down at a wild and rocky bay, and then over to the crowded beach he knew so well from other years. His mother walked on in front of him, carrying a bright-striped bag in one hand. Her other arm, swinging loose, was very white in the sun. The boy watched that white, naked arm, and turned his eyes, which had a frown behind them, toward the bay and back again to his mother. When she felt he was not with her, she swung around. "Oh, there you are, Jerry!" she said. She looked impatient, then smiled. "Why, darling, would you rather not come with me? Would you rather-" She frowned, conscientiously worrying over what amusements he might secretly be longing for which she had been too busy or too careless to imagine. He was very familiar with that anxious, apologetic smile. Contrition sent him running after her. And yet, as he ran, he looked back over his shoulder at the wild bay; and all morning, as he played on the safe beach, he was thinking of it.
Next morning, when it was time for the routine of swimming and sunbathing, his mother said, "Are you tired of the usual beach, Jerry? Would you like to go somewhere else?"
"Oh, no!" he said quickly, smiling at her out of that unfailing impulse of contrition - a sort of chivalry. Yet, walking down the path with her, he blurted out, "I'd like to go and have a look at those rocks down there."
She gave the idea her attention. It was a wild-looking place, and there was no one there, but she said, "Of course, Jerry. When you've had enough come to the big beach. Or just go straight back to the villa, if you like." She walked away, that bare arm, now slightly reddened from yesterday's sun, swinging. And he almost ran after her again, feeling it unbearable that she should go by herself, but he did not.
She was thinking, Of course he's old enough to be safe without me. Have I been keeping him too close? He mustn't feel he ought to be with me. I must be careful.
He was an only child, eleven years old. She was a widow. She was determined to be neither possessive nor lacking in devotion. She went worrying off to her beach.
As for Jerry, once he saw that his mother had gained her beach, he began the steep descent to the bay. From where he was, high up among red-brown rocks, it was a scoop of moving bluish green fringed with white. As he went lower, he saw that it spread among small promontories and inlets of rough, sharp rock, and the crisping, lapping surface showed stains of purple and darker blue. Finally, as he ran sliding and scraping down the last few yards, he saw an edge of white surf, and the shallow, luminous movement of water over white sand, and, beyond that, a solid, heavy blue.
He ran straight into the water and began swimming. He was a good swimmer. He went out fast over the gleaming sand, over a middle region where rocks lay like discoloured monsters under the surface, and then he was in the real sea - a warm sea where irregular cold currents from the deep water shocked his limbs.
When he was so far out that he could look back not only on the little bay but past the promontory that was between it and the big beach, he floated on the buoyant surface and looked for his mother. There she was, a speck of yellow under an umbrella that looked like a slice of orange peel. He swam back to shore, relieved at being sure she was there, but all at once very lonely.
On the edge of a small cape that marked the side of the bay away from the promontory was a loose scatter of rocks. Above them, some boys were stripping off their clothes. They came running, naked, down to the rocks. The English boy swam towards them, and kept his distance at a stone's throw. They were of that coast, all of them burned smooth dark brown, and speaking a language he did not understand. To be with them, of them, was a craving that filled his whole body. He swam a little closer; they turned and watched him with narrowed, alert dark eyes. Then one smiled and waved. It was enough. In a minute, he had swum in and was on the rocks beside them, smiling with a desperate, nervous supplication. They shouted cheerful greetings at him, and then, as he preserved his nervous, uncomprehending smile, they understood that he was a foreigner strayed from his own beach, and they proceeded to forget him. But he was happy. He was with them.
They began diving again and again from a high point into a well of blue sea between rough, pointed rocks. After they had dived and come up, they swam around, hauled themselves up, and waited their turn to dive again. They were big boys — men to Jerry. He dived, and they watched him, and when he swam around to take his place, they made way for him. He felt he was accepted, and he dived again, carefully, proud of himself.
Soon the biggest of the boys poised himself, shot down into the water, and did not come up. The others stood about, watching. Jerry, after waiting for the sleek brown head to appear, let out a yell of warning; they looked at him idly and turned their eyes back towards the water. After a long time, the boy came up on the other side of a big dark rock, letting the air out of his lungs in a spluttering gasp and a shout of triumph. Immediately, the rest of them dived in. One moment, the morning seemed full of chattering boys; the next, the air and the surface of the water were empty. But through the heavy blue, dark shapes could be seen moving and groping.
Jerry dived, shot past the school of underwater swimmers, saw a black wall of rock looming at him, touched it, and bobbed up at once to the surface, where the wall was a low barrier he could see across. There was no one visible; under him, in the water, the dim shapes of the swimmers had disappeared. Then one, and then another of the boys came up on the far side of the barrier of rock, and he understood that they had swum through some gap or hole in it. He plunged down again. He could see nothing through the stinging salt water but the blank rock. When he came up, the boys were all on the diving rock, preparing to attempt the feat again. And now, in a panic of failure, he yelled up, in English, "Look at me! Look!" and he began splashing and kicking in the water like a foolish dog.
They looked down gravely, frowning. He knew the frown. At moments of failure, when he clowned to claim his mother's attention, it was with just this grave, embarrassed inspection that she rewarded him. Through his hot shame, feeling the pleading grin on his face like a scar that he could never remove, he looked up at the group of big brown boys on the rock and shouted, "Bonjour! Merci! Au revoir! Monsieur, monsieur!" while he hooked his fingers round his ears and waggled them.
Water surged into his mouth; he choked, sank, came up. The rock, lately weighed with boys, seemed to rear up out of the water as their weight was removed. They were flying down past him, now, into the water; the air was full of falling bodies. Then the rock was empty in the hot sunlight. He counted one, two, three . . . .
At fifty, he was terrified. They must all be drowning beneath him, in the watery caves of the rock! At a hundred, he stared around him at the empty hillside, wondering if he should yell for help. He counted faster, faster, to hurry them up, to bring them to the surface quickly, to drown them quickly - anything rather than the terror of counting on and on into the blue emptiness of the morning. And then, at a hundred and sixty, the water beyond the rock was full of boys blowing like brown whales. They swam back to the shore without a look at him.
He climbed back to the diving rock and sat down, feeling the hot roughness of it under his thighs. The boys were gathering up their bits of clothing and running off along the shore to another promontory. They were leaving to get away from him. He cried openly, fists in his eyes. There was no one to see him, and he cried himself out.
It seemed to him that a long time had passed, and he swam out to where he could see his mother. Yes, she was still there, a yellow spot under an orange umbrella. He swam back to the big rock, climbed up, and dived into the blue pool among the fanged and angry boulders. Down he went, until he touched the wall of rock again. But the salt was so painful in his eyes that he could not see.
He came to the surface, swam to shore and went back to the villa to wait for his mother. Soon she walked slowly up the path, swinging her striped bag, the flushed, naked arm dangling beside her. "I want some swimming goggles," he panted, defiant and beseeching.
She gave him a patient, inquisitive look as she said casually, "Well, of course, darling."
But now, now, now! He must have them this minute, and no other time. He nagged and pestered until she went with him to a shop. As soon as she had bought the goggles, he grabbed them from her hand as if she were going to claim them for herself, and was off, running down the steep path to the bay.
Jerry swam out to the big barrier rock, adjusted the goggles, and dived. The impact of the water broke the rubber-enclosed vacuum, and the goggles came loose. He understood that he must swim down to the base of the rock from the surface of the water. He fixed the goggles tight and firm, filled his lungs, and floated, face down, on the water. Now he could see. It was as if he had eyes of a different kind — fish eyes that showed everything clear and delicate and wavering in the bright water.
Under him, six or seven feet down, was a floor of perfectly clean, shining white sand, rippled firm and hard by the tides. Two greyish shapes steered there, like long, rounded pieces of wood or slate. They were fish. He saw them nose towards each other, poise motionless, make a dart forward, swerve off, and come around again. It was like a water dance. A few inches above them, the water sparkled as if sequins were dropping through it. Fish again — myriads of minute fish, the length of his fingernail, were drifting through the water, and in a moment he could feel the innumerable klix touches of them against his limbs. It was like swimming in flaked silver. The great rock the big boys had swum through rose sheer out of the white sand, black, tufted lightly with greenish weed. He could see no gap in it. He swam down to its base.
Again and again he rose, took a big chestful of air, and went down. Again and again he groped over the surface of the rock, feeling it, almost hugging it in the desperate need to find the entrance. And then, once, while he was clinging to the black wall, his knees came up and he shot his feet out forward and they met no obstacle. He had found the hole.
He gained the surface, clambered about the stones that littered the barrier rock until he found a big one, and, with this in his arms, let himself down over the side of the rock. He dropped, with the weight, straight to the sandy floor. Clinging tight to the anchor of stone, he lay on his side and looked in under the dark shelf at the place where his feet had gone. He could see the hole. It was an irregular, dark gap, but he could not see deep into it. He let go of his anchor, clung with his hands to the edges of the hole, and tried to push himself in.
He got his head in, found his shoulders jammed, moved them in sidewise, and was inside as far as his waist. He could see nothing ahead. Something soft and clammy touched his mouth, he saw a dark frond moving against the greyish rock, and panic filled him. He thought of octopuses, of clinging weed. He pushed himself out backward and caught a glimpse, as he retreated, of a harmless tentacle of seaweed drifting in the mouth of the tunnel. But it was enough. He reached the sunlight, swam to shore, and lay on the diving rock. He looked down into the blue well of water. He knew he must find his way through that cave, or hole, or tunnel, and out the other side.
First, he thought, he must learn to control his breathing. He let himself down into the water with another big stone in his arms, so that he could lie effortlessly on the bottom of the sea. He counted. One, two, three. He counted steadily. He could hear the movement of blood in his chest. Fifty-one, fifty-two . . . . His chest was hurting. He let go of the rock and went up into the air. He saw that the sun was low. He rushed to the villa and found his mother at her supper. She said only "Did you enjoy yourself?" and he said "Yes."
All night, the boy dreamed of the water-filled cave in the rock, and as soon as breakfast was over he went to the hay.
That night, his nose bled badly. For hours he had been underwater, learning to hold his breath, and now he felt weak and dizzy. His mother said, "I shouldn't overdo things, darling, if I were you."
That day and the next, Jerry exercised his lungs as if everything, the whole of his life, all that he would become, depended upon it. And again his nose bled at night, and his mother insisted on his coming with her the next day. It was a torment to him to waste a day of his careful self-training, but he stayed with her on that other beach, which now seemed a place for small children, a place where his mother might lie safe in the sun. It was not his beach.
He did not ask for permission, on the following day, to go to his beach. He went, before his mother could consider the complicated rights and wrongs of the matter. A day's rest, he discovered, had improved his count by ten. The big boys had made the passage while he counted a hundred and sixty. He had been counting fast, in his fright. Probably now, if he tried, he could get through that long tunnel, but he was not going to try yet. A curious, most unchildlike persistence, a controlled impatience, made him wait. In the meantime, he lay underwater on the white sand, littered now by stones he had brought down from the upper air, and studied the entrance to the tunnel. He knew every jut and corner of it, as far as it was possible to see. It was as if he already felt its sharpness about his shoulders.
He sat by the clock in the villa, when his mother was not near, and checked his time. He was incredulous and then proud to find he could hold his breath without strain for two minutes. The words "two minutes", authorized by the clock, brought the adventure that was so necessary to him close.
In another four days, his mother said casually one morning, they must go home. On the day before they left, he would do it. He would do it if it killed him, he said defiantly to himself. But two days before they were to leave - a day of triumph when he increased his count by fifteen - his nose bled so badly that he turned dizzy and had to lie limply over the big rock like a bit of seaweed, watching the thick red blood flow on to the rock and trickle slowly down to the sea. He was frightened. Supposing he turned dizzy in the tunnel? Supposing he died there, trapped? Supposing — his head went around, in the hot sun, and he almost gave up. He thought he would return to the house and lie down, and next summer, perhaps, when he had another year's growth in him - then he would go through the hole.
But even after he had made the decision, or thought he had, he found himself sitting up on the rock and looking down into the water, and he knew that now, this moment when his nose had only just stopped bleeding, when his head was still sore and throbbing — this was the moment when he would try. If he did not do it now, he never would. He was trembling with fear that he would not go, and he was trembling with horror at that long, long tunnel under the rock, under the sea. Even in the open sunlight, the barrier rock seemed very wide and very heavy; tons of rock pressed down on where he would go. If he died there, he would lie until one day — perhaps not before next year — those big boys would swim into it and find it blocked.
He put on his goggles, fitted them tight, tested the vacuum. His hands were shaking. Then he chose the biggest stone he could carry and slipped over the edge of the rock until half of him was in the cool, enclosing water and half in the hot sun. He looked up once at the empty sky, filled his lungs once, twice, and then sank fast to the bottom with the stone. He let it go and began to count. He took the edges of the hole in his hands and drew himself into it, wriggling his shoulders in sidewise as he remembered he must, kicking himself along with his feet.
Soon he was clear inside. He was in a small rock-bound hole filled with yellowish-grey water. The water was pushing him up against the roof. The roof was sharp and pained his back. He pulled himself along with his hands — fast, fast — and used his legs as levers. His head knocked against something; a sharp pain dizzied him. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two . . . . He was without light, and the water seemed to press upon him with the weight of rock. Seventy-one, seventy-two . . . . There was no strain on his lungs. He felt like an inflated balloon, his lungs were so light and easy, but his head was pulsing.
He was being continually pressed against the sharp roof, which felt slimy as well as sharp. Again he thought of octopuses, and wondered if the tunnel might be filled with weed that could tangle him. He gave himself a panicky, convulsive kick forward, ducked his head, and swam. His feet and hands moved freely, as if in open water. The hole must have widened out. He thought he must be swimming fast, and he was frightened of banging his head if the tunnel narrowed.
A hundred, a hundred and one. . . The water paled. Victory filled him. His lungs were beginning to hurt. A few more strokes and he would be out. He was counting wildly; he said a hundred and fifteen, and then, a long time later, a hundred and fifteen again. The water was a clear jewel-green all around him. Then he saw, above his head, a crack running up through the rock. Sunlight was falling through it, showing the clean dark rock of the tunnel, a single mussel shell, and darkness ahead.
He was at the end of what he could do. He looked up at the crack as if it were filled with air and not water, as if he could put his mouth to it to draw in air. A hundred and fifteen, he heard himself say inside his head — but he had said that long ago. He must go on into the blackness ahead, or he would drown. His head was swelling, his lungs cracking. A hundred and fifteen, a hundred and fifteen pounded through his head, and he feebly clutched at rocks in the dark, pulling himself forward, leaving the brief space of sunlit water behind. He felt he was dying. He was no longer quite conscious. He struggled on in the darkness between lapses into unconsciousness. An immense, swelling pain filled his head, and then the darkness cracked with an explosion of green light. His hands, groping forward, met nothing, and his feet, kicking back, propelled him out into the open sea.
He drifted to the surface, his face turned up to the air. He was gasping like a fish. He felt he would sink now and drown; he could not swim the few feet back to the rock. Then he was clutching it and pulling himself up on it. He lay face down, gasping. He could see nothing but a red-veined, clotted dark. His eyes must have burst, he thought; they were full of blood. He tore off his goggles and a gout of blood went into the sea. His nose was bleeding, and the blood had filled the goggles.
He scooped up handfuls of water from the cool, salty sea, to splash on his face, and did not know whether it was blood or salt water he tasted. After a time, his heart quieted, his eyes cleared, and he sat up. He could see the local boys diving and playing half a mile away. He did not want them. He wanted nothing but to get back home and lie down.
In a short while, Jerry swam to shore and climbed slowly up the path to the villa. He flung himself on his bed and slept, waking at the sound of feet on the path outside. His mother was coming back. He rushed to the bathroom, thinking she must not see his face with bloodstains, or tearstains, on it. He carne out of the bathroom and met her as she walked into the villa, smiling, her eyes lighting up. "Have a nice morning?" she asked, laying her head on his warm brown shoulder a moment.
"Oh, yes, thank you," he said.
"You look a bit pale." And then, sharp and anxious. "How did you bang your head?"
"Oh, just banged it," he told her.
She looked at him closely. He was strained. His eyes were glazed-looking. She was worried. And then she said to herself, "Oh, don't fuss! Nothing can happen. He can swim like a fish."
They sat down to lunch together.
"Mummy," he said, "I can stay under water for two minutes — three minutes, at least."
It came bursting out of him.
"Can you, darling?" she said. "Well, I shouldn't overdo it. I don't think you ought to swim any more today."
She was ready for a battle of wills, but he gave in at once. It was no longer of the least importance to go to the bay.
Through the Tunnel
Going to the shore on the first morning of the holiday, the young English boy stopped at a turning of the path and looked down at a wild and rocky bay, and then over to the crowded beach he knew so well from other years. His mother walked on in front of him, carrying a bright-striped bag in one hand. Her other arm, swinging loose, was very white in the sun. The boy watched that white, naked arm, and turned his eyes, which had a frown behind them, toward the bay and back again to his mother. When she felt he was not with her, she swung around. "Oh, there you are, Jerry!" she said. She looked impatient, then smiled. "Why, darling, would you rather not come with me? Would you rather-" She frowned, conscientiously worrying over what amusements he might secretly be longing for which she had been too busy or too careless to imagine. He was very familiar with that anxious, apologetic smile. Contrition sent him running after her. And yet, as he ran, he looked back over his shoulder at the wild bay; and all morning, as he played on the safe beach, he was thinking of it.
Next morning, when it was time for the routine of swimming and sunbathing, his mother said, "Are you tired of the usual beach, Jerry? Would you like to go somewhere else?"
"Oh, no!" he said quickly, smiling at her out of that unfailing impulse of contrition - a sort of chivalry. Yet, walking down the path with her, he blurted out, "I'd like to go and have a look at those rocks down there."
She gave the idea her attention. It was a wild-looking place, and there was no one there, but she said, "Of course, Jerry. When you've had enough come to the big beach. Or just go straight back to the villa, if you like." She walked away, that bare arm, now slightly reddened from yesterday's sun, swinging. And he almost ran after her again, feeling it unbearable that she should go by herself, but he did not.
She was thinking, Of course he's old enough to be safe without me. Have I been keeping him too close? He mustn't feel he ought to be with me. I must be careful.
He was an only child, eleven years old. She was a widow. She was determined to be neither possessive nor lacking in devotion. She went worrying off to her beach.
As for Jerry, once he saw that his mother had gained her beach, he began the steep descent to the bay. From where he was, high up among red-brown rocks, it was a scoop of moving bluish green fringed with white. As he went lower, he saw that it spread among small promontories and inlets of rough, sharp rock, and the crisping, lapping surface showed stains of purple and darker blue. Finally, as he ran sliding and scraping down the last few yards, he saw an edge of white surf, and the shallow, luminous movement of water over white sand, and, beyond that, a solid, heavy blue.
He ran straight into the water and began swimming. He was a good swimmer. He went out fast over the gleaming sand, over a middle region where rocks lay like discoloured monsters under the surface, and then he was in the real sea - a warm sea where irregular cold currents from the deep water shocked his limbs.
When he was so far out that he could look back not only on the little bay but past the promontory that was between it and the big beach, he floated on the buoyant surface and looked for his mother. There she was, a speck of yellow under an umbrella that looked like a slice of orange peel. He swam back to shore, relieved at being sure she was there, but all at once very lonely.
On the edge of a small cape that marked the side of the bay away from the promontory was a loose scatter of rocks. Above them, some boys were stripping off their clothes. They came running, naked, down to the rocks. The English boy swam towards them, and kept his distance at a stone's throw. They were of that coast, all of them burned smooth dark brown, and speaking a language he did not understand. To be with them, of them, was a craving that filled his whole body. He swam a little closer; they turned and watched him with narrowed, alert dark eyes. Then one smiled and waved. It was enough. In a minute, he had swum in and was on the rocks beside them, smiling with a desperate, nervous supplication. They shouted cheerful greetings at him, and then, as he preserved his nervous, uncomprehending smile, they understood that he was a foreigner strayed from his own beach, and they proceeded to forget him. But he was happy. He was with them.
They began diving again and again from a high point into a well of blue sea between rough, pointed rocks. After they had dived and come up, they swam around, hauled themselves up, and waited their turn to dive again. They were big boys — men to Jerry. He dived, and they watched him, and when he swam around to take his place, they made way for him. He felt he was accepted, and he dived again, carefully, proud of himself.
Soon the biggest of the boys poised himself, shot down into the water, and did not come up. The others stood about, watching. Jerry, after waiting for the sleek brown head to appear, let out a yell of warning; they looked at him idly and turned their eyes back towards the water. After a long time, the boy came up on the other side of a big dark rock, letting the air out of his lungs in a spluttering gasp and a shout of triumph. Immediately, the rest of them dived in. One moment, the morning seemed full of chattering boys; the next, the air and the surface of the water were empty. But through the heavy blue, dark shapes could be seen moving and groping.
Jerry dived, shot past the school of underwater swimmers, saw a black wall of rock looming at him, touched it, and bobbed up at once to the surface, where the wall was a low barrier he could see across. There was no one visible; under him, in the water, the dim shapes of the swimmers had disappeared. Then one, and then another of the boys came up on the far side of the barrier of rock, and he understood that they had swum through some gap or hole in it. He plunged down again. He could see nothing through the stinging salt water but the blank rock. When he came up, the boys were all on the diving rock, preparing to attempt the feat again. And now, in a panic of failure, he yelled up, in English, "Look at me! Look!" and he began splashing and kicking in the water like a foolish dog.
They looked down gravely, frowning. He knew the frown. At moments of failure, when he clowned to claim his mother's attention, it was with just this grave, embarrassed inspection that she rewarded him. Through his hot shame, feeling the pleading grin on his face like a scar that he could never remove, he looked up at the group of big brown boys on the rock and shouted, "Bonjour! Merci! Au revoir! Monsieur, monsieur!" while he hooked his fingers round his ears and waggled them.
Water surged into his mouth; he choked, sank, came up. The rock, lately weighed with boys, seemed to rear up out of the water as their weight was removed. They were flying down past him, now, into the water; the air was full of falling bodies. Then the rock was empty in the hot sunlight. He counted one, two, three . . . .
At fifty, he was terrified. They must all be drowning beneath him, in the watery caves of the rock! At a hundred, he stared around him at the empty hillside, wondering if he should yell for help. He counted faster, faster, to hurry them up, to bring them to the surface quickly, to drown them quickly - anything rather than the terror of counting on and on into the blue emptiness of the morning. And then, at a hundred and sixty, the water beyond the rock was full of boys blowing like brown whales. They swam back to the shore without a look at him.
He climbed back to the diving rock and sat down, feeling the hot roughness of it under his thighs. The boys were gathering up their bits of clothing and running off along the shore to another promontory. They were leaving to get away from him. He cried openly, fists in his eyes. There was no one to see him, and he cried himself out.
It seemed to him that a long time had passed, and he swam out to where he could see his mother. Yes, she was still there, a yellow spot under an orange umbrella. He swam back to the big rock, climbed up, and dived into the blue pool among the fanged and angry boulders. Down he went, until he touched the wall of rock again. But the salt was so painful in his eyes that he could not see.
He came to the surface, swam to shore and went back to the villa to wait for his mother. Soon she walked slowly up the path, swinging her striped bag, the flushed, naked arm dangling beside her. "I want some swimming goggles," he panted, defiant and beseeching.
She gave him a patient, inquisitive look as she said casually, "Well, of course, darling."
But now, now, now! He must have them this minute, and no other time. He nagged and pestered until she went with him to a shop. As soon as she had bought the goggles, he grabbed them from her hand as if she were going to claim them for herself, and was off, running down the steep path to the bay.
Jerry swam out to the big barrier rock, adjusted the goggles, and dived. The impact of the water broke the rubber-enclosed vacuum, and the goggles came loose. He understood that he must swim down to the base of the rock from the surface of the water. He fixed the goggles tight and firm, filled his lungs, and floated, face down, on the water. Now he could see. It was as if he had eyes of a different kind — fish eyes that showed everything clear and delicate and wavering in the bright water.
Under him, six or seven feet down, was a floor of perfectly clean, shining white sand, rippled firm and hard by the tides. Two greyish shapes steered there, like long, rounded pieces of wood or slate. They were fish. He saw them nose towards each other, poise motionless, make a dart forward, swerve off, and come around again. It was like a water dance. A few inches above them, the water sparkled as if sequins were dropping through it. Fish again — myriads of minute fish, the length of his fingernail, were drifting through the water, and in a moment he could feel the innumerable klix touches of them against his limbs. It was like swimming in flaked silver. The great rock the big boys had swum through rose sheer out of the white sand, black, tufted lightly with greenish weed. He could see no gap in it. He swam down to its base.
Again and again he rose, took a big chestful of air, and went down. Again and again he groped over the surface of the rock, feeling it, almost hugging it in the desperate need to find the entrance. And then, once, while he was clinging to the black wall, his knees came up and he shot his feet out forward and they met no obstacle. He had found the hole.
He gained the surface, clambered about the stones that littered the barrier rock until he found a big one, and, with this in his arms, let himself down over the side of the rock. He dropped, with the weight, straight to the sandy floor. Clinging tight to the anchor of stone, he lay on his side and looked in under the dark shelf at the place where his feet had gone. He could see the hole. It was an irregular, dark gap, but he could not see deep into it. He let go of his anchor, clung with his hands to the edges of the hole, and tried to push himself in.
He got his head in, found his shoulders jammed, moved them in sidewise, and was inside as far as his waist. He could see nothing ahead. Something soft and clammy touched his mouth, he saw a dark frond moving against the greyish rock, and panic filled him. He thought of octopuses, of clinging weed. He pushed himself out backward and caught a glimpse, as he retreated, of a harmless tentacle of seaweed drifting in the mouth of the tunnel. But it was enough. He reached the sunlight, swam to shore, and lay on the diving rock. He looked down into the blue well of water. He knew he must find his way through that cave, or hole, or tunnel, and out the other side.
First, he thought, he must learn to control his breathing. He let himself down into the water with another big stone in his arms, so that he could lie effortlessly on the bottom of the sea. He counted. One, two, three. He counted steadily. He could hear the movement of blood in his chest. Fifty-one, fifty-two . . . . His chest was hurting. He let go of the rock and went up into the air. He saw that the sun was low. He rushed to the villa and found his mother at her supper. She said only "Did you enjoy yourself?" and he said "Yes."
All night, the boy dreamed of the water-filled cave in the rock, and as soon as breakfast was over he went to the hay.
That night, his nose bled badly. For hours he had been underwater, learning to hold his breath, and now he felt weak and dizzy. His mother said, "I shouldn't overdo things, darling, if I were you."
That day and the next, Jerry exercised his lungs as if everything, the whole of his life, all that he would become, depended upon it. And again his nose bled at night, and his mother insisted on his coming with her the next day. It was a torment to him to waste a day of his careful self-training, but he stayed with her on that other beach, which now seemed a place for small children, a place where his mother might lie safe in the sun. It was not his beach.
He did not ask for permission, on the following day, to go to his beach. He went, before his mother could consider the complicated rights and wrongs of the matter. A day's rest, he discovered, had improved his count by ten. The big boys had made the passage while he counted a hundred and sixty. He had been counting fast, in his fright. Probably now, if he tried, he could get through that long tunnel, but he was not going to try yet. A curious, most unchildlike persistence, a controlled impatience, made him wait. In the meantime, he lay underwater on the white sand, littered now by stones he had brought down from the upper air, and studied the entrance to the tunnel. He knew every jut and corner of it, as far as it was possible to see. It was as if he already felt its sharpness about his shoulders.
He sat by the clock in the villa, when his mother was not near, and checked his time. He was incredulous and then proud to find he could hold his breath without strain for two minutes. The words "two minutes", authorized by the clock, brought the adventure that was so necessary to him close.
In another four days, his mother said casually one morning, they must go home. On the day before they left, he would do it. He would do it if it killed him, he said defiantly to himself. But two days before they were to leave - a day of triumph when he increased his count by fifteen - his nose bled so badly that he turned dizzy and had to lie limply over the big rock like a bit of seaweed, watching the thick red blood flow on to the rock and trickle slowly down to the sea. He was frightened. Supposing he turned dizzy in the tunnel? Supposing he died there, trapped? Supposing — his head went around, in the hot sun, and he almost gave up. He thought he would return to the house and lie down, and next summer, perhaps, when he had another year's growth in him - then he would go through the hole.
But even after he had made the decision, or thought he had, he found himself sitting up on the rock and looking down into the water, and he knew that now, this moment when his nose had only just stopped bleeding, when his head was still sore and throbbing — this was the moment when he would try. If he did not do it now, he never would. He was trembling with fear that he would not go, and he was trembling with horror at that long, long tunnel under the rock, under the sea. Even in the open sunlight, the barrier rock seemed very wide and very heavy; tons of rock pressed down on where he would go. If he died there, he would lie until one day — perhaps not before next year — those big boys would swim into it and find it blocked.
He put on his goggles, fitted them tight, tested the vacuum. His hands were shaking. Then he chose the biggest stone he could carry and slipped over the edge of the rock until half of him was in the cool, enclosing water and half in the hot sun. He looked up once at the empty sky, filled his lungs once, twice, and then sank fast to the bottom with the stone. He let it go and began to count. He took the edges of the hole in his hands and drew himself into it, wriggling his shoulders in sidewise as he remembered he must, kicking himself along with his feet.
Soon he was clear inside. He was in a small rock-bound hole filled with yellowish-grey water. The water was pushing him up against the roof. The roof was sharp and pained his back. He pulled himself along with his hands — fast, fast — and used his legs as levers. His head knocked against something; a sharp pain dizzied him. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two . . . . He was without light, and the water seemed to press upon him with the weight of rock. Seventy-one, seventy-two . . . . There was no strain on his lungs. He felt like an inflated balloon, his lungs were so light and easy, but his head was pulsing.
He was being continually pressed against the sharp roof, which felt slimy as well as sharp. Again he thought of octopuses, and wondered if the tunnel might be filled with weed that could tangle him. He gave himself a panicky, convulsive kick forward, ducked his head, and swam. His feet and hands moved freely, as if in open water. The hole must have widened out. He thought he must be swimming fast, and he was frightened of banging his head if the tunnel narrowed.
A hundred, a hundred and one. . . The water paled. Victory filled him. His lungs were beginning to hurt. A few more strokes and he would be out. He was counting wildly; he said a hundred and fifteen, and then, a long time later, a hundred and fifteen again. The water was a clear jewel-green all around him. Then he saw, above his head, a crack running up through the rock. Sunlight was falling through it, showing the clean dark rock of the tunnel, a single mussel shell, and darkness ahead.
He was at the end of what he could do. He looked up at the crack as if it were filled with air and not water, as if he could put his mouth to it to draw in air. A hundred and fifteen, he heard himself say inside his head — but he had said that long ago. He must go on into the blackness ahead, or he would drown. His head was swelling, his lungs cracking. A hundred and fifteen, a hundred and fifteen pounded through his head, and he feebly clutched at rocks in the dark, pulling himself forward, leaving the brief space of sunlit water behind. He felt he was dying. He was no longer quite conscious. He struggled on in the darkness between lapses into unconsciousness. An immense, swelling pain filled his head, and then the darkness cracked with an explosion of green light. His hands, groping forward, met nothing, and his feet, kicking back, propelled him out into the open sea.
He drifted to the surface, his face turned up to the air. He was gasping like a fish. He felt he would sink now and drown; he could not swim the few feet back to the rock. Then he was clutching it and pulling himself up on it. He lay face down, gasping. He could see nothing but a red-veined, clotted dark. His eyes must have burst, he thought; they were full of blood. He tore off his goggles and a gout of blood went into the sea. His nose was bleeding, and the blood had filled the goggles.
He scooped up handfuls of water from the cool, salty sea, to splash on his face, and did not know whether it was blood or salt water he tasted. After a time, his heart quieted, his eyes cleared, and he sat up. He could see the local boys diving and playing half a mile away. He did not want them. He wanted nothing but to get back home and lie down.
In a short while, Jerry swam to shore and climbed slowly up the path to the villa. He flung himself on his bed and slept, waking at the sound of feet on the path outside. His mother was coming back. He rushed to the bathroom, thinking she must not see his face with bloodstains, or tearstains, on it. He carne out of the bathroom and met her as she walked into the villa, smiling, her eyes lighting up. "Have a nice morning?" she asked, laying her head on his warm brown shoulder a moment.
"Oh, yes, thank you," he said.
"You look a bit pale." And then, sharp and anxious. "How did you bang your head?"
"Oh, just banged it," he told her.
She looked at him closely. He was strained. His eyes were glazed-looking. She was worried. And then she said to herself, "Oh, don't fuss! Nothing can happen. He can swim like a fish."
They sat down to lunch together.
"Mummy," he said, "I can stay under water for two minutes — three minutes, at least."
It came bursting out of him.
"Can you, darling?" she said. "Well, I shouldn't overdo it. I don't think you ought to swim any more today."
She was ready for a battle of wills, but he gave in at once. It was no longer of the least importance to go to the bay.
-
FFK as Lucy01
- Posts: 3336
- Joined: 20/04/2005 17:57
- Location: USA
#606
A Dog Has Died-by Pablo Neruda
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
-
FFK as Lucy01
- Posts: 3336
- Joined: 20/04/2005 17:57
- Location: USA
#607
Velikani Americke knjizevnosti i njihovi "otrovi" 
Ernest Hemingway
1899-1961. Novelist and short-story writer. Hemingway was one of the principal figures of the Lost Generation. As a cub reporter for the Kansas City Star, he developed a minimalist style. With his second novel, 'The Sun Also Rises,' he immediately became a literary star. In 1954 Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Hemingway was not one for pretension, literary or otherwise. In a famous incident at Costello's, a New York writers' haunt, he found just the opportunity to make those feelings known. After drinking in back with friends, he passed John O'Hara at the bar. O'Hara was carrying an Irish blackthorn walking stick (shillelagh) and Hemingway began to mock him for it. Defensively, O'Hara claimed that it was "the best piece of blackthorn in New York." Hemingway immediately bet him fifty dollars that he could break it with his bare hands. Then in one swift move he smashed the walking stick against his own head, snapping it in half. The broken pieces hung over Costello's bar for many years.
William Faulkner
1897-1962. Novelist, short-story writer, and screenwriter. Faulkner’s southern epic, the Yoknapatawpha cycle, includes his most celebrated novels, 'The Sound and the Fury,' 'As I Lay Dying,' 'The Light in August,' 'The Unvanquished,' and 'Absalom, Absalom!' His most famous screenplays are 'The Big Sleep' and 'To Have and Have Not.' In 1949, Faulkner won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Unlike most writers, Faulkner, from the very beginning of his career, drank while he wrote. He claimed, "I usually write at night. I always keep my whiskey within reach." That he did. In Hollywood, hired by director Howard Hawks to write Road to Glory, Faulkner showed up to a script meeting carrying a brown paper bag. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey, but accidentally sliced his finger unscrewing the cap. If the film’s producer thought the meeting was over, he was wrong. Faulkner dragged over the wastepaper basket -- so he could gulp whiskey and drip blood as they hashed out the story.
Carson McCullers
1917-1967. Novelist, short-story writer, playwright, and screenwriter. McCullers achieved early acclaim with her first novel, 'The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.' After receiving a Guggenheim Fellowship, she wrote 'The Member of the Wedding,' another critical success; her adaptation for the stage was awarded the Drama Critics Circle Award. The novella 'The Ballad of the Sad Cafe' is perhaps her finest work.
Not nearly so powerful as a Long Island Iced Tea, McCullers' favorite drink while writing was a mixture of hot tea and sherry that she kept in a thermos. She named the concoction "sonnie boy" and, often claiming it was only tea, would drink straight through the workday. McCullers must have felt the liquor helped her creativity. At Yaddo, the famous writers' colony, she began with a beer at the typewriter just after breakfast, then moved on to her "sonnie boy," and finished with cocktails in the evening.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
1896-1940. Novelist and short-story writer. With his first novel, 'This Side of Paradise,' Fitzgerald became the spokesman for the Jazz Age. 'The Beautiful and the Damned' came next, followed by Fitzgerald's masterpiece, 'The Great Gatsby,' considered by many the finest American novel of the 20th century. 'Tender Is the Night' was published nine years later. Fitzgerald's last novel, 'The Last Tycoon,' was published posthumously.
Fitzgerald's preferred liquor was gin; he believed you could not detect it on the breath (a funny notion given his remarkably low tolerance). He would get roaring drunk on very little, but then it was the Roaring Twenties, and he was the symbol. Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda, were a pair of drunken pranksters. There are stories about how they jumped into the fountain at the Plaza Hotel, boiled party guests' watches in tomato soup, stripped at the Follies. Invited to an impromptu party, "Come as you are," he and Zelda arrived in their pajamas. Zelda soon enough removed hers and danced naked. Did anyone have to smell their breath to know?
Raymond Chandler
1888-1959. Novelist, short-story writer, and screenwriter. Most famous for his seven novels featuring the detective Philip Marlowe. Chandler's best-known screenplays include 'Double Indemnity,' 'The Blue Dahlia,' and 'Strangers on a Train.' He is considered Dashiell Hammett's principal successor.
Paramount Studios put the movie The Blue Dahlia into production before Chandler had written a line of the script. Unfortunately, two weeks into shooting, he had yet to find an ending and was suffering from writer's block. He told his producer, John Houseman, that although he was a recovering alcoholic and had been sober for some time, he could only finish the script if he relapsed completely. Houseman arranged for Paramount to place six secretaries at Chandler's house around the clock. A doctor was hired to give him vitamin shots, as he rarely ate when drinking. Limousines waited outside, ready to run pages at a moment's notice. In the end he produced one of his best original scripts, and the story of his self-sacrifice became Hollywood legend.
Ernest Hemingway
1899-1961. Novelist and short-story writer. Hemingway was one of the principal figures of the Lost Generation. As a cub reporter for the Kansas City Star, he developed a minimalist style. With his second novel, 'The Sun Also Rises,' he immediately became a literary star. In 1954 Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Hemingway was not one for pretension, literary or otherwise. In a famous incident at Costello's, a New York writers' haunt, he found just the opportunity to make those feelings known. After drinking in back with friends, he passed John O'Hara at the bar. O'Hara was carrying an Irish blackthorn walking stick (shillelagh) and Hemingway began to mock him for it. Defensively, O'Hara claimed that it was "the best piece of blackthorn in New York." Hemingway immediately bet him fifty dollars that he could break it with his bare hands. Then in one swift move he smashed the walking stick against his own head, snapping it in half. The broken pieces hung over Costello's bar for many years.
William Faulkner
1897-1962. Novelist, short-story writer, and screenwriter. Faulkner’s southern epic, the Yoknapatawpha cycle, includes his most celebrated novels, 'The Sound and the Fury,' 'As I Lay Dying,' 'The Light in August,' 'The Unvanquished,' and 'Absalom, Absalom!' His most famous screenplays are 'The Big Sleep' and 'To Have and Have Not.' In 1949, Faulkner won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Unlike most writers, Faulkner, from the very beginning of his career, drank while he wrote. He claimed, "I usually write at night. I always keep my whiskey within reach." That he did. In Hollywood, hired by director Howard Hawks to write Road to Glory, Faulkner showed up to a script meeting carrying a brown paper bag. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey, but accidentally sliced his finger unscrewing the cap. If the film’s producer thought the meeting was over, he was wrong. Faulkner dragged over the wastepaper basket -- so he could gulp whiskey and drip blood as they hashed out the story.
Carson McCullers
1917-1967. Novelist, short-story writer, playwright, and screenwriter. McCullers achieved early acclaim with her first novel, 'The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.' After receiving a Guggenheim Fellowship, she wrote 'The Member of the Wedding,' another critical success; her adaptation for the stage was awarded the Drama Critics Circle Award. The novella 'The Ballad of the Sad Cafe' is perhaps her finest work.
Not nearly so powerful as a Long Island Iced Tea, McCullers' favorite drink while writing was a mixture of hot tea and sherry that she kept in a thermos. She named the concoction "sonnie boy" and, often claiming it was only tea, would drink straight through the workday. McCullers must have felt the liquor helped her creativity. At Yaddo, the famous writers' colony, she began with a beer at the typewriter just after breakfast, then moved on to her "sonnie boy," and finished with cocktails in the evening.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
1896-1940. Novelist and short-story writer. With his first novel, 'This Side of Paradise,' Fitzgerald became the spokesman for the Jazz Age. 'The Beautiful and the Damned' came next, followed by Fitzgerald's masterpiece, 'The Great Gatsby,' considered by many the finest American novel of the 20th century. 'Tender Is the Night' was published nine years later. Fitzgerald's last novel, 'The Last Tycoon,' was published posthumously.
Fitzgerald's preferred liquor was gin; he believed you could not detect it on the breath (a funny notion given his remarkably low tolerance). He would get roaring drunk on very little, but then it was the Roaring Twenties, and he was the symbol. Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda, were a pair of drunken pranksters. There are stories about how they jumped into the fountain at the Plaza Hotel, boiled party guests' watches in tomato soup, stripped at the Follies. Invited to an impromptu party, "Come as you are," he and Zelda arrived in their pajamas. Zelda soon enough removed hers and danced naked. Did anyone have to smell their breath to know?
Raymond Chandler
1888-1959. Novelist, short-story writer, and screenwriter. Most famous for his seven novels featuring the detective Philip Marlowe. Chandler's best-known screenplays include 'Double Indemnity,' 'The Blue Dahlia,' and 'Strangers on a Train.' He is considered Dashiell Hammett's principal successor.
Paramount Studios put the movie The Blue Dahlia into production before Chandler had written a line of the script. Unfortunately, two weeks into shooting, he had yet to find an ending and was suffering from writer's block. He told his producer, John Houseman, that although he was a recovering alcoholic and had been sober for some time, he could only finish the script if he relapsed completely. Houseman arranged for Paramount to place six secretaries at Chandler's house around the clock. A doctor was hired to give him vitamin shots, as he rarely ate when drinking. Limousines waited outside, ready to run pages at a moment's notice. In the end he produced one of his best original scripts, and the story of his self-sacrifice became Hollywood legend.
-
FFK as Lucy01
- Posts: 3336
- Joined: 20/04/2005 17:57
- Location: USA
#608
Infra, ovo su dobri savjeti, ne brisi
Dealing With Control Freaks-by Thomas J. Schumacher, Psy.D., R-CSW
Most all of you have had to contend with control freaks. These are those people who insist on having their way in all interactions with you. They wish to set the agenda and decide what it is you will do and when you will do it. You know who they are – they have a driving need to run the show and call the shots. Lurking within the fabric of the conversation is the clear threat that if you do not accede to their needs and demands, they will be unhappy.
Certainly, it’s natural to want to be in control of your life. But when you have to be in control of the people around you as well, when you literally can’t rest until you get your way … you have a personality disorder. While it’s not a diagnostic category found in the DSM IV (the therapist’s bible for diagnostic purposes) an exaggerated emphasis on control is part of a cluster of behaviors that can be labeled as compulsive generally characterized by perfectionism, orderliness, workaholic tendencies, an inability to make commitments or to trust others and a fear of having their flaws exposed. Deep down, these people are terrified of being vulnerable. They believe they can protect themselves by staying in control of every aspect of their lives, including their relationships. Control freaks take the need and urge to control to new heights, causing others stress so they can maintain a sense of order. These people are riddled with anxiety, fear, insecurity, and anger. They’re very critical of themselves their lover and their friends, but underneath that perfect outfit and great body is a mountain of unhappiness. Let’s look at what makes control freaks tick, what makes you want to explode, and some ways to deal with them.
The Psychological Dynamics That Fuel a Control Freak
The need to control is almost always fueled by anxiety – though control freaks seldom recognize their fears. At work, they may worry about failure. In relationships, they may worry about not having their needs met. To keep this anxiety from overwhelming them, they try to control the people or things around them. They have a hard time with negotiation and compromise and they can’t stand imperfection. Needless to say, they are difficult to live with, work with and/or socialize with.
Bottom Line: In the process of being controlling, their actions say, “You’re incompetent” and “I can’t trust you.” (this is why you hate them). Remember, the essential need of a control freak is to defend against anxiety. Although it may not be apparent to you when they are making their demands, these individuals are attempting to cope with fairly substantial levels of their own anxiety. The control freak is usually fighting off a deep-seated sense of their own helplessness and impotence. By becoming proficient at trying to control other people, they are warding off their own fear of being out of control and helpless. Controlling is an anxiety management tool.
Unfortunately for you, the control freak has a lot at stake in prevailing. While trying to hold a conversation and engage them in some way, their emotional stakes involve their own identity and sense of well-being. Being in control gives them the temporary illusion and sense of calmness. When they feel they are prevailing, you can just about sense the tension oozing out of them. The control freak is very frightened. Part of their strategy is to induce that fear in you with the subtle or not so subtle threat of loss. Since the emotional stakes are so high for them, they need to assert themselves with you to not feel so helpless. To relinquish control is tantamount to being victimized and overwhelmed. When a control freak cannot control, they go through a series of rapid phases. First they become angry and agitated, then they become panicky and apprehensive, then they become agitated and threatening, and then they lapse into depression and despair.
Repetition Compulsion
Control freaks are also caught in the grip of a repetition compulsion. They repeat the same pattern again and again in their attempt to master their anxiety and cope with the trauma they feel. Characteristically, the repetition compulsion takes on a life of its own. Rather than feel calmer and therefore have a diminished need to be controlling, their behavior locks them into the same pattern in an insatiable way. Successes at controlling do not register on their internal scoreboard. They have to fight off the same threat again and again with increasing rigidity and intransigence.
Two Types of Control Freaks
Type 1 Control Freaks: The Type 1 control freak is strictly attempting to cope with their anxiety in a self absorbed way. They just want to feel better and are not even very aware of you. You will notice and hear their agitation and tentativeness. They usually do not make much eye contact when they are talking to you.
Type 2 Control Freaks: The Type 2 control freak is also trying to manage their anxiety but they are very aware of you as opposed to the Type 1 control freak. The Type 2 needs to diminish you to feel better. Their mood rises as they push you down. They do not just want to prevail; they also need to believe that they have defeated you. They need you to feel helpless so they will not feel helpless. Their belief is that someone must feel helpless in any interchange and they desperately do not want it to be them. The Type 1 needs control. The Type 2 needs to control you.
Some Coping Strategies
1) Stay as calm as you can. Control freaks tend to generate a lot of tension in those around them. Try to maintain a comfortable distance so that you can remain centered while you speak with them. Try to focus on your breathing. As they get more agitated and demanding, just breath slowly and deeply. If you stay calm and focused, this often has the effect of relaxing them as well. If you get agitated you have joined the battle on their terms.
2) Speak very slowly. Again the normal tendency is to gear up and speak rapidly when dealing with a control freak. This will only draw you into the emotional turmoil and you will quickly be personalizing what is occurring.
3) Be very patient. Control freaks need to feel heard. In fact, they do not have that much to say. They have a lot to say if you engage them in a power struggle. If you just listen carefully and ask good questions that indicate that you have heard them, then they will quickly resolve whatever the issue is and calmly move on.
4) Pay attention to your induced reactions. What is this person trying to emotionally induce in you? Notice how you feel when speaking with them. It will give you important clues as to how to deal with them more effectively and appropriately.
5) Initially, let them control the agenda. But you control the pacing. If you stay calm and speak slowly, you will be in command of the pacing of the conversation.
6) Treat them with kindness. Within most control freaks is a good measure of paranoia. They are ready to get angry and defend against what they perceive is a controlling hostile world. If you treat them with respect and kindness, their paranoia cannot take root. You will jam them up.
7) Make demands on them-- especially when dealing with the type 2 control freak. Ask them to send you something or do something for you. By asking something of them, you will be indicating that you are not intimidated or diminished by their behavior patterns.
8 ) Remember an old but poignant Maxim: “Those who demand the most often give the least.”
Keep in mind that control freaks are not trying to hurt you – they’re trying to protect themselves. Remind yourself that their behavior toward you isn’t personal; the compulsion was there before they met you, and it will be their forever unless they get help. Understand that they are skilled manipulators, artful and intimidating, rehearsed debaters and excellent at distorting reality.
In order to not feel degraded, humiliated and have your sense of self and self worth assaulted, you need to avoid being bulldozed by a controlling lover, boss or friend. When you are caught up in a truly destructive/controlling attachment, the best response may be to walk out. You have to understand that whatever you do will have a limited effect. These people are angry and afraid to let go of you. Hence, it is your job to let go of them, protect yourself in the process… and grow.
Drago mi je ako nekome mogu pomoci makar i sa copy-paste
Dealing With Control Freaks
-by Thomas J. Schumacher, Psy.D., R-CSWMost all of you have had to contend with control freaks. These are those people who insist on having their way in all interactions with you. They wish to set the agenda and decide what it is you will do and when you will do it. You know who they are – they have a driving need to run the show and call the shots. Lurking within the fabric of the conversation is the clear threat that if you do not accede to their needs and demands, they will be unhappy.
Certainly, it’s natural to want to be in control of your life. But when you have to be in control of the people around you as well, when you literally can’t rest until you get your way … you have a personality disorder. While it’s not a diagnostic category found in the DSM IV (the therapist’s bible for diagnostic purposes) an exaggerated emphasis on control is part of a cluster of behaviors that can be labeled as compulsive generally characterized by perfectionism, orderliness, workaholic tendencies, an inability to make commitments or to trust others and a fear of having their flaws exposed. Deep down, these people are terrified of being vulnerable. They believe they can protect themselves by staying in control of every aspect of their lives, including their relationships. Control freaks take the need and urge to control to new heights, causing others stress so they can maintain a sense of order. These people are riddled with anxiety, fear, insecurity, and anger. They’re very critical of themselves their lover and their friends, but underneath that perfect outfit and great body is a mountain of unhappiness. Let’s look at what makes control freaks tick, what makes you want to explode, and some ways to deal with them.
The Psychological Dynamics That Fuel a Control Freak
The need to control is almost always fueled by anxiety – though control freaks seldom recognize their fears. At work, they may worry about failure. In relationships, they may worry about not having their needs met. To keep this anxiety from overwhelming them, they try to control the people or things around them. They have a hard time with negotiation and compromise and they can’t stand imperfection. Needless to say, they are difficult to live with, work with and/or socialize with.
Bottom Line: In the process of being controlling, their actions say, “You’re incompetent” and “I can’t trust you.” (this is why you hate them). Remember, the essential need of a control freak is to defend against anxiety. Although it may not be apparent to you when they are making their demands, these individuals are attempting to cope with fairly substantial levels of their own anxiety. The control freak is usually fighting off a deep-seated sense of their own helplessness and impotence. By becoming proficient at trying to control other people, they are warding off their own fear of being out of control and helpless. Controlling is an anxiety management tool.
Unfortunately for you, the control freak has a lot at stake in prevailing. While trying to hold a conversation and engage them in some way, their emotional stakes involve their own identity and sense of well-being. Being in control gives them the temporary illusion and sense of calmness. When they feel they are prevailing, you can just about sense the tension oozing out of them. The control freak is very frightened. Part of their strategy is to induce that fear in you with the subtle or not so subtle threat of loss. Since the emotional stakes are so high for them, they need to assert themselves with you to not feel so helpless. To relinquish control is tantamount to being victimized and overwhelmed. When a control freak cannot control, they go through a series of rapid phases. First they become angry and agitated, then they become panicky and apprehensive, then they become agitated and threatening, and then they lapse into depression and despair.
Repetition Compulsion
Control freaks are also caught in the grip of a repetition compulsion. They repeat the same pattern again and again in their attempt to master their anxiety and cope with the trauma they feel. Characteristically, the repetition compulsion takes on a life of its own. Rather than feel calmer and therefore have a diminished need to be controlling, their behavior locks them into the same pattern in an insatiable way. Successes at controlling do not register on their internal scoreboard. They have to fight off the same threat again and again with increasing rigidity and intransigence.
Two Types of Control Freaks
Type 1 Control Freaks: The Type 1 control freak is strictly attempting to cope with their anxiety in a self absorbed way. They just want to feel better and are not even very aware of you. You will notice and hear their agitation and tentativeness. They usually do not make much eye contact when they are talking to you.
Type 2 Control Freaks: The Type 2 control freak is also trying to manage their anxiety but they are very aware of you as opposed to the Type 1 control freak. The Type 2 needs to diminish you to feel better. Their mood rises as they push you down. They do not just want to prevail; they also need to believe that they have defeated you. They need you to feel helpless so they will not feel helpless. Their belief is that someone must feel helpless in any interchange and they desperately do not want it to be them. The Type 1 needs control. The Type 2 needs to control you.
Some Coping Strategies
1) Stay as calm as you can. Control freaks tend to generate a lot of tension in those around them. Try to maintain a comfortable distance so that you can remain centered while you speak with them. Try to focus on your breathing. As they get more agitated and demanding, just breath slowly and deeply. If you stay calm and focused, this often has the effect of relaxing them as well. If you get agitated you have joined the battle on their terms.
2) Speak very slowly. Again the normal tendency is to gear up and speak rapidly when dealing with a control freak. This will only draw you into the emotional turmoil and you will quickly be personalizing what is occurring.
3) Be very patient. Control freaks need to feel heard. In fact, they do not have that much to say. They have a lot to say if you engage them in a power struggle. If you just listen carefully and ask good questions that indicate that you have heard them, then they will quickly resolve whatever the issue is and calmly move on.
4) Pay attention to your induced reactions. What is this person trying to emotionally induce in you? Notice how you feel when speaking with them. It will give you important clues as to how to deal with them more effectively and appropriately.
5) Initially, let them control the agenda. But you control the pacing. If you stay calm and speak slowly, you will be in command of the pacing of the conversation.
6) Treat them with kindness. Within most control freaks is a good measure of paranoia. They are ready to get angry and defend against what they perceive is a controlling hostile world. If you treat them with respect and kindness, their paranoia cannot take root. You will jam them up.
7) Make demands on them-- especially when dealing with the type 2 control freak. Ask them to send you something or do something for you. By asking something of them, you will be indicating that you are not intimidated or diminished by their behavior patterns.
8 ) Remember an old but poignant Maxim: “Those who demand the most often give the least.”
Keep in mind that control freaks are not trying to hurt you – they’re trying to protect themselves. Remind yourself that their behavior toward you isn’t personal; the compulsion was there before they met you, and it will be their forever unless they get help. Understand that they are skilled manipulators, artful and intimidating, rehearsed debaters and excellent at distorting reality.
In order to not feel degraded, humiliated and have your sense of self and self worth assaulted, you need to avoid being bulldozed by a controlling lover, boss or friend. When you are caught up in a truly destructive/controlling attachment, the best response may be to walk out. You have to understand that whatever you do will have a limited effect. These people are angry and afraid to let go of you. Hence, it is your job to let go of them, protect yourself in the process… and grow.
Drago mi je ako nekome mogu pomoci
makar i sa copy-paste -
rikardoreis
- Posts: 1957
- Joined: 03/08/2006 00:01
- Location: ulica san martin, buenos aires
#609
SERGEJU JESENJINU
Nas je planet
radostima
ubog nesto.
Treba
otimati
radost
danima sto bjeze.
Na svijetu
umrijeti
nije tesko.
Stvarati zivot
daleko je teze.
Majakovski
Nas je planet
radostima
ubog nesto.
Treba
otimati
radost
danima sto bjeze.
Na svijetu
umrijeti
nije tesko.
Stvarati zivot
daleko je teze.
Majakovski
-
FFK as Lucy01
- Posts: 3336
- Joined: 20/04/2005 17:57
- Location: USA
#610
Samo za @danas
BEER-by Charles Bukowski
from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is
BEER-by Charles Bukowski
from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is
-
FFK as Lucy01
- Posts: 3336
- Joined: 20/04/2005 17:57
- Location: USA
#611
Mile Davidovic-cuvena Hlebinska skola naivnog slikarstva
-
danas
- Posts: 18796
- Joined: 11/03/2005 19:40
- Location: 10th circle...
#612
fala ti dje cula i ne culaLucy01 wrote:Samo za @danas
BEER-by Charles Bukowski
from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is
al' ja vise volEm 'vako 
Tom Waits -- Warm Beer And Cold Women
album: Nighthawks At The Diner
warm beer and cold women, I just don't fit in
every joint I stumbled into tonight
that's just how it's been
all these double knit strangers with
gin and vermouth and recycled stories
in the naugahyde booths
with the platinum blondes
and tobacco brunettes
I'll be drinkin' to forget you
lite another cigarette
and the band's playin' something
by Tammy Wynette
and the drinks are on me tonight
all my conversations I'll just be
talkin' about you baby
borin' some sailor as I try to get through
I just want him to listen
that's all you have to do
he said I'm better off without you
till I showed him my tattoo
now the moon's rising
ain't got no time to lose
time to get down to drinking
tell the band to play the blues
drink's are on me, I'll buy another round
at the last ditch attempt saloon
warm beer and cold women, I just don't fit in
every joint I stumbled into tonight
that's just how it's been
all these double knit strangers with
gin and vermouth and recycled stories
in the naugahyde booths
with the platinum blondes
and tobacco brunettes
I'll be drinking to forget you
lite another cigarette
and the band's playing somethin'
by Johnnie Barnett
and the drinks are on me tonight
-
lilia
- Posts: 47
- Joined: 22/08/2007 21:33
#613
Mostovi - Ivo Andric
Od svega što čovek u životnom nagonu podiže i gradi, ništa nije u mojim očima bolje i vrednije od mostova. Oni su važniji od kuća, svetiji, jer opštiji, od hramova. Svačiji i prema svakom jednaki, korisni, podignuti uvek smisleno, na mestu na kom se ukrštava najveći broj ljudskih potreba, istrajniji su od drugih građevina i ne služe ničem što je tajno i zlo.
Veliki kameni mostovi, svedoci iščezlih epoha kad se drugojačije živelo, mislilo i gradilo, sivi ili zarudeli od vetra i kiše, često okrzani na oštro rezanim ćoškovima, a u njihovim sastavcima i neprimetnim pukotinama raste tanka trava ili se gnezde ptice. Tanki železni mostovi, zategnuti od jedne obale do druge kao žice, što drhte i zvuče od svakog voza kad projuri; oni još kao da čekaju svoj poslednji oblik i svoje savršenstvo, a lepota njihovih linija otkriće se potpuno očima naših unuka. Drveni mostovi na ulasku u bosanske varošice čije izglodane grede poigravaju i zveče pod kopitama seoskih konja kao daščice ksilofona. I, najposle, oni sasvim mali mostići u planinama, u stvari jedno oveće drvo ili dva prikovana jedno uz drugo, prebačeni preko nekog gorskog potoka koji bi bez njih bio neprelazan. Po dva puta u godini gorska bujica odnosi, kad nadođe, ta brvna, a seljaci slepo uporni kao mravi, seku, tešu i postavljaju nova. Zato se uz te planinske potoke, u zatokama među stenama, vide često ti bivši mostovi; leže i trunu kao i ostalo drvo naplavljeno tu slučajem, ali ta zatesana brvna, osuđena na oganj ili truljenje, izdvajaju se od ostalog nanosa i podsećaju još sada na cilj kome su služila.
Svi su oni u suštini jedno i podjednako vredni naše pažnje, jer pokazuju mesto na kome je čovek naišao na zapreku i nije zastao pred njom, nego je savladao i premostio kako je mogao, prema svom shvatanju, ukusu, i prilikama kojima je bio okružen.
I kad mislim na mostove, u sećanju mi iskrsavaju ne oni preko kojih sam najviše prelazio, nego oni koji su najviše zadržali i zaneli moju pažnju i moj duh.
Pre svega, sarajevski mostovi. Na Miljacki, čije je korito kičma Sarajeva, oni su kao kameni pršljenovi. Vidim ih jasno i brojim redom. Znam im lukove, pamtim ograde. Među njima i jedan koji nosi sudbinsko ime jednog mladića, malen ali stalan, uvučen u se kao dobra i ćutljiva tvrđava koja ne zna za predaju ili izdaju. Zatim, mostovi koje sam video na putovanjima, nošu iz voza, tanki i beli kao priviđenja. Kameni mostovi u Španiji, zarasli u bršljen i zamišljeni nad sopstveno slikom u tamnoj vodi . Drveni mostovi po Švajcarskoj, pokriveni krovom zbog velikih snegova, liče na dugačke ambare i iskićeni su iznutra slikama svetitelja ili čudesnih događaja, kao kapele. Fantastični mostovi u Turskoj, postavljeni otprilike, čuvani i održavani sudbinom. Rimski mostovi u južnoj Italiji, od bela kamena, sa kojih je vreme odbilo sve što se moglo odbiti, a pored kojih već stotinu godina vodi neki nov most, ali oni stoje još jednako, kao skeleti na straži.
Tako, svuda na svetu, gde god se moja misao krene ili stane, nailazi na verne i ćutljive mostove kao na večitu i večno nezasićenu ljudsku želju da se poveže, izmiri i spoji sve što iskrsne pred našim duhom, očima i nogama, da ne bude deljenja, protivnosti ni rastanka.
Tako isto u snovima i proizvoljnoj igri mašte. Slušajući najgorču i najlepšu muziku koju sam ikada čuo, odjednom mi se ukaza kameni most, presečen po polovini, a izlomljene strane prekinutog luka bolno teže jedna ka drugoj, i poslednjim naporom pokazuju jednu mogućnu liniju luka koji je nestao. To je vernost i uzvišena nepomirljivost lepote, koja pored sebe dopušta jednu jedinu mogućnost: nepostojanje.
Naposletku, sve čim se ovaj naš život kazuje – misli, napori, pogledi, osmesi, reči, uzdasi – sve to teži ka drugoj obali, kojoj se upravlja kao cilju, i na kojoj tek dobiva svoj pravi smisao. Sve to ima nešto da savlada i premosti: nered, smrt ili nesmisao. Jer, sve je prelaz, most čiji se krajevi gube u beskonačnosti, a prema kom su svi zemni mostovi samo dečije igračke, bledi simboli. A sva je naša nada s one strane.
Od svega što čovek u životnom nagonu podiže i gradi, ništa nije u mojim očima bolje i vrednije od mostova. Oni su važniji od kuća, svetiji, jer opštiji, od hramova. Svačiji i prema svakom jednaki, korisni, podignuti uvek smisleno, na mestu na kom se ukrštava najveći broj ljudskih potreba, istrajniji su od drugih građevina i ne služe ničem što je tajno i zlo.
Veliki kameni mostovi, svedoci iščezlih epoha kad se drugojačije živelo, mislilo i gradilo, sivi ili zarudeli od vetra i kiše, često okrzani na oštro rezanim ćoškovima, a u njihovim sastavcima i neprimetnim pukotinama raste tanka trava ili se gnezde ptice. Tanki železni mostovi, zategnuti od jedne obale do druge kao žice, što drhte i zvuče od svakog voza kad projuri; oni još kao da čekaju svoj poslednji oblik i svoje savršenstvo, a lepota njihovih linija otkriće se potpuno očima naših unuka. Drveni mostovi na ulasku u bosanske varošice čije izglodane grede poigravaju i zveče pod kopitama seoskih konja kao daščice ksilofona. I, najposle, oni sasvim mali mostići u planinama, u stvari jedno oveće drvo ili dva prikovana jedno uz drugo, prebačeni preko nekog gorskog potoka koji bi bez njih bio neprelazan. Po dva puta u godini gorska bujica odnosi, kad nadođe, ta brvna, a seljaci slepo uporni kao mravi, seku, tešu i postavljaju nova. Zato se uz te planinske potoke, u zatokama među stenama, vide često ti bivši mostovi; leže i trunu kao i ostalo drvo naplavljeno tu slučajem, ali ta zatesana brvna, osuđena na oganj ili truljenje, izdvajaju se od ostalog nanosa i podsećaju još sada na cilj kome su služila.
Svi su oni u suštini jedno i podjednako vredni naše pažnje, jer pokazuju mesto na kome je čovek naišao na zapreku i nije zastao pred njom, nego je savladao i premostio kako je mogao, prema svom shvatanju, ukusu, i prilikama kojima je bio okružen.
I kad mislim na mostove, u sećanju mi iskrsavaju ne oni preko kojih sam najviše prelazio, nego oni koji su najviše zadržali i zaneli moju pažnju i moj duh.
Pre svega, sarajevski mostovi. Na Miljacki, čije je korito kičma Sarajeva, oni su kao kameni pršljenovi. Vidim ih jasno i brojim redom. Znam im lukove, pamtim ograde. Među njima i jedan koji nosi sudbinsko ime jednog mladića, malen ali stalan, uvučen u se kao dobra i ćutljiva tvrđava koja ne zna za predaju ili izdaju. Zatim, mostovi koje sam video na putovanjima, nošu iz voza, tanki i beli kao priviđenja. Kameni mostovi u Španiji, zarasli u bršljen i zamišljeni nad sopstveno slikom u tamnoj vodi . Drveni mostovi po Švajcarskoj, pokriveni krovom zbog velikih snegova, liče na dugačke ambare i iskićeni su iznutra slikama svetitelja ili čudesnih događaja, kao kapele. Fantastični mostovi u Turskoj, postavljeni otprilike, čuvani i održavani sudbinom. Rimski mostovi u južnoj Italiji, od bela kamena, sa kojih je vreme odbilo sve što se moglo odbiti, a pored kojih već stotinu godina vodi neki nov most, ali oni stoje još jednako, kao skeleti na straži.
Tako, svuda na svetu, gde god se moja misao krene ili stane, nailazi na verne i ćutljive mostove kao na večitu i večno nezasićenu ljudsku želju da se poveže, izmiri i spoji sve što iskrsne pred našim duhom, očima i nogama, da ne bude deljenja, protivnosti ni rastanka.
Tako isto u snovima i proizvoljnoj igri mašte. Slušajući najgorču i najlepšu muziku koju sam ikada čuo, odjednom mi se ukaza kameni most, presečen po polovini, a izlomljene strane prekinutog luka bolno teže jedna ka drugoj, i poslednjim naporom pokazuju jednu mogućnu liniju luka koji je nestao. To je vernost i uzvišena nepomirljivost lepote, koja pored sebe dopušta jednu jedinu mogućnost: nepostojanje.
Naposletku, sve čim se ovaj naš život kazuje – misli, napori, pogledi, osmesi, reči, uzdasi – sve to teži ka drugoj obali, kojoj se upravlja kao cilju, i na kojoj tek dobiva svoj pravi smisao. Sve to ima nešto da savlada i premosti: nered, smrt ili nesmisao. Jer, sve je prelaz, most čiji se krajevi gube u beskonačnosti, a prema kom su svi zemni mostovi samo dečije igračke, bledi simboli. A sva je naša nada s one strane.
-
lilia
- Posts: 47
- Joined: 22/08/2007 21:33
#614
Mika Oklop - CA. Blues
Otvori usta i sakrij se iza njih.
Moje ime je Johnny Walker. Izgovara se isto kao sto se i pije.
Ja ne radim nigde: isuvise sam lak za tezak posao, isuvise sam
tezak za lak posao, i isuvise seksi za nocni posao.
Jos niko nije otisao na sud zato sto je ubio neciji duh.
Ima ljudi u drustvenim bolnicama koji su tamo proveli po trideset
krvavih godina samo zato sto su nekad davno razbili prozor u svom
vlastitom stanu.
Volim te. Ne znam kako se to kaze na kalifornijskom.
Poceo sam da ceznem za zavicajem; za nekim toplim krevetom, ljudima
koje sam poznavao, za nekim mirnim ulicama, za nekim lukama u kojima
je voda ruzicasta sa zalaskom sunca, za nekim devojkama koje sam
ostavio iza sebe, na brzinu, pakujuci se sebicno za put. Kako je to
kurvinsko osecanje, ta ceznja! Ne nostalgija, ne patnja zbog toga
sto si nekud daleko otisao - to je bila ceznja u najcistijem obliku,
uvek sanjas o necemu DRUGOM.
Otvori usta i sakrij se iza njih.
Moje ime je Johnny Walker. Izgovara se isto kao sto se i pije.
Ja ne radim nigde: isuvise sam lak za tezak posao, isuvise sam
tezak za lak posao, i isuvise seksi za nocni posao.
Jos niko nije otisao na sud zato sto je ubio neciji duh.
Ima ljudi u drustvenim bolnicama koji su tamo proveli po trideset
krvavih godina samo zato sto su nekad davno razbili prozor u svom
vlastitom stanu.
Volim te. Ne znam kako se to kaze na kalifornijskom.
Poceo sam da ceznem za zavicajem; za nekim toplim krevetom, ljudima
koje sam poznavao, za nekim mirnim ulicama, za nekim lukama u kojima
je voda ruzicasta sa zalaskom sunca, za nekim devojkama koje sam
ostavio iza sebe, na brzinu, pakujuci se sebicno za put. Kako je to
kurvinsko osecanje, ta ceznja! Ne nostalgija, ne patnja zbog toga
sto si nekud daleko otisao - to je bila ceznja u najcistijem obliku,
uvek sanjas o necemu DRUGOM.
-
water
- Posts: 1133
- Joined: 04/12/2004 02:46
#616
hej, bas mi je juce pala na pamet. ima sigurno preko dvadeset godina kad sam je zadnji put citao, znam da mi je bila mrak, ali tada sam bio drugaciji, (citaj puuuuuno mladji), a i Ameriku sam upoznao iz prve rukeblack wrote:skroz luda knjiga..lilia wrote:Mika Oklop - CA. Blues
moracu je opet procitati
Pitam se kako bi mi se sad dojmila. Imali gdje da se naruci?
-
lilia
- Posts: 47
- Joined: 22/08/2007 21:33
#621
Ma lakse da kopiras, mi snosimo troskove kopiranja i slanja na licne adrese!InfraRedRidinghood wrote:Mogu jedino da uslikam, nemam drugi način.
Sve cemo uciniti, samo je nekako ucini "dostupnom"!!!
Rado cemo ti platiti u utorak, ako nam sad ostavis jos jedan mali odlomak!
-
black
- Posts: 18556
- Joined: 19/06/2004 16:00
- Location: ispod tresnje
#622
“Znam da Kolumbo nije otkrio Ameriku
Mladici treba da budu istrazivaci
Umoran jos od materice, sad se odmaram.
A video sam dosta....
Dantona kako place na ulazu u metro,
Nasmejanu zenu u luna parku, koja se
Izvan kuce smeha, uprkos nepogodi , i dalje smeje...
Djubretare kako marsiraju na paradi
Povodom kolumbovog dana
Pogledao sam dom svoj i nisam ga video
Andjela...
Koliko taksija koliko kafana koliko lepih zena
Sa slepim prsima i udovima izgubljenim medju oblakoderima
Slushao sam Debsija napeto intoniranog
Oblacio sive flanelske pantalone
I koracao obalom pakla
Spavao na stotinu ostrva gde knjige
Behu drvece
Slusao ptice sa zvonima u glasu
Sekao drvece s grupama voluntera
I sedeo na njemu
Nikad nisam patio u javnosti
Hvatao sam rakove u reci Bronx
Uopbrazavajuci da je to Misisipi
Sada citam Lordu Edun
I Zivot Dzona Mosta
Koji je bio strah i trepet za fabrikante
S bombom u pisacem stolu u svako doba
Odmaram...a putovao sam dosta
Negde sam neshto procitao o smislu zivota
Ali sam zaboravio gde bas to bese...
Mozda cu jednog dana svoje podsetnike pretvoriti
U vlati trave
Mozda cu da napisem svoj rodonacelnicki epitaf
Upucujuci konjanike da tuda prodju...”
Mladici treba da budu istrazivaci
Umoran jos od materice, sad se odmaram.
A video sam dosta....
Dantona kako place na ulazu u metro,
Nasmejanu zenu u luna parku, koja se
Izvan kuce smeha, uprkos nepogodi , i dalje smeje...
Djubretare kako marsiraju na paradi
Povodom kolumbovog dana
Pogledao sam dom svoj i nisam ga video
Andjela...
Koliko taksija koliko kafana koliko lepih zena
Sa slepim prsima i udovima izgubljenim medju oblakoderima
Slushao sam Debsija napeto intoniranog
Oblacio sive flanelske pantalone
I koracao obalom pakla
Spavao na stotinu ostrva gde knjige
Behu drvece
Slusao ptice sa zvonima u glasu
Sekao drvece s grupama voluntera
I sedeo na njemu
Nikad nisam patio u javnosti
Hvatao sam rakove u reci Bronx
Uopbrazavajuci da je to Misisipi
Sada citam Lordu Edun
I Zivot Dzona Mosta
Koji je bio strah i trepet za fabrikante
S bombom u pisacem stolu u svako doba
Odmaram...a putovao sam dosta
Negde sam neshto procitao o smislu zivota
Ali sam zaboravio gde bas to bese...
Mozda cu jednog dana svoje podsetnike pretvoriti
U vlati trave
Mozda cu da napisem svoj rodonacelnicki epitaf
Upucujuci konjanike da tuda prodju...”
-
danas
- Posts: 18796
- Joined: 11/03/2005 19:40
- Location: 10th circle...
#624
halo bing, kako bratlilia wrote:Ma lakse da kopiras, mi snosimo troskove kopiranja i slanja na licne adrese!InfraRedRidinghood wrote:Mogu jedino da uslikam, nemam drugi način.
Sve cemo uciniti, samo je nekako ucini "dostupnom"!!!
Rado cemo ti platiti u utorak, ako nam sad ostavis jos jedan mali odlomak!
cena sitnica aj infra, ne bilo ti lijeno
PS crnac: ma kakvi gay, mi smo najobicnije pedercine bolan
-
Nancy Drew
- Posts: 1926
- Joined: 06/09/2006 12:43
- Location: sarajevo