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jeudi, 11 avril 2013

Le Meilleur des Mondes, c'est maintenant

aldous-huxley.jpg

Aldous Huxley

Le Meilleur des Mondes, c'est maintenant

par Stéphane Blanchonnet

Ex: http://a-rebours.ouvaton.org/

article d'abord paru sur a-rebours.fr puis repris dans L'AF2000

   Au moment où un gouvernement entreprend de liquider l'institution du mariage en en dénaturant la définition, au moment où un prétendu "droit" au mariage et un prétendu "droit" à l'enfant se substituent à la plus naturelle des institutions sociales (quelles que soient les variations de ses modalités dans le temps et l'espace), il est urgent de se replonger dans un livre où l'auteur représente une société future dans laquelle la famille traditionnelle a été abolie, les notions de père et mère ont disparu des mémoires, la reproduction et la sexualité ont été totalement dissociées (les enfants sont tous le résultat d'une fécondation et d'une gestation artificielles), la liberté sexuelle, enfin, est devenu le plus efficace moyen de contrôle social de l’État sur des individus sevrés de plaisir mais devenus pour cette raison irresponsables et incapables de responsabilité comme d'esprit critique. Ce livre, vous l'aurez sans doute reconnu, est le remarquable roman Le Meilleur des Mondes d'Aldous Huxley, qui est aussi un profond apologue, dans la grande tradition des fables et des contes philosophiques.


    Dans son essai, Retour au Meilleur des Mondes, paru en 1958 (vingt-cinq ans après le roman), Huxley se livre à une passionnante comparaison entre son propre livre et le chef d'œuvre de George Orwell, 1984. Il y écrit notamment ces lignes qui expliquent que là où Orwell avait en vue les régimes autoritaires et militaristes, lui-même dénonçait plutôt les potentialités totalitaires des démocraties libérales : « La société décrite dans le roman d'Orwell est continuellement en état de guerre, aussi le but de ses dirigeants est-il d'abord, bien entendu, d'exercer le pouvoir, générateur de grisantes délices, et ensuite de maintenir leurs sujets dans cet état de tension croissante qu'une lutte permanente exige de ceux qui la livrent. En faisant croisade contre la sexualité, les chefs parviennent à entretenir le degré de tension voulu chez leurs satellites et en même temps à satisfaire de manière extrêmement agréable leur propre appétit de puissance. Celle qui est décrite dans Le Meilleur des Mondes est une société mondiale dans laquelle la guerre a été éliminée et où le premier but des dirigeants est d'empêcher à tout prix leurs sujets de créer des désordres. Ils y parviennent (entre autres méthodes) par la légalisation d'un degré de liberté sexuelle (rendu possible par l'abolition de la famille) qui garantit pratiquement les populations de toute forme de tension émotive destructrice (ou créatrice). Dans 1984, l'appétit de puissance se satisfait en infligeant la souffrance ; dans Le Meilleur des Mondes en infligeant un plaisir à peine moins humiliant. »


    L'ouvrage d'Huxley est sans doute le plus intéressant pour comprendre la logique de notre société consumériste, hédoniste et surtout progressiste qui prétend émanciper les individus en les déracinant (la table rase permanente à l'égard de la culture, des traditions et désormais de la filiation) alors qu'elle ne fait que les couper des contraintes normales qui, en circonscrivant le périmètre de la nature humaine, lui permettent tout simplement d'exister en tant que telle. Ceux qui participent à ce mouvement littéralement insensé vers l'indifférenciation et l'indétermination absolues ne voient pas qu'un changement, qui n'est qu'un processus, un ”accident" pour parler comme les philosophes, suppose un sujet à ce processus, une "substance", donc une nature, un certain nombre de déterminations sans lesquelles il n'est pas plus de conservation nécessaire que de progrès légitime mais un pur chaos inintelligible !

Stéphane BLANCHONNET

mercredi, 10 avril 2013

Jünger und Frankreich - eine gefährliche Begegnung?

Jünger und Frankreich - eine gefährliche Begegnung?

Ein Pariser Gespräch. Mit 60 Briefen von Ernst Jünger an Julien Hervier

Cover Jünger und Frankreich - eine gefährliche Begegnung?
 
Jünger und Frankreich - eine gefährliche Begegnung?
Ein Pariser Gespräch. Mit 60 Briefen von Ernst Jünger an Julien Hervier
Mit Abbildungen
204 Seiten, gebunden mit Schutzumschlag

2 Abbildungen
Aus dem Französischen von Dorothée Pschera
ISBN: 978-3-88221-538-0
Preis: 19,90 € / 28,90 CHF

Der Briefwechsel Ernst Jüngers mit seinem französischen Übersetzer Julien Hervier

›Jünger und Frankreich - eine gefährliche Begegnung?‹ versammelt 60 unveröffentlichte Briefe von Ernst Jünger an seinen Übersetzer Julien Hervier. Sie liefern bisher unbekannte Einsichten in Jünger kontinuierliche Arbeit am Text und geben faszinierende Einblicke in die Jünger-Rezeption in Frankreich. Ein ausführliches Gespräch zwischen dem Jünger-Kenner Alexander Pschera und Julien Hervier erkundet die Ursachen für Jüngers Erfolg in Frankreich, der mit der Aufnahme von Jüngers Texten in die Bibliothèque de la Pléiade seinen Höhepunkt gefunden hat. In diesem Gespräch wird deutlich, wie und warum Jünger die moderne Literatur in Frankreich beeinflusste, aber auch, was Jünger von ihr trennt. So ist das Gespräch auch ein Dialog über Frankreich und Deutschland.
 
 

Alexander Pschera bei Matthes & Seitz Berlin

Pressestimmen

»Es ist eher unwahrscheinlich, dass ein neuer Briefwechsel das Bild Jüngers komplett ändert. Wohl aber vermag ein kleiner, schöner Briefband wie der von Matthes & Seitz das Bild durch persönliche und kenntnisreiche Kommentare zu verlebendigen.«
Jerker Spits, literaturkritik.de, Okotber 2012

»Der Verlag Matthes & Seitz kann sich damit rühmen, durch das Gespräch zwischen Pschera und Hervier eine Menge Hintergründiges über Jünger zutage befördert zu haben.«
Markus L. Kerber, Europolis, Juli 2012

"Alles in allem stellt das Bändchen ein Lesevergnügen dar und kann so als faszinierendes Einführungsbuch zu Jünger dienen."
Till Kinzel, Informationsmittel, Juni 2012

"Derartige, über fünfundzwanzig Jahre geführte Korrespondenzen zwischen Autor und Übersetzer sind ebenso selten wie kostbar."
Bernhard Gajek, Germanistik 53, 2012

 

mardi, 09 avril 2013

Taller Literario: Céline

lundi, 08 avril 2013

Pulp Fascism

Pulp Fascism

By Jonathan Bowden 

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Editor’s Note: 

The following text is a transcription by V. S. of a lecture entitled “Léon Degrelle and the Real Tintin,” delivered at the 21st meeting of the New Right, London, June 13, 2009. The lecture can be viewed on YouTube here [2]. (Please post any corrections as comments below.)

I have given it a new title because it serves as the perfect introduction to a collection of Bowden’s essays, lectures, and interviews entitled Pulp Fascism: Right-Wing Themes in Comics, Graphic Novels, and Popular Literature, which is forthcoming from Counter-Currents.

I proposed this collection and title to Bowden in 2011, and although he wrote a number of pieces especially for it, the project was unfinished at his death. We are bringing out this book in honor of the first anniversary of Bowden’s death on March 29, 2012. 

jb_index.jpgI would like to talk about something that has always interested me. The title of the talk is “Léon Degrelle and the Real Tintin,” but what I really want to talk about is the heroic in mass and in popular culture. It’s interesting to note that heroic ideas and ideals have been disprivileged by pacifism, by liberalism tending to the Left and by feminism particularly since the social and cultural revolutions of the 1960s. Yet the heroic, as an imprimatur in Western society, has gone down into the depths, into mass popular culture. Often into trashy forms of culture where the critical insight of various intellectuals doesn’t particularly gaze upon it.

One of the forms that interests me about the continuation of the heroic in Western life as an idea is the graphic novel, a despised form, particularly in Western Europe outside France and Italy and outside Japan further east. It’s regarded as a form primarily for children and for adolescents. Yet forms such as this: these are two volumes of Tintin which almost everyone has come across some time or other. These books/graphic novels/cartoons/comic books have been translated into 50 languages other than the original French. They sold 200 million copies, which is almost scarcely believable. It basically means that a significant proportion of the globe’s population has got one of these volumes somewhere.

Now, before he died, Léon Degrelle said that the character of Tintin created by Hergé was based upon his example. Other people rushed to say that this wasn’t true and that this was self-publicity by a notorious man and so on and so forth. Probably like all artistic and semi-artistic things there’s an element of truth to it. Because a character like this that’s eponymous and archetypal will be a synthesis of all sorts of things. Hergé got out of these dilemmas by saying that it was based upon a member of his family and so on. That’s probably as true as not.

The idea of the masculine and the heroic and the Homeric in modern guise sounds absurd when it’s put in tights and appears in a superhero comic and that sort of thing. But the interesting thing is because these forms of culture are so “low” they’re off the radar of that which is acceptable and therefore certain values can come back. It’s interesting to note that the pulp novels in America in the 1920s and ’30s, which preceded the so-called golden age of comics in the United States in the ’30s and ’40s and the silver age in the 1960s, dealt with quite illicit themes.

One of the reasons that even today Tintin is mildly controversial and regarded as politically incorrect in certain circles is they span much of the 20th century. Everyone who is alive now realizes that there was a social and cultural revolution in the Western world in the 1960s, where almost all the values of the relatively traditional European society, whatever side you fought on in the Second World War, were overturned and reversed in a mass reversion or re-evaluation of values from a New Leftist perspective.

Before 1960, many things which are now legal and so legal that to criticize them has become illegal were themselves illicit and outside of the pedigree and patent of Western law, custom, practice, and social tradition. We’ve seen a complete reversal of nearly all of the ideals that prevailed then. This is why many items of quite popular culture are illicit.

If one just thinks of a silent film like D. W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation in 1915. There was a prize awarded by the American Motion Picture Academy up until about 1994 in Griffith’s name. For those who don’t know, the second part of Birth of a Nation is neo-Confederate in orientation and depicts the Ku Klux Klan as heroic. Heroic! The Ku Klux Klan regarded as the hero, saving the White South from perdition, from the carpet-baggers, some of whom bear an extraordinary resemblance to the present President of the United States of America. Of course, they were called carpet-baggers because they were mulatto politicians who arrived in the South primarily from the North with certain Abolitionist sponsorship and they arrived with everything they owned in a carpet bag to take over. And that’s why they were called that.

That film, which you can get in any DVD store and buy off Amazon for ten pounds or so, is extraordinarily notorious, but in actual fact, in terms of its iconography, it’s a heroic, dualist film where there’s a force of darkness and a force of light. There’s a masculine individual. There’s people who believe that they’ll sort out problems with a gun. The Bible, in an ultra-Protestant way, is their text. It’s what they base metaphysical objectivism and absolute value upon, and that film is perceived retrospectively as an extreme White Right-wing film although Griffith himself is later to do a film called Intolerance and actually, like a lot of film makers, had quite a diverse range of views irrespective of his own Southern and Texan background.

The thing one has to remember is that the methodology of the heroic can survive even if people fight against various forces in Western life. One of the great tricks of the heroic in the last 40 to 50 years is the heroic films involving icons like Clint Eastwood, for example, as a successor to this sort of archetype of John Wayne and the sort of Western stylized masculinity that he represented. Eastwood often plays individualistic, survivalist, and authoritarian figures; Right-wing existentialist figures. But they’re always at war with bureaucracies and values that are perceived as conservative. One of the ways it tricks, which has occurred since the 1960s, is to reorient the nature of the heroic so that the eternal radical Right within a society such as the United States or elsewhere is the enemy, per se.

There’s a comic strip in the United States called Captain America which began in the 1940s. Captain America is a weedy young man who almost walks with a stick and has arms like branches, and of course a friendly American scientist introduces him to a new secret program where he’s injected with some steroids and this sort of thing and immediately becomes this enormous blond hulking superman with blue eyes. Of course, he must dress himself in the American flag so that he can call himself Captain America. So you get the idea! He has a big shield which has the star of the United States on it and has a sidekick who dies in one of the 1940s comics, but of course these figures never die. They’re endlessly brought back. But there’s a problem here because the position that Captain America and a lesser Marvel Comics equivalent called Captain Britain and all these other people represent is a little bit suspect in an increasingly liberal society, even then. So, his enemy, his nemesis, his sort of dualist alternative has to be a “Nazi,” and of course Captain America has a Nazi enemy who’s called the Red Skull.

The Red Skull is a man with a hideous face who, to hide this hideousness, wears a hideous mask over his hideous face as a double take. The mirror cracks so why not wear a mask, but it’s not a mask of beauty. It’s a skull that’s painted red, and he’s called the Red Skull. He always wears green. So, it’s red and green. He always appears and there’s always a swastika somewhere in the background and that sort of thing. He’s always building robots or cyborgs or new biological sorts of creatures to take over the world. Captain America always succeeds in vanquishing him in the last panel. Just in the last panel. The Red Skull’s always about to triumph until the fist of Captain America for the American way and the American dream comes in at the end.

This mantle of the heroic whereby Right-wing existentialists like Captain America fight against the extreme Right in accordance with democratic values is one of the interesting tricks that’s played with the nature of the heroic. Because the heroic is a dangerous idea. Whether or not Tintin was based on Léon Degrelle there is of course a fascistic element to the nature of the heroic which many writers of fantasy and science fiction, which began as a despised genre but is now, because it’s so commercially viable, one of the major European book genres.

They’ve always known this. Michael Moorcock, amongst others, speaks of the danger of subliminal Rightism in much fantasy writing where you can slip into an unknowing, uncritical ultra-Right and uncritical attitude towards the masculine, towards the heroic, towards the vanquishing of forces you don’t like, towards self-transcendence, for example.

iron_dream.jpgThere’s a well-known novel called The Iron Dream and this novel is in a sense depicting Hitler’s rise to power and everything that occurred in the war that resulted thereafter as a science fiction discourse, as a sort of semiotic by a mad creator. This book was actually banned in Germany because although it’s an extreme satire, which is technically very anti-fascistic, it can be read in a literal-minded way with the satire semi-detached. This novel by Norman Spinrad was banned for about 20 to 30 years in West Germany as it then was. Because fantasy enables certain people to have an irony bypass.

Although comics are quite humorous, particularly to adults, children and adolescents read them, scan them because they sort of just look at the images and take in the balloons as they go across because these are films on paper. They essentially just scan them in an uncritical way. If you ever look at a child, particularly a child that’s got very little interest in formal literature of a sort that’s taught in many European and American schools, they sit absorbed before comics, they’re absolutely enthralled by the nature of them, by the absolute villainy of the transgressor, by the total heroicism and absence of irony and sarcasm of the heroic figure with a scantily clad maiden on the front that the hero always addresses himself to but usually in a dismissive way because he’s got heroic things to accomplish. She’s always on his arm or on his leg or being dragged down.

Indeed, the pulp depiction of women which, of course, is deeply politically incorrect and vampish is a sort of great amusement in these genres. If you ever look at comics like Conan the Barbarian or Iron Man or The Incredible Hulk and these sorts of things the hero will always be there in the middle! Never to the side. Always in the middle foursquare facing the future. The villain will always be off to one side, often on the left; the side of villainy, the side of the sinister, that which wants to drag down and destroy.

As the Hulk is about to hit The Leader, which is his nemesis, or Captain America is about to hit the Red Skull, which is his nemesis, or Batman is about to hit the psychiatric clown called The Joker, who is his nemesis, there’s always a scantily clad woman who’s around his leg on the front cover looking up in a pleading sort of way as the fist is back here. It’s quite clear that these are archetypal male attitudes of amusement and play which, of course, have their danger to many of the assumptions that took over in the 1960s and ’70s.

It’s interesting to notice that in the 1930s quite a lot of popular culture expressed openly vigilante notions about crime. There was a pulp magazine called The Shadow that Orson Welles played on the radio. Orson Welles didn’t believe in learning the part, in New York radio Welles, usually the worse for wear for drink and that sort of thing, would steam up to the microphone, he would take the script, and just launch into The Shadow straight away. The Shadow used to torment criminals. Depending on how nasty they were the more he’d torment them. When he used to kill them, or garrote them, or throttle them, or hang them (these pulps were quite violent and unashamedly so) he used to laugh uproariously like a psychopath. And indeed, if you didn’t get the message, there would be lines in the book saying “HA HA HA HA HA!” for several lines as he actually did people in.

The Shadow is in some ways the prototype for Batman who comes along later. Certain Marxian cultural critics in a discourse called cultural studies have pointed out that Batman is a man who dresses himself up in leathers to torment criminals at night and looks for them when the police, namely the state, the authority in a fictional New York called Gotham City, put a big light in the sky saying come and torment the criminal class. They put this big bat symbol up in the sky, and he drives out in the Batmobile looking for villains to torment. As most people are aware, comics morphed into more adult forms in the 1980s and ’90s and the graphic novel emerged called Dark Knight which explored in quite a sadistic and ferocious way Batman’s desire to punish criminality in a very extreme way.

There was also a pulp in the 1930s called Doc Savage. Most people are vaguely aware of these things because Hollywood films have been made on and off about all these characters. Doc Savage was an enormous blond who was 7 feet. He was bronzed with the sun and covered in rippling muscles. Indeed, to accentuate his musculature he wore steel bands around his wrists and ankles, as you do. He was a scientific genius, a poetic genius, and a musical genius. In fact, there was nothing that he wasn’t a genius at. He was totally uninterested in women. He also had a research institute that operated on the brains of criminals in order to reform them. This is quite extraordinary and deeply politically incorrect! He would not only defeat the villain but at the end of the story he would drag them off to this hospital/institute for them to be operated on so that they could be redeemed for the nature of society. In other words, he was a eugenicist!

Of course, those sorts of ideas in the 1930s were quite culturally acceptable because we are bridging different cultural perceptions even at the level of mass entertainment within the Western world. That which is regarded, even by the time A Clockwork Orange was made by Kubrick from Burgess’ novel in the 1970s, as appalling, 40 years before was regarded as quite acceptable. So, the shifting sands of what is permissible, who can enact it, and how they are seen is part and parcel of how Western people define themselves.

Don’t forget, 40% of the people in Western societies don’t own a book. Therefore, these popular, mass forms which in one way are intellectually trivial is in some respects how they perceive reality.

Comics, like films, have been heavily censored. In the United States in the 1950s, there was an enormous campaign against various sorts of quasi-adult comics that were very gory and were called horror comics and were produced by a very obscure forum called Entertainment Comics (EC). And there was a surrogate for the Un-American Activities Committee in the US Senate looking at un-American comics that are getting at our kids, and they had a large purge of these comics. Indeed, mountains of them were burnt. Indeed, enormous sort of semi-book burnings occurred. Pyramids of comics as big as this room would be burnt by US and federal marshals on judges’ orders because they contained material that the young shouldn’t be looking at.

The material they shouldn’t be looking at was grotesque, gory, beyond Roald Dahl sort of explicit material which, of course, children love. They adore all that sort of thing because it’s exciting, because it’s imaginative, because it’s brutal, because it takes you out of the space of normalcy, and that’s why the young with their instincts and their passion and glory love this sort of completely unmediated amoral fare. That’s why there’s always been this tension between what their parents would like them to like and what many, particularly late childish boys and adolescents, really want to devour. I remember Evelyn Waugh was once asked, “What was your favorite book when you were growing up?” And just like a flash he said, “Captain Blood!” Captain Blood! Imagine any silent pirate film from the 1920s and early ’30s.

Now, the heroic in Western society takes many forms. When I grew up, there were these tiny little comics in A5 format. Everyone must have seen them. Certainly any boys from the 1960s and ’70s. They were called Battle. Battle and Commando and War comics, and these sorts of thing. They were done by D. C. Thomson, which is the biggest comics manufacturer in Britain, up in Dundee. These comics were very unusual because they allowed extremely racialist and nationalist attitudes, but the enemies were always Germans and they were always Japanese.

Indeed, long after the passing of the Race Act in the late 1960s and its follow-up which was more codified and definitive and legally binding in the 1970s, statements about Germans and Japanese could be made in these sorts of comics, which were not just illicit but illegal. You know what I mean, the Green Berets, the commandos, would give it to “Jerry” in a sort of arcane British way and were allowed to. This was permitted, even this liberal transgression, because the enemy was of such a sort.

But, of course, what’s being celebrated is British fury and ferocity and the nature of British warriors and the Irish Guards not taking prisoners and this sort of thing. This is what’s being celebrated in these sorts of comics. It’s noticeable that D. C. Thomson, who has no connection to the DC group in the United States by the way, toned down this element in the comics as they went along. Only Commando survives, but they still produce four of them a month.

In the 1970s, Thomson, who also did The Beano and utterly childish material for children for about five and six as well as part of the great spectrum of their group, decided on some riskier, more transgressive, more punkish, more adult material. So, they created a comic called Attack. Attack! It’s this large shark that used to come and devour people. It was quite good. The editor would disapprove of something and they would be eaten by the shark. There was the marvelous balloons they have in comics, something like, “This shark is amoral. It eats.” And there would be a human leg sticking out of the mouth of the shark. Some individual the editor disapproved of was going down the gullet.

Now, Attack was attacked in Parliament. A Labour MP got up and said he didn’t like Attack. It was rather dubious. It was tending in all sorts of unwholesome directions, and Attack had a story that did outrage a lot of people in the middle 1970s, because there was a story where a German officer from the Second World War was treated sympathetically, in Attack. Because it was transgressive, you see. What’s going to get angry Methodists writing to their local paper? A comic that treats some Wehrmacht officer in a sympathetic light. So, there was a real ruckus under Wilson’s government in about ’75 about this, and so they removed that.

judge-dredd-1.jpgVarious writers like Pat Mills and John Wagner were told to come up with something else. So, they came up with the comic that became Judge Dredd. Judge Dredd is a very interesting comic in various ways because all sorts of Left-wing people don’t like Judge Dredd at all, even as a satire. If there are people who don’t know this, Dredd drives around in a sort of motorcycle helmet with a slab-sided face which is just human meat really, and he’s an ultra-American. It’s set in a dystopian future where New York is extended to such a degree that it covers about a quarter of the landmass of the United States. You just live in a city, in a burg, and you go and you go and you go. There’s total collapse. There’s no law and order, and there’s complete unemployment, and everyone’s bored out of their mind.

The comic is based on the interesting notion that crime is partly triggered by boredom and a sort of wantonness in the masses. Therefore, in order to keep any sort of order, the police and the judiciary have combined into one figure called a Judge. So, the jury, the trial, the police investigation, and the investigative and forensic elements are all combined in the figure of the Judge. So, if Judge Dredd is driving along the street and he sees some youths of indeterminate ethnicity breaking into a store he says, “Hold, citizens! This is the law! I am the law! Obey me! Obey the law!” And if they don’t, he shoots them dead, because the trial’s syncopated into about 20 seconds. He’s given them the warning. That’s why he’s called Judge Dredd, you see. D-R-E-D-D. He just kills automatically those who transgress.

There’s great early comic strips where he roars around on this bike that has this sort of skull-like front, and he appears and there’s a chap parking his car and he says, “Citizen! Traffic violation! Nine years!” and roars off somewhere else. Somebody’s thieving or this sort of thing and he gets them and bangs their head into the street. There’s no question of a commission afterwards. “Twelve years in the Cube!” which is an isolation cell. It’s got its own slang because comics, of course, create their own world which children and adolescents love so you can totally escape into a world that’s got a semi-alternative reality of its own that’s closed to outsiders. If some adult picks it up and looks at it he says, “What is this about?” Because it’s designed to exclude you in a way.

Dredd has numerous adventures in other dimensions and so on, but Dredd never changes, never becomes more complicated, remains the same. He has no friends. “I have no need of human attachments,” he once says in a slightly marvelous line. He has a robot for company who provides most of his meals and needs and that sort of thing. For the rest, he’s engaged in purposeful and pitiless implementation of law and order. One of his famous phrases was when somebody asked him what is happiness, and he says in one of those bubbles, “Happiness is law and order.” Pleasure is obeying the law. And there are various people groveling in chains in front of him or something.

Now, there’ve been worried Left-wing cat-calls, although it’s a satire, and it’s quite clearly meant to be one. For example, very old people, because people in this fantasy world live so long that they want to die at the end, and they go to be euthanized. So, they all queue up for euthanasia. There’s one story where somebody blows up the people waiting for euthanasia to quicken the thing, but also to protest against it. And Judge says, “Killing euthanized is terrorism!” War on terror, where have we heard that before? Don’t forget, these are people that want to die. But Dredd says, “They’re being finished off too early. You’ve got to wait, citizen!” Wait to be killed later by the syringe that’s coming. And then people are reprocessed as medicines, because everything can be used. It’s a utilitarian society. Therefore, everything is used from birth to death, because the state arranges everything for you, even though socialism is condemned completely.

There’s another bloc, it’s based on the Cold War idea, there’s a Soviet bloc off on the other side of the world that is identical to the West, but ideologically they’re at war with each other, even though they’re absolutely interchangeable with each other. But the Western metaphysic is completely free market, completely capitalist, but in actual fact no one works, and everyone’s a slave to an authoritarian state.

There’s also an interesting parallel with more advanced forms of literature here. A Clockwork Orange: many people think that’s about Western youth rebellion and gangs of the Rockers and Mods that emerged in the 1960s at the time. Burgess wrote his linguistically sort of over-extended work in many ways. In actual fact, Anthony Burgess wrote A Clockwork Orange after a visit to the Soviet Union where he was amazed to find that, unlike the totalitarian control of the masses which he expected at every moment, there was quite a degree of chaos, particularly amongst the Lumpenproletariat in the Soviet Union.

George Orwell in Nineteen Eighty-Four has an interesting idea, and that is that the proles are so beneath ideology, right at the bottom of society, the bottom 3% not even the bottom 10%, that they can be left to their own devices. They can be left to take drugs. They can be left to drink to excess. They can be left to destroy themselves. Orwell says “the future is the proles” at one point. Remember when Winston Smith looks out across the tenements and sees the enormous washerwoman putting some shirts, putting some sheets on a line? And she sings about her lost love, “Oh, he was a helpless fancy . . .” and all this. And Winston looks out on her across the back yards and lots and says, “If there’s a future, it lies with the proles!” And then he sings to himself, “But looking at them, he had to wonder.”

The party degrades the proletariat to such a degree that it ceases to be concerned about their amusements because they’re beneath the level of ideology and therefore you don’t need to control them. The people you control are the Outer Party, those who can think, those who wear the blue boiler suits, not the black ones from the Inner Party.

TheIronHeel500.jpgThis interconnection between mass popular culture, often of a very trivial sort, and elitist culture, whereby philosophically the same ideas are expressed, is actually interesting. You sometimes get these lightning flashes that occur between absolutely sort of “trash culture,” if you like, and quite advanced forms of culture like A Clockwork Orange, like Darkness at Noon, like Nineteen Eighty-Four, like The Iron Heel, like The Iron Dream. And these sorts of extraordinary dystopian and catatopian novels, which are in some respects the high political literature (as literature, literature qua literature) of the 20th century.

Now, one of the reasons for the intellectual independence of elements in some comics is because no one’s concerned about it except when the baleful eye of censorship falls upon them. A particular American academic wrote a book in the early 1950s called Seduction of the Innocent which is about how children were being depraved by these comics which were giving them violent and racialist and elitist and masculinist stereotypes, which shouldn’t be allowed.

Of course, a vogue for Left wing comics grew up in the 1970s because culture in the United States, particularly men’s culture, is racially segregated in a way which is never admitted. African-Americans have always had their own versions of these things. There are Black American comics. Marvel did two called The Black Panther, and the Black Panther only ever preys on villains who are Black.

There’s another one called Power Man who’s in prison loaded down with chains and a White scientist, who might be Jewish, experiments on him. He’s called Luke Cage and he’s experimented on so he becomes a behemoth. A titan of max strength he’s called, and he bats down the wall and takes all sorts of people on. And yet, of course, all of the villains he takes on, very like the Shaft films which are both about James Bond films which are very similar, all of this material is segregated. It occurs within its own zone.

But you notice the same heroic archetypes return. Yet again there’s a villain in the corner, usually on the left side, Luke Cage has an enormous fist, there’s a sort of half-caste beauty on his leg looking up, staring at him. This sort of thing. It’s the same main methodology. It’s the same thing coming around again.

Although there have been attempts at the Left-wing comic, it’s actually quite difficult to draw upon with any effect. Because, in a way you can criticize comics that are metapolitically Right-wing, but to create a Left-wing one is actually slightly difficult. The way you get around it is to have a comic that’s subliminally Rightist and have the villain who’s the extreme Right. There are two American comics called Sgt. Fury and Sgt. Rock and another one’s called Our Army at War. Sgt. Rock, you know, and this sort of thing. And you know who the villain is because they’re all sort in the Second World War.

The attitude towards Communism in comics is very complicated. Nuclear destruction was thought too controversial. When formal censorship of comics began in America in the 1950s something called the Approved Comics Code Authority, very like the British Board of Film Classification, emerged. They would have a seal on the front of a comic. Like American films in the 1930s, men and women could kiss but only in certain panels and only for a certain duration on the page as the child or adolescent looked at it, and it had to be, it was understood so explicitly it didn’t even need to be mentioned that of course it didn’t even need to be mentioned that it was totally heterosexual. Similarly, violence had to be kept to a minimum, but a certain allowed element of cruelty was permitted if the villain was on the receiving end of it.

Also, the comics had to be radically dualist. There has to be a force for light and a force for darkness. There has to be Spiderman and his nemesis who’s Dr. Octopus who has eight arms. But certain complications can be allowed, and as comics grow, if you like, non-dualist characters emerge.

There’s a character in The Fantastic Four called Doctor Doom who’s a tragic figure with a ruined face who is shunned by man who wants to revenge himself on society because he’s shut out, who ends as the ruler of a tiny little made-up European country which he rules with an iron hand, and he does have hands of iron. So he rules his little Latvia substitute with an iron hand. But he’s an outsider, you see, because in the comic he’s a gypsy, a sort of White Roma. But he gets his own back through dreams of power.

There’s these marvelous lines in comics which when you ventilate them become absurd. But on the page, if you’re sucked into the world, particularly as an adolescent boy, they live and thrive for you. Doom says to Reed Richards, who’s his nemesis on the other side, “I am Doom! I will take the world!” Because the way the hero gets back at the villain is to escape, because they’re usually tied up somewhere with a heroine looking on expectantly. The hero is tied up, but because the villain talks so much about what they’re going to do and the cruelty and appalling suffering they’re going to inflict all the time the hero is getting free. Because you have to create a lacuna, a space for the hero to escape so that he can drag the villain off to the asylum or to the gibbet or to the prison at the end. Do you remember that line from Lear on the heath? “I shall do such things, but what they are I know not! But they will be the terror of the earth!” All these villains repeat that sort of line in the course of their discourse, because in a sense they have to provide the opening or the space for the hero to emerge.

One of the icons of American cinema in the 20th century was John Wayne. John Wayne was once interviewed about his political views by, of all things, Playboy magazine. This is the sort of level of culture we’re dealing with. They said, “What are your political views?” and Wayne said, “Well, I’m a white supremacist.” And there was utter silence when he said this! He was a member of the John Birch Society at the time. Whether or not he gave money to the Klan no one really knows.

There’s always been a dissident strand in Hollywood, going back to Errol Flynn and before, of people who, if you like, started, even at the level of fantasy, living out some of these heroic parts in their own lives. Wayne quite clearly blurred the distinction between fantasy on the film set and in real life on many occasions. There are many famous incidents of Wayne, when robberies were going on, rushing out of hotels with guns in hand saying, “Stick’em up!” He was always playing that part, because every part’s John Wayne isn’t it, slightly differently? Except for a few comedy pieces. And he played that part again and again and again.

Alamo_1960_poster.jpgDon’t forget, The Alamo is now a politically incorrect film. Very politically incorrect. There’s an enormous women’s organization in Texas called the Daughters of the Alamo, and they had to change their name because the White Supremacist celebration of the Alamo was offensive to Latinos who are, or who will be very shortly, a Texan majority don’t forget. So, the sands are shifting in relation to what is permitted even within popular forms of culture.

When Wayne said he was a supremacist in that way he said, “I have nothing against other people, but we shouldn’t hand the country over to them.” That’s what he said. “We shouldn’t hand the country over to them.”

And don’t forget, I was born in ’62. Obama in many of the deep Southern states wouldn’t have had the vote then. Now he’s President. This is how the West is changing on all fronts and on every front. American Whites will certainly be in the minority throughout the federation in 40 or 50 years. Certainly. Indeed, Clinton (the male Clinton, the male of the species) once justified political correctness by saying, “Well, in 50 years we’ll be the minority. We’ll need political correctness to fight that game.”

The creator of Tintin, Hergé, always said that his dreams and his nightmares were in white. But we know that the politically correct games of the future will be Whites putting their hands up in the air complaining because somebody’s made a remark, complaining because they haven’t got a quota, complaining because this form is biased against them, and this sort of thing. They’ll be playing the game that minorities in the West play at the moment, because that’s all that’s left to them. You give them a slice of the ghetto, you predefine the culture (mass, middling, and elite), in the past but not into the future, elements of the culture which are too much reverent of your past don’t serve for the future and are therefore dammed off and not permitted. This is what, in a sense, White people face in America and elsewhere.

One of the great mysteries of the United States that has produced an enormous amount of this mass culture, some of which I have been at times rather glibly describing, is why has there never been a mass serious Right-wing movement of the real Right in the United States. The whole history of the 20th century and before would be different if that had occurred. Just think of it. Not some sort of trivial group, but a genuine group.

Don’t forget, the real position of the American ultras is isolationism. They don’t want to go out into the rest of the world and impose American neo-colonialism on everyone else. They’re the descendants of people who left the European dominion in order to create a new world. Hence, the paradox that the further Right you go in the United States, the more, not pacifist, but non-interventionist you become.

Before the Confederacy, there was a movement called the Know Nothings, and this is often why very Right-wing people in the United States are described as Know Nothings. Because when you’re asked about slavery, which of course is a very loaded and partial question, you said, “Well, I don’t know anything about it.” And that was a deliberate tactic to avoid being sucked in to an abolitionist agenda or a way of speaking that was biased in the political correctness of its own era.

But it is remarkable that although the Confederacy didn’t have the strength to win, if they had won the history of the whole world would be different. The 20th century would have never taken the course that it did.

One of the interesting things about the American psyche, of course, is that many unfortunate incidents, the war that we fought with the United States in 1812, for example, have been completely elided from history. It’s gone! It’s gone! We almost went to war with them in 1896 over Venezuela. That still has slightly interesting intonations even now a century or more on when Joseph Chamberlain was Colonial Secretary. This is again [elided] rather like the Suez incident 1956. There are certain incidents that are played up. And there are anniversaries that are every day on the television, and that you can’t escape from. But there are other anniversaries and other events which have been completely air-brushed from the spectrum and from the historical continuum as if they never occurred.

One episode is the extraordinarily bad treatment of prisoners of war by Americans going way, way back. The Confederates and the Unionists treated each other that way in the Civil War, but the Mexicans certainly got the boot in the 1840s as did the Spanish-Cubans at the turn of the 20th century. Americans beat up every German on principle, including members of Adenauer’s future cabinet when they occupied part of Germany. They just regard that as de rigeur. This frontier element that is there, crude and virile and ferocious, not always wrong, but ultimately fighting in ways which are not in the West’s interests, certainly for much of the 20th century, just gone, is part and parcel of the heroic American sense of themselves.

Where do all of these archetypes ultimately come from? That American popular culture which has gone universal because the deal is that what America thinks today, the world thinks tomorrow. When we allegedly ruled the world, or part of it, in the 19th century, Gladstone once stood in Manchester in the Free Trade Hall and said, “What Manchester thinks today, the world thinks tomorrow.” But now it’s what’s on MTV or CNN today, that the world would like to think is the ruling discourse of tomorrow.

American self-conceptuality is, to my mind, deeply, deeply Protestant in every sense. Even at the lowest level of their popular culture the idea of the heroic man, often a dissident police officer or a rancher or a hero of certain supernatural powers and so forth, but a man alone, a man outside the system, a man whose anti-Establishment, but he fights for order, a man who believes that everything’s settled with a weapon (which is why they always carry large numbers of weapons, these sort of survivalist type heroes). All of these heroes, the ones created by Robert E. Howard, the ones such as Doc Savage and Justice Inc., the Shadow, and all of the super-heroes like Batman.

Superman is interesting. Superman is Nietzschean ideas reduced to a thousand levels of sub-intellectuality, isn’t it? That’s what’s going on. He has a girlfriend who never ages called Lois Lane, who looks 22 now even though she’s about 88 in the trajectory of the script. There’s a villain who’s bald called Lex Luthor who’s always there, always the nemesis, always plotting. Luthor’s reinvented later in the strip as a politician who takes over the city. Superman’s clean and wholesome, you see, whereas the villain becomes a politician. You can see the sort of rhetoric.

luthor-1.jpgLuthor and Superman in the stories are outsiders. They’re both extraterrestrials. Luthor, however, has anti-humanist values, which means he’s “evil,” whereas Superman, who’s partly human, has “humanist” values. Luthor comes up with amazing things, particularly in the 1930s comics, which are quite interesting, particularly given the ethnicity of the people who created Superman. Now, about half of American comics are very similar to the film industry, and a similar ethnicity is in the film industry as in the comics industry. Part of the notions of what is right and what is wrong, what is American and what is not, is defined by that particular grid.

Luthor’s an anti-humanite. Luthor always has these thuggish villains who have several teeth missing and are sort of Lombrosian, and they’re ugly, have broken noses and slanted hats. This is the 1930s. And Luthor says, “I’m sick of the human. We’ve got to transcend the human.” They don’t have words like “transcend” in comics. They say, “go beyond” or something, you know. “We’ve got to go beyond the human. Humans have got to go! I’ve got to replace them with a new species.” And one of his thugs will say, “Way to go, Luthor! This is what we want!” If you notice, you have a comic called Superman, but Superman has liberal values and fights for democracy and the American way, and Luthor, although no one ever says he’s “fascistic,” is harsh, is elitist, is inegalitarian.

You know that the villains have a tendency to punish their own men? You remember Blofeld in the Bond films? One of his own minions will fail him, and he’ll sit in a chair and you know what’s going to happen. A hand strokes the cat with the diamonds around its neck. The villain likes cats, and the cat’s eyes stare on. The finger quivers over the button. And Blofeld, or Luthor, or Dr. Doom, or the Red Skull, or the Joker, or whoever it is, because it’s the same force really, says, “You failed me. There is only one punishment in this organization . . .” Click! The button goes, and there’s an explosion, the bloke screams, goes down in the chair.

There’s a great scene in Thunderball at the beginning where the chair comes up again. It’s empty and steaming, and all the other cronies are readjusting their ties. Blofeld’s sat there, and the camera always pans to his hands, the hands of power. You know, the hands of death, the hands of Zeus, the hands of Henry VIII. The closet would meet, and they’d all be disarmed by guards, but he would have a double-headed axe down by the chair.

It’s said, by American propaganda, that Saddam Hussein once shot his Minister of Health during a revolutionary command council meeting, and the same script had to be continued in the meeting by the Deputy Minister of Health. Just think of how the Deputy Minister felt! Let’s hope he wasn’t wearing gray flannels, because they might have been brown by the end of the cabinet session.

This idea of dualism, moral dualism (ultimately a deeply Christian idea in many ways as well as a Zoroastrian idea) is cardinal for the morality of these comics and the popular films and TV serials and all the internet spin-offs and all of these computer games. Because even when the hero is a woman like Lara Croft and so on, it’s the same methodology coming round and round again. Because adolescent boys want to look at somebody who looks like Lara Croft as she runs around with guns in both hands with virtually nothing on. That’s the sort of dissident archetype in these American pulps going back a long way. It’s just the feminization of heroic masculinity actually, which is what these sort of Valkyries are in popular terms.

Now, the dualist idea is that there’s a force for evil and a force for good, and we know who they are (they are the ones out there!). In The Hulk, the Hulk is green because he’s been affected by gamma rays. The Hulk alternates with a brilliant scientist, but when he’s in his monstrous incarnation—because of course it’s a simplification of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in Robert Louis Stevenson’s myth—the Hulk, particularly early on in the comics, is incredibly stupid. If he saw this table in front of him he’d say, “Table. Don’t like table.” And he’d smash it, because Hulk smashes. That’s what he does! He smashes!

The villain in The Hulk is called the Leader. The Leader is the villain. The Leader is all brain. Indeed, the Leader has such a long head that he’s almost in danger of falling over because of the size of his brain. So, like children have to wear a steel brace on their teeth, the Leader wears a steel brace on his head because he’s “too bright.” So, the Leader—notice the Leader is a slightly proto-fascistic, Right-wing, elitist figure, isn’t he? The man who wants to dominate through his mind—is counter-posed by just brute force: the Hulk!

This idea that there’s a force for good and a force for evil and the one always supplants the other, but the one can never defeat the other, because the Leader in The Hulk, the Owl in Daredevil, the Joker in Batman, Dr. Doom in The Fantastic Four, Dr. Octopus and the Green Goblin (another green one) in Spiderman . . . They’re never destroyed. If one of them is destroyed, their son finds their mask in a trunk and puts it on and knows that he wants to dominate the world! And comes back again. They can never be destroyed because they’re archetypes.

The comics hint at a sort of pagan non-dualism partly because they insist upon this good and evil trajectory so much. That’s in some ways when they become quite morally complicated and quite dangerous.

In Greek tragedy, a moral system exists, and it’s preordained that you have a fate partly in your own hands even though it’s decided by the gods. In The Oresteia by Aeschylus, you have a tragedy in a family (cannibalism, destruction, self-devouring) which is revenged and passed through into future generations. So that the Greek fleet can get to Troy, a girl is sacrificed. Clytemnestra avenges herself as a Medusa, as a gorgon against her husband who has killed her own daughter. Then, of course, there’s a cycle of revenge and pity and the absence of pity when the son, Orestes, who identifies with the father, comes back.

In this type of culture, and obviously a much higher level conceptually, it’s noticeable that the good character and the evil character align, are differentiated, merging, replace one another, and separate over the three plays in that particular trilogy.

If you look at real life and you consider any conflict between men, Northern Ireland in the 1970s (we’re British here and many people here are British nationalists). But if you notice the IRA guerrilla/terrorist/paramilitary, the Loyalist guerilla/terrorist/paramilitary . . . One of my grandfathers was in the Ulster Volunteer Force at the beginning of the 20th century, but I went to a Catholic school.

Nietzsche has a concept called perspectivism whereby certain sides choose you in life, certain things are prior ordained. When the U.S. Marine fights the Islamist radical in Fallujah, the iconography of an American comic begins to collapse, because which is the good one and which is the evil one? The average Middle American as he sat reading Captain America zapping the channels thinks that the Marine is the good one, with a sort of 30-second attention span.

But at the same time, the Marine isn’t an incarnation of evil. He’s a man fighting for what he’s been told to fight for. He’s a warrior. There’re flies in his eyes. He’s covered in sweat. He’s gonna kill someone who opposes him. But the radical on the other side is the same, and he sees that he’s fighting for his people and the destiny of his faith. And when warriors fight each other, often there’s little hatred left afterwards, because it’s expended in the extraordinary ferocity of the moment.

This is when this type of mass culture, amusing and interesting and entertaining though it is, begins to fall away. Because whenever we’ve gone to war, and we’ve gone to war quite a lot over the last 10 to 12 years. Blair’s wars: Kosovo. There’s the bombing of the Serbs. Milošević is depicted as evil! Remember those slogans in the sun? Bomb Milošević’s bed! Bomb his bed! Bomb his house! And this sort of thing. Saddam! We’re gonna string him up! The man’s a war criminal! The fact he’d been a client to the West for years didn’t seem to come into it. Hanged. Showed extreme bravery in a way, even though if you weren’t a Sunni in Iraq, definitely, he wasn’t exactly your man.

There’s a degree to which the extraordinary demonization of the Other works. That’s why it’s used. The British National Party won two seats in that election but there was a campaign against it for 12 to 15 days before in almost every item of media irrespective of ideological profile saying, “Don’t vote for these people!” to get rid of the softer protest votes and you’re only left with the hard core. That’s why that type of ideology is used. Maybe humans are hardwired to see absolute malevolence as on the other side, when in actual fact it’s just a person who may or may not be fighting against them.

But what this type of mass or popular culture does is it retains the instinct of the heroic: to transcend, to fight, to struggle, to not know fear, to if one has fear to overcome it in the moment, to be part of the group but retain individual consciousness within it, to be male, to be biologically defined, to not be frightened of death, whatever religious or spiritual views and values that one incarnates in order to face that. These are, in a crude way, what these forms are suggesting. Morality is often instinctual, as is largely true with humans.

I knew somebody who fought in Korea. When they were captured, the Koreans debated amongst themselves whether they should kill all the prisoners. There were savage disputes between men. This always happens in war.

I remember, as I near the close of this speech, that one of Sir Oswald Mosley’s sons wrote a very interesting book both about his father and about his experiences in the Second World War. This is Nicholas Mosley, the novelist and biographer. He was in a parachute regiment, and there’s two stories that impinge upon the nature of the heroic that often appears in popular forms and which I’ll close with.

One is when he was with his other members. He was with his other parachutists, and they were in a room. There was The Daily Mirror, still going, the organ of Left-wing hate which is The Daily Mirror, and on the front it said, “Oswald Mosley: The Most Hated Man in Britain.” The most hated man in Britain. And a chap looked up from his desk and looked at Mosley who was leading a fighting brigade and said, “Mosley, you’re not related to this bastard, are you?” And he said, “I’m one of his sons.” And there was total silence in the room. Total silence in the room, and they stared each other out, and the bloke’s hands gripped The Mirror, and all the other paratroopers were looking at this incident. And after about four minutes it broke and the other one tore up The Mirror and put it in a bin at the back of the desk and said, “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean anything. Really.” Mosley said, “Well, that’s alright then, old chap.” And left.

The other story is very, very interesting. This was they were advancing through France, and the Germans are falling back. And I believe I’ve told this story before at one of these meetings, but never waste a good story. A senior officer comes down the track and says, “Mosley! Mosley, you’re taking too many prisoners. You’re taking too many prisoners. It’s slowing the advance. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mosley?” And he said, “Sir, yes, I totally understand what you’re saying.” He says, “Do you really understand what I’m saying? You’re slowing the advance. Everyone’s noticing it. Do something about it. Do you understand?” “Sir!”

And he’s off, I guess to another spot of business further down. Mosley turns to his Welsh sergeant-major and says, “What do you think about that? We’re taking too many prisoners.” Because what the officer has told him in a very English and a very British way is to shoot German soldiers and to shoot German prisoners and to shoot them in ditches. What else does it mean? “You’re slowing the advance! You’re taking too many prisoners! You’re not soft on these people, are you, Mosley? Speed the advance of your column!” That’s what he’s saying, but it’s not written down. It’s not given as a formal and codified order. But everyone shoots prisoners in war! It’s a fact! When your friend’s had his head blown off next to you, you’d want revenge!

I know people who fought in the Falklands. And some of the Argentinian Special Forces and some of the conscripts together used dum-dum bullets. Hits a man, his spine explodes. So, when certain conscripts were found by British troops they finished them pretty quickly at Goose Green and elsewhere. This will occur! In all wars! Amongst all men! Of all races and of all kinds! Because it’s part of the fury that battle involves.

One of my views is that is that we can’t as a species, or even as groups, really face the fact that in situations of extremity this is what we’re like. And this is why, in some ways, we create for our entertainment these striated forms of heroic culture where there’s absolutely good and absolutely malevolent and the two never cross over. When the Joker is dragged off, justice is done and Inspector Gordon rings Batman up (because it is he) and says, “Well done! You’ve cleansed the city of a menace.” All of the villains go to an asylum called Arkham Asylum. They’re all taken to an asylum where they jibber insanely and wait for revenge against the nature of society.

I personally think that a great shadow has been cast for 60 years on people who want to manifest the most radical forms of political identity that relate to their own group, their own inheritance, their own nationality, their own civilizational construct in relation to that nationality, the spiritual systems from the past and in the present and into the future that are germane to them and not necessarily to the others, to their own racial and biological configuration. No other tendency of opinion is more demonized in the entire West. No other tendency of opinion is under pressure.

Two things can’t be integrated into the situationist spectacle based upon the right to shop. They’re religious fundamentalism and the radical Right, and they’re tied together in various ways. It’s why the two out-groups in Western society are radical Right-wing militants and Islamists. They’re the two groups that are Other, that are totally outside. The way in which they’re viewed by The Mirror and others is almost the level of a Marvel Comics villain.

I seem to remember a picture from the Sunday Telegraph years ago of our second speaker [David Irving], and I’m quite sure that it’d been re-tinted, at least this is my visual memory of it, to appear darker, to appear more sinister. I remember once GQ did a photo of me years ago when I was in a group called Revolutionary Conservative. That photo was taken in Parliament Square. You know, the square that has Churchill and Mandela in it, that square near our parliament, with Oliver Cromwell over there hiding, [unintelligible] over there hiding further on. That photo was taken at 12:30, and it was a brighter day than this. But in GQ magazine it was darkened to make it look as though it was shot at nine o’clock, and everything was dark, and because it involved so much re-tinting it slightly distorted and reconfigured everything. That’s because these people are dark, you see! They’re the force from outside! They’re that which shouldn’t be permitted!

Whereas I believe that the force which is for light and the force which is for darkness (because I’m a pagan) can come together and used creatively and based upon identity and can lead on to new vistas. But that’s a rather dangerous notion, and you won’t find it in The Fantastic Four when Reed Richards and Dr. Doom do battle, and you won’t find it in Spiderman when Peter Parker and Dr. Octopus (Dr. Otto Octavius) do battle with one another. You won’t see it when the Aryan Captain America is taking on his National Socialist nemesis, the Red Skull. You won’t see it with the Hulk taking on the Leader. You won’t see it in any of these forms. But these forms have a real use, and that is that they build courage.

Nietzsche says at the end of Zarathrustra that there are two things you need in this life. You need courage and knowledge. That’s why Zarathrustra has two friends. He has an eagle, which stands for courage, and he has a snake, which stands for knowledge. And if you can combine those things, and synthesize them, you have a new type of man and a new type of future. And Nietzsche chose the great Persian sage as the explicator of his particular truth, because in the past he represented extreme dualism, but in the future Nietzsche wished to portray that he brought those dualities together and combined them as one heroic force.

Thank you very much! 


Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/03/pulp-fascism/

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[2] here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dO0ak8G9KtE

dimanche, 07 avril 2013

Reise in die Tiefe einer Existenz

muray_celine_Matthes_&_Seitz_Berlin_2012.jpgCéline

 
Céline
[Céline, 1981]
264 Seiten, geb. mit Schutzumschlag

Aus dem Französischen und mit einem Nachwort von Nicola Denis
Buch ISBN: 978-3-88221-559-5
Preis: 29,90 € / 38,90 CHF

eBook (epub) ISBN: 978-3-88221-019-4
Preis: 22.99 € / 25.99 CHF

Reise in die Tiefe einer Existenz

Philippe Muray, in Deutschland noch völlig unbekannt, in Frankreich in den letzten Jahren zu einem Kultautor von Jahrhundertformat avanciert, hat in diesem brillanten literarischen Langessay einen so umstrittenen wie gewichtigen Beitrag zu Leben und Werk des infernalischen Louis-Ferdinand Céline geschrieben. Es ist für deutsche Leser die erste umfassende Auseinandersetzung mit dem Phänomen Céline, der wie kein anderer Widerstände provoziert und Fragen nach dem Bösen in der Literatur, den Grenzen der Kunst und ihrer Moralität aufwirft. Diesen unlösbaren Fragen geht Muray in seinem eleganten, klugen und pointierten Essay auf den Grund und erweist sich selbst als einzigartiger Autor.

Pressestimmen

»Muray weigert sich, Céline in zwei Hälften zu zerlegen und den großen Romanautor, der seiner Zeit eine neue Sprache von den Lippen las, vom widerlichen Pamphletisten abzutrennen. ›Es gibt keine zwei Célines, da es nur einen gibt.‹ (...) In diesem Schriftsteller kohabitieren der archaische Übeltäter und der progressive Befreier, so dass für Muray die eigentliche Frage ist, wie das ein Leben lang durchzuhalten war. Muray vertieft sich aber nicht nur in Célines Werk, sondern analysiert spiegelbildlich auch das Vergessen der Nachkriegsgesellschaft, die den Autor zunächst ins dänische Exil schickte und dann in der Rezeption selektiv wegsteckte.«
Joseph Hanimann, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 27. November 2012

»Murays Buch, anarchistisch und progressiv, türmt sich wie eine Festung inmitten der Literatur des 20. Jahrhunderts auf. Einmal mehr wird der Schriftsteller Céline zum Gefangenen. So grandios wie Nicola Denis muss man diese Szene erst einmal übersetzen können.«
Jürgen Nielsen-Sikora, Glanz & Elend, 05. November 2012

samedi, 06 avril 2013

Isaac Asimov: Rivedere 1984

di Isaac Asimov

Avevo scritto un articolo in quattro parti per il Field Newspaper Syndicate all’inizio di ogni anno per molto tempo fin agli anni ’80, pensando all’avvicinarsi del 1984, FNS mi chiese di scrivere un critica al racconto 1984 di George Orwell. Ero riluttante. Non ricordavo quasi nulla del e lo dissi – ma Denison Demac, la ragazza amabile che era il mio contatto con FNS, semplicemente mi spedì una copia del testo e disse “leggilo“. Così lo lessi e mi sorpresi meravigliato di ciò che leggevo. Ero sorpreso di quanta gente parlasse del testo in modo così spigliato, senza averlo mai letto; o se l’avevano fatto, non lo ricordavano affatto. Sentì di voler scrivere la critica solo per avvertire la gente. (mi dispiace; mi piace farlo.)

A. Lo scritto 1984
Nel 1949, un libro intitolato 1984 venne pubblicato. Era stato scritto da Eric Arthur Blair con lo pseudonimo di George Orwell. Il libro cercava di mostrare come la vita sarebbe stata in un mondo totalitario in cui il governo si mantiene al potere con la forza bruta, distorcendo la verità, riscrivendo in continuo la storia, insomma ingannando il popolo.  Il mondo da incubo esisteva a 35 anni nel futuro, così che le persone di mezza età, al momento della pubblicazione del libro, avrebbero potuto constatare se avrebbero vissuto una vita normale.  Io, al contrario, ero già sposato quando apparve il libro, e oggi siamo a meno quattro anni dall’anno apocalittico (il ’1984′ è divenuto l’anno associato con tale minaccia grazie al libro di Orwell), e io ero contentissimo di poterlo vedere.
In questo capitolo, parlerò del libro, ma prima: chi era Blair/Orwell e perché scrisse questo libro?
Blair nacque nel 1903 figlio di funzionario inglese, il padre era nel Indian civil service e Blair stesso visse la vita di un ufficiale imperiale inglese. Andò a Eton, servì in Birmania, ecc. Tuttavia, era sempre al verde per esser un “English gentleman” completo. Allora inoltre, non voleva passare il resto della sua vita alla scrivania; voleva essere uno scrittore. Ancora, si sentiva in colpa per la sua condizione di borghese medio-alto. Così negli anni ’20 fece quello che molti giovani americani fecero negli anni ’60. In breve divenne un cosiddetto ‘hippie‘ ante litteram. Viveva negli slum di Londra e Parigi, confondendosi e identificandosi con i vagabondi e i diseredati degli slum, cercando di sollevare la propria coscienza e, allo stesso tempo, di raccogliere materiale per i suoi primi libri. Divenne di sinistra, un socialista, combatté con i lealisti in Spagna negli anni ’30. Si ritrovò intrappolato nella lotta settaria tra fazioni di sinistra, e finché credeva in un socialismo da bravo inglese, era inevitabile che fosse nel lato perdente. Opposti a lui vi erano gli appassionati anarchici, sindacalisti, e comunisti spagnoli, che amaramente subivano il fatto che le necessità della lotta ai fascisti di Franco venissero sostituite dallo scontro fratricida. I comunisti, i meglio organizzati, vinsero e Orwell lasciò la Spagna, era convinto che lo avrebbero ucciso. Da allora fino alla morte, condusse una guerra letteraria contro i comunisti, determinato a vincere, con le parole, la battaglia che aveva perso sul terreno.
Durante la seconda guerra mondiale, dove venne scartato dal servizio militare, si associò con l’ala sinistra  del British Labour party, ma non legò molto con il partito, poiché il suo blando socialismo gli sembrava fin troppo ben organizzato. Non era preoccupato, apparentemente, dal totalitarismo nazista, per lui c’era spazio solo per la guerra privata contro lo stalinismo. Perciò, quando il Regno Unito combatteva contro il nazismo, e l’URSS combatteva da alleato nella lotta e contribuì molto in vite umane perdute e in coraggio risoluto, Orwell scrisse “La fattoria degli animali” una satira della Rivoluzione Russa e di ciò che seguì, dipingendola come la rivolta di animali domestici contro i padroni umani. Completò “La fattoria degli animali” nel 1944 e ebbe problemi nel trovare un editore fin quando arrivò il momento buono per attaccare i sovietici. Appena finita la guerra, l’Urss divenne il nemico e “La fattoria degli animali” venne pubblicata. Venne accolta con ovazione e Orwell divenne sufficientemente ricco per andare in pensione e dedicarsi al suo capolavoro: 1984.
Il libro descrive una società come una super Russia stalinista mondiale in stile anni ’30, cioè come veniva dipinta dai settari di ultrasinistra. Altre forme di totalitarismo giocavano un ruolo secondario. Vi erano uno o due menzioni del nazismo e della inquisizione. All’inizio almeno due o tre riferimenti agli ebrei, avrebbero dovuto dimostrare la loro persecuzione, ma ciò sparisce subito e Orwell non vuole che il lettore identifichi i cattivi con i nazisti. L’immagine è lo stalinismo, e solo lo stalinismo.
Quando il libro apparve nel 1949, la guerra fredda era al culmine. Il libro divenne, perciò, popolare. Era una questione di patriottismo in occidente comprarlo e parlarne e, forse, persino leggerne una parte; è mia opinione che molta gente che lo ha comprato lo ha più discusso che letto, poiché è un libro ostico, statico, ripetitivo e didascalico. Fu molto popolare, all’inizio, presso le persone di destra, conservatrici, per essi era chiara la polemica contro l’Urss, e il quadro della vita lì mostrata nella Londra del 1984 era proprio quella immaginata dai conservatori nella Mosca del 1949.
Durante l’era di McCarthy negli USA, 1984 divenne sempre più popolare presso i liberals, poiché sembrava che gli USA dei primi anni ’50 scivolassero verso il controllo del pensiero e che tutti i mali che Orwell aveva descritto si stessero avverando. Quindi, in una prefazione di una edizione pubblicata in paperback dalla New American Library nel 1961, il psicoanalista e filosofo liberale Erich Fromm conclude così: “Il libro di Orwell è un potente allarme, e potrebbe essere una sfortuna se il lettore interpretasse 1984 come l’ennesima descrizione della barbarie stalinista, e non è detto che appaia, da noi, in quel modo.
Anche quando lo stalinismo e il McCarthyismo scomparvero, sempre più statunitensi divennero consapevoli di come fosse divenuto “grande” il governo; di come fossero alte le tasse; di come la vita quotidiana e gli affari fossero sempre più regolati dalle leggi; di come l’informazione riguardante ogni fatto della vita privata entrasse nei documenti del governo, ma anche del sistema bancario privato.
1984, quindi, significava non più stalinismo, o dittatura, ma il semplice governo.  Anche il paternalismo governativo sembrava ispirato a 1984 e la frase il “grande fratello ti vede” significava tutto ciò che era troppo grande per il controllo del singolo.
Non vi era solo un grande governo o un grande business che fosse sintomo del 1984, ma anche una grande scienza, un grande lavoro, un grande tutto. Infatti, la 1984-fobia penetrò nella coscienza di molti di coloro che non avevano letto il libro o avevano nozione del suo contenuto; ci si preoccupava di ciò che sarebbe accaduto entro il 31 Dicembre 1984. Una volta arrivato il 1985, con gli USA che erano ancora una realtà, e affrontava i molti problemi quotidiani, come esprimeremo la paura sugli aspetti della vita che ci riempiono di apprensione? Quale data inventeremo per sostituire il 1984?
Orwell non visse per vedere il proprio libro divenire un successo. Non vide il modo in cui fece del 1984 un anno che avrebbe perseguitato una intera generazione di statunitensi. Orwell morì di tubercolosi in un ospedale di Londra, nel gennaio 1950, pochi mesi dopo la pubblicazione del libro, all’età di 46 anni. Era consapevole della sua fine imminente, e l’amarezza l’aveva riversata nel libro.

B. La fantascienza di 1984
Molti pensano che 1984 sia un racconto di science fiction, ma l’unica cosa che supporti ciò e che 1984 sia ambientato nel futuro. Non è così! Orwell odia il futuro e la storia è più geografica che temporale.
La Londra in cui si svolge la storia si svolge a 30 anni di distanza, dal 1949 al 1984, e si svolge a migliaia di miglia a Est, a Mosca. Orwell immagina il Regno Unito colpito da una rivoluzione simile a quella Russa e che abbia attraversato tutti gli stadi dello sviluppo sovietico. Non prevede variazioni sul tema. I Sovietici ebbero una serie di purghe negli anni ’30, così il Ingsoc (English Socialism) ha avuto le sue purghe negli anni ’50. I Sovietici convertirono uno dei loro rivoluzionari, Leon Trotsky, in un nemico, e al contrario, il suo oppositore Josip Stalin, in un eroe. L’Ingsoc, tuttavia, converte uno dei suoi rivoluzionari, Emmanuel Goldstein, in un nemico, e il suo oppositore, con baffi come Stalin, in un eroe. Non è difficile fare piccole modifiche, Goldstein, come Trotsky, “dalla faccia di ebreo, con la grande cresta di capelli bianchi e la barbetta di capra“. Orwell apparentemente non vuole confondere il tema dando un nome diverso a Stalin e così lo chiama semplicemente ‘Grande Fratello‘.
All’inizio della storia, è chiaro che la televisione (appena nata al momento della stesura del libro) serviva come continuo mezzo di indottrinamento del popolo, che non può essere spenta. (e, apparentemente, in una Londra fatiscente, in cui nulla funziona, tale dispositivo è sempre acceso.)
Il grande contributo orwelliano alla tecnologia del futuro é che la televisione funziona nei due sensi, e la gente che è forzata a vederla può essere veduta e ascoltata e essere sottoposta a una costante supervisione anche quando dorme o è in bagno. Ecco, perciò, il significato della frase ‘il Grande Fratello ti vede‘. Questo è il peggior mezzo per controllare tutti. Avere una persona che è sotto controllo ogni momento significa averne un’altra che la guarda sempre (almeno nella società orwelliana) e farebbe assai poco, per questo vi è un grande sviluppo dell’arte della recitazione e dell’espressione mimica. Una persona non può guardare più di un’altra in piena concentrazione, e può solo farlo in un breve periodo di tempo, prima che l’attenzione scemi. Posso testimoniare, in breve, che dovrebbero esserci almeno cinque persone per osservarne una. E certo, gli osservatori stessi sarebbero osservati, poiché nessuno nel mondo orwelliano è libero dal sospetto. Perciò, il sistema di oppressione attraverso la TV interattiva non può funzionare.
Orwell stesso lo capisce, limitando il lavoro ai membri del partito. I ‘proles‘ (proletariato), verso cui Orwell non può nascondere il suo atteggiamento borghese inglese, sono largamente lasciati a presentarsi come subumani. (A un certo punto nel libro, dice che ogni prolet che mostra abilità è ucciso – come facevano gli spartani con gli iloti 25 secoli fa.) Inoltre, vi è un sistema di spie volontarie in cui i bambini controllano i genitori e i vicini si spiano tra di loro. Non è possibile che funzioni bene, poiché se tutti spiano tutti, il resto verrebbe abbandonato.
Orwell non era capace di concepire i computer o i robot, o di mettere tutti sotto il controllo non umano. I nostri computers arriva a farlo con l’IRS (servizio immigrazione, NdC), nel credito bancario e così via, ma nel 1984 la cosa non ci coinvolge direttamente, tranne che nella più fervida immaginazione.  Computer e tirannia non vanno necessariamente mano nella mano. I Tiranni hanno lavorato bene senza i computer (vedi i nazisti) e le nazioni più computerizzate oggi, sono le meno tiranniche (ancora oggi è così? NdC).
Orwell era privo della capacità di vedere o inventare dei piccoli cambiamenti. Il suo eroe trova difficile nel mondo di 1984 avere lacci per scarpe o lame per rasoi. Così il vero mondo degli anni ’80, utilizza mocassini e rasoi elettrici. Allora, anche Orwell aveva la fissazione tecnofobica che ogni progresso tecnologico è una scorciatoia. Perciò, l’eroe quando scrive, “mette la penna nel calamaio e ne risucchia l’inchiostro. Fa così perché sente che la bella carta color crema sia destinata a essere scritta con un vero pennino invece che essere graffiata con una penna a inchiostro“. Presumibilmente, la “penna a inchiostro” è la penna a sfera che era appena stata introdotta quando 1984 venne scritto. Ciò significa che Orwell descrive che qualcosa sia scritta con un vero pennino ma rimane graffiata dalla penna a sfera. Ciò è, tuttavia, precisamente il contrario del vero. Se sei abbastanza vecchio da ricordare che i pennini graffiano fragorosamente e si sa che la penna a sfera non lo fa.
Tutto questo non è science fiction, ma una nostalgia distorta del passato che non c’è mai stato. Sono sorpreso che Orwell si sia fermato al pennino e che non abbia fatto usare a Winston una grossa penna d’oca. Né Orwell era particolarmente previdente negli aspetti strettamente sociali del futuro che presenta, con il risultato che il mondo orwelliano di 1984 è incredibilmente arcaico comparato con quello vero degli anni ’80. Orwell non immagina nuovi vizi, al contrario. Egli era tutto gin e tabacco, e parte dell’orrore del suo quadro di 1984 è l’eloquente descrizione della bassa qualità del gin e del tabacco. Non prevedeva nuove droghe, non la marijuana, né gli allucinogeni sintetici. Non un aspetto della s.f. dello scrittore è precise e esatto nella sua previsione, ma certamente ci si sarebbe aspettato che inventasse qualche differenza.
Nella sua disperazione (o rabbia), Orwell dimentica le virtù umane. Tutti i caratteri sono, in un modo o nell’altro, deboli o sadici, sleali, stupidi o repellenti. Questo dovrebbe essere il modo in cui la gent,e o come Orwell vuole indicare, siano sotto la tirannia, ma mi sembra che sotto le peggiori tirannie, vi siano uomini e donne coraggiosi che affrontano i tiranni fino alla morte e che tali personalità storiche abbiano illuminato l’oscurità circostante. Solo per questo 1984 non assomiglia al vero mondo degli anni ’80. Né prevede alcuna differenza nel ruolo delle donne o nella debolezza dello stereotipo femminile del 1949. Vi sono solo due caratteri di donna di qualche importanza. Una forte donna ‘prole’ senza cervello che  è sempre lavandaia, che canta sempre canzoni popolari con parole del tipo famigliare negli anni ’30 e ’40 (a cui Orwell descrive fastidiosamente come ‘spazzatura’, in piena e beata assenza di anticipazione dell’hard rock).
L’altra è l’eroina, Julia, che è sessualmente promiscua (ma almeno mostra coraggio per il suo interesse nel sesso) ed è d’altronde senza cervello. Quando l’eroe, Winston, legge il suo libro che spiega la natura del mondo orwelliano, lei risponde addormentandosi, ma visto che Winston legge in modo estremamente soporifero, ciò è una buona indicazione del buon senso di Julia piuttosto che del contrario.
In breve, se 1984 deve essere considerato science fiction, allora è pessima science fiction.

C. Il governo di 1984
Il 1984 di Orwell è il ritratto di un governo totalitario, e ciò aiuta a comprendere la nozione del ‘big government’ assai eclettico. Dobbiamo ricordare, che il mondo dei tardi anni ’40, quando Orwell scrive il libro, vi era un solo vero e cattivo “big governments” con un vero tiranno-individuale il cui desiderio, anche se ingiusto crudele e vizioso, era legge. Inoltre sembrava un tiranno irremovibile eccetto che dalla forza esterna.
Benito Mussolini dell’Italia, dopo 21 anni di dominio assoluto, venne rovesciato, ma solo a causa della sua sconfitta in guerra. Adolf Hitler della Germania, dittatore assai più forte e brutale, dominò con pugno di ferro per dodici anni, e anche se sconfitto, non venne abbattuto dall’interno. Sebbene l’area che dominava si restringeva e gli eserciti nemici lo circondavano a est e a ovest, rimaneva dittatore assoluto nell’area da lui controllata, anche quando era solo nel bunker in cui si suicidò. Finchè si tolse di mezzo, nessuno poté abbatterlo. (Vi furono dei complotti contro di lui, certo, ma fallirono sempre, grazie, spesso, alla fortuna, che sembrava incredibile solo pensando a qualcuno come lui.)
Orwell, tuttavia, non badava a Mussolini o Hitler. Il suo nemico era Stalin, e al momento in cui venne pubblicato 1984, Stalin governava l’URSS da 25 anni ininterrotti, era sopravvissuto a una guerra tremenda in cui la sua nazione soffrì perdite enormi e ora era più forte che mai. A Orwell, ciò sembrava che né il tempo né la fortuna potessero abbattere Stalin, ma che sarebbe vissuto per sempre, aumentando di forza. Era così che Orwell presentava il Grande Fratello. Certo, non era vero. Orwell non vise abbastanza da vedere la morte di Stalin, tre anni dopo la pubblicazione di 1984, e non molto dopo il suo regime fu denunciato come dittatura – indovinate da chi? – dalla leadership sovietica. L’URSS è ancora URSS, ma non è stalinista, e i nemici dello stato non sono più fucilati (Orwell diceva ‘vaporizzati‘ invece, ma tale piccola differenza era tutto quello che sapeva fare) pratica presto abbandonata. Anche quando morì Mao Tse-tung in Cina, e mentre egli stesso non venne denunciato, i suoi più stretti collaboratori, la “Banda dei quattro“, vennero subito rimossi dallo stato di divinità, e ora la Cina è rimasta Cina, ma non è più maoista. Franco della Spagna  morì nel suo letto e fino al suo ultimo respiro, rimase il leader indiscusso per quasi 40 anni, subito dopo il suo ultimo respiro, il fascismo sparì subito dalla Spagna, così in Portogallo dopo al morte di Salazar.
In breve, Grande Fratello muore, o dovrebbe farlo, e quando muore, il governo muta sempre in senso moderato. Non si sa come i nuovi dittatori si sentano, ma dovranno morire, anche. Alla fine nei veri anni ’80 sappiamo i dittatori passano e che il “Grande Fratello“  non è una minaccia reale.
Se nessun governo, infatti, degli anni ’80, sembra così pericoloso. L’avanzata della tecnologia concede nuove armi potenti – esplosivi, mitragliatrici, auto veloci in mano a terroristi urbani che possono rapire, sequestrare, uccidere e  prendere ostaggi con impunità mentre i governi sono più o meno aiuti privi di aiuto. Inoltre la immortalità del Grande Fratello, che Orwell presenta come i due modi altri modi di mantenere una dittatura eterna.
Primo -presenta qualcuno o qualcosa da odiare. Nel mondo orwelliano era Emmanuel Goldstein da odiare e che era costruito e orchestrato in funzione di masse robotizzate. Nulla di nuovo, certo. Ogni nazione nel mondo ha usato i vicini allo scopo di odiare. Tale tipo di cosa è facilmente gestito e emerge come la seconda natura dell’umanità che meraviglia perché vi sono gli odi guidati organizzati nel mondo orwelliano. Necessita poca psicologia delle masse per fare odiare gli Arabi con gli Israeliani, Greci con i Turchi e cattolici Irlandesi con i protestanti Irlandesi – e viceversa in ogni caso. Per essere sicuri i nazisti organizzavano incontri di massa da delirio a cui ogni partecipante sembrava unirsi, ma non vi erano effetti permanenti. Una volta arrivata la guerra sul suolo Germanico, i tedeschi si arrendevano e non hanno mai più detto Sieg-Heil nella loro vita.
Secondo – riscrivere la storia. Quasi ogni individuo che incontriamo in 1984 ha come lavoro, la rapida riscrittura del passato, il riaggiustamento delle statistiche, la revisione dei giornali, con tutti preoccupati di fare attenzione al passato comunque. Tale preoccupazione orwelliana per le minuzie storiche è tipica del settario politico che sempre riporta ciò che è stato detto sin passato per provare a chiunque dell’altro lato che è sempre citato qualcosa che è sttao detto o fatto dell’avversario. Coma sa ogni politico, nessuna prova di qualsiasi tipo è mai richiesto.  È solo necessario fare una dichiarazione – qualsiasi – per avere una audience che vi crede. Nessuno vedrà la bugia rispetto ai fatti e, se lo fa, non crederanno ai fatti.
Pensate che i tedeschi nel 1939 fingessero di credere che i polacchi gli avessero attaccati e iniziando la Seconda Guerra Mondiale? No! Quando gli si disse che era così essi vi credettero come io credo che essi attaccarono i polacchi. Sicuro, i sovietici pubblicarono nuove edizioni della loro Enciclopedia in cui politici che avevano lunghe citazioni nelle prime edizioni, venivano all’improvviso cancellati totalmente, e ciò è senza dubbio il germe della nozione orwelliana, ma la possibilità di portare ciò al livello di descritto in 1984 sembra nullo – non perché è oltre la malvagità umana,  ma perché non è necessaria.
Orwell presenta la ‘Neolingua‘ come organo della repressione – la conversione dell’inglese in uno strumento limitato e abbreviato dove il vocabolario reale dei dissensi sparisce. Parzialmente acquisì la nozione dell’indubbia abitudine dell’abbreviare. Diede degli esempi: la ‘Internazionale Comunista‘ divenne ‘Comintern‘ e ‘Geheime Staatspolizei‘ divenne ‘Gestapo‘, ma non è una invenzione del moderno totalitarismo. ‘Vulgus mobile‘ divenne ‘mob‘; ‘taxi cabriolet‘ divenne ‘cab’; ‘quasi-stellar radio source’ divenne ‘quasar’; ‘light amplification by stimulated emission of radiation’ divenne ‘laser’ e così via. Non ci sono segnali che la compressione della lingua renda più debole il modo di esprimere.
In realtà l’offuscamento politico tende a usare molte parole invece che poche, lunghe invece che corte, a estendere invece che a ridurre. Ogni leader poco istruito o dalla intelligenza limitata si nasconde dietro una esuberante e inebriante loquacità. Quindi, quando Winston Churchill suggerisce lo sviluppo di un ‘Inglese Basico’ come lingua internazionale (indubbiamente similmente alla “Neolingua“), la suggestione era forte. Non possiamo, tuttavia, avvicinarci alla Neolingua nella sua forma condensata, ma abbiamo già una Neolingua nella sua forma estesa e sempre l’avremo.  Abbiamo un gruppo di giovani tra noi che dice cose come “Vabbene, uomo, sai, è come prenderli tutti assieme, sai, uomo, penso, come sai tu” e così per cinque minuti quando la parola che i giovani cercano è il loro ‘Huh?‘ Perciò, tuttavia, non è Neolingua, è sempre stato così da noi. È qualcosa che in Veterolingua è chiamato ‘mancanza di articolazione’ e non è ciò che Orwell aveva in mente.

D. La situazione internazionale di 1984
Sebbene Orwell sembri, di massima, essersi inesorabilmente bloccato nel mondo del 1949, in un aspetto si mostra assai previdente, cioè la previsione della tripartizione del mondo negli anni ’80.
Il mondo internazionale di 1984 è un mondo di tre superpotenze: Oceania, Eurasia e Estasia – e che combacia, assai rozzamente, con le tre attuali superpotenze degli anni ’80: gli USA, l’URSS e la Cina. (Potremmo anche fare con USA, Unione Europea e Cina degli anni ’90; NdC)
L’Oceania è la combinazione di USA e Impero inglese, chi è stato un ufficiale imperiale civile, non avverte che l’impero inglese stava esalando l’ultimo respiro nei tardi anni ’40 e stava  per dissolversi. Sembra supporre, in effetti, che l’impero inglese sia il membro dominante della coalizione anglo-americana. Alla fine, L’intera azione si svolge a Londra e frasi come gli ‘USA’ e ‘americani’ sono rare, se mai, menzionate. Ma, ciò è assai tipico nei racconti di spie inglesi in cui, fin dalla seconda guerra mondiale, il Regno Unito (adesso l’ottava potenza militare economica del Mondo) appare come la grande avversaria dell’URSS, o della Cina, o di qualche inventata cospirazione internazionale, con gli USA mai menzionata o ridotta a piccola comparsa con la cortese partecipazione di qualche agente della CIA.
Eurasia è, naturalmente, l’URSS, cui Orwell fa assorbire tutto il continente Europeo. Eurasia, inoltre, include oltre all’Europa, la Siberia, e la sua popolazione è per 95 % europea in ogni modo. Quindi, Orwell descrive gli Eurasiani come ‘uomini dall’aspetto robusto con visi asiatici privi di espressione‘.  Orwell viveva in un periodo in cui gli ‘Europei‘ e gli ‘Asiatici‘ erano rispettivamente l”eroe‘ e il ‘cattivo‘, era impossibile attaccare l’URSS con spontaneità se non pensandola come ‘Asiatica’. Ciò avvenne sotto l’inebriante Neolingua Orwelliana detta ‘doppio-pensiero‘, qualcosa che Orwell, come ogni uomo ritiene, buona cosa. Certo, potrebbe darsi che Orwell non pensi all’Eurasia, o all’URSS, ma la sua grande ‘bestia nera’ è Stalin. Stalin era un georgiano, e la Georgia, che si estende nel Caucaso meridionale, geograficamente è in Asia. Eastasia è, certo, la Cina e varie nazioni tributarie. Qui fa una profezia. Al momento della stesura di 1984, i comunisti cinesi non avevano il controllo del paese e molti (gli USA soprattutto) ritenevano che l’anticomunista, Chiang Kai-shek, avesse il controllo. Una volta che i comunisti ottennero il potere, divenne credo accettato degli occidentali che i cinesi fossero sotto il controllo dei sovietici e che la Cina e l’URSS formassero un blocco monolitico comunista.
Orwell no solo previde la vittoria comunista (vedeva la vittoria dovunque, infatti) ma inoltre previde che Russia e China non avrebbero formato una potenza   monolitica ma sarebbero stati nemici mortali. In tale caso, è stata la sua esperienza di settario di sinistra ad aiutarlo. Non aveva le superstizioni di destra riguardo alla sinistra come unificazione di indistinti cattivi. Sapeva che avrebbero combattuto tra loro spietatamente sopra i punti assai controversi della dottrina come i più pii cristiani. Inoltre previde uno stato permanente di guerra tra le tre potenze; una condizione di permanente mutazione delle sempre instabili alleanze, ma sempre due contro il più forte. Questa era il vecchio sistema di “equilibrio del potere” presente fin dall’antica Grecia, nell’Italia medievale, e nella prima Europa moderna.
L’errore di Orwell risiede nel pensare che vi fosse una guerra per mantenere  il controllo dell’equilibrio. In effetti, nella parte più risibile del libro, presenta la guerra come mezzo per consumare le risorse e la produzione mondiale e quindi mantenere la stratificazione sociale  con classi superiori, medie   e inferiori. (ciò suona come un vera spiegazione di sinistra  della guerra come risultato di una cospirazione attuata con grande difficoltà.) Nei fatti odierni, le decadi dal 1945 sono state segnate dall’assenza di guerre rispetto ai decenni precedenti. Vi sono state guerre locali a profusione, ma non una generale. Ma la guerra non è ritenuta un mezzo disperato per consumare le risorse del mondo. Ciò può essere fatto con altri metodi, come l’incremento senza fine della popolazione e dell’uso dell’energia, mai considerate da Orwell. Orwell non prevede alcuni significativo mutamento economico che sono stati attuati dopo la fine della seconda guerra mondiale. Non prevede il ruolo del petrolio o del declino della sua disponibilità o l’aumento del suo prezzo o l’incremento della potenza di quelle nazioni che lo controllano. Non ricordo alcun riferimento al ‘petrolio‘. Ma forse in ciò è Orwell abbastanza vicino da prevederlo, se sostituiamo
guerra fredda‘ con ‘guerra‘. Vi sono stati eventi, in effetti, da continuare, più o meno, la ‘guerra fredda‘ che serviva a mantenere l’occupazione elevata e a risolvere a breve termine i problemi economici (al costo di crearne di assai più grandi a lungo termine). E questa Guerra Fredda è sufficiente da esaurire le risorse. Inoltre, l’alleanza mutevole, come previsto da Orwell è assai vicina alla realtà. Quando gli USA sembravano potentissimi, URSS e Cina erano ferocemente anti-statunitensi, e si allearono. Quando la potenza USA diminuì, l’URSS e Cina si divisero. E ognuno si contrappose egualmente contro gli altri due. Allora, quando l’URSS apparve divenire abbastanza potente, si ebbe una alleanza tra USA e Cina, e cooperarono per contrastare l’URSS, e parlare moderatamente ognuno dell’altro.
In 1984 ogni cambio di alleanza sfociava in una orgia di storia riscritta. In realtà, tale follia non era necessaria. IL pubblico scivolava facilmente da un punto all’altro, accettando il cambio di circostanza senza alcun problema per il passato. Invece, i giapponesi, negli anni ’50, cambiarono da cattivi senza speranza in amici, mentre i cinesi passarono nella direzione opposta, senza aver commesso nessuna Pearl Harbour. Nessuno ci fece caso, per buona stupidità. Orwell ha volontariamente dimenticato l’uso della bomba atomica nella guerra tra le tre potenze, sicuro che tali bombe non sarebbero state usate nelle guerre dopo il 1945. Ciò, tuttavia, a causa che le sole grandi potenze nucleari USA e URSS, hanno impedito la guerra tra di loro. Se ci fosse una guerra adesso,  assai dubbio che le parti non credano, infine, necessario premere il bottone. In ciò, Orwell manca, forse, di poco la realtà. Londra, tuttavia, ha sofferto attacchi di missili, cosa che richiama le armi V-1 o V-2 del 1944, e la città è in una bolgia stile 1945. Orwell non può rendere 1984 assai differente dal 1944 in tale aspetto. Orwell, infatti, rende chiaro che in 1984, il comunismo universale delle tre superpotenze ha soffocato la scienza e ridotto il suo uso tranne che per le necessità della guerra. Non vi sono domande su quale nazione investe di più nella scienza dove le applicazioni per la guerra sono chiare, né vi è modo di porre domande sulla separazione delle applicazioni per la guerra da quelle per la pace.
La Scienza è una unità, e ogni cosa può essere concepita in relazione alla guerra e alla distruzione. La Scienza, inoltre, non è stata soffocata ma continua non solo negli USA e nell’Europa Occidentale e Giappone, ma anche in URSS e in Cina. I progressi della scienza sono numerosi, ma si può pensare ai laser e ai computer come armi dalle infinite applicazioni pacifiche.
Insomma: George Orwell in 1984 era, secondo me, impegnato in una guerra privata con lo stalinismo, piuttosto che cercare di prevedere il futuro. Non diede alla scienza alcuna plausibile funzione prevedibile in futuro, e oggi, in ogni caso il mondo di 1984 non è correlato al mondo reale degli anni ’80. Il mondo può essere comunista, me non nel 1984, che per qualcuno non è una vera tarda data; o dove sembri che la civiltà stia per essere distrutta. Se accadesse, tuttavia, accadrà in modo diverso da quello descritto in 1984 e se tentate di prevenirne l’eventualità immaginando che 1984 sia accurata, allora dovrete difendervi dagli assalti provenienti da direzioni sbagliate e perderete.

Traduzione Alessandro Lattanzio

Rivarol und die Französische Revolution

Rivarol.jpg16.04.2013
19:30
Salon des Institut français
Mainz

Rivarol und die Französische Revolution

Der Übersetzer Ulrich Kunzmann liest aus ›Vom Menschen‹; die Historikerin Lisa Klewitz (Universität Mainz) hält anschließend einen Vortrag.
 
Ulrich Kunzmann, der bekannte Übersetzer romanischer Autoren, liest am 16. April im Salon des Schönborner Hofes (Institut Français) aus ›Vom Menschen‹ von Antoine de Rivarol. Darin greift Kunzmann, der den Band auch herausgegeben hat, auf die veröffentlichten Werke des großen Sprachkünstlers und Revolutionskritikers Rivarols zurück, die er gesammelt und pointiert ins Deutsche übersetzt hat.
Die Historikerin Lisa Klewitz wird uns im Anschluss an die Lesung einen Einblick in den historischen Kontext geben. Die Stipendiatin der Sibylle-Kalkhof-Rose-Stiftung hat als Forschungs- und Interessengebiet einerseits die Geschichte Frankreichs in der Frühen Neuzeit und andererseits das Rheinland unter der französischen Herrschaft.

Eine Veranstaltung des Institut français Mainz und des Historischen Seminars der Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz ›Gegen den Strom‹
 
Veranstaltungsort:
Schillerstraße 11, 55116 Mainz

Antoine de Rivarol

Bücher zu dieser Veranstaltung

Antoine de Rivarol
Antoine de Rivarol: Vom Menschen

jeudi, 04 avril 2013

Arto Paasilinna, ou le recours aux forêts circumpolaires

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Arto Paasilinna, ou le recours aux forêts circumpolaires

par Sylvian Christiansohn

Ex: http://livr-arbitres.com/

La Finlande, terre vaste et dépeuplée, constellation de milliers de lacs reliés entre eux par d’immenses forêts neigeuses… Vu de nos métropoles, être destiné à naître dans un tel pays, pourrait constituer en soi un véritable « retour à la terre ». Mais fi de ce cliché, Helsinki, la capitale de cette terre idyllique, ne dépareille en rien de toutes les grandes villes occidentales. La ville et son agglomération, qui regroupent presque un quart des cinq millions de Finlandais (entre autres !), connaissent le même taux de criminalité endémique que nos cités méridionales ; une même misère sociale exponentielle dominée par un individualisme avide et un consumérisme forcené y côtoie l’inculture d’une jeunesse conditionnée, immanquablement destinée à se fourvoyer dans l’imitation des plus ignobles singeries venues d’outre-Atlantique.

Citoyen d’un pays où l’État providence et la normalisation tendent de plus en plus à se substituer au sens communautaire, qui avait prévalu jusqu’alors, Arto Paasilinna confronte les personnages principaux de ses romans au choix radical de la rupture. Rupture sociale mais aussi professionnelle − les protagonistes sont toujours employés dans le privé ; chauffeur de taxi, journaliste, antiquaire, géomètre ou… gangster mais jamais fonctionnaires, ces cerbères de Léviathan − ou encore rupture familiale − bien qu’elle puisse prendre l’aspect d’un éloignement temporaire mais salutaire − d’autant plus facile que la famille chez Paasilinna se résume toujours à la portion congrue, c’est à dire l’épouse. Cette rupture se mue rapidement en une fuite éperdue sur les routes puis à travers les forêts de Laponie ; à l’exception de Prisonniers du paradis où la panne d’un produit de la société technicienne − l’avion − est prétexte à l’auteur pour se livrer à une robinsonnade où le savoir technologique des échoués, hommes et femmes, est mis au profit du bien commun dans une société recréée sans souci utilitariste, spéculatif, progressiste ou capitaliste.

Dans les romans plus typiquement finnois de Paasilinna, l’action s’enclenche presque invariablement selon le même scénario. La routine journalière est brisée par un événement presque insignifiant et qui resterait inaperçu pour la majorité. Dans Le lièvre de Vatanen, un homme s’enfonce dans la forêt pour rattraper et soigner un lièvre heurté par sa voiture ; dans La forêt des renards pendus, c’est une justice laxiste libérant sur parole un assassin patenté qui oblige son ancien complice à prendre la fuite avec son butin. Une fois isolés de leurs semblables, les héros paasilinniens peuvent alors diagnostiquer les symptômes avant-coureurs de la folie qui les guette. Parfois la démence est déjà présente mais elle est alors un refuge pour échapper à une aliénation plus grande encore. En témoignent Le meunier hurlant et La cavale du géomètre.

Pour tromper son monde, l’écrivain tient son discours sur un mode comique et burlesque ; son style semble souvent naïf voir même simpliste, mais le propos reste pourtant clair. Il s’agit bien de dénoncer les dérèglements moraux et sociaux provoqués par l’omnipotence d’un Etat globalisant ainsi que celle de son principal thuriféraire, en Finlande comme ailleurs, la social-démocratie progressiste et moderniste. Les maux qui affectent les personnages de ces sagas finnoises − stress, alcoolisme, divorce, insécurité − sont bien sûr causés par cette inversion des valeurs humaines à l’œuvre dans les sociétés occidentales. La fuite n’est plus alors un moyen d’y échapper mais une fin en soi pour se régénérer. Le fuyard est alors assez mûr pour se muer en rebelle. Ernst Jünger, théoricien du Traité du Rebelle et d’un certain recours aux forêts disait : « L’homme s’est enfoncé trop profondément dans ses constructions : il se vend au dessous de sa valeur et perd pied. Il se rapproche ainsi des catastrophes, des grands périls, de la souffrance. Ils le poussent dans les provinces sans voies ; ils l’acheminent à sa perte. Mais, fait étrange, c’est là justement, proscrit, condamné, fugitif, qu’il se rencontre lui-même, en sa substance impérissable et indivisible. Il perce alors à jour les fictions du temps et de l’esprit pour se connaître dans toute sa puissance ».

Se fondre dans la forêt, « Au cœur des ténèbres », et y révéler sa véritable nature, tel est le mot d’ordre de Paasilinna. Déjà Joseph Conrad avait rapporté l’histoire d’un certain colonel Kurz ayant perdu la raison dans la jungle africaine. L'apprentissage de la liberté n’est donc pas sans péril, qui plus est dans le cercle polaire, là où la faune devient rare, là où en hiver, un homme peut geler en quelques minutes. Le retour à la nature ne vise pas non plus à nier les précédents millénaires d’innovation technique et de culture finnoise. L’apprenti rebelle ne devra donc pas confondre le retour à la terre nourricière avec une quelconque utopie écologiste, comme les Françaises − quant aux femmes, l’écrivain finnois semble être en accord avec un Henri Vincenot qui ne voyait leur place qu’à la garde du foyer et en soutient inconditionnel de leur mari − de La cavale du géomètre. Leur rêve les mènera aux portes de la mort avant qu’elles ne décident de se placer sagement sous la protection des anciens citadins devenus des coureurs des bois professionnels. Mais les expéditions paasilinniennes ne sont pas aussi rudes que le Solstice en Laponie d’un certain Saint-Loup. En surplus de l’équipement de survie impératif, rien n’empêche les exilés de conserver les normes élémentaires du confort comme l’officier qui emmène sa baignoire dans « La forêt des renards pendus » ou carrément l’indispensable avec l’alambic artisanal des bûcherons finnois « Prisonniers du paradis » − Arto Paasilinna démarque évidemment l’alcool convivial de l’alcoolisme pur et simple. La nation n’est pas non plus remise en cause par les rebelles circumpolaires : Souvent, au fil des pages plane le souvenir des héros morts pour la liberté de la Finlande. Car l’écrivain sait certainement que sa patrie est éternellement redevable envers Carl Mannerheim et ses soldats ; il sait aussi qu’elle ne doit rien à un Martti Ahtisaari, le politicien finlandais le plus connu au monde depuis qu’il est devenu le porte-parole officiel de l’arrogance occidentale en Yougoslavie et en Autriche. L’officier alcoolique de La forêt des renards pendus retrouve aussi sa dignité lorsqu’au cours de manœuvres, il décide de jouer le Kriegspiel avec non pas deux mais trois forces en présence ; l’armée finlandaise devant contenir les armées de l’Otan et du Pacte de Varsovie venues s’affronter sur le territoire finlandais. Mais, il quitte vite son rôle, mène l’assaut et détruit virtuellement les deux envahisseurs. Ainsi, l’écrivain finnois nous rappelle que son pays n’attend rien de personne. Beaucoup parmi les exilés paasiliniens veulent fuir pour échapper à l’asile : de vieux ou de fous… Sont-ils indignes de rester sur leur terre, ces vieux de La cavale du géomètre qui finiront par détruire leur propriété agricole, afin que le fruit de leur travail ne tombe pas aux mains de l’état spoliateur. Est-il vraiment fou, « Le meunier hurlant » qui, lorsqu’il est saisi par l’émotion, imite à la perfection les animaux et hurle sous la lune : Fou ou héritier de la tradition des chamans de l’ancienne Finlande ?

Mais sous la plume de l’écrivain, c’est bel et bien l’État finlandais dans sa totalité qui est décrit comme un asile. C’est bien ainsi que le considérera Rutja le héros éponyme de Le fils du dieu de l’orage descendu sur terre pour régénérer l’ancien culte des dieux finnois. Dans sa mission, il empruntera le corps d’un antiquaire, gardien de la mémoire ancestrale, et il vaincra en soignant cinq millions d’âmes, rendant inutile le rôle des psychiatres, prophètes de la société moderne. Un signe ?

Francis Bergeron sur Henri de Monfreid

Francis Bergeron sur Henri de Monfreid

mercredi, 03 avril 2013

V. S. NAIPAUL, DE L’AUTRE COTE DES TENEBRES

       

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V. S. NAIPAUL, DE L’AUTRE COTE DES TENEBRES

par Frédéric Schramm

Ex: http://livr-arbitres.com/

A propos du prix Nobel 2001 de Littérature, écartons d’emblée la question de l’éventuel opportunisme politique dont auraient pu faire preuve certains juges séduits par la position radicale du lauréat sur la question islamique[1]. Le lauréat échappe à toute comparaison simpliste avec un écrivain tel que Salman Rushdie, qu’il avoue d’ailleurs n’avoir jamais lu.

Qu’elle soit niée ou revendiquée, une loi récurrente s’impose à tout ce qui a attrait au domaine de la création à l’échelle humaine. Elle inverse le postulat d’une prétendue raison pure détachée du monde comme la feuille morte se détache de l’arbre : « Je pense ce que je suis » présuppose l’œuvre créée en général et l’œuvre littéraire en particulier. Celle-là n’est jamais que le témoignage d’une réalité existentielle inexpugnable et l’univers littéraire de Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul, exact reflet de son parcours identitaire et de l’enseignement sur le monde qu’il en a retiré, s’inscrit dans cette perspective.

Originaire des îles caraïbes de Trinité et Tobago, Naipaul est issu de la troisième génération d’Indiens[2] exilés dans cette possession britannique. Ecrivain anglophone, il devient en 1989, comme il l’avoue lui-même, citoyen des Lettres anglaises plutôt que véritable citoyen britannique, peuple auquel il reste définitivement étranger autant par la culture que par le sentiment d’appartenance nationale : un Britannique de papier, en somme mais dans le sens le plus noble du terme. Dès lors la comparaison revendiquée avec le Polonais Jozef Conrad Korzeniowski s’impose à bien des égards. La colonisation vécue par ceux qui la subissent ou « Marlow de l’autre côté du miroir » : ainsi pourrait se résumer la contribution de Naipaul. Mais loin des revendications geignardes et manichéennes, l’écrivain jette un regard sans complaisance sur les peuples colonisés en même temps qu’il poursuit la réflexion sur l’idée de la sauvagerie et des ténèbres entamée par Joseph Conrad[3].

Conscient d’appartenir à un peuple doué d’une forte identité, Naipaul oppose la solidarité communautaire[4] à l’individualisme occidental même s’il reste lucide face à de sa propre acculturation, ses ancêtres issus des hautes castes ayant perdu le véritable sens mystique de leurs rituels hindous. Fondamentalement opposé au mimétisme de classe de la part des plus éduqués parmi le peuple colonisé, qui se contentent de singer les classes supérieures colonisatrices, il annonce le leurre des sociétés démocratiques américaines, agglomérat de races à prétention égalitaire, la réalité des faits obligeant l’une de ces races à prendre le dessus. Et sans s’embarrasser de sous-entendus, il annonce clairement dans son roman Guérilleros[5]. qu’il ne peut pas s’agir des Afroaméricains, leurs tentatives aboutissant au même chaos que dans les états africains calqués sur des normes occidentales contredites par les réalités tribales et morales africaines, thème du roman A la courbe du fleuve5.

Profitant de ses voyages en Asie, il poursuit ses réflexions sur la nature des civilisations, leurs normes et l’effacement de leurs valeurs par les exemples hindous dans L’Inde brisée5 et L’illusion des ténèbres5 et islamique dans Parmi les croyants5 et Crépuscule sur L’Islam5 En Inde, il constate la contradiction profonde entre l’immuabilité du regard hindou sur le monde et le modernisme de l’Inde du parti du Congrès. Son jugement de l’Islam est beaucoup plus sévère puisqu’il dénonce son  intransigeance, son refus de la conscience individuelle, son caractère intrinsèquement fanatique et sa société acculturante par l’obligation de se soumettre à une oumma, communauté religieuse inexistante dans la réalité des faits mais idéalisée[6].



[1] Les prix Nobel restent à l’image du pays qui les décernent : neutres mais intéressés pour les prix littéraires et scientifiques suédois, ignoble pour l’improbable prix Nobel de la Paix, décerné par la Norvège, membre de l’OTAN délivrant ces dernières années leur rançon à des individus ou des organisations favorisant les intérêts bellicistes ou financiers de l’organisation criminelle et terroriste.

[2] Présente dans les quatre coins de l’Empire britannique, cette communauté atypique présente le double désavantage d’avoir été victime de la sanglante colonisation anglo-saxonne tout en l’ayant renforcée par sa participation à la repopulation des terres conquises.

[3] Notons qu’à cette fin, il utilise le même procédé de l’opposition entre le village et la brousse, les mêmes métaphores animales pour l’inanimé et l’humain.

[4] Affirmant pour l’occasion l’opposition entre les notions de Peuples ou Nations et celles de Patrie ou Etat.

[5] Editions 10/18

[6] Rappelons la tentative de coup d’état islamique perpétrée à Trinité, le 27 juillet 1990 par le Jamaat Al-Muslimeen de Yasin Abou Bakr (plusieurs dizaines de morts).

lundi, 01 avril 2013

Musulmano o costruito dai robot: il Papa di fantascienza finisce così

Musulmano o costruito dai robot: il Papa di fantascienza finisce così

di Gianfranco de Turris

Fonte: il giornale [scheda fonte]

Le religioni (e la teologia) sono argomenti che hanno sempre attirato gli scrittori fantastici e fantascientifici. In particolare la Chiesa cattolica, sotto il profilo temporale e spirituale, ha ottenuto attenzione speciale sia in positivo che negativo. Molti autori ne hanno preso spunto per le loro ipotesi proiettate nel futuro. È soprattutto la fine della Chiesa che ha sollecitato la loro immaginazione. Il concetto di «fine» può infatti intendersi in molti modi: una religione che ha anche un potere temporale può concludere la propria missione in forme diverse. Ovviamente le cosiddette Profezie di Malachia sono spesso lo spunto di base, specie negli ultimi anni dato che ci si avvia alla conclusione dell’elenco dei papi contenuto in quello scritto, pubblicato per la prima volta nel 1595 in appendice a «Legnum Vitae» di Arnold de Wyon. Molti sostengono invece che sia un testo realizzato intorno al 1590 da un famoso falsario, Alfonso Ceccarelli, una specie di Simonides umbro.

 

roma-senza-papaSia come sia, in base a quella elencazione, che parte da Celestino II nel 1143, l’attuale Benedetto XVI sarebbe il 111esimo e penultimo della serie con il moto «De Gloria olivae». Subito dopo c’è una citazione che alcuni interpreti riferiscono a questi, mentre la maggioranza intende come riferita al 112° e conclusivo pontefice: «Durante l’ultima persecuzione di Santa Romana Chiesa siederà (sul trono) Pietro Romano che pascerà il gregge in mezzo a molte tribolazioni; terminate queste la città dei sette colli sarà distrutta, e il terribile Giudice giudicherà la gente».

 

Questa conclusione apocalittica, in linea con molte altre profezie cristiane, non poteva non colpire certi scrittori che l’hanno intesa in modi diversi. Una Chiesa e un Papato possono estinguersi e crollare non solo e non tanto materialmente, quanto spiritualmente, concludendo, fallendo o distorcendo la loro missione. E così per primo si deve ricordare il grande rimosso della letteratura italiana, Guido Morselli l’antimoderno, che come suo primo romanzo dopo il periodo realista scrisse nel 1966-7 Roma senza papa, anche il primo pubblicato da Adelphi nel 1974 dopo il suo suicidio l’anno precedente. Morselli rifiutava l’oggi e quindi la religione del suo oggi, che già manifestava sintomi di decadenza negli anni Sessanta del Novecento (il Concilio Vaticano II si era concluso nel 1965 con tutte le sue novità), e quindi la fine della Chiesa di Roma e del Papato viene descritta nel suo romanzo come una decadenza abissale dei valori tradizionali del Cristianesimo. La sua è una critica della Chiesa «al passo coi tempi» con papi fidanzati, favorevoli alla liberalizzazione di droga, contraccettivi, eutanasia, che utilizza più la psicanalisi freudiana che la teologia, dove il turismo di massa è una benedizione sicché ogni cosa nello Stato del Vaticano viene finalizzata a fare denaro. La Chiesa è finita perché non è più la vera Chiesa.

 

la-moschea-di-san-marcoE di una mercificazione totale, ad uso appunto dei turisti, parla anche, ma in una prospettiva più laica, Roberto Vacca, nel racconto L’ultimo papa (1965), dove il pontefice si esibisce nelle sue funzioni ad uso dei curiosi di tutto il mondo che pagano per vederlo all’insegna dello slogan «Peep-a-Pope-Show» (i «peepshow» sono spettacoli erotici). E, se ci si consente un’autocitazione, mi permetterò di ricordare che in un racconto che scrissi insieme a Piero Prosperi quando eravamo ventenni (Petrus Romanus, 1965) si immaginava una fine “politica” del Papato sotto un regime comunista instauratosi in Italia. Ma il tempo passa e i pericoli per la Chiesa cattolica cambiano: ad esempio, il relativismo dei valori, la crisi delle vocazioni, l’aggressività dell’Islam hanno indotto due autori a descriverne una fine traumatica, una resa senza condizioni: cinquant’anni dopo Prosperi, nel suo romanzo La moschea di San Marco (Bietti, 2007) prevede che nel 2015 Benedetto XVII, successore di Ratzinger, dopo aver creato una commissione di consulenti musulmani per allargare il dialogo, in un discorso Urbi et Orbi dichiari conclusa l’«eresia cristiana» e chieda ad Allah di riammettere i cattolici nella Umma dei credenti.

 

apocalissi-2012Di recente Antonio Bellomi torna sul tema e nel suo Finis mundi (antologia Apocalissi 2012, Bietti) prende spunto dalla profezia Maya sulla fine del mondo per immaginarsi la morte di Bendetto XVI e il suo successore uscito dal Conclave, il cardinale indonesiano Giovanni Ali Sudarto, che sceglie per sé il nome di Hussein I e che, senza portare alcun simbolo della croce, inizia la sua prima allocuzione alla folla dicendo: «In nome di Allah, misericordioso e compassionevole…». E uno dei personaggi del racconto dice: «Non è la fine del mondo. È la fine dell’era della Chiesa di Roma come l’abbiano conosciuta…».

 

Anche gli autori anglosassoni si sono avvicinati all’argomento con atteggiamento fantascientifico e futuribile. La storia più interessante non è il racconto Il dilemma di Benedetto XVI di J.H.Brennan (uscito nel 1977 con un titolo diverso e tradotto da Urania nel 1978), citato in questi giorni solo per la coincidenza del nome: vi si racconta delle visioni del Pontefice per dichiarar guerra ad un dittatore e di uno psicanalista chiamato per capire se esse siano vere o false. L’opera più curiosa è Il papa definitivo di un grande nome come Clifford D. Simak. Scritto nel 1981, racconta del pianeta Vaticano 17, dove si è rifugiata una stirpe di robot che, non potendo accedere sulla Terra alla religione cattolica in quanto privi d’anima, hanno creato una civiltà ed una religione simil-cattoliche con identiche strutture e riti, costruendo il «papa definitivo», cioè un immenso computer in cui immettere tutta la conoscenza dell’universo. Due temi, religione e robot, tipici di Simak che li usa per decretare la fine della Chiesa come l’abbiamo conosciuta sinora. In tema di automi Robert Silverberg con Buone notizie dal Vaticano del 1971 immagina che da un futuribile Conclave esca un pontefice robot che invece di rivolgersi alla gente in Piazza San Pietro accenda i propri razzi e sparisca in alto, nel cielo. Ma non occorre essere di metallo per fare e decidere cose inaspettate: il papa Roberto I descritto da Norman Spinrad nel suo Deus X emana una enciclica in cui proclama la possibilità di trapiantare l’anima tra esseri umani, come fosse il cuore, il fegato o i polmoni.


Tante altre notizie su www.ariannaeditrice.it

dimanche, 31 mars 2013

Roger Nimier: passions baroques

Roger Nimier

Passions baroques...

Ex: http://fierteseuropeennes.hautetfort.com/

Nimier-09bf6(1).pngTout le monde connaît ces avions de papier que les lycéens jettent dans la rangée centrale de la classe quand ils s’ennuient. Le fuselage de l’avion était constitué par l’Esplanade des Invalides. Les ailes faisaient un triangle, dont les pointes étaient le pont de la Concorde, le pont des Invalides et l’extrême avancée, sur la rive droite, de l’avenue Nicolas II.

Qui sait ? Malgré la pierre tendre, le contre-plaqué, les guinguettes du pont Alexandre, l’Exposition des Arts Décoratifs n’était pas forcément un avion pour rire. Les hommes avaient appris à s’envoler. En 1925, rien ne leur paraissait plus merveilleux. L’Exposition n’était peut-être que l’ombre d’un avion qui survolait Paris, avion idéal, bourré d’idées platoniciennes (comme de riches Américaines au visage éthéré), d’archétypes, de catégories, d’équations, de tout cet arsenal qui dominait la Terre.

Voilà pourquoi les animaux du siècle présentaient ces formes géométriques et cet aspect glacial. Longtemps les hommes avaient tout adouci. Ils avaient vécu entre des commodes Louis XV, ventrues comme des pourceaux, et des jeunes femmes de Fragonard au sourire facile. A force de se frotter à leurs tableaux, à leurs vêtements, à force d’ingurgiter des conversations sucrées, ils étaient devenus sages et civilisés.

C’était fini. Le démon de la géométrie l’avait emporté. Les austères lignes droites, en rangs serrés, venaient de conquérir la planète. Ainsi, dans le village de français, régnait la pensée de Leibnitz. Rien ne s’y abandonnait au hasard, puisque tout y était symbole, maille d’un univers bien tissé. On n’avait oublié ni la ferme parfaite, ni l’église idéale, ni le lavoir perfectionné. Seul le tas de fumier était un peu vétuste.

Cependant, le passé subsistait. Il était là sous deux aspects. D’abord celui des vieilles coutumes. Chaque nation avait son pavillon, comme si les hommes de 25 n’avaient pas appartenu à l’acier ou à la T.S.F., avant d’être de Bloomsbury ou de Flandres. Ensuite, par l’assimilation des styles les plus anciens : de Byzance à la Grèce, de l’Afrique aux pays esquimaux, toutes les formes avaient été convoquées, pesées d’un œil sûr, rejetées ou conservées, suivant leur degré de fidélité à la logique. Mais la logique avait toléré certains détails coupables ; ainsi garde-t-on un tableau de famille, une vieille domestique.

Le syncrétisme plaçait cette exposition à la rencontre de l’avenir et du passé. Une péniche-restaurant présentait l’avant d’un navire saxon – et son oriflamme sauvage disait qu’on y mangeait des poissons bizarres, des essences inconnues, whisky, gin, martini-patinette. Un déshabillé en velours portait les soleils de la Chine et rappelait les bleus profonds qu’on inventa jadis à Cathay. L’Espagne montrait des poutres sombres sur ses toits, exagérait la hauteur de ses portes.

Les sculptures, les bas-reliefs se tenaient à mi-chemin de la Grèce et des jeunes Parisiennes. Les femmes de pierres avaient les seins ronds, comme le demandaient les Antiques, la taille peu marquée, comme le voulaient les couturiers, les jambes fortes, le visage rectangulaire, sensuel, incliné, avec de grands yeux, dont l’un était pensif et l’autre endormi.

Mélange ! Quand les Romains eurent conquis la Gaule, on vit une chose impossible : l’impatient et le laborieux, Bacchus et Apollon, les moustachus et les chauves, fabriquèrent un monde qui s’appela la France et donna naissance à tous ces petits fonctionnaires, dont la main droite porte le sceau impérial depuis deux mille ans, tandis que la gauche soulève les pots d’hydromel de la maison Pernod.

De même, quand la géométrie et les puissances utiles qui lui servaient d’alliées prirent possession de l’univers, elles le trouvèrent dans un grand désordre, rempli d’hommes velus, de femmes serrées dans des corsets et dans des préjugés, d’ornements encombrants, de passions baroques (délivrer la Pologne, dormir la fenêtre fermée, se tuer d’amour). Les machines étaient inventées depuis longtemps, mais les hommes dignes de les servir n’existaient pas encore. Il fallut les fabriquer.

Quatre années d’industrie lourde et de meurtre facilitèrent les choses.    

 

Roger NIMIER / Histoire d’un amour. 

samedi, 30 mars 2013

Céline: Viaggio al termine dell'Apocalisse

vendredi, 29 mars 2013

Jünger und Frankreich

heiligkreuztal-kloster.jpg

07.04.2013
11:00
Kloster Heiligkreuztal

Jünger und Frankreich – eine gefährliche Begegnung?

Symposium des Freundeskreises der Brüder Ernst und Friedrich Georg Jünger
 
Julien Hervier und Alexander Pschera diskutieren anläßlich ihres gleichnamigen Buches auf dem Symposium des Freundeskreises der Brüder Ernst und Friedrich Georg Jünger über »Jünger und Frankreich – eine gefährliche Begegnung?«
 
Veranstaltungsort:
Kloster Heiligkreuztal
Am Münster 7
88499 Altheim-Heiligkreuztal
Alexander Pschera
Alexander Pschera: Jünger und Frankreich - eine gefährliche Begegnung?

G. d'Annunzio: Mostra fotografica

jeudi, 28 mars 2013

Olivier Maulin contre le monde moderne

Olivier Maulin contre le monde moderne

 

Une nouvelle d'André WAROCH

 

Ex: http://fierteseuropeennes.hautetfort.com/

 

Le ciel était bas ce jour-là quand je sortis de la bouche de métro pour me rendre, comme souvent après le travail, dans une bibliothèque universitaire près de Montparnasse. Je me dépêchai de gravir les quelques dizaines de mètres qui séparaient le métro de l’entrée, jetant des coups d’œil inquiets aux nuages noirs qui s’amoncelaient au-dessus de Paris. L’orage se mit à tonner dès que j’eus franchis le seuil de la porte cochère, où je croisai un groupe de frêles naïades à queue de cheval qui partaient précipitamment, un dossier sous le bras, en gloussant comme seules savent glousser les filles de dix-neuf ans. Je me retournai comme si de rien n’était et j’eu la vision fugitive de leurs petites fesses déjà hors d’atteinte, ondulant dans des pantalons serrés. Le vigile africain de l’accueil m’adressa un clin d’œil complice et j’entrai dans les locaux.

 

maulin.jpgDélaissant les bandes dessinées, j’allai directement à l’étage. Je pris le Simenon que j’avais commencé la veille et partis m’installer dans le fond, à une petite table, calant ma chaise contre le mur, me pelotonnant confortablement. La pluie frappait à présent de toutes ses forces la baie vitrée qui me faisait face. C’était une tempête, une vraie. Les six ou sept jeunes assis à côté de moi sur une des deux grandes tables de l’étage, qu’ils avaient abondamment garnis de piles de feuilles, de cahiers et de livres de toutes sortes et de tous formats, regardèrent un instant les éléments déchaînés se fracasser contre le mur de la civilisation occidentale, et replongèrent le nez dans leurs études. Moi j’étais bien comme ça, calfeutré, me distrayant avec un polar, alors qu’en tendant le bras à quelques centimètres sur ma gauche, j’aurais presque pu palper cette angoisse des examens imminents qui étreint, chaque année aux mêmes périodes, le cœur des boursiers comme des enfants de bourgeois. J’aimais ressentir cette tranquillité du vieux con de trente-cinq ans qui regrette, parfois un peu vite, ses vertes années. Assis, détendu, je me dis qu’il ne me manquait plus qu’une petite clope, ou une pipe même, puisque j’étais dans Simenon.

 

La tempête ne semblant pas devoir faiblir, je m’absorbai dans ma lecture. Un quart d’heure peut-être s’écoula. Mon attention fut alors distraite, imperceptiblement, par une cacophonie de chuchotements. Un débat semblait agiter le groupe d’étudiants. Je les observai un peu plus attentivement. Ils avaient la vingtaine, trois garçons et trois filles. C’est l’une de ces dernières, blonde, un peu boulotte, mal coiffée, qui semblait être l’initiatrice et la principale animatrice du débat. Visiblement elle défendait son point de vue contre la désapprobation générale, mais je ne distinguais réellement rien de ce qui se disait, jusqu’à ce qu’elle se lève et élève subitement la voix, au comble de l’agacement, voire au bord des larmes. Je fus saisi par ce qui ressemblait bien à une manifestation d’hystérie, phénomène propre aux femmes, qui dans le meilleur des cas arrivent à le faire passer pour la manifestation d’un quelconque mysticisme :

 

– Mais vous ne comprenez vraiment rien ! Olivier Maulin, c’est un prophète !

– Arrête, maintenant, fit une de ses copines. Calme-toi et rassieds-toi.

La boulotte s’exécuta et me regarda fugitivement, gênée de la scène. Ils se remirent à travailler, pendant que la fille qui lui avait dit de se rasseoir lui dit quelques mots à l’oreille, tentant probablement de dédramatiser la situation.

 

Olivier Maulin ? Jamais entendu parler. Etait-ce un de leurs profs à la fac dont elle se serait entichée, se donnant conséquemment pour mission de le défendre bec et ongles contre n’importe lequel de ses camarades qui se serait permis d’ébaucher, même adroitement, même sans avoir l’air d’y toucher, le moindre début de critique? Ou un acteur en vogue envers qui elle aurait développé le même complexe ? Ou un chanteur ? Mais peut-être n’était-ce pas dans le registre des amours post-adolescentes qu’il fallait chercher les raisons de cet éclat, songeai-je en essayant de me concentrer de nouveau sur mon livre. Après tout, même une femme peut être touchée par une révélation spirituelle sincère qui serait autre chose que le désir d’être pénétrée, fut-ce intellectuellement, par un homme possédant une énorme, une gigantesque personnalité.

 

Environ une heure plus tard, j’avais rangé le Simenon, et je déambulais un peu dans les allées, au hasard, avant de rentrer chez moi. Soudain, je vis la fille de tout à l’heure, debout au rayon histoire, en train de feuilleter furieusement un bouquin sur les indo-européens.

 

– Excusez-moi, mademoiselle…

Elle releva brusquement la tête, et me lança de ses yeux bleus un regard qui, j’en suis sûr, aurait pu percer le métal si on le lui avait demandé gentiment. Sa poitrine généreuse se soulevait rapidement sous son chandail généreusement décolleté.

– Non, commençai-je en souriant, je m’excuse de vous importuner, mais tout à l’heure, vous avez cité le nom d’Olivier Maulin, en disant que c’était un prophète. Qui est ce monsieur, exactement ?

– C’est un écrivain.

– Ah bon ? Ravi de l’apprendre. Ça me fait plaisir de voir quelqu’un d’aussi passionné par de la littérature. Aujourd’hui on a tellement l’impression que les gens ne sont intéressés que par leur écran plat…

– Olivier Maulin, ouais, c’est un écrivain, mais c’est plus qu’un écrivain.

– Ah bon ?

– Est-ce que vous pensez qu’il y a d’autres mondes ?

– D’autres mondes, comment ça ?

– Bon, qu’est-ce que vous voulez, vous voulez me sauter, c’est ça ?

– Mais pas du tout ! Je suis réellement intrigué par ce que vous avez dit. Bon écoutez c’est pas grave, moi de toute façon j’allais partir. Au revoir.

 

Arrivé au milieu de l’escalier, alors que j’en étais à cinq au compte à rebours, je l’entendis qui me rappelait. Je ne lui avais qu’à moitié menti, j’étais réellement intrigué. Disons que mon approche était motivée à environ 28% par la curiosité intellectuelle. Il y avait donc au moins une part de vérité dans mes protestations. Et puis merde ! On avait quand même encore le droit d’avoir juste envie de baiser, non ?

 

– Excusez-moi fit-elle, l’œil humide une nouvelle fois, je n’aurais pas dû vous parler comme ça…

– Ce n’est pas grave, répétai-je, grand seigneur, il y a eu un malentendu, et voilà tout.

Nous discutâmes deux minutes. Elle finit par me dire tout à trac :

– J’ai ma voiture garée à côté, si ça vous dit, on peut aller faire un tour dans Paris et prendre un verre quelque part…

Cette fille était vraiment spéciale. J’acquiesçais, elle alla prendre son sac et nous sortîmes. Un soleil éclatant avait chassé l’orage. Je m’étonnai qu’elle ait quitté si facilement son groupe d’amis, elle me répondit que c’était une bande de connards. Bon.

En fait de voiture, c’était une vieille 2CV. Dans les années quatre-vingt, on en voyait encore beaucoup, aujourd’hui c’est une rareté. Je remarquai que celle-là était immatriculée en Bulgarie. Etait-ce dans ce pays que ses sœurs étaient parties pour mourir, au début des années quatre-vingt-dix, pressentant peut-être confusément qu’avec la chute du Mur un cycle historique venait de s’achever ?

– Vous êtes bulgare ? Demandai-je alors que le véhicule s’ébranlait avec force craquements. Je n’avais pas entendu un bruit aussi inquiétant dans une voiture depuis mes quinze ans, quand j’avais été pris en stop, sur une autoroute du sud, par un mec bizarre qui écoutait du Jean-Louis Murat.

– Oui, pourquoi, vous connaissez ?

– Oui, enfin je n’y suis jamais allé, mais bon, je connais un peu, Ceausescu…

– Ceausescu c’était en Roumanie.

– Ah bon, vous êtes sure ?

– Qu’est-ce que vous connaissez d’autre ?

Je me mis à fouiller à toute vitesse dans la banque de données de mes souvenirs. Qu’est-ce que j’avais à « Bulgarie » ? J’ouvrai le sous-dossier, on était vraiment dans les fonds de tiroir. Voilà ce que je connaissais de ce pays : en 1993, cette raclure d’Emil Kostadinov, en marquant à la dernière minute au Parc des Princes, éliminait l’équipe de France de la coupe du monde. En 1994, Hristo Stoichkov, le capitaine et le meilleur footballeur bulgare de tous les temps, emmenait son équipe jusqu’en demi-finale du Mondial aux USA ; victoires sur l’Argentine, l’Allemagne, il était sacré ballon d’or à la fin de l’année.

 

– En tout cas vous n’avez pas d’accent, fis-je.

– En fait, j’ai toujours fais la navette entre la France et la Bulgarie, dit-elle avec un sourire, depuis que je suis toute gosse. Mon père est français, ma mère bulgare.

– C’est bien d’avoir une double culture, dis-je distraitement, ça permet une plus grande ouverture d’esprit.

– Ah bon, vous trouvez ?

– Enfin il parait.

 

Je ne savais pas du tout où elle comptait aller, mais pour l’instant je m’en moquais. Il faisait vraiment un temps splendide. Nous arrivions place de la concorde, elle mit une cassette audio

Une cassette audio, me répétai-je stupéfait. Une musique orientale à base d’accordéon commença à emplir l’habitacle.

 

Une certaine pudeur, due à une éducation catholique sans faille, m’interdit d’aller plus avant dans l’évocation de la soirée que nous passâmes ensemble. Pour faire court, disons que je vengeai, ce soir-là, l’honneur perdu de David Ginola. Cela se passa à Gennevilliers, dans le petit appartement de sa mère, où elle créchait le temps de ses études, après quoi elle devait retourner travailler en Bulgarie, ou à Lyon, je ne sais plus.

 

Je la quittai au petit matin. Je lui dis au revoir poliment, mais sans effusions inutiles, sans même proposer d’aller chercher de quelconques croissants. Elle parût quelque peu désappointée que je m’en aille de cette façon. Elle me proposa de rester, et ses yeux se firent suppliants, mais j’en avais vu d’autres, je sais exactement le degré de rouerie qui se cache derrière les manières affectées des femmes. Je prétextai, sans prendre la peine d’y mettre beaucoup de conviction, un rendez-vous professionnel, et partis sans gloire et sans me retourner. Je repris le métro qui me ramena jusqu’à chez moi, en proche banlieue.

 

Ma vie reprit son cours, longue et monotone. Je suis employé de bureau. Le goût de l’aventure m’a quitté depuis tellement longtemps que je ne me souviens même pas en avoir été un jour habité. Très vite, la concentration qu’exigent les travaux administratifs, s’ajoutant aux mille soucis quotidiens qui accablent tous les provinciaux de trente-cinq ans venus s’installer seuls à Paris pour exercer un travail alimentaire, chassèrent la donzelle de mon esprit. Environ une semaine plus tard, en fin d’après-midi, alors que je m’apprêtais à sortir du bureau, ou pour être plus précis : alors que je commençais à songer au moment où je m’apprêterais à partir, et que je rangeais vaguement quelques vieilles piles de documents, mon téléphone portable se mit à sonner.

 

J’ai oublié de vous dire, la fille s’appelle Catherine. Catherine, donc, puisque c’était bien elle au bout du fil, me convia à une soirée pour le lendemain avec des amis, dans un restaurant chinois du 13ème. Je me méfiais, est-ce que je n’étais pas tombé sur une psychopathe qui, après une soirée, serait tombée maladivement amoureuse de moi, comme Glenn Close dans Liaison fatale ? Néanmoins j’acceptai, et je suis incapable encore aujourd’hui d’expliquer pourquoi.

 

J’eu un sommeil agité, proche de la transe chamanique. Je me métamorphosais en oiseau de proie, planant au-dessus de Paris. Je me réveillai au milieu de la nuit, me redressant d’un coup sur le lit, en sueur.

 

La journée fut interminable, je commençais à en avoir plein les bottes de ce boulot. Quand sonna l’heure, j’avais l’impression d’être au bord de l’épuisement, pourtant dès que je me retrouvai dans la rue, toute ma fatigue se dissipa comme par enchantement.

 

Je repassai chez moi pour me changer rapidement et récupérer ma vieille Volkswagen. J’avais récemment réussi à économiser assez d’argent pour l’emmener au garage. Je m’habillai à peu près comme d’habitude, avec un costume-cravate sans cravate. Je savais que j’allais me retrouver au milieu de jeunes de quinze ans de moins que moi. Il s’agissait de ne pas avoir l’air trop con, et pour commencer essayer de ressembler à quelqu’un de mon âge. Le pire aurait été d’essayer de les singer.

 

Arrivé dans le quartier chinois, je trouvai une place à quelques dizaines de mètres du restaurant. Je n’avais pas envie d’arriver en avance, alors je me fumai deux ou trois cigarettes, tapi dans l’obscurité de l’habitacle.

 

Au bout d’un quart d’heure, je sortis de la voiture. Un serveur vint m’accaparer à l’instant même où je poussai la porte vitrée. C’était un Chinois de soixante ans, l’air las, aux traits fripés, courbé comme si sur ses épaules reposait le destin de l’Empire du Milieu. Catherine m’avait dit de demander sa table. J’indiquai donc ses nom et prénom, et le serveur se dirigea vers l’arrière-salle en me faisant signe de le suivre. Il traînait tellement les pieds que je ne sais même pas si l’on peut vraiment dire qu’il marchait. Je distinguais le chuintement de ses mocassins sur le parquet en bois. Son mode de déplacement tenait en fait de la reptation. C’était absolument fascinant.

 

maulin9782353150564.jpgLe restaurant était typique du quartier, c’est-à-dire qu’il ne fallait pas y aller pour l’hygiène. Heureusement, mon organisme s’était déjà depuis longtemps habitué aux saloperies d’origine exotique, résultat d’une vie ponctuée par de fréquentes visites au kebab. Parfois, en pensant à Maupassant, je me disais que le staphylocoque doré serait ma syphilis.

 

A la table, ils étaient quatre. On fit les présentations. Outre Catherine, il y avait une grande bringue au teint blême, vêtu à la garçonne, veston et chapeau à l’ancienne, qu’on appelait Palombe. Non non, pas Palomba, Palombe. Il y avait Edgar, qui était habillé, sans grande façon, d’un jean et d’un sweat-shirt. Il était châtain et portait un petit bouc qui, ajouté à ses sourcils en accent circonflexe, lui donnait l’air d’un diable sorti de sa boite. Il avait l’air de quelqu’un de nerveux, et d’assez bavard. Et puis, il y avait un rasta blanc. Je me méfie des rastas blancs. Non, se méfier n’est pas le mot exact. Dans les premiers temps de ma vie active, alors que j’avais quitté mes parents il y a peu et que j’habitais dans mon premier appartement, un minuscule meublé, je voyais de temps à autre des blattes. Un jour, il y en avait une qui grimpait péniblement sur un mur, puis, le surlendemain, je surprenais sa cousine en train de s’extraire de sous la cuisinière, puis rebrousser chemin en catastrophe en me voyant saisir sournoisement un chausson. Je ne m’étais pas alarmé plus que ça. Je ne laissais pas traîner de nourriture et je faisais le ménage régulièrement. Je m’imaginais qu’elles venaient d’un autre appartement, et que par le jeu des conduits d’aération elles tombaient chez moi de temps à autre, par accident. Mais plus le temps passait, plus augmentait la fréquence de leurs apparitions : une fois par semaine, puis deux, puis une fois par jour, et toujours vers la cuisinière. Un soir, je décidai d’en avoir le cœur net. Je déplaçai le meuble pour regarder ce qui pouvait bien se passer en dessous.

 

C’était une boite de chocolats de Noël bon marché. Les locataires précédents, un couple de jeunes, avaient probablement organisés, un 25 ou un 31, une beuverie d’amis au cours de laquelle cette boite avait glissé, je ne sais comment, sous la cuisinière. Je compris que c’était une boite de chocolats grâce à l’étiquette. Quelqu’un avait enlevé le couvercle. Mais là où on aurait dû voir les chocolats en question, il n’y avait plus qu’une masse grouillante et grise, celle de ces insectes immondes qui, depuis des semaines, se repaissaient dans mon dos de ces guimauves de cacao industrielles. Je dormais tous les soirs à trois mètres de cette infection vivante.

 

Dans ma vie, par la suite, je ne ressentis ce même sentiment d’horreur et de dégoût, bien que légèrement affaibli, que dans les très rares occasions où j’eu à côtoyer des rastas blancs. En présence d’une forme de vie étrangère, manifestement hostile, aux déplacements erratiques, et dont l’unique fonction biologique dans la chaîne alimentaire semble être le parasitage, l’honnête homme, obéissant à un réflexe ancestral, mu par d’étranges impulsions envoyées par le cerveau reptilien, sentant remonter en lui des souvenirs collectifs transmis génétiquement à l’humanité depuis le tréfonds des âges, à l’époque peut-être où les hommes de la tribu, criant et agitant leurs torches, passaient la nuit à repousser les hyènes qui tentaient de mordre les femmes et d’emporter les bébés, l’honnête homme, disions-nous, se sent soudain envahi d’un désir fort et primitif, celui de se saisir d’un gros caillou tranchant et de massacrer la Bête.

 

Le rasta blanc s’appelait Sébastien. Je lui serrai tout de même la main et m’assis. La conversation s’engagea. Edgar me demanda, en faisant un point d’interrogation avec un de ses sourcils circonflexes :

– Qu’est-ce que vous faites dans la vie ?

– Oh, fis-je d’un air embarrassé, je fais un travail de bureau…

– Vous êtes dans l’administration ? reprit-il en faisant deux points d’interrogation, comme si être fonctionnaire en France était quelque chose de proprement extraordinaire.

– Non non, dans le privé…

– Ah ok, répondit-il, l’air soulagé, remettant ses sourcils au repos.

– Nous on est tous étudiants, on est dans la même classe, dit Palombe.

– Ah bon, et vous étudiez quoi ?

– Licence d’anglais, répondit Sébastien, le rasta, les yeux baissés. Même qu’on se fait chier.

– Parle pour toi, répliqua Palombe, l’air agacé.

J’observais Catherine du coin de l’œil ; après m’avoir accueilli, elle n’avait quasiment plus ouvert la bouche. Mais elle n’avait pas l’air vraiment inquiet. Elle semblait réfléchir à quelque chose.

– Alors, repris Edgar, qu’est-ce qui vous branche dans la vie ?

– Moi ? Oh, pas grand-chose.

– Vous lisez ?

– Si je lis ? Oui, ça m’arrive…

– Quoi par exemple ?

– En ce moment, je suis sur Simenon.

– Ah bon, fit le rasta avec un sourire narquois, vous préférez les hommes ?

Et cet abruti s’esclaffa à sa propre saillie. Les autres sourirent d’un air indulgent. Je me forçai à arborer un rictus. Dans la foulée, Edgar me posa subitement cette question qui me désarçonna :

– Vous connaissez Olivier Maulin ?

Un silence se fit.

– Oui, répondis-je après un moment d’hésitation, j’ai entendu ce nom dans la bouche de Catherine la première fois que je l’ai vue, mais…

– Nous quatre, on lui voue un culte. On pense que c’est une sorte de prophète.

– Ou de messie, dit Palombe.

– Si tu veux. En tout cas, on est fans absolus, reprit-il en s’adressant de nouveau à moi. C’est un génie. Il nous a ouvert les yeux sur le monde moderne. C’est Catherine qui nous a initiés. On essaie de le faire découvrir autour de nous.

– On le suit dans tous ses déplacements, dit Palombe.

– La dernière fois, c’était au salon du livre de Marseille, dit Catherine, soudain réveillée.

– Ah bon, dis-je, vous êtes allés jusqu’à Marseille?

– On le suit partout, répondit Palombe. Dès qu’on sait qu’il se rend à un festival ou un truc comme ça.

– Fais lui voir l’album, intima Catherine à Sébastien.

 

mauXXX9782266234092FS.gifAprès avoir regardé autour de lui comme s’il s’apprêtait à étaler sur la table une substance prohibée – probablement un vieux réflexe – celui-ci fouilla dans son sac et en sortit un album photo blanchâtre, aux angles racornis.

 

Il l’ouvrit un peu au hasard et le posa face à moi. Des photos diverses, en couleur, en noir et blanc, plus ou moins nettes, comme prises à la dérobée, montraient toutes le même type, un rouquin qui devait avoir environ le même âge que moi, qui comme moi avait adopté le costume-cravate sans cravate ; plus ou moins barbu, plus ou moins grassouillet, selon les photos et l’époque où elles avaient été prises. On ne peut pas dire qu’il était vraiment beau, ni vraiment moche. Il était d’un abord plutôt sympathique, mais dans l’ensemble c’était le genre de mec qui pouvait passer à peu près inaperçu partout. En fait, il ressemblait plus ou moins à un contrôleur de la SNCF. D’ailleurs, il y avait une photo où il descendait d’un train, et plusieurs autres où on le voyait discuter avec d’autres personnes sur le quai d’une gare.

 

– Ça c’est quand il revenait de la foire au livre de Lorient, dit Palombe.

– C’est bizarre, je ne vois aucun d’entre vous sur les photos.

– C’est normal, mec, répliqua Sébastien. Il ne nous a jamais vus. Depuis trois ans, on l’observe en secret.

– Hein ? Mais Pourquoi ???

– Tu ne peux pas comprendre, dit Catherine en soupirant. On a décidé ça entre nous. On s’est dit qu’on devait être ses anges gardiens.

– Ouais, dit Sébastien, ça c’est TA version.

– Il faut avoir lu l’œuvre d’Olivier Maulin pour saisir le sens de notre démarche, dit Edgar en me fixant avec ses grands yeux fous, et surtout Les évangiles du lac. C’est dans ce livre qu’il a vraiment ouvert une brèche.

– Ouvert une brèche dans quoi ?

– Dans le monde moderne, répondit-il, énigmatique.

 

Trois heures plus tard, je ramenais Catherine à Gennevilliers. Je n’avais pas envie de rentrer tout de suite, ni d’aller boire un dernier verre ailleurs. Je lui proposai un petit tour en voiture dans Paris avant de rentrer.

 

Après ces mots étranges sortis de la bouche d’Edgar, le serveur était enfin venu avec les menus, et nous avions ensuite commandé assez vite. L’alcool et la nourriture, d’ailleurs excellente, avaient achevés de délier les langues. J’avais eu droit à une formation accélérée sur Olivier Maulin. J’étais quand même tombé sur de sacrés tarés.

 

Je me méfiais de Sébastien. C’était un fourbe qui n’attendait qu’une occasion pour trahir, j’en étais persuadé. Avez-vous remarqué que les rastas blancs ne traînent jamais ensemble, contrairement par exemple aux punks à chiens ? Ils préfèrent coller aux basques des gens normaux, pour les parasiter. Jamais plus d’un rasta blanc par groupe de jeunes, c’est une règle invariable. Et ils restent jusqu’à ce que l’on découvre leur véritable nature. Néanmoins, une chose me paraissait sincère chez Sébastien, c’est l’amour qu’il portait aux écrits d’Olivier Maulin, un amour visiblement aussi fanatique que celui de ses amis.

 

Palombe trimbalait une sorte de mal-être adolescent, qui la poussait à exprimer, comme Sébastien d’ailleurs, une certaine agressivité à mon égard ; ou peut-être croyait-elle que le personnage qu’elle cherchait à incarner aux yeux des autres se devait de faire preuve d’agressivité à mon égard. Et en même temps, une certaine sophistication me la faisait paraître plus intéressante et plus profonde – peut-être à tort – que son camarade. C’était une littéraire : elle admirait Oscar Wilde, George Sand, Verlaine et Rimbaud. Enfin, elle les admirait, jusqu’à ce que Catherine, un soir, lui prête Les évangiles du lac.

 

Edgar m’avait paru des quatre le plus intéressant. Il n’existait pas uniquement à travers l’œuvre d’Olivier Maulin, ce que je ne n’aurais pas pu jurer à propos de ses collègues. Il travaillait à un roman de science-fiction. Il m’avait expliqué qu’avant de commencer l’écriture de l’intrigue proprement dite, il s’attelait à mettre en place les personnages et leurs interconnexions, il imaginait l’historique des planètes et des peuples qu’il allait mettre en scène ainsi que celles des grands ancêtres des protagonistes, bref, il cherchait à créer de toutes pièces un univers entier, cohérent, à la manière des grands maîtres comme Frank Herbert. L’histoire commençait sur une planète appelée Eimera, où deux races extra-terrestres, les Zaloptères et les Archoutanes, au mode de vie relativement primitif, coexistaient sans le savoir, vivant de chaque côté d’une forêt gigantesque qui, enserrant Eimera tout au long de son équateur comme une sorte d’anneau, formait entre les deux hémisphères une barrière colossale, infranchissable pour ces créatures dont le niveau de civilisation était comparable à notre néolithique. Selon les légendes locales, si ces deux races se rencontraient et se mélangeaient, la nouvelle race hybride qui en serait issue aurait le pouvoir de conquérir toute la galaxie.

 

La planète voisine, Perla, avait été fondée, il y a des millénaires de cela, par des commissaires européens en exil. Au milieu du XXIème siècle, l’Europe ruinée, dévastée, en proie à la guerre civile, aux épidémies, le troc ayant remplacé l’usage de l’Euro sur la plus grande partie du territoire, une insurrection populaire, soutenue par l’armée, prit le contrôle de Bruxelles. On mit la main sur les commissaires européens. Un tribunal populaire décida, en quelques heures, de leur culpabilité dans la catastrophe générale, et de leur exécution publique par strangulation. Mais quelques survivants avaient réussi, en soudoyant des passeurs, à gagner Kourou, et à utiliser les dernières parcelles de leur autorité légale pour s’échapper, avec leurs familles et leurs employés, à bord d’un engin spatial expérimental. Au bout d’un périple de sept ans qui appartenait aux mythes fondateurs de la planète Perla, les commissaires débarquèrent sur la terre promise, une planète hostile, désertique, peuplée de lézards géants, sur laquelle ils réussirent néanmoins à faire souche. Dès qu’ils furent à peu près installés, leur premier geste fut la création de l’embryon d’une nouvelle construction européenne. Des référendums eurent lieu pour savoir si les lézards faisaient partie des espèces nuisibles, ou s’ils constituaient un patrimoine naturel à protéger. Des groupes de réflexion inter-départements furent formés pour éclairer le débat et remettre leur rapport à la sous-commission chargée du statut des lézards de Perla. Parallèlement, le commissaire préposé à la protection du patrimoine naturel créa une autre sous-commission pour établir la classification des cailloux du nord du lac Tschaï, selon leur diamètre et leur forme.

 

Quelques années plus tard, les commissaires européens s’aperçurent de la présence, sur Eimera, des deux peuplades primitives susnommées. Après être rentrés en contact avec les indigènes (et avoir créé des sous-commissions pour les classer en plusieurs groupes selon leur forme), ils voulaient maintenant en faire des citoyens européens. La seule chose qui pouvait empêcher ce désastre était l’accomplissement de la prophétie : un mâle zaloptère devait s’accoupler avec la plus belle des femelles archoutanes, ce qui serait le premier pas vers la fusion complète des deux races. Elles se verraient alors dotées de pouvoirs leur permettant de balayer n’importe quel ennemi, et de régner sur l’univers.

 

Tout cela m’apparaissait bel et bon. Rien à dire, c’était du cousu main. En le quittant, j’avais prodigué à Edgar quelques encouragements. A présent, nous roulions en silence, sur les bords de Seine. Catherine, décidément, était étonnamment muette ce soir. Je ralentis jusqu’à rouler quasiment au pas, les yeux fixés sur l’eau scintillante. Il faisait doux ce soir-là. Je baissai ma vitre et allumais une cigarette. Catherine me demanda, en faisant beaucoup d’efforts pour me faire croire que sa question était anodine :

– Alors, qu’as-tu pensé de cette soirée ?

Machinalement, je jetai un coup d’œil au livre posé sur les genoux de Catherine : Les évangiles du lac, bien sûr. Elle l’avait amené pour moi. Je la regardai. Elle semblait immensément fragile, à présent, comme si elle était sur le point d’éclater en sanglots. Qu’est-ce que je savais de cette fille, finalement ?

– C’était bien, comme soirée. Tes potes sont des gens intéressants.

– Je savais qu’ils te plairaient, dit-elle en souriant.

Je tournai à gauche et pris le pont de Courbevoie.

– J’avais peur que tu nous trouves ridicules, rajouta-t-elle, l’air d’avouer un péché mortel.

– Ridicules ?

Je réfléchis un peu, et repris :

– Non, pas ridicules. Bizarres, oui, ça c’est sûr. Mais tout est bizarre, pour moi.

– Est-ce que tu as un peu compris de quoi il retournait ?

– Tu veux dire, avec les nains, les trolls et les elfes ?

– Oui.

– Je crois. C’est comme me l’a dit Edgar : vous êtes en révolte contre le monde moderne. Vous voulez le retour des temps héroïques. Tu voudrais être une princesse enfermée dans son donjon, et que je sois le chevalier qui vient te délivrer. Vous êtes d’anciens fans de jeux de rôle, non ?

– Oui.

J'en étais sûr.  

– Tu veux nous rejoindre ?

Je jetai ma cigarette et remontai ma vitre. En souriant légèrement, je lui dis :

– Non, je ne crois pas. J’ai déjà fréquenté ce milieu, dans le temps. Je n’ai rien contre ; mais c’est pas mon truc.

Catherine était désappointée, soudain. Elle regarda droit devant elle.

– Alors c’est quoi, ton truc ? Finit-elle par dire.

– Moi, tu sais, répondis-je en posant une main délicatement sur son genou, je suis italien ; ce dont tu me parles, là, tous ces machins, les trolls, les elfes, les Hobbits, ce n’est pas ma culture, ce n’est pas la culture d’ici non plus, d’ailleurs. Tout ça, ça vient des anglo-saxons.

On arrivait à Gennevilliers. Je la déposai devant chez elle, elle ne me proposa pas de monter. Je lui dis au revoir poliment, et je repartis. Décidément, avec Catherine, ça devenait une manie de se quitter fâchés. Mais ce soir, c’était peut-être la dernière fois qu’on se voyait. Je lui avais dit la vérité, mais pas toute la vérité. Je savais très bien ce qu’elle attendait de moi, et je n’avais pas l’intention de lui donner de faux espoirs. Je voulais bien qu’une femme ne soit pas seulement source de jouissance érotique, mais aussi une amie, une confidente. Très bien. Mais rien de plus que ça. J’avais appris à aimer la solitude et la liberté. Cela valait-il la peine de tout chambouler, tout ça pour avoir le plaisir d’entendre les flatulences de Madame au réveil ? Préciosité de vieux garçon, probablement. Mais c’était comme ça.

           

Quant à ses amis mystiques, ils auraient sûrement pu, en d’autres circonstances, se révéler dans toute la magnificence de leur gloire exaltée, et se tailler de véritables royaumes. Ils servaient des causes que je croyais perdues à jamais dans les eaux troubles qui s’agitent au confluent des mondes, là ou se confondent les rêves et la réalité. Leur folie n’était pas de notre époque. Mais peut-être que notre époque allait finir un jour, comme toutes les autres avant elle.

 

André WAROCH

 

Un texte également consultable sur Novopress.info 

> http://fr.novopress.info/132310/olivier-maulin-contre-le-... 

mercredi, 27 mars 2013

Y'en a que ça emmerde...?

mardi, 26 mars 2013

Thoughts on Samuel Beckett

sambeck176.jpg

Thoughts on Samuel Beckett

By Jonathan Bowden

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Edited by Alex Kurtagić 

Editor’s Note: 

The following is excerpted from Jonathan Bowden’s Skin, a book he wrote in the early 1990s. The text has been lightly edited, mainly for punctuation, spelling, and capitalization.

In Samuel Beckett’s work . . . , which has become emblematic of the modern condition, particularly in the arts, there is a struggle with inarticulacy, where inarticulacy stands for silence—the absence at the heart of existence. As a result, Beckett’s work was the outcome of a profound struggle between form and the absence of form. This was the attempt to incorporate the mess of chaos or existence into a work of art—something that orders experience. As a consequence, artistic expression has a strongly authoritarian bias, although postmodernism tends to refute this. Beckett’s work, in other words, was an attempt to shape fundamental sounds from the chaos of identity. It was an attempt to retrieve the semblance of form from the absence of form. His work was an attempt to capture the process, the nature of entropy, the transition between different states. Indeed, it is no surprise to use that one of the journals that published Beckett was called Transition (edited by individuals like Eugene Jolas, in Paris, on either side of the war). Once, when Becket was irritated by Pinter’s insistence on form in his work, he said ‘I was once in a hospital and in the next ward a man was dying from cancer of the throat. I could hear his screams constantly throughout the night. If you are looking for form in my work then that is the form it takes!’ All of which is illustrated by the fact that when  Beckett was asked to stage a play at the Gate Theatre in Dublin (the seat of Irish experimentation in the manner of the European  avant garde, he intervened in the script to ask a basic question: ‘what does the world resemble?’ And a character, propping up the bar, answered: ‘A large human head, distended in space, covered in pus, exuding scabs, horrible to behold—revolting, disgusting.’ The rest of the cast and the scriptwriting committee agreed, and refused to include Beckett’s anecdote.

Nevertheless, Beckett’s work (like the work of Francis Bacon, which it resembles), is an attempt at a realistic form of nihilism at the end of the 20th century. We can also see that there is a strongly materialistic element in Beckett’s theatre, hence his desire for total control of the actors on the stage. In summation, Beckett wants to reduce the actors to automata or robots. In a way, therefore, he is a cyberneticist as much as a playwright. He once confessed to Roger Blin that all he wanted on stage was a pair of ‘blubbering lips’, something which he attempted to achieve with Billie Whitelaw in a play like Not I, which was performed at the Royal Court during the 1970s. As a result, Beckett’s desire for total control, his artistic psychosis, if you will, has increasingly led towards minimalism in literature and in drama.

enattendantgodotcouv.jpgMinimalism has often been misunderstood: it is less a desire for purity of form than a need for control. There is something manic and peculiarly modern in minimalism, the attempt to gain complete control over a work and its audience. It can be said, therefore, that minimalism has to do with the absence of form, due to the desire to rid artistic processes of any clutter. In short, the spare, clean outlines of the minimalist are an attempt to gain control of the subject matter of a piece. Thus, minimalism is a strategy, a rear-guard action on behalf of the artist. It is, in essence, an attempt to impose new forms on the breakdown of all possible forms.

Beckett, for his part, was strongly influenced by Schopenhauer, Descartes, and Descartes’ pupil, the Belgian philosopher Geulincx. Descartes developed an extreme form of abstraction, where mind and body come to be separated, at least in the mind. Of course, this is a form of stupidity, since mind and matter are different versions of the same thing—something that does not privilege the emotions over the intellect, as Wyndham Lewis once supposed in The Art of Being Ruled. To suggest an integrative vision of body and psyche is to avoid the trap of seeing the two as separate entities. It is certainly not an attempt to level the intellect or champion the vulva, the uterus, and the spleen against it. Such things only become a cultural afflatus, a torrent of unreason, when they deny reason to instinct and emotion to rationality. The throbbing, insensate nature of ‘black culture’—ludicrously overrated by academics like Dick Hebdidge—is merely the downside of White indifference.

Nevertheless, Beckett always needed Descartes’ philosophy, his Cartesian romanticism, because it covered an essential weakness: a psychic imbalance. Beckett was a neurotic who only felt secure when he could control and compartmentalise his life, his friends, and acquaintances. It a sense he had never grown up; he had not reached beyond the adolescent stage of maturation, and as Jung remarked in a lecture at the Tavistock clinic, which had a remarkable effect on becket, ‘he had never been born entirely’.

Moreover, Beckett was strongly influenced by Schopenhauer’s idea—this thinker’s pessimistic speculation—that in a world dominated by will—what Nietzsche would call ‘the will to power’— the sole purpose of an intellectual man’s life was to safeguard the nature of his own will. In other words, in a world ruled by will, a man had to retreat from the world in order to achieve the nature of his own will. Such ideas involved a retreat from the world into the domain of private speculation—what we might call a ‘scholarly retreat’, while this ideology also involved a conscious apoliticism, a refusal to act politically, and the avoidance of social questions. In fact, it involved the attempt to cut oneself off from one’s own world. Hence, we see the introverted and solipsistic nature of this philosophy—what we might call its artificial attempt to erect barriers between similar things; its attempt to float out of the world in order to realise oneself in the world of one’s own mind.

Beckett was also strongly influenced by Geulincx’s idea that a man could control nothing but his own mind. As a result, he believed that men should retreat into their own minds in order to achieve their own will. He realised that the world showed an abundance of Will that had to be outfaced by retreating into the nature of one’s own will. Geulincx, for his part, believed that a man should want nothing he could not control, and he should be prepared to let the rest go. According to Geulincx, everything outside the mind was beyond the provenance of the mind, and, as such, it was unobtainable. Indeed, it was best left alone, primarily because it could not be contemplated in the fastness of the mind. In these circumstances, everything outside a man’s mind, including his own body, was of no account because he could not control it. For the intellectual or mental gymnast, there was no other option but to retreat from the world into the security of his own mind.

Hence, we see the increasing spareness of Beckett’s writing: the short passages that were farted out towards the end of his life. Beckett’s later writings resemble a farrago, a diminuendo, a restraint on reason. They grow shorter and shorter, and sparer and sparer. Indeed, towards the end they almost cease to exist. They come to resemble a body that is in the last stages of dissolution. Towards the end of his life Beckett’s editions were slight, flippery things, and they were often printed in extra large letters, eighteen or nineteen points, like print in books for octogenarians, with a large white margin around the text in order to illustrate its brevity.

Beckett’s strategy, however, is flawed and uncertain, and it is somewhat cruel and psychotic. In particular, his avoidance of political issues is a grave weakness that ultimately defeats the whole thing.

Source: http://www.wermodandwermod.com/newsitems/news130320131319.html [2]


Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/03/thoughts-on-samuel-beckett/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/beckett.jpg

[2] http://www.wermodandwermod.com/newsitems/news130320131319.html: http://www.wermodandwermod.com/newsitems/news130320131319.html

lundi, 25 mars 2013

Chesterton the prophet of menacing Americanisation

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1920: Chesterton the prophet of menacing Americanisation

 

 By Nicolas Bonnal

Ex: http://english.pravda.ru/

But to-day personal liberties are the first liberties we lose.

In 1920 Chesterton visits America where he gives some lectures. The British (yet Catholic) genius is intimidated by this great country which horrifies and amazes then many European writers. Think of Kafka or Celine who describe a curious mega-machine.

 

Yet America happens -at least for Chesterton- to be a problem, because this is the country that will become the matrix of globalization (we all agree that being that matrix ruin the ancient Americans as a people). And when the author of father Brown gets to the control area, he is asked some very indiscreet questions such as: are you an anarchist? Then the questionnaire asks him naively if he is "ready to subvert by force the government of United States!" And what would answer our poet? ''I prefer to answer that question at the end of my tour and not the beginning'.

The questionnaire is not over. It asks then if the traveller is a polygamist! This time Chesterton is somewhat upset, like should have been the future travellers when asked if they are Nazis, anti-Semites or of course communists, Islamists or terrorists (what else, carnivores?). And he unleashes this terrible phrase:

Superficially this is rather a queer business. It would be easy enough to suggest that in this America has introduced a quite abnormal spirit of inquisition; an interference with liberty unknown among all the ancient despotisms and aristocracies.

So, let us think of inquisitive America as the land of the modern inquisitors (I think of course of Dostoyevsky). And, as if he had known we were doomed to an endless clash of civilizations between Muslims and Yankees, Chesterton evokes his visit to Jordan and compares with bonhomie Arab administration to the American one: 

These ministers of ancient Moslem despotism did not care about whether I was an anarchist; and naturally would not have minded if I had been a polygamist. The Arab chief was probably a polygamist himself.

Of course Chesterton, having quoted the Muslim world, had to speak of prohibition. That American prohibition too is hard to swallow for our drinker of beer (he deals with the subject -and with Islamism too- in the scaring novel the flying inn). And beyond the classical denunciations of hypocrisy and Puritanism, prohibition inspires him the following witty lines:

But to-day personal liberties are the first liberties we lose. It is not a question of drawing the line in the right place, but of beginning at the wrong end. What are the rights of man, if they do not include the normal right to regulate his own health, in relation to the normal risks of diet and daily life?

Chesterton knew he was entering in a no smoking area. The Americanization of the world would mean an exigent agenda of rules and orders to comply in all fields.  It is linked to the reign of the lawyers and congressmen, the cult of technique, a past but resilient Puritanism and of course the desire to homogenize all migrants. And he concludes on this matter with his sarcastic and efficient remark:

To say that a man has a right to a vote, but not a right to a voice about the choice of his dinner, is like saying that he has a right to his hat but not a right to his head.

Another subsequent menace is the Anglo-American friendship. Chesterton guesses that the anglo-American condominium means a general police of the planet and a future world order. The end of his strange and genial book is dedicated to the future new world order, whose prophet and agent is the famous sci-fi writer H.G. Welles. The motivation of this world state is mainly... fear, the artificial fear of the machines (think now of gun control).

He tells us that our national dignities and differences must be melted into the huge mould of a World State, or else (and I think these are almost his own words) we shall be destroyed by the instruments and machinery we have ourselves made.

But America has given to Chesterton enough reasons to fear its matrix, its efficiency and its blindness too. This is why America is too the magnet of heretic and modernist H.G. Wells. A country founded by Illuminati and masons has to become the mould and model of all.

Now it is not too much to say that Mr. Wells finds his model in America. The World State is to be the United States of the World... The pattern of the World State is to be found in the New World.

And although he speaks English and is an Anglo-Saxon, Chesterton, who is above all a Christian, a democrat and a humanist who mainly enjoys French and Russian peasants, then plundered by bolshevists, and he understands the American menace: the Americanisation of this planet, Americanisation that nothing will stop. The American menace consists in destroying any resisting nation in order to create the new united states of the world.

 The idea of making a new nation literally out of any old nation that comes along. In a word, what is unique is not America but what is called Americanisation. We understand nothing till we understand the amazing ambition to americanise the Kamshatkan and the hairy Ainu.

Let us be more humoristic, but not optimistic. For the new American order will be established on the models of a nursery. This is where the blatant American feminism interferes:

And as there can be no laws or liberties in a nursery, the extension of feminism means that there shall be no more laws or liberties in a state than there are in a nursery. The woman does not really regard men as citizens but as children. She may, if she is a humanitarian, love all mankind; but she does not respect it. Still less does she respect its votes.

Our European commission works like this nursery. And of course our genius thus seizes American paranoia and the perils of modern pseudo-sciences, say for instance the theory of the gender. As if he was predicting infamous patriot act, Chesterton writes:

Now a man must be very blind nowadays not to see that there is a danger of a sort of amateur science or pseudo-science being made the excuse for every trick of tyranny and interference. Anybody who is not an anarchist agrees with having a policeman at the corner of the street; but the danger at present is that of finding the policeman half-way down the chimney or even under the bed.

That's not all. Why this American matrix imposes her strength so easily? Chesterton has already remarked that American political order incites citizens - or pawns- to be repetitive, trivial and equal: I think they too tend too much to this cult of impersonal personality. Thanks to fast-foods and commercial centres, business cult and universities, television and movies' omnipresence, this model has been applied in fifty years everywhere, event in the resilient Muslim countries, making the globalization more a mind-programmed attitude than a free will. But this is where we are. 

But friendship, as between our heroes,

can't really be: for we've outgrown

old prejudice; all men are zeros,

the units are ourselves alone.

Eugene Onegin

 

Chesterton, what I saw in America, the project Gutenberg e-book.

 

Nicolas Bonnal

dimanche, 24 mars 2013

Rivoluzionario e inimitabile, ecco chi era mio nonno: Gabriele D'Annunzio

 

dannunzio-divisa.jpg

"Rivoluzionario e inimitabile, ecco chi era mio nonno: Gabriele D'Annunzio"

Federico D'Annunzio, imprenditore col physique dell'intellettuale, racconta vita e opere dell'avo, nato esattamente 150 anni fa: "Il fascismo? Lui lo vedeva come un fumetto. La sua scrittura? Potenza assoluta. Fu un genio: oggi avrebbe milioni di followers"


Ex: http://www.ilgiornale.it/
 

Federico d'Annunzio, physique dell'intellettuale e ambizioni dell'imprenditore, romano di nascita e milanese di rinascita, è nipote legittimo del poeta-soldato Gabriele D'Annunzio.
Figlio di Gabriele jr. (1942-96, sposato a Patrizia dei conti dell'Acqua), a sua volta figlio di Ugo Veniero (1887-1945, marito di Luigia Bertelli), terzogenito del Vate, Federico d'Annunzio, 48 anni, tre matrimoni, tre figlie e un'azienda, è, oltre che uomo d'affari, uomo di Lettere.

Che ben conosce vita e opere del celebre bisnonno: il Comandante, che nasceva proprio 150 anni fa, oggi.

Federico d'Annunzio, tanto di parla, ancora oggi, di fascismo, di Regime e di rapporti tra intellettuali e Potere. Ma quali furono le relazioni di Gabriele con il fascismo?
«In Gabriele è forte lo slancio patriottico, che appare già nei suoi scritti "abruzzesi" di inizio Novecento. Dopo la verità positiva, naturale, raccontata dai "fotografi" letterari dell'epoca, d'Annunzio intesse la trama necessaria per vestire la nobiltà d'Italia. In seguito gli scritti e i discorsi interventisti, e la conquista di Fiume, confermano questo percorso. Ed è "sopra" d'Annunzio che il Fascismo costruisce le proprie fondamenta. Egli tuttavia non partecipa, ma è costretto a seguire il sogno creato dalla sua stessa poesia. Come avviene spesso per la figura femminile amata e poi respinta con pari violenza, così d'Annunzio assiste al cambiamento dell'ideale in realtà: la volontà superiore trasformata in silenzio, le parole vane, così come le costruzioni e le conquiste fasciste. Il fascismo agli occhi di d'Annunzio è un fumetto, una sacca vuota che non lascia nulla di sé».

Perché un ragazzo dovrebbe leggere d'Annunzio, oggi?
«Per l'uso sconvolgente e sperimentale che d'Annunzio fa della parola. In ogni suo scritto, in ogni poesia, nel mezzo di una descrizione o di un passaggio apparentemente piano, appare, sempre, in modo improvviso e ineluttabile, un capolavoro totale: sequenze di immagini luminose, contrastate, definite, di ombre, di sensazioni, di scintille irraggiungibili descritte con assoluta esattezza, rese vive, strappate da momenti così intimi, da non sembrare neppure intuibili, neppure visibili. E ecco invece tutto davanti agli occhi...».

Esempi?
«L'incipit di Forse che sì, forse che no. Quanta enorme distanza dalle Novelle della Pescara. Siamo in pieno Futurismo, azione, energia, morte, ricerca pura della velocità che sposi il linguaggio, per menti che non temono la fatica, la costruzione che si miscela come un arcano, semplicissimo e terribilmente potente, e in cima alla salita, il segreto, custodito in tutti gli scritti successivi: il d'Annunzio notturno. Che cresce negli anni seguenti sino al "Libro dei libri" di Gabriele, quel Diario Segreto che è il fuoco della letteratura e dello scrivere inimitabile».

Non le pare di esagerare?
«Dopo d'Annunzio è quasi impossibile scrivere, ed è quasi impossibile leggere. Al confronto molta letteratura sembra vaga, diluita, amatoriale. Non vi è ricerca felice e dolorosa della purezza, della tecnica, della linea che demarca la verità dell'immagine dal compiacimento solitario e inutile. In d'Annunzio tutto è dono, la scrittura è un dono: che le luci del Poeta, le favolose faville, possano passare, per qualche imperscrutabile magia, nel cuore e negli occhi del lettore, perché il candore senza protesta, la forza idiota, e ogni accostamento sino ad allora impossibile, possano vivere nella luce vera della parola, che trasporta un dono inarrestabile e involontario. Per Gabriele tutto è poetico e involontario, la scrittura non è un gesto d'amore, è dono perché consapevole, ma la volontà in tutto ciò è inutile. La fatica, la lotta, è con se stessi, cercare la perfezione ad ogni costo, per rendere il momento assoluto, dandogli vita eterna».

Non capisco.
«Prima di Joyce, d'Annunzio crea metaforme, plasmi, melodie di pensieri ravvicinati e soprapposti, fino ad allora solo intuiti. Essi tra essi trovano nuovi splendori, crescono in bellezza e ricchezza e appaiono più onesti e più grandi. Si assiste alla espansione del pensiero alla potenza dei suoi moduli sovrapposti, le nuove concatenazioni sono piante e fiori d'altri mondi, eppure comprensibili, solo difficili da raggiungere. Ci vuole forza per raggiungere questi confini, ma il premio è una consapevolezza di sé (senza confini). Sembra una verità parallela, eppure è così: tanta la sperimentazione, l'intuizione favolosa, tanto grande il respiro del pensiero dentro di sé. Nasce un orgoglio e una intimità con se stessi che si credeva avere perduto, se non mai posseduto. La gioia si nasconde dietro una frase, e dopo questa si vorrebbe chiudere il libro ed aspettare che questa carezza si esaurisca.

Ma la lettura di d'Annunzio è sempre così entusiasmante?
«Tutto il contrario. Alcuni momenti sono insopportabili, uno spregio per lo spettatore trattato a orpello, a scafo imbrattato di catrame, utile solo a trasportare la propria gloria, ma vergognoso di bellezza e di sentimento. Nasce l'odio per tanta arroganza, tanta presunzione tremendamente onesta e supportata da una superiorità inavvicinabile, nella facondia, nella sensualità, nella esattezza della vista e delle rime. Odio, soltanto odio, e un desiderio di schianto, immediato, senza speranza né pietà, che si fotta l'Inclito! Leggere d'Annunzio è anche questo».

Quale percorso consiglia per conoscere d'Annunzio?
«Comincerei leggendo il Giovanni Episcopo, che esprime un d'Annunzio maturo, dopo il Piacere e un periodo di sospensione creativa. Il racconto, e la dedica a Matilde Serao, disvelano tutto d'Annunzio, e la poetica successiva: la volontà di "invenzione", la tecnica della parola, l'analisi cruda di se stesso attraverso il racconto, con un linguaggio insolitamente composto e misurato. Godibile, leggibile, l'Episcopo è un buon inizio per conoscere Gabriele».

Non si parte dal Piacere?
«No, il Piacere va giustificato, quasi perdonato, attraverso la lettura degli scritti successivi. È un libro che mostra la umana debolezza del giovane Gabriele alla ricerca del successo. Il libro si avviluppa intorno a un estetismo ancora formale e immaturo, stupefacente, che ritrova invece una forma lirica e autentica nel Fuoco. Il Piacere mostra una parte marginale, debole, della sensibilità poetica di d'Annunzio, che è invece soprattutto interessato all'Uomo, alla sua complessità e al suo dialogo interiore».

Poi?
«La prosa e la poesia di d'Annunzio sono l'opera di un infaticabile ed appassionato sperimentatore, sorretto da una vena poetica inesauribile. Il celebre vivere inimitabile fu l'immagine utile, lo strumento di Gabriele verso la scrittura, l'unico suo vero destino. Leggere d'Annunzio è una esperienza che concede piaceri e drammatiche esaltazioni (e fatiche), ed andrebbe alternata con letture di altri autori, per godere appieno per contrasto della scrittura inimitabile. Per continuare la lettura suggerisco il Trionfo della morte, che raccoglie tracce di tutta la scrittura precedente e successiva. Vi è l'Abruzzo crudele e giusto, la famiglia, la Femmina assoluta (infine, la Nemica), e la Morte, un argomento quasi sconosciuto ma dominante per comprendere la poesia di Gabriele».

Altri libri...
«L'Innocente, illuminato dal contrasto tra il titolo e il testo. Figlio non figlio, padre non padre, protagonista è la colpa e la hybris, ridiretta e esposta, un viaggio al fondo del dolore, nelle profondità del Male. Una confessione che lascia stupiti, per giorni, o per sempre. Siamo noi così? Un libro indimenticabile, un ferro rovente nel cuore. E poi il Fuoco, capolavoro sull'onestà inevitabile della lirica e della poesia, l'Alcyone, il manifesto dello scrivere inimitabile, ed il teatro, con La figlia di Iorio e Il ferro. Ma proprio Il ferro, il nuovo teatro sperimentale, annuncia il periodo più raffinato e dolce della scrittura di d'Annunzio. Fioriscono il Notturno ed il Libro Segreto, diari intimi che concedono ai lettori "a fior di pelle" emozioni non raccontabili, che stanno solo nello spazio tra il Poeta e il Sé. E nel Libro Segreto un d'Annunzio terribile, che falcia la propria scrittura, e inventa, appena prima di morire, una nuova letteratura. Quest'ultimo, senza dubbio, il mio preferito.

Chi sarebbe oggi d'Annunzio?
«Uno scrittore, ancor più inimitabile. Avrebbe milioni di follower, scriverebbe in lingue diverse, cambierebbe le identità dei social networks, costringendoli a una nuova radicale modalità broadcast. Ed il mondo non potrebbe stancarsi di lui: saprebbe inventare, stupire e cogliere ancora di ciascuno la natura profonda».

samedi, 23 mars 2013

Quel Vate per tutti e per nessuno

Quel Vate per tutti e per nessuno

Creò la liturgia fascista senza essere fascista e disegnò una nuova estetica politica. Ma in fondo fu fedele solo a se stesso

dannunz.jpgGabriele D'Annunzio fu il più grandioso nocchiero che traghettò l'Italia dall'Ottocento al Novecento, dalla piccola borghesia di provincia alla nazionalizzazione delle masse, dalla Belle Époque alla guerra, dalla galanteria all'eros, dalla morale all'estetica, dal cavallo al velivolo e al sommergibile, dal culto romantico del genio e dell'eroe al culto moderno del superuomo, ardito trascinatore delle folle.

Restano in lui vivi i tratti del secolo in cui nacque, quel 12 marzo di 150 anni fa, e restano le tracce di quell'Italia provinciale che sognava il passaggio dalla piccola borghesia alla nobiltà imperiale di Roma o di Parigi, dal decoro alla gloria. D'Annunzio trasfigura quelle origini borghesi e ottocentesche nella modernità impetuosa e guerriera.
«In Italia ci sono soltanto tre uomini che possono fare la rivoluzione: Mussolini, D'Annunzio e Marinetti», disse il massimo intenditore di rivoluzioni, Vladimir Illich Ulianov, detto Lenin. Era finita da poco la prima guerra mondiale e il leader del comunismo mondiale aveva ricevuto a Mosca una delegazione socialista italiana. Ma nessuno dei tre indicati da Lenin era socialista e tutti e tre potevano definirsi, in varia misura, figli di Nietzsche più che di Marx. Ma gli altri due erano poeti e artisti... Questo spiega perché fu Mussolini a fare quella (mezza) rivoluzione. D'Annunzio fu il più famoso anticipatore del fascismo, il suo «san Giovanni Battista». Ma ne fu anche il più grande dissidente. Non si comprende il fascismo, l'estetizzazione della politica, il rituale fascista, il saluto romano, il culto della bella morte e la retorica militare e cameratesca, senza D'Annunzio. Non si può capire la sintesi tra radicalismo di destra e radicalismo di sinistra, tra sindacalismo rivoluzionario e nazionalismo eroico, senza passare per l'opera, i discorsi e la vita di D'Annunzio (che fu parlamentare di destra, poi passò a sinistra - vado verso la vita - e non fu rieletto).
La fusione tra paganesimo e cristianesimo della liturgia fascista è di stampo dannunziano; l'eja eja alalà, il discorso dal balcone, il superuomo affacciato sulle folle, gli arditi, il mito del duce (che D'Annunzio rilanciò nel 1912 in un saggio su Cola di Rienzo). D'Annunzio crea l'habitat in cui prende corpo la mitologia fascista e da cui attinge la sua maggiore fascinazione rispetto alla rivoluzione socialista. Il mito della guerra attraversa tutta l'epoca e permea le intelligenze più vive del tempo; ma D'Annunzio, tra le varie anime letterarie e militari che alimentano il fascismo, è quello che le incarna di più. Stretto è pure il nesso tra fiumanesimo dannunziano e sansepolcrismo fascista; e tracce di D'Annunzio si ritrovano nell'estremo fascismo di Salò, che risente non solo geograficamente della suggestione estetico-eroico-mortuaria del Vittoriale, ormai disabitato del suo capriccioso signore, morto nel '38. Certo, il fascismo fu anche molto altro, e D'Annunzio fu sicuramente molte altre cose, oltre che precursore del fascismo. Di estetica politica in D'Annunzio parlò Thomas Mann, poi Hofmannsthal che ne rimase incantato; ma sarà Walter Benjamin a cogliere l'estetizzazione della politica poi ereditata dal fascismo. Il suo conterraneo abruzzese Gioacchino Volpe, in un saggio sul D'Annunzio politico e combattente, lo considerò creatore di poesia totale, intesa come «arte eroica al servizio della nazione».

Il rapporto fra D'Annunzio e il fascismo-regime fu controverso, fatto di slanci e prove di amicizia ma anche di netto dissenso, a volte taciuto, a volte filtrato, fino alla tentazione antifascista. Che in alcuni dannunziani prese corpo con l'esperienza breve di Alleanza Nazionale (corsi e ricorsi onomastici). Il rapporto fra D'Annunzio e il regime non fu diverso da quello di un altro esteta e combattente famoso, Ernst Jünger, rispetto al nazismo. Jünger, più di D'Annunzio, non amò gli aspetti volgari e torbidi del nazismo, detestò Hitler e partecipò perfino alla congiura anti-hitleriana; ma la sua fama di precursore e scrittore di guerra, il suo prestigio come eroe di guerra (aveva avuto l'onorificenza militare massima) fermarono Hitler dal proposito di punirlo. O, se vogliamo cambiar tempo, luogo e versante ideologico, lo stesso rapporto di amore e timore tra il Vate e il Duce ci fu tra Castro e Che Guevara, anch'egli come D'Annunzio appellato «il Comandante»: la sua morte prematura fu una salvezza per Castro che diventò amministratore delegato del Mito e si liberò di un ingombrante Compagno scontento. Così accadde con D'Annunzio.

Ma l'ultimo D'Annunzio sostenne il fascismo dopo l'impresa africana e le sanzioni: i copiosi doni alla patria, la retorica della guerra che riaffiorava sulle sue labbra, la missione civilizzatrice italiana in Africa, la polemica con la «perfida Albione», il dono alla Patria della croce militare avuta dalla corona britannica. Nel '37 accettò di presiedere l'Accademia d'Italia. Non fu solo ipocrita il carteggio cameratesco e a tratti pomposamente cordiale con Mussolini. L'ultimo D'Annunzio non condivise l'alleanza con la Germania, non solo perché estraneo al razzismo e al fanatismo hitleriano, ma anche perché vedeva in Parigi la grande sorella latina e nei teutonici i grandi nemici dell'Italia irredenta. E in questo era perfettamente in sintonia con Mussolini, anch'egli di formazione filofrancese e antitedesco fino alle Sanzioni.

D'Annunzio non fu mai fascista e tantomeno antifascista, ma restò sempre dannunziano, egli amava se stesso e la propria opera sopra ogni cosa, non si può irregimentare in nessun regime ma solo farsi adorare, e non si sente intellettuale organico a nessun partito. La sua vera aspirazione fu elevare la vita al rango di opera d'arte. Il suo dissenso dal regime, notò Volpe, nasceva dalla sua riduzione da protagonista a testimone della Nuova Italia. Nutriva il polemico rimpianto che la rivoluzione italiana avrebbe dovuto farla lui. La sua impresa fiumana fu l'antefatto del Sessantotto: vitalismo, trasgressione e immaginazione al potere furono celebrati là, nella prima rivoluzione estetica. Quei ragazzi dai capelli lunghi di mezzo secolo dopo erano gli inconsapevoli nipoti di quelle teste pelate: D'Annunzio, Marinetti, Mussolini (e Lenin). D'Annunzio visse più vite in una sola e più epoche in una vita. Servì nella religione della parola e della vita, della patria e della bellezza, un solo dio: Imago sui, l'immagine di sé.

mercredi, 20 mars 2013

Bulletin célinien n°350

Le Bulletin célinien n°350

mars 2013

Vient de paraître : Le Bulletin célinien, n° 350.

Au sommaire :

Marc Laudelout : Bloc-notes
Christine Sautermeister : Céline mémorialiste
Bernard Morlino : Jean Luchaire, l'enfant perdu des années sombres
Cédric Meletta : Jean Luchaire à Sigmaringen
Jean-Paul et François Senac : Le choix de Sigmaringen
Eugène Saccomano nous écrit

Abonnement : 55 euros à :

Le Bulletin célinien, Bureau St Lambert, B P 77, BE 1200 Bruxelles.
Courriel : celinebc@skynet.be.

> Consulter le sommaire des anciens numéros ici.

lundi, 18 mars 2013

Notizen über ein krankes Land

Notizen über ein krankes Land

von Tobias Witt

Ex: http://www.blauenarzisse.de/

 

abgesang_cover.jpgAbgesang — Notizen über ein krankes Land“ ist eine Sammlung von Texten, in der der bekannte Science Fiction-​Autor Frank W. Haubold ein politisches Bekenntnis ablegt.

Frank W. Haubold zeichnet in dem kleinen Buch ein erschreckendes Bild Deutschlands. Immer wieder wird deutlich, dass wir uns mit großen Schritten auf eine scheinbar nicht abwendbare nationale Katastrophe zu bewegen. Haubolds angenehmer Schreibstil macht das Buch trotz seiner Themenschwere lesbar. Die Gliederung des Buches, die statt Kapiteln Tagebucheintragungen für die einzelnen Kommentare nutzt, hilft, das aufgelistete Sammelsurium politisch korrekter Absurditäten zeitlich einzuordnen.

Seite für Seite den Irrsinn entlarven

Haubold selbst schreibt im Nachwort des Buches: „Dem aufmerksamen Leser wird möglicherweise nicht entgangen sein, dass diese Sammlung kaum noch Beiträge aus dem Jahr 2012 enthält. Das bedeutet jedoch nicht, dass sich die Dinge zum Besseren gewendet hätten, sondern das genaue Gegenteil.“

In einem Eintrag vom Dezember 2009 berichtet Haubold über den Fall einer Abiturientin, die in Dresden von einem Pakistani ermordet wird. Die deutschen Mainstreammedien verschweigen die Herkunft des Täters. Erschreckende Parallelen zum jüngst in Holland ermordeten Schiedsrichter oder dem von Türken totgeprügelten Daniel S. lassen sich nicht vermeiden. So geht es Seite für Seite quer durch den bundesrepublikanischen Irrsinn.

Das Bild, das Haubold von Deutschland zeichnet, erinnert stark an die Lebensrealität der Menschen in der DDR, wo unbequeme Fakten solange geleugnet oder überarbeitet wurden, bis sie zur aktuellen Lage passten. Der Autor legt dabei einen scharfen Ton an den Tag, der aber nie ins Überzogene abgleitet. Das Buch eignet sich auch um Freunden und Bekannten, die sich noch nicht mit einer medialen Gegenöffentlichkeit auseinandergesetzt haben, einen Einstieg zu bieten.

Und immer wieder der Waldgang

Man kann die einzelnen, zum Teil sehr subjektiven Kommentare als Denkanstoß auffassen und sich dann mit dem entsprechenden Thema weiter auseinandersetzen. Wer also einen gut zu lesenden und durch den sehr gelungenen Schreibstil auch kurzweiligen Einstieg in die konservativen Themen der letzten Jahre sucht, der wird hier fündig.

Haubold, der sonst auf einem ganz anderen Gebiet zu Hause ist, offenbart sich dem Leser nun als Waldgänger und reiht sich ein in die wachsende Schar derer, die nicht mehr mitspielen: „Das bedeutet keineswegs die Aufgabe der eigenen Positionen, sondern im Gegenteil deren Bewahrung. Der Waldgänger gibt nichts auf, er gewinnt etwas: Die Freiheit, nicht mehr dazu gehören zu müssen.“

Frank W. Haubold: Abgesang – Notizen über ein krankes Land. 138 Seiten, CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform 2012. 6,55 Euro.

Anmerkung der Redaktion: Neben dieser Rezension hat Tobias Witt ein Interview mit Frank W. Haubold geführt.

Gespräch: Frank W. Haubold
 
von Tobias Witt

haubold6773803-M.jpgParallel zu seiner Rezension hat sich unser Autor Tobias Witt mit Frank W. Haubold über sein Buch Abgesang – Notizen über ein krankes Land unterhalten.

Blaue​Narzisse​.de: In Ihrem Blog haben Sie in einem Eintrag vom 16. Dezember 2011 bereits ein ähnlich pessimistisches Fazit beschrieben, wie am Ende Ihres Buches. Auch haben Sie in den Kommentaren dazu festgehalten, daß dies der letzte Eintrag in Ihrem Blog sein wird, was dann bis zum Erscheinen von Abgesang – Notizen über ein krankes Land auch eingehalten wurde. Was hat sie dazu bewogen, dieses Buch zu veröffentlichen?

Frank W. Haubold: Das hat in erster Linie damit zu tun, daß im Lauf der Jahre einige Texte entstanden sind, die möglicherweise auch über den Tag hinaus ihre Wirkung entfalten könnten. Im Internet sind die Lesegewohnheiten anders als bei „normaler“ Lektüre, die doch etwas mehr in die Tiefe geht. Außerdem bot die Zusammenstellung der Texte in der Reihenfolge ihres Entstehens die Möglichkeit, eine Art „Gesellschafts-​Porträt“ zu zeichnen, das ganz anders wirkt als ein einzelner Blogbeitrag.

Im Nachwort „Der Waldgang“ schreiben Sie sehr treffend, daß sich in den letzten Jahren an den von Ihnen angeprangerten Mißständen in Deutschland leider überhaupt nichts geändert hat. Wo sehen sie dennoch Chancen und Möglichkeiten für freiheitliche Positionen?

Die Chance zu positiver Veränderung besteht immer, selbst in einer Gesellschaft, die nach meinem Eindruck immer mehr totalitäre Züge annimmt. Wie in der „Endphase“ der DDR liegt es jedoch an jedem einzelnen selbst, ob er sich dem Anpassungsdruck beugt und mit den Wölfen (die doch wohl eher Schafe sind) heult oder ob er seine Selbstachtung bewahrt und opponiert. Auf das Verständnis einer Mehrheit kann er dabei nicht unbedingt hoffen, dafür funktionieren die Ausgrenzungsinstrumente der politisch-​medialen Kaste (noch) zu gut.

Es scheint, als ob Sie das Vertrauen in die deutsche Politik völlig verloren hätten. Gibt es Ihrer Meinung nach Strömungen, die vielleicht eine Chance hätten, den Mißständen entgegenzutreten?

Das hängt in erster Linie davon ab, ob es gelingt, die zahlreichen Strömungen des konservativen und freiheitlichen Lagers zusammenzuführen, die heute fast im Dutzend völlig unkoordiniert agieren und deshalb politisch bedeutungslos sind. Ansätze wie die „Wahlalternative 2013“ gibt es durchaus, aber die Hürden bis zum Entstehen einer funktionsfähigen Partei sind hoch, zumal der mediale Gegenwind erheblich ist, der vom Totschweigen bis zur persönlichen Diffamierung reicht.

In Ihrem Blog und auch im erwähnten Buch beschreiben Sie eine nicht abwendbare Katastrophe, auf die wir zusteuern. Wo sehen sie Deutschland in 10 Jahren?

Zehn Jahre sind möglicherweise ein zu enger Zeitrahmen, um grundlegende gesellschaftliche Veränderungen zu prognostizieren. Die demographische Katastrophe, die Herr Sarrazin fundiert beschrieben hat, dürfte zu diesem Zeitpunkt allerdings schon so weit fortgeschritten sein, daß die Folgen offenbar werden. SPD und „Grüne“ setzen ja bereits heute auf Mehrheiten jenseits der autochthonen Bevölkerung. Wollte man hier ernsthaft gegensteuern, müßte das heute geschehen, wofür gegenwärtig so gut wie nichts spricht. Wann es konkret zum vorprogrammierten Zusammenbruch des Sozialstaates und den damit verbundenen Verwerfungen kommt, hängt auch von den ökonomischen Rahmenbedingungen ab; das war in der „Endzeit“ der DDR nicht anders.

 

 

dimanche, 17 mars 2013

Le sentiment de culpabilité et son usage collectif

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Le sentiment de culpabilité et son usage collectif

par Martin Mosebach

Ex: http://www.catholica.presse.fr/

Le thème de la culpabilité revêt une dimension particulière en Allemagne, du fait de l’histoire de ce pays et de l’exploitation qui en a été faite pendant de nombreuses années, rendant pour longtemps difficile la mise en place d’un discours dépassionné. On se souvient sans doute de la « querelle des historiens » lancée en 1986 par Ernst Nolte autour de l’interprétation comparatiste des totalitarismes nazi et communiste, ou encore de la polémique autour de l’écrivain allemand Martin Walser qui s’était élevé, à l’occasion de la remise d’un important prix littéraire, contre l’instrumentalisation de la culpabilité allemande et son rappel permanent dans les médias.
Ecrivain renommé, auteur de nombreux romans et nouvelles, honoré à plusieurs reprises de prix littéraires d’envergure, Martin Mosebach est un observateur avisé de la société allemande et des tendances idéologiques qui la parcourent. Il est également un analyste de l’influence exercée par ces tendances sur le monde catholique1 [1] . C’est à ce double titre que nous lui avons posé quelques questions sur le sentiment de culpabilité qui affecte la culture occidentale et sur la manière dont il frappe le catholicisme.

Catholica – La culpabilité est très présente dans l’idéologie qui est actuellement dominante en Europe occidentale et qui trouve de nombreux échos dans le reste du monde. Nous sommes en présence d’une sorte de lamentation contrôlée qui a généralement pour objet tout ce qui relève de la culture traditionnelle, chrétienne en particulier, voire plus précisément catholique. Jusqu’à quel point cela se vérifie-t-il en Allemagne dans ce que Habermas appelle l’« espace public » ?


Martin Mosebach – Le sentiment de culpabilité est un concept issu de la psychanalyse, qui signifie la souffrance névrosée due à une faute qui n’existe pas. Si l’on s’en tient à la vérité, il nous faut constater que la  « faute » de la chrétienté dont on entend si souvent parler n’a rien à voir avec cette question de l’imagination névrosée. Il est tout à fait certain que la transformation complète et soudaine du monde occidental par la révolution industrielle – avec l’immense destruction de civilisation qui l’a accompagnée – est en quelque sorte l’un des « fruits » du christianisme.
C’est le christianisme qui a « désenchanté » le monde, qui a chassé les nymphes et les druides des forêts et qui a livré la terre à l’emprise de l’homme. Les grands mouvements politiques qui ont ravagé le monde depuis la Révolution française peuvent tous être analysés comme des hérésies chrétiennes. Liberté, égalité et fraternité sont une version sécularisée de la Trinité, le communisme est un millénarisme hérétique, le libéralisme, avec sa main invisible du marché est une théologie sécularisée du Saint-Esprit, le calvinisme est le père du capitalisme, le national-socialisme a conçu l’image hérétique d’un peuple choisi. La force explosive du christianisme s’exprime aussi dans la violence destructrice extrêmement dangereuse de ses hérésies – cette analyse permet d’avoir un jugement beaucoup plus nuancé sur l’Inquisition des siècles passés.
Mais cette fatalité de la religion chrétienne, qui n’exprime pas autre chose que l’inquiétude constante dans laquelle la doctrine chrétienne place l’homme, n’est pas ce que les critiques modernes de l’Eglise ont à l’esprit lorsqu’ils voient en elle la source de tous les maux.
Nous nous trouvons – comme toujours – dans une situation contradictoire. D’un côté, les psychanalystes à l’ancienne mode et les neurobiologistes dénient à l’homme toute possibilité d’une culpabilité effective. De l’autre, on veut attribuer tous les torts à l’Eglise. Le péché originel n’existe pas mais l’Eglise est accusée d’avoir commis un péché originel, celui de l’avoir « inventé ». Je vois dans cette tendance la répugnance de principe qu’a le démocrate moderne à l’idée de devoir accepter une institution qui ne doit pas son existence à une décision prise suivant le principe majoritaire démocratique moderne, qui ne reçoit pas ses critères de légitimité du temps présent et qui ne considère pas la volonté majoritaire comme la source ultime du droit. Pour l’idéologie radicale-démocratique, une institution dont la tradition n’est aucunement soumise au consentement d’une majorité est fondamentalement inacceptable. Elle est le mal par excellence, une sorte d’ennemi mortel à caractère religieux. [...]

  1. . Martin Mosebach est notamment l’auteur d’un livre traduit en français, La liturgie et son ennemie. L’hérésie de l’informe, Hora decima, 2005 ; voir également le texte de son intervention au colloque organisé par le cardinal Ranjith à Colombo (Sri Lanka) en septembre 2010, « Le missel traditionnel, perdu et retrouvé », in Revue Una Voce, n. 277, mars-avril 2011. [ [2]]

Article printed from Revue Catholica: http://www.catholica.presse.fr

URL to article: http://www.catholica.presse.fr/2012/05/06/le-sentiment-de-culpabilite-et-son-usage-collectif/

URLs in this post:

[1] 1: http://www.catholica.presse.fr/2012/05/06/le-sentiment-de-culpabilite-et-son-usage-collectif/#footnote_0_3311

[2] ↩: http://www.catholica.presse.fr/2012/05/06/le-sentiment-de-culpabilite-et-son-usage-collectif/#identifier_0_3311

Youth Without Youth

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Youth Without Youth

By Trevor Lynch

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Youth Without Youth [2] (2007) is Francis Ford Coppola’s stunning film adaptation of a novella of the same name [3] by Mircea Eliade [4] (1907–1986), the Romanian scholar of comparative religion and Iron Guard sympathizer. I highly recommend this beautiful, mysterious, endlessly captivating movie. In style, it is classic; in substance, it is eternal.

Filmed on location in Romania, Switzerland, India, and Malta, Youth Without Youth looks, feels, and sounds like a European movie from the 1950s. The color is sumptuous and the cinematography astonishingly detailed, almost tactile. The pacing and editing are generally languid and sinuous, although they are often intercut with annoying, herky-jerky interludes, to farcical effect. The special effects date from the silent age and are entirely effective. The score [5] by Osvaldo Golijov (who describes himself as an East European Jew born in Argentina) is in the lush, late Romantic idiom, although it avails itself of Oriental and “modernist” styles when the film requires it.

Since this movie is long gone from the theaters, I have no compunction about summarizing the whole story. Youth Without Youth strikes me as a retelling of the Faust myth, particularly Goethe’s Faust. As in Faust, the main character is a scholar who late in life despairs that his life’s work is a failure but who is given miraculous gifts, including restored youth, by which he might continue his quest for knowledge.

Youth Without Youth begins in Piatra Neamț, Romania in 1938. Dominic Matei (played by Tim Roth), a former teacher in a provincial college or lycée, has just turned 70. He is experiencing the onset of senility and despairs of finishing his life’s work, an investigation into the origins of language and consciousness that has stalled before the dark abysses of prehistory. He decides to kill himself and chooses a particularly horrible death: strychnine.

He travels to Bucharest on Easter weekend to take the poison far from home, where nobody will know him. But as he approaches his final destination, he is caught in a sudden downpour and struck by lightning, which incinerates his clothes and burns every inch of his body.

Astonishingly, he is not killed. He is taken to a hospital, where he is bandaged from head to toe and watched over by doctors who fully expect him to die. But to everyone’s surprise, he slowly recovers, and when the bandages are removed, they find a man in his 30s. Dominic Matei has been miraculously regenerated. He also discovers that his memory and other mental faculties have not just been regenerated but enormously enhanced, eventually developing into powers of telepathy and telekinesis. He can learn other languages telepathically and “read” books simply by holding them for a few seconds and concentrating on them.

Furthermore, he encounters a “double”: an entity that looks exactly like him but who is wiser and more powerful and who can thus offer him guidance and protection. (The double first appears in mirrors and dreams before being seen in the real world. We learn that he is not an illusion when another character sees him as well.) The double functions as a guardian angel, a daimon, a spiritual guide. Perhaps he can do this because he is Dominic, but a Dominic whose powers are fully actualized. As an interlocutor, however, the double has a Mephistophelean quality, for he clearly rejects Dominic’s Western ethical humanism in favor of a Hindu-like non-dualism and transhumanism, and the double urges Dominic to do and accept things he finds abhorrent.

As with Faust, Dominic’s new form of existence can, apparently, be prolonged indefinitely under the right conditions. But as with Faust, it can also end. When Faust feels satisfaction, he dies, and his soul if forfeit. Dominic’s double tells him he is free to accept or reject his gift and free to use it for good or for evil.

Word of Dominic’s astonishing transformation spreads around the world. He is placed under constant surveillance by the Romanian Secret Police, who are in a heightened state of alert because they are doing battle with the Iron Guard. (Corneliu Codreanu had been arrested in April, 1938 and was murdered that November.) They even suspect that Dominic may be an Iron Guard leader hiding in the hospital under a false identity. (There is, of course, something autobiographical about the character of Dominic Matei, for Eliade too was a scholar of language and myth who was suspected, rightly, of Iron Guard connections. Eliade also wrote the novella in old age, when time is short and the mind is given to nostalgia and fantasies of regeneration.)

The Gestapo also take an interest in Dominic because he seems to confirm the theories of a German scientist, Dr. Joseph Rudolf, who hypothesizes that high voltage electrocution might spark the evolution of a higher form of humanity. Matei’s doctor and host, Professor Stanciulescu (Bruno Ganz), realizes Dominic’s powers when he sees two roses from his garden materialize in Dominic’s room with the help of the double. Thus the Professor refuses to allow the Germans to take Matei, citing medical grounds. They threaten to return with a German doctor who will do their bidding. Thus Stanciulescu arranges false papers so that Matei can leave Romania for Switzerland.

Coppola’s treatment of the Germans is one of the few places the movie rings false and silly. He seems to think that Romania was under German occupation in 1938 or ’39, which never happened. The Germans, of course, are portrayed as fanatics and martinets, and their leader even gives the Hitler salute to Professor Stanciulescu. I have not read the novella, but it is impossible to believe that such farcical inaccuracies are found in the original.

Dominic Matei spends the Second World War in neutral Switzerland, where he leads a life that is part Mircea Eliade, part James Bond. He continues his research into the origins of language and consciousness. He also develops new powers, including abilities to create false identities and beat the house in casinos, which is how he supports himself.

One night, Dominic is confronted in an alleyway by the Nazi scientist Dr. Rudolf. Rudolf explains to Dominic that he must return with him to Germany, because only with his help can Rudolf construct a bridge from man to superman, which is the only way that mankind can survive the coming nuclear apocalypse. Rudolf wishes to preserve the high culture of the West: music, art, philosophy, and science. He claims that Dominic was sent by some sort of providence to help save mankind. He promises to admit him to the godlike presence of Adolf Hitler. But Dominic refuses to cooperate with the Nazis. Rudolf pulls a gun and tries to abduct Dominic. When a female Romanian agent of the Gestapo tries to defend Dominic, Rudolf shoots her. The double, who evidently wants Dominic to go with Rudolf, tells him that he has no choice in the matter. But Dominic does have a choice: he telekinetically forces Rudolf to shoot himself, then he escapes.

 

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Dominic is also convinced that the Second World War will not be the last. He anticipates that mankind will be almost annihilated by nuclear warfare, and he fears that “post-historical man” will succumb to despair. Thus be begins to tape a record of his transformation, depositing the tapes in a bank vault. He hopes that they will somehow survive the end of history and be deciphered by men in the future, giving them hope that humanity might evolve. Of course he has no assurance that the tapes will survive, but believes it anyway, because without this belief, his life would have no meaning.

The second half of the movie begins in 1955, when Dominic encounters a young German woman on vacation in Switzerland (Alexandra Maria Lara). Her name is Veronica, but she is the very image of Laura, Dominic’s former fiancée, who a lifetime ago had broken off their engagement because he was too involved in his work. She then married another man and died in childbirth a year later. The double confirms that Veronica is the reincarnation of Laura. (She is roughly analogous to Gretchen in Goethe’s Faust.)

Veronica’s car is struck by lightning, and her companion is killed. When Dominic finds Veronica, she is speaking in an ancient Indian dialect and claims that her name is Rupini, a woman of the Kshatriya caste, a descendant of one of the first families to convert to Buddhism, who had left the world behind to meditate in a cave.

Veronica/Rupini becomes an international sensation, because she seemingly provides proof of reincarnation. (Veronica herself later suggests spirit possession as an alternative hypothesis.) Veronica/Rupini demonstrates knowledge that Veronica did not and could not have learned during her lifetime. Dominic becomes her caretaker. He summons leading orientalists to study her case, and eventually she is flown to India, where she finds Rupini’s cave, complete with her mortal remains. Then Rupini’s peronality disappears and Veronica’s re-emerges. She and Dominic fall in love. Veronica tires quickly of being a world celebrity, so she and Dominic flee India to a private villa on Malta.

On Malta, Dominic discovers he has to power to induce trances in which Veronica regresses to past lives, speaking Ancient Egyptian, then Akkadian and Sumerian, then unknown protolanguages which Dominic eagerly records and transcribes. He recognizes that Veronica might be the vehicle he needs to pierce the veil of prehistory and reach the origins of language and consciousness. The double confirms this.

But with each trance, Veronica becomes increasingly drained and begins to age rapidly. Dominic realizes that if he continues to induce regressions, she will wither and die, so he has to choose between Veronica and the completion of his life’s work. He tells Veronica that they must part. If they stay together, she will die. If they part, her youth and beauty will be restored.

In 1969, when he is 101 years old, Dominic sees Veronica and her two children get down from a train. Heartbroken, he surreptitiously photographs her. He returns to his home town in Romania. In the mirror of his hotel room, he has a conversation with his double. The double reveals that he is indeed the harbinger of a new race, which will arise from the electromagnetic pulse released by an approaching nuclear holocaust. Most of mankind will perish in the process, but a superhumanity will emerge. Disgusted at the sacrifice of man to create the superman, Dominic smashes the mirror, rejecting his gift. The double, gibbering some unknown language, disappears.

Dominic then goes to his old haunt, the Café Select, where he hallucinates an encounter with friends from the 1930s. During the conversation, he rapidly ages, then stumbles out into the night. The next morning, he is found frozen to death in the snow.

But the end is ambiguous, for at the very end of the film, we hear Veronica’s voice ask Dominic, “Where do you want me to put the third rose?” which then appears in his hand. So is Dominic Matei really dead? He has been all but dead before, remember. So is this just another start? Will he keep coming back until he learns his lesson and his mission is fulfilled? Or is he really dead, but under the protection of Veronica, like Faust whose soul is saved in the end by the intercession of the Eternal Feminine?

Youth Without Youth is a movie about transcending the human condition: backwards, toward the pre-human origins of language and consciousness, and forwards, toward the advent of the superhuman. Dominic Matei is given the power to do both.

He could have arrived at the origin of human language and consciousness through Veronica’s trances, but he was unwilling to sacrifice her to his quest for knowledge.

He is already superhuman, but he could choose to help prepare the way for superhumanity. He had a chance to assist Dr. Rudolf, but he rejected it because he thought that Hitler was the devil himself. In the end, he rejected his own superhumanity simply because he was repelled by the idea that superhumanity would emerge from the destruction of humanity.

In both cases, the path to transcendence of the human realm was blocked by Dominic’s humanistic ethics, the idea that every human being has a dignity or worth that forbids its sacrifice for higher values. Thus Youth Without Youth explores the same fundamental conflict that animates Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight Trilogy [6]: the ethic of egalitarian humanism versus the ethic of superhumanism, of the individuals who raise themselves above humanity either through a Nietzschean rejection of slave morality and a Heideggerian encounter with mortality and contingency (the Joker) or through the initiatory knowledge of the League of Shadows. (As I argue in my review [7] of The Dark Knight Rises, the two forms of superhumanism are compatible, but Nietzsche, Heidegger, and the Joker only grasp a small part of a much greater truth.)

Youth Without Youth is, in short, a deeply serious film: a feast for the intellect as well as the senses. A commercial and critical flop when it was released in 2007, Youth Without Youth is in truth one of Francis Ford Coppola’s finest films.

 


Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/03/youth-without-youth/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/youth-without-youth.jpg

[2] Youth Without Youth: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0014I4TR2/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0014I4TR2&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[3] novella of the same name: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0226204154/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0226204154&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[4] Mircea Eliade: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eliade

[5] score: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000WVPXD6/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B000WVPXD6&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[6] The Dark Knight Trilogy: http://www.counter-currents.com/tag/lynch-dark-knight/

[7] review: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/07/the-dark-knight-rises/