[...] and I felt dizzy and wept, for my eyes had seen that secret [...]

“On the back part of the step, toward the right, I saw a small iridescent sphere of almost unbearable brilliance. At first I thought it was revolving; then I realised that this movement was an illusion created by the dizzying world it bounded. The Aleph's diameter was probably little more than an inch, but all space was there, actual and undiminished. Each thing (a mirror's face, let us say) was infinite things, since I distinctly saw it from every angle of the universe. I saw the teeming sea; I saw daybreak and nightfall; I saw the multitudes of America; I saw a silvery cobweb in the center of a black pyramid; I saw a splintered labyrinth (it was London); I saw, close up, unending eyes watching themselves in me as in a mirror; I saw all the mirrors on earth and none of them reflected me; I saw in a backyard of Soler Street the same tiles that thirty years before I'd seen in the entrance of a house in Fray Bentos; I saw bunches of grapes, snow, tobacco, lodes of metal, steam; I saw convex equatorial deserts and each one of their grains of sand; I saw a woman in Inverness whom I shall never forget; I saw her tangled hair, her tall figure, I saw the cancer in her breast; I saw a ring of baked mud in a sidewalk, where before there had been a tree; I saw a summer house in Adrogué and a copy of the first English translation of Pliny -- Philemon Holland's -- and all at the same time saw each letter on each page (as a boy, I used to marvel that the letters in a closed book did not get scrambled and lost overnight); I saw a sunset in Querétaro that seemed to reflect the colour of a rose in Bengal; I saw my empty bedroom; I saw in a closet in Alkmaar a terrestrial globe between two mirrors that multiplied it endlessly; I saw horses with flowing manes on a shore of the Caspian Sea at dawn; I saw the delicate bone structure of a hand; I saw the survivors of a battle sending out picture postcards; I saw in a showcase in Mirzapur a pack of Spanish playing cards; I saw the slanting shadows of ferns on a greenhouse floor; I saw tigers, pistons, bison, tides, and armies; I saw all the ants on the planet; I saw a Persian astrolabe; I saw in the drawer of a writing table (and the handwriting made me tremble) unbelievable, obscene, detailed letters, which Beatriz had written to Carlos Argentino; I saw a monument I worshipped in the Chacarita cemetery; I saw the rotted dust and bones that had once deliciously been Beatriz Viterbo; I saw the circulation of my own dark blood; I saw the coupling of love and the modification of death; I saw the Aleph from every point and angle, and in the Aleph I saw the earth and in the earth the Aleph and in the Aleph the earth; I saw my own face and my own bowels; I saw your face; and I felt dizzy and wept, for my eyes had seen that secret and conjectured object whose name is common to all men but which no man has looked upon -- the unimaginable universe.

I felt infinite wonder, infinite pity.”
― Jorge Luis Borges

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[...] Hughie let the front legs of his chair down on the floor

“Where’s Hazel today?” Mack asked.

Jones said, “Hazel went out with Doc to get some starfish.”

Mack nodded his head soberly. “That Doc is a hell of a nice fella,” he said. “He’ll give you a quarter any time. When I cut myself he put on a new bandage every day. A hell of a nice fella.”

The others nodded in profound agreement.

“I been wondering for a long time,” Mack continued, “what we could do for him – something nice. Something he’d like.”

“He’d like a dame,” said Hughie.

“He’s got three four dames,” said Jones. “You can always tell – when he pulls them front curtains closed and when he plays that kind of church music on the phonograph.” Mack said reprovingly to Hughie, “Just because he doesn’t run no dame naked through the streets in the daytime, you think Doc’s celebrate.”

“What’s celebrate?” Eddie asked.

“That’s when you can’t get no dame,” said Mack.

“I thought it was a kind of a party,” said Jones.

A silence fell on the room. Mack shifted in his chaise longue. Hughie let the front legs of his chair down on the floor. They looked into space and then they all looked at Mack. Mack said, “Hum!”



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Stance: Educating Rita (1983)

- Is that a book you're reading?
- Yeah, yeah.
- What's it called?
- Of Human Bondage.
- Yeah? My husband's got a lot of books like that.
- What, Somerset Maugham books?
- No, bondage books.



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Acești cocălari aroganți și căruțele lor zburătoare și homerice

Un istoric care scrie intr-o engleza superba despre manierele de cocalar si de Gigi Becali ale eroilor homerici. Fabulos. Nici nu-mi pare ca citesc istorie, ci relatari tabloide din presa recenta :)

"But if what Homer tells us about Mycenaean battle tactics is correct, the European warriors failed to use the chariot's combination of mobility and firepower to good effect.

Instead, Homer's heroes dismounted from their chariots to fight on foot with spears and other close-combat weapons, using their chariots for show and as mere conveniences in coming and going from the field of battle.

However absurd, Homer's report may be accurate. The tactics he described may have been a function of numbers and terrain.

To succeed, a chariot charge required a critical mass - enough arrows and charging chariots to break opposing infantry and persuade foot soldiers to flee.

But in a land like Greece, where hills abound and fodder for horses is short, chariots had to remain few - to few, perhaps, to achieve decisive effect in battle.

Yet, like Cadillacs of the recent past, the prestige of the chariot after its victories in the Middle East was such that every local European chieftain was eager to have one, whether or not he could use it effectively in war."

William H. McNeill - The Pursuit of Power. Technology, Armed Force and Society Since AD 1000 (1982; pp. 11 - 12 and footnotes)





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Vin alegerile!

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True Happiness This Way Lies

PS: Cine nu stie The The a pierdut coada la iluminare :) :wink:

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[...] between mighty outbursts of pleasure and terror [...]

"Even in this form as a control organization, however, physical violence and the threat emanating from it have a determining influence on individuals in society, whether they know it or not. It is, however, not a perpetual insecurity that it brings into the life of the individual, but a peculiar form of security.

It no longer throws him, in the swaying fortunes of battle, as the physical victor or vanquished, between mighty outbursts of pleasure and terror; a continuous, uniform pressure is exerted on individual life by the physical violence stored behind the scenes of everyday life, a pressure totally familiar and hardly perceived, conduct and drive economy having been adjusted from earliest youth to this social structure. It is in fact the whole social mould, the code of conduct, which changes; and accordingly with it changes, as has been said before, not only this or that specific form of conduct but its whole pattern, the whole structure of the way individuals steer themselves.

The monopoly organization of physical violence does not usually constrain the individual by a direct threat. A strongly predictable compulsion or pressure mediated in a variety of ways in constantly exerted on the individual.

This operates to a considerable extent through the medium of his own reflection. It is normally only potentially present in society, as an agency of control; the actual compulsion is one that the individual exerts on himself either as a result of his knowledge of the possible consequences of his moves in the game in intertwining activities, or as a result of corresponding gestures of adults which have helped to pattern his own behaviour as a child.

The monopolization of physical violence, the concentration of arms and armed men under one authority, makes the use of violence more or less calculable, and forces unarmed men in the pacified social spaces to restrain their own violence through foresight or reflection; in other words it imposes on people a greater or lesser degree of self-control."

Norbert Elias, On Civilization, Power, and Knowledge: Selected Writings, Ch. “The Social Constraint towards Self-Constraint”, p. 57; The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1998



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[...] şi coaptă din nou în untură de porc în lipsă de ulei de hrean [...]

"Sedus de simplitatea formulelor pentru înmulţirea aurului, José Arcadio Buendía îi făcu curte Ursulei timp de câteva săptămâni pentru ca să-l lase să-i dezgroape monedele coloniale şi să le înmulţească de atâtea ori de câte ori se putea diviza mercurul. Ca întotdeauna, Ursula cedă în faţa încăpăţânării neclintite a bărbatului ei. José Arcadio Buendía aruncă atunci treizeci de dubloni într-o căldare şi-i topi la un loc cu pilitură de cupru, de orpiment, de sulf şi de plumb. Puse totul să clocotească la foc încins într-o căldare plină cu ulei de ricină, până ce obţinu un sirop gros cu miros pesti¬lenţial, care te făcea să te gândeşti mai degrabă la caramelul vulgar decât la aurul magnific. În urma distilărilor disperate şi până la urmă dezastruoase, topită la un loc cu cele şapte metale planetare, prelucrată cu mercurul ermetic şi cu vitriol de Cipru şi coaptă din nou în untură de porc în lipsă de ulei de hrean preţioasa moştenire a Ursulei fu redusă la câteva rămăşiţe carbonizate, care nu se puteau dezlipi de pe fundul căldării."

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Calea, Adevărul și Viața

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[...] ci ce putem să facem de aici încolo [...]

Interviu cu Ion Vianu în Adevărul. Fără de cusur. Cap coadă. Ai dracu' psihanalişti, cum le ştie ei dom'le pe toate ca nişte oameni mari... :)

* * *
Cine suntem?
Eu cred că este o falsă problemă, nu cred că este important cine suntem, nici măcar cum suntem , ci ce putem să facem de aici încolo. Avem un proiect pentru ţara noastră? Ei bine, aici am impresia că ne-am încurcat total. Cred că suntem într-un impas mai mare decât în alte impasuri istorice prin care am trecut, fiindcă România a fost mult timp un proiect reuşit. Foarte târziu în Evul Mediu nu existam. Pe urmă am început să devenim. Din entităţile acelea minuscule, de la Menumorut şi Glad, am devenit două principate importante. Pe urmă principatele s-au unit; apoi s-a făcut România Mare. Proiectul românesc este un proiect reuşit, eu cred că asta trebuie spus şi înţeles. Comunismul a dat o lovitură teribilă acestei dezvoltări organice, dar chiar şi comunismul a construit ceva, în condiţiile acelea de strâmtoare. Nu a fost totală această închidere. În afară de aspectele sumbre, de suferinţele enorme care au atins milioane de oameni, a existat şi un aspect constructiv.

[...] Iar condamnarea comunismului pe care eu o susţin, nu ne împiedică să vedem ce s-a făcut. Oamenii au trăit sub comunism, s-au trezit în fiecare dimineaţă şi s-au dus la lucru. Nu putem să desfiinţăm munca unui popor întreg timp de zeci de ani din motive ideologice. Am fost foarte angajat împotriva comunismului şi continui să cred în valorile libertăţii, care mie mi se pare supreme. Dar nu pot să condamn un popor întreg care a existat şi a produs ceva.

[...] Asta este poate şi un defect pe care îl au românii, ideea de a arunca vina pe şef. Eu văd acum în România o stare de lucruri destul de deplorabilă, din cauza crizei, şi mi se pare că polarizarea „Băsescu e de vină” e delirantă. Evident că un şef de stat are anumite răspunderi, însă ideea că el este singurul de vină este o idee superficială, greşită şi psihanalitc falsă. Adică noi căutăm un tată criminal, un tată monstruos căruia vrem să îi smulgem organele virilităţii considerând că ne violează. Îi atribuim toate eşecurile noastre. Dar laşitatea celor care acceptă? Responsabilitatea colectivă? Şi de-asta prinde atât de bine azi această polarizare, plus propaganda unor posturi de televiziune.

[...] Bucureştiul de azi nu este foarte diferit din punctul ăsta de vedere, deşi este mai colorat. Şi de ce este urât? Pentru că nu există o grijă pentru spaţiul public. Acţionează un egoism care te face să nu vezi mai departe de curtea ta. Asta mie mi se pare un dezastru, la fel cum mi se pare neproductivă şi ideea minimizării rolului statului. Avem nevoie de un stat puternic. Eu care am trăit şi mai trăiesc în Elveţia, pot spune că acolo totul este guvernat de ideea spaţiului public.

Cum vedeţi tinerii din România?
Tineretul din România mi se pare inteligent, capabil, ca întotdeauna. România este o resursă inepuizabilă de inteligenţă. Dar mi se pare şi el prins în această horă infernală a egoismului. Am impresia că există puţin o adevărată dorinţă de a contribui la binele societăţii. Dar noi nu suntem o adevărată societate.

Ce ne lipseşte?
Ne lipseşte solidaritatea.

Dar am avut-o înainte de 1989, sau ne-a forţat contextul să fim solidari?
Cred că România de după 1866 a fost o societatea care s-a gândit în termeni de bine public. Nu era o societate bună, avea defecte, ţărănimea era tratată foarte prost. Dar existaua elite destoinice. Ţin minte că tatăl meu spunea că erau numai 100 de profesori de franceză în România, dar ei aveau conştiinţa că aduc ceva culturii şi societăţii româneşti.

Erau nişte elite.
Nu numai că erau nişte elite, dar erau nişte oameni care aveau conştiinţa că fac ceva pentru colectivitatea din care fac parte.

De ce pleacă tinerii din România?
S-a invocat motivul material, de pildă un doctor plecând în Belgia sau în Franţa o să câştige de cinci ori mai mult, însă nu cred că acest lucrul este principalul motiv. Este totuşi o mare încercare să îţi părăseşti ţara. Se plăteşte foarte scump biletul către exil, şi cred că dacă ar exista un proiect comun mulţi nu ar pleca totuşi. Poate că ar pleca unii extraordinar de dotaţi; dar foarte mulţi din cei care pleacă nu ar mai pleca. Această plecare este, dacă gândeşti din perspectiva naţională, un dezastru, pentru că este o perpetuă pierdere de energie. Începutul acestei tendinţe o datorăm comunismului, fiindcă România nu fusese mai înainte o ţară de emigrare. Românii în general au stat aici, au ţinut la acest pământ, l-au fecundat şi îngrijit.

[...] Pare utopic. Dar trebuie să ne gândim că dacă nu ne salvăm, am putea dispărea. Există şi popoare care au dispărut din istorie.

Există şi acest risc, mai ales în contextul globalizării?
Sigur că există şi acest risc. Există o globalizare accelerată, există forţe proaspete în Asia, există Turcia, republicile postsovietice, care deja au pus ochii pe noi, să nu uităm că importante resurse petrolifere sunt deja în mâna Kazahstanului. Primejdia este mare şi ar trebui ca şi reacţia să fie pe măsură.

Cum vedeţi România anului 2030?
O văd foarte bine sau foarte rău. Gândiţi-vă cât de jos ajunsese România în vremea Păcii de la Adrianopol. Părea de nesalvat. Şi s-a întâmplat ceva, a urmat un secol extraordinar, de resurecţie a proiectului românesc. Există în viaţa popoarelor astfel zvâcniri, redemarări. Dar dacă această zvâcnire nu va avea loc, atunci, vă spun, vom deveni o colonie a Kazahstanului.

Este investiţia în cultură şi educaţie calea către salvare?
Da, este calea. Mă bucur foarte tare când aud că existe elite tinereşti, că există o ierarhie a liceelor.

Care vă este relaţia cu moartea?
Nu ştiu cum reacţionezi dacă eşti pus chiar în imediata prezenţă a morţii, însă relaţia mea cu moartea este una de acceptare. Cred că ceea ce este îngrozitor este decadenţa fizică şi mentală; moartea îi este preferabilă. Existenţa trebuie să se înscrie în finitudine, însăşi în finitudine şi rotunjime stă frumuseţea existenţei.

Dar cu Dumnezeu care mai e relaţia?
Am auzit o anecdotă: pe o bancă în Cişmigiu stătea un bătrân şi alături de el s-a mai aşezat un bătrân; stând de vorbă, cel dintâi şi-a dat seama că bătrânul care venise era însuşi Dumnezeu; l-a întrebat care dintre religii este cea bună? Dumnezeu a răspuns: ‘ca să îţi spun drept, religia nu mă preocupă’.

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You're just less orderly

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[...] the entire sub-culture of rugby union was very much the domain of the players [...]

Critics of contact sports, notably in the 1970s by neo-Marxists, such as Brohm, reinforced the view of rugby football as the most ‘uncivilized’ of football codes; ‘a perfect illustration of the fascistic delirium . . . a case book of the deliberate cultivation of brutality’.

The untamed, or so it was thought, mayhem of the ‘traditional’ rucks and mauls; the dangerous impacts of the unrestrained scrum contacts; lineouts that were viewed by critics as being nothing short of ‘dockyard brawls’; and the tolerance of the dispensing of swift, heavy and violent justice, meant the game still had a foot firmly planted in its mob-football origins.

Prior to its shift into the entertainment sector, the entire sub-culture of rugby union was very much the domain of the players; it was characterized as the players’ game.

Central to this was the fact that the vast majority of administrators, officials and coaches were predominantly ex-players. Management support thus came from those steeped in the culture of the game and tolerant of its uncompromising physical nature, largely manifested in tight-forward dominated and dour contests.

The spectators were an integral part of the game’s sub-culture. They came largely from the rugby community and the games were not, in essence, about entertainment but rather were about identity, loyalty and parochialism.

Peter Horton (2009): Rugby union football in Australian society: an unintended consequence of intended actions, Sport in Society: Cultures, Commerce, Media, Politics, 12:7, 967-985 (p. 972)

Courtesy of Bogdan Voicu, care mi-a atras atentia ca Routledge ofera in luna ianuarie liber la articolele despre rugby, in anticiparea inceperii Turneului celor 6 natiuni. Si din motive de marketing, evident :) .



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[...] that Truth is a matter of the imagination [...]

I'll make my report as if I told a story, for I was taught as a child on my homeworld that Truth is a matter of the imagination. The soundest fact may fail or prevail in the style of its telling: like that singular organic jewel of our seas, which grows brighter as one woman wears it and, worn by another, dulls and goes to dust. Facts are no more solid, coherent, round, and real than pearls are. But both are sensitive.

The story is not all mine, nor told by me alone. Indeed I am not sure whose story it is; you can judge better. But it is all one, and if at moments the facts seem to alter with an altered voice, why then you can choose the fact you like best; yet none of them are false, and it is all one story.

Ursula K Le Guin, The Left Hand Of Darkness (1969)



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Ce-ți doresc eu ție, dulce Italie?

Vedeți vreo diferențǎ? Eu, sǎ moarǎ pisicile din Forumul Roman, zǎu dacǎ vǎz vreuna. Ai dracu’ veri de ginte latinǎ, cum sîntem noi la fel, dar doar în cele rele...

“This is the formula. It was good in the past and it will probably be good enough for many years to come.

Take a vast, hard-working, pliable, ingenious population, worried about its daily bread, capable at times of accepting untold sacrifices, but restless and anxious for novelties.

Keep the people ignorant by providing the minimum amount of schools. Keep them in want by regimenting with an iron hand or persecuting industry and trade. Keep them bewildered and insecure by the arbitrary manipulation of vaguely worded laws.

See that there never are clearly defined rights and duties, but always favours from above or abuses of power. Keep the people happy with a steady rain of miserable alms, distracted with many holidays, more holidays than any other nation in Europe, feasts, the inauguration of splendidly decorated and sometimes useful public works.

Spend most of the money on superfluous things, the armed forces and insensate wars in the past, and now on entertainments, public spectacles, games; spend as little as possible on improving the people’s moral and physical conditions. Keep them always drunk with stirring appeals to their more primitive emotions.

Then take a small oligarchy of leaders, eternally squabbling among themselves, frightened for their position and, often enough, for their life, whose power depends precariously on the favour of a few or of one man, sometimes even a foreign chief, residing abroad.

Put these leaders above the law. This tends to make the best of them wary, pitiless, overbearing, unscrupulous and avaricious.

In the old days such men were courtiers, land-owning aristocrats, high dignitaries and generals; later they were also bankers, shipowners, industrialists; yesterday they were Fascist chieftains. Today they are the heads of mass parties, exponents of organizations turning out million of votes, controllers of industrial empires privately- or State-owned and trade-union chiefs.

The grand seigneurs of old had better taste, were braver, more polite, and carried themselves with greater dignity; the liberal patriots of the nineteenth century often loved their country, encouraged industry and trade, and tried at times to do something to better the people’s living conditions; today’s leaders are more intelligent, efficient and have studied more. But such differences are as unimportant as the fashions of the clothes they wore.

When one forgets superficial variations, one can see that the Italian leaders of today behave more or less as their predecessors have always behaved. They manage Italy as if it were cosa nostra; carry out vast, ambitious, impressive political designs, which are described as essential to the welfare of the country but are brutally and transparently conceived mainly to reinforce their own power.

They use the people as if they were extras on a Graeco-Roman film set, to be moved by remote control, to whom nobody explains the plot. Anything else would be unthinkable. To persuade their countrymen to cultivate the arts of reading and writing, to allow them to gain and enjoy a moderate prosperity, to encourage as many as possible to become soberly responsible would endanger the hold of the élite, or, as the élite prefers to say, weaken the social structure.

There is, however, this to be said in the leaders’ defence. They are the product of their society. The grand seigneurs of old as well as the contemporary cabinet ministers or controllers of State monopolies share the qualities and defects of the people, nourish the same ideals. They are, in fact, what the Italians make them.

[...] This, it must be pointed out with solemnity, was in the past and still is today the crux of the Italian problem, of all Italian problems, the heart of the matter, the only significance in many apparently meaningless and disorderly intricacies of Italian history. It is the only explanation of many otherwise puzzling aspects of the national behaviour, the question people debated passionately down the centuries and are still debating today in cafés and Parliament, the thorn in the heart of all good Italians of all ages.

Why did Italy, a land notoriously teeming with vigorous, wide-awake and intelligent people, always behave so feebly? Why was she invaded, ravaged, sacked, humiliated in every century, and yet failed to do the simple things necessary to defend itself?”

Luigi Barzini, The Italians (Penguin Books, London, 1964; pp. 358-359; 360-361)



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[...] I feel they have missed a layer of depth [...]

Despre lucrurile cu adevarat importante.

"I think it's true that when a country is seeing low fertility rates, it can be associated with a society-wide sense of solipsism or futility.

One common factor in Vietnam and Russia, another country where birthrates have cratered, is that over the past couple of decades both societies have lost what was once a very strong sense of national mission.

In both countries, the old national narrative has been increasingly replaced by a creed of pure capitalist consumption. That creed provides no logic for the transmission of durable cross-generational values; some of the worst child-rearing I have ever seen was going on among newly rich Vietnamese.

Of course, you could describe the problem via a different channel: in both countries, the collapse of the national narrative has predictably been associated with a sharp deterioration of the public sphere and a huge increase in corruption, which makes these societies worse places to raise children.

But either way, I think there is an association between the transition in such countries to a value system that sees no higher goal than Ferraris, football clubs, mistresses and stupidly expensive wine, and a declining interest in fashioning a child-friendly society.

Finally, though, and I'm frankly hoping that some of my childless friends don't read this: I think, as a matter of personal sensibility and conviction, that having children is an extremely important part of interacting with the universe at a level that extends beyond your own immediate circumstances.

There are, of course, many other ways one can achieve similar kinds of future-directed, altruistic engagement with what Dutch call the "whole-all". You can adopt. You can teach. You can give yourself over to some pioneering project, social, scientific or spiritual, that extends beyond any hope of renown for yourself and attempts to explore or shape a larger reality.

But having children is one of the best ways of doing this, and one that is both unique and an obvious core aspect of what humans are designed to do. I feel bad for my friends who won't have the experience, and I feel, since they are my friends, that the universe has missed something through that absence.

Some of those friends are sad about it too; others have decided they were lucky or smart not to have kids, just as most all of us decide we were lucky or smart to have ended up with the lives we've ended up with. Some of them never wanted kids, some really are better without kids, some have found ways to engage with the world that are every bit as deep.

But for at least some friends, I feel they have missed a layer of depth, have not been made to think about how to live in a way deserving of being passed on to the future (though God knows most of us parents rarely meet that standard), and have not been forced into dialogue with the time travelers from that future, who will ultimately decide what to keep and what to throw away.

I'm not sure I would call it "decadent" when a higher number of people don't engage with the future by having kids, but I certainly think it's a shame, and we ought to shift both social mores and corporate and government policy to make it easier for more people to do so."



Sursa: The Economist, It takes a decadent village



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Niciodatǎ sǎ nu

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De 150 de ani tot vin alegerile

.

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[...] in the absence of human hubris, the universe looks more and more random [...]

Ai dracu negri nemernici, cum strivesc ei corola de minuni a sensului. Tz tz tz. Ar trebui exterminati ca dinozaurii, mama lor de negri multi si mici si ai dracu de retorici.

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[...] contempt was written into her face [...]

I was at the Oriental that evening, just in time for the first show at 8.15. The girl dancing naked on the pagoda-like dance floor, to the accompaniment of a six-piece orchestra, had eyes that were as cold and hard as the blackest piece of Pichler’s porphyry. Contempt was written into her face as indelibly as the birds tattooed on her small, girlish breasts. A couple of times she had to stifle a yawn, and once she grimaced at the gorilla who was detailed to watch over her in case anyone wanted to show the girl his appreciation. When after forty-five minutes she came to the end of her act, her curtsy was a mockery of those of us who had watched it.

[...]

‘Oh, will you look at that?’ he chuckled, with schoolboyish glee. Put a nice frame around her ass and I could hang it on my wall.‘ He tossed back his beer and winked lasciviously at me. ’I’ll say one thing for you krauts. You build your women every bit as well as you build your automobiles.‘

Philip Kerr, Berlin Noir III: A German Requiem





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[...] oamenii sînt exact ca arhitectura [...]

- Ai fost vreodatǎ la Viena? mǎ întrebǎ, fixîndu-și decorația sub epolet.

- Nu, niciodatǎ.

- Oamenii sînt exact ca arhitectura, zise el, inspectîndu-și înfǎțișarea în reflecția din fereastrǎ. Sînt toți numai fațadǎ. Tot ce e interesant în legǎturǎ cu ei pare sǎ fie la suprafațǎ. Pe dinǎuntru sînt foarte diferiți. Ei, uite un popor cu care aș putea într-adevǎr sǎ lucrez. Toți vienezii sînt nǎscuți sǎ fie spioni.

Philip Kerr, Berlin Noir III: Recviem German, p. 69 (Ed. Polirom, București, 2009)







PS: Si in varianta engleza, ca de-aia exista Internetul, sa citim in limba in care a fost scrisa cartea, da?

"‘Have you ever been to Vienna?’ he asked, fixing the cross belt under his epaulette.

‘No, never.’

“The people are just like the architecture,‘ he said, inspecting his appearance in the window’s reflection. ’They are all front. Everything that’s interesting about them seems to be on the surface. Inside they’re very different. Now there’s a people I could really work with. All Viennese were born to be spies.‘"





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