quelques jours

Ce matin j'ai pris le taureau par les cornes, j'ai acheté un bouquet de renoncules, je suis rentrée dans un magasin de décoration où j'ai acheté une aiguière, et aussi une bougie parfumée au tilleul et un petit plateau japonais pour mettre ma théière, je me suis souvenue d'un livre où une femme achetait un chien pour se guérir d'un chagrin d' amour, elle se promenait avec le chien dans la ville ensoleillée, elle montait dans la chambre d' hôtel, allait sur le balcon pour regarder la place ensoleillée et se jetait par-dessus la balustrade, non, non, non, je plaisante, je ne vais pas me jeter par-dessus la balustrade, d'ailleurs je n'ai pas de balustrade, mais enfin, je reviens à la maison avec les renoncules, (...) j'allume la bougie au tilleul, tout à l'air propre et gai, il faut que les choses aient l'air propre et gai, dans une maison où brûle gentiment une bougie parfumée il n'y a pas de place pour la tragédie.

Y. Reza, p.18

ζάσταβα

Το Νοέμβρη στη Θεσσαλονίκη αγόρασα τον Ιανό του Εθνικισμού. Το ξεφύλλισα στο αεροπλάνο της επιστροφής, διάβασα το άρθρο του Λιάκου το πρώτο βράδυ στο Λονδίνο (απορώντας μάλιστα πώς είχε καταφέρει να μου γίνει τόσο αντιπαθής στα 2 μόλις μαθήματα που είχα κάνει μαζί του σε ένα μάθημα επιλογής στη Φιλοσοφική πριν πολλά χρόνια ενώ αυτό που διάβαζα τώρα ήταν οκ. Μήπως τον μπερδεύω με άλλον; Αλτσχάιμερ. Πάλι). Χτές το ξανάπιασα, σήμερα στο λεωφορείο τελείωσα το κομμάτι του Ελεφάντη. Σε ένα σημείο λέει για την ελληνική αντίδραση και τα συλλαλητήρια και πώς ένα από τα συνθήματα ήταν "σιγά μην ήταν ζάσταβα ο Βουκεφάλας". Βλακεία ολκής, με έκανε να σκεφτώ τον παροξυσμό των ημερών και να αναρωτηθώ αν είχε "παίξει" όντως ευρέως αυτό το σύνθημα τότε. Δεν το θυμόμουν καθόλου. Πριν 5 λεπτά πήρα ένα η-μαίηλ από γνωστό που το αναπαρήγαγε αυτολεξεί μεταξύ άλλων βλακειών, ιστορικών ανακριβειών κλπ. Του απάντησα παραινετικά να μη στέλνει βλακείες και κρίμα που δε διαβάζει το μπλογκ γιατί ήθελα να τον κράξω λίγο ακόμα. Τζίμη, αν διαβάζεις εκεί στο Άμστερνταμ, δώσε σήμα, έχω να σου πω :-)

Τα τέσσερα κεφάλαια του βιβλίου (ουσιαστικά ομιλίες / άρθρα που έχουν δημοσιευθεί στον Πολίτη την περίοδο 1991-2, πλην αυτού του Μανιτάκη που δημοσιεύθηκε στην Ελευθεροτυπία) αν και βαθιά επηρεασμένα από την εποχή που γράφτηκαν, έχουν μερικά ενδιαφέροντα σημεία. Νομίζω πως θα επανέλθω. Εντωμεταξύ, αντιγράφω ένα γνωστό απόσπασμα από το Ροΐδη που έχει ο Λιάκος στην πρώτη του σελίδα.

«Έκαστος τόπος έχει την πληγήν του, η Αγγλία την ομίχλην, η Αίγυπτος τας οφθαλμίας, η Βλαχία τας ακρίδας και η Ελλάς τον πατριωτισμόν».

Ασμοδαίος, 1876

photo by Teacher Dude

p.123

Pferdehuf said, 'I'll stamp-date the coded radiogram from Berlin, so if any question comes up later on, we can show exactly when we received it'. 'Thank you', Reiss said. The people in Berlin were past masters at transferring responsibility and he was weary of being stuck.


p.123 of Philip Dick's The Man in the High Castle, Penguin 1965. (ρίξτε μια ματιά στα εξώφυλλα)

πρόσκληση από την Ιφιμέδεια

6η, 7η και 8η περίοδο της σελ. 123 του πρώτου βιβλίου που θα πιάσετε τυχαία στα χέρια σας.

ποτέ δεν ξέρω αν πρέπει να συνεχίσω τη σκυτάλη. Αυτή τη φορά θα 'θελα να τη δώσω στον Silent Stelios που το έχει κάνει ήδη, οπότε αντ' αυτού στον Passenger, στον Sraosha, στον Thas, στην Sunbeam και στον Mersault.

nothing to do with me

The man: How could i tell them about an unknown island if I don't even know where it is
The clealing woman: But you're sure it exists
As sure as I am that the sea is dark
Right now, seen from up here, with the water the color of jade and the sky ablaze, it doesn't seem at all dark to me
That's just an illusion, sometimes islands seem to float above the surface of the water but it's not true
How do you think you'll manage if you haven't got a crew
I don't know yet
We could live here, and I could get work cleaning the boats that come into port, and you,
And I
You must have some skill, a craft, a profession, as they call it nowadays
I have, did have, will have if necessary, but I want to find the unknown island, I want to find out who I am when I'm there on that island
Don't you know
If you don't step outside yourself, you'll never discover who you are
The king's philosopher, when he had nothing to do, would come and sit beside me and watch me darning the pages' socks, and sometimes he would start philosophizing, he used to say that each man is an island, but since that had nothing to do with me, being a woman, I paid no attention to him, what do you think
That you have to leave the island in order to see the island, that we can't see oursleves unless we become free of ourselves
Unless we escape from ourselves, you mean
No, that's not the same thing.

The blaze in the sky was dying down, the waters grew suddenly purple, now not even the cleaning woman could doubt that the sea is dark, at least at certain times of the day. The man said

Let's leave the philosophizing to the king's philosopher, that's what they pay him for after all and let's eat.

J. Saramago, pps 31-32

this person

Someone is getting excited. Somebody somewhere is shaking with excitement because something tremendous is about to happen to this person. This person has dressed for the occasion. This person has hoped and dreamed and now it is really happening and this person can hardly believe it. But believing is not an issue here, the time for faith and fantasy is over, it is really happening. It involves stepping forward and bowing. Possibly there is some kneeling, such as when one is knighted. One is almost never knighted. But this person may kneel and receive a tap on each shoulder with a sword. Or, more likely, this person will be in a car or a store or under a vinyl canopy when it happens. Or online or on the phone. It could be an e-mail re: your knighthood. Or a long, laughing, rambling phone message in which every person this person has ever known is talking on the speakerphone and they are all saying, You have passed the test, it was all just a test, we were only kidding, real life is so much better than that. This person is laughing out loud with relief and playing the message back to get the address of the place where every person this person has ever known is waiting to hug this person and bring her into the fold of life. It is really exciting, and it’s not just a dream, it’s real.

They are all waiting by a picnic table in a park this person has driven past many times before. There they are, it’s everyone. There are balloons taped to the benches, and the girl this person used to stand next to at the bus stop is waving a streamer. Everyone is smiling. For a moment this person is almost creeped out by the scene, but it would be so like this person to become depressed on the happiest day ever, and so this person bucks up and joins the crowd.

Teachers of subjects that this person wasn’t even good at are kissing this person and renouncing the very subjects they taught. Math teachers are saying that math was just a funny way of saying “I love you”. But now they are simply saying it, I love you, and the chemistry and the PE teachers are also saying it and this person can tell they really mean it. It's totally amazing. Certain jerks and idiots and assholes appear from time to time, and it is as if they have had plastic surgery, their faces are disfigured with love. The handsome assholes are plain and kind, and they ugly jerks are sweet, and they are folding this person’s sweater and putting it somewhere where it won’t get dirty. Best of all, every person this person has ever loved is there. Even the ones who got away. They hold this person’s hand and tell this person how hard it was to pretend to get mad and drive off and never come back. This person almost can’t believe it, it seemed so real, this person’s heart was broken and has healed and now this person hardly knows what to think. This person is almost mad. But everyone soothes this person. Everyone explains that it was absolutely necessary to know how strong this person was. (…)

This person suddenly feels the need to check her post office box. It is an old habit, and even if everything is going to be terrific from now on, this person still wants mail. This person says she will be right back and everyone this person has ever known says, Fine, take your time. This person gets in her car and drives to the post office and opens the box and there is nothing. Even though it is a Tuesday, which is famously a good day for mail. This person is so disappointed, the person gets back in the car and, having completely forgotten about the picnic, drives home and checks the voice mail and there are no new messages, just the old one about "passing the test" and “life being better”. There are no e-mails either, probably because everyone is at the picnic. This person can’t seem to go back to the picnic. This person realizes the staying home means blowing off everyone this person has ever known. But the desire to stay in is very strong. This person wants to run a bath and read in bed.

In the bathtub this person pushes the bubbles around and listens to the sound of millions of them popping at once. It almost makes one smooth sound instead of many tiny sounds. This person’s breasts barely jut out of the water. This person pushes the bubbles onto the breasts and makes weird shapes with the foam. By now everyone must have realized that this person is not coming back to the picnic. Everyone was wrong; this person is not who they thought this person was. This person plunges underwater for an impressively long time but only in a bathtub. This person wonders if there will ever be an Olympic contest for holding your breath under bathwater. If there were such a contest, this person would surely win it. An Olympic medal might redeem this person in the eyes of everyone this person has ever known. But no such contest exists, so there will be no redeeming. The person mourns the fact that she has ruined her one chance to be loved by everyone; as this person climbs into bed, the weight of this tragedy seems to bear down this person's chest. And it is a comforting weight, almost human in heft. This person sighs. This person's eyes begin to close, this person sleeps.

M. July, pps 53-56

Selanik

Salonicco, Selanik, Солун? Salonicha or Salonique? There are at least thirteen medieval variants alone; the city is an indexer's nightmare and a linguist's delight. 'Is there really a correct pronunciation of Salonika?' wrote an English ex-serviceman in 1941. 'At any rate nearly all of us now spell it with a "k".' His presumption stirred up a hornet's nest. 'Why Saloneeka, when every man in the last war knew it as Salonika?' responded a certain Mr Pole from Totteridge. 'I disagree with W. Pole', wrote Captain Vance from Edgware, Middlesex. 'Every man in the last war did not know it as Salonika'. Mr Wilks of Newbury tried to calm matters by helpfully pointing out that in 1937 'by Greek royal decree, Salonica reverted to Thessaloniki'. In fact it had been officially known by the Greek form since the Ottomans were defeated in 1912.

Mazower, p.16

photos by minas of the north

here I come

comparing truth to reality

he felt both a deep disgust and a sense of enormous bereavement - he could not tell which lay uppermost.

L.Durrell, p. 545

my private Alexandria

From the vantage-point of this island I can see it all in its doubleness, in the intercalation of fact and fancy, with new eyes; and re-reading, re-working reality in the light of all I know now, I am surprised to find that my feelings themselves have changed, have grown, have deepened even. Perhaps then the destruction of my private Alexandria was necessary ('the artifact of a true work of art never shows a plane surface'); perhaps buried in all this there lies the germ and substance of a truth -time's usufruct- which, if I can accommodate it, will carry me a little further in what is really a search for my proper self. We shall see.

L. Durrell, p.370

studying maps of worlds already gone...

(επετειακόν και ουχί πένθιμον)

... there is a moment which follows pride in the boundless extension of the territories we have conquered, and the melancholy and relief of knowing we shall soon give up any thought of knowing and understanding them.

(I. Calvino, p.5)

given up

delusions

8. Medical history tells us of the case of a man living under the peculiar delusion that he was a fried egg. Quite how or when this idea had entered his head, no one knew, but he now refused to sit down anywhere for fear that he would ‘break himself’ and ‘spill the yolk’. His doctors tried sedatives and other drugs to appease his fears, but nothing seem to work. Finally, one of them made the effort to enter the mind of the deluded patient and suggested that he should carry a piece of toast with him at all times, which he could place on any chair he wished to sit on, and thereby protect himself from breaking his yolk. From then on, the deluded man was never seen without a piece of toast handy, and was able to continue a more or less normal existence.

9. What is the point of the story? It merely shows that though one may be living under a delusion (love, the belief that one is an egg), if one finds the complementary part of it (another lover under a similar delusion, a piece of toast) then all may be well. Delusions are not harmful in themselves, they only hurt when one is alone in believing in them.

(Alain De Botton, p.98)