La Classe Quotes

Fang: “Let them blow up the world, and global-warm it, and pollute it. You and me and the others will be holed up somewhere, safe. We’ll come back out when they’re all gone, done playing their games of world domination." Max: “That’s a great plan. Of course, by then we won’t be able to go outside because we’ll get fried by the lack of the ozone layer. We’ll be living at the bottom of the food chain because everything with flavor will be full of mercury or radiation or something! And there won’t be any TV or cable because all the people will be dead! So our only entertainment will be Gazzy singing the constipation song! And there won’t be amusement parks and museums and zoos and libraries and cute shoes! We’ll be like cavemen, trying to weave clothes out of plant fibers. We’ll have nothing! Nothing! All because you and the kids want to kick back in a La-Z-Boy during the most important time in history!” Fang: “So maybe we should sign you up for a weaving class. Get a jump start on all those plant fibers.” Max: "I HATE YOU!!!" Fang: "NO YOU DOOOOOON'T!!" Voice: "You two are crazy about each other.

It was just so...permanent. Choosing a class became choosing a discipline, and choosing a discipline became choosing a career, and choosing a career became choosing a life, and how was anyone supposed to do that, when you only had one?

Every Valentine's Day, the student council sponsered a holiday fundraiser by selling roses that would be delievered in class. The roses came in four colors:white, yellow, red, pink, and the subtleties of thier meaning were parsed and analyzed by the female population to no end. Mimi had always understood it thus:white for love, yellow for friendship, red for passion, and pink for a secret crush.

we are all murderers and prostitutes – no matter to what culture, society, class, nation one belongs, no matter how normal, moral, or mature, one takes oneself to be.

Man, I hated not being able to figure someone out. And from the slightly uncertain look he gave me as we all went to class, I suspected he felt the same way.

You know that half the girls in school would have been after you." He gave a soft laugh. "If they were into someone who was flunking out...I don't think I'd do too well with having to go to class when a bell rings or caring about homework..." "A bad boy--even better. You'd have done well in Spanish class." "If I ever went to it." We lay in silence for a awhile; Alex's arms felt so warm and safe that I was starting to get sleepy. "Say something in Spanish," I mumbled. He kissed my hair. "Te amo, Willow," he said quietly. I came awake, smiling into the darkness. "What does that mean?" I whispered. I could almost hear his own smile. "What do you think it means?" I hugged him, kissing his collarbone and wondering if it was possible to actually die of happiness. "Te amo, Alex.

Les utopies apparaissent comme bien plus réalisables qu’on ne le croyait autrefois. Et nous nous trouvons actuellement devant une question bien autrement angoissante : comment éviter leur réalisation définitive ? ... Les utopies sont réalisables. La vie marche vers les utopies. Et peut-être un siècle nouveau commence-t-il, un siècle où les intellectuels et la classe cultivée rêveront aux moyens d’éviter les utopies et de retourner à une société non utopique moins parfaite et plus libre.

Logic is the mirror of thought, and not vice versa;in classes, relations et nombres; essai sur les groupements de logistique et la réversibilitié de lq pensée

Choosing a class became choosing a discipline, and choosing a discipline became choosing a career, and choosing a career became choosing a life, and how was anyone supposed to do that, when you only had one?

Madame V begins the lesson by reading aloud the first stanza of a famous French poem: Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville; Quelle est cette langueur Qui penetre mon coeur? Then she looks up and without any warning she calls on me to translate it. I swallow hard, and try: "It's raining in my heart like it's raining in the city. What is this sadness that pierces my heart?" Saying these words out loud, right in front of the whole class, makes me feel like I'm not wearing any clothes.

I learned to read at the age of five, in Brother Justiniano’s class at the De la Salle Academy in Cochabamba, Bolivia. It is the most important thing that has ever happened to me. Almost seventy years later I remember clearly how the magic of translating the words in books into images enriched my life, breaking the barriers of time and space...

Lear, Macbeth. Mercutio – they live on their own as it were. The newspapers are full of them, if we were only the Shakespeares to see it. Have you ever been in a Police Court? Have you ever watched tradesmen behind their counters? My soul, the secrets walking in the streets! You jostle them at every corner. There's a Polonius in every first-class railway carriage, and as many Juliets as there are boarding-schools. ... How inexhaustibly rich everything is, if you only stick to life.

J'ai enfin compris pourquoi j'avais honte de m'asseoir dans la Cadillac de mon père! La raison de ma honte et de la révolution est la même: la différence de classe sociale. Mais j'y pense...on a une bonne à la maison!!

Mais c'est, plus quotidiennement, le refuge du livre contre le crépitement de la pluie, le silencieux éblouissement des pages contre la cadence du métro, le roman planqué dans le tiroir de la secrétaire, la petite lecture du prof quand planchent ses élèves, et l'élève de fond de classe lisant en douce, en attendant de rendre une copie blanche...

J’établissais confusément un lien entre ma classe sociale d’origine et ce qui m’arrivait. Première à faire des études supérieures dans une famille d’ouvriers et de petits commerçants, j’avais échappé à l’usine et au comptoir. Mais ni le bac ni la licence de lettres n’avaient réussi à détourner la fatalité de la transmission d’une pauvreté dont la fille enceinte était, au même titre que l’alcoolique, l’emblème. J’étais rattrapée par le cul et ce qui poussait en moi c’était, d’une certaine manière, l’échec social.

HeLa cells were one of the most important things that happened to medicine in the last hundred years,” Defler said. Then, matter-of-factly, almost as an afterthought, he said, “She was a black woman.” He erased her name in one fast swipe and blew the chalk from his hands. Class was over.

When our mother is seen only as the one-dimensional Mary of modern times, instead of the great dual force of life and death, She is relegated to the same second-class status of most women in the world. She is without desires of Her own, selfless and sexless except for Her womb. She is the cook, the mistress, bearer and caretaker of children and men. Men call upon Her and carry Her love and magic to form a formidable fortress, a team of cannons to protect them against their enemies. But for a long, long time the wars that women have been left to wage on behalf of men, on behalf of the human race, have started much sooner, in the home, in front of the hearth, in the womb. We do what we must to protect and provide for our young our families, our tribes

Ugh,” I snort in disgust. No doubt that girl’s some goddy rich trot living the sweet life farther inland, in one of LA’s upper-class sectors. Who cares what she scored on her Trial? The whole test is rigged in favor of the wealthy kids, anyway, and she’s probably just someone with average smarts who bought her high score.

Dans la mesure où la femme devient réalité pour un individu uniquement en relation avec un individu de la classe opposée - les hommes - et en particulier dans le mariage, les lesbiennes, parce qu'elles n'entrent pas dans cette catégorie, ne sont pas des "femmes".

Du joli, la passion dite amour. Si pas de jalousie, ennui. Si jalousie, enfer bestial. Elle une esclave, et lui une brute. Ignobles romanciers, bande de menteurs qui embellissaient la passion, en donnaient l'envie aux idiotes et aux idiots. Ignobles romanciers, fournisseurs et flagorneurs de la classe possédante. Et les idiotes aimaient ces sales mensonges, ces escroqueries, s'en nourissaient.

Je précise que je crois profondément à bien peu de choses, deux ou trois. La justice sociale, l’éducation, la subversion [...]. Je crois profondément que l’avenir de l’Homme et de sa fiancée ne se joue pas à la Bourse, à l’Université, dans un Parlement, dans un journal, dans un laboratoire de recherche. Je crois profondément que l’avenir de l’humanité se joue, chaque jour, dans la classe d’un prof de philo qui donne un cours sur le libre-arbitre à de futurs plombiers, de futurs flics, coiffeuses, infirmiers, informaticiennes et vendeurs de chars usagés. » (Pierre Foglia, éditorial, La Presse, 16 mai 1996)

To all the kids from the "special" reading class back in high school (the one where you tried to form words using wooden blocks) -- PLEASE stop telling me that I can't blame an "inanimate object" for the off-the-hook gun violence in this country. YES! ... I CAN!!! I blame all the "inanimate objects" in Congress who refuse to pass sensible gun legislation because they're too chicken-shit to take on Wayne LaPierre and the gun lobby.

« [L]'arbre dont on ferait leur cercueil poussait quelque part dans la forêt mais ils n'en savaient rien, un caillot de sang au cerveau pouvait les envoyer au néant en quelques secondes et ils se réjouissaient d'avoir mis la main sur un lot de petites Kit-Kat. »

La Société ne fait-elle pas de l'homme, suivant les milieux où son action se déploie, autant d'hommes différents qu'il y a de variétés en zoologie ? [...] Il a donc existé, il existera donc de tout temps des Espèces Sociales comme il y a des Espèces Zoologiques.

Ils y doivent travailler devant la majestueuse égalité des lois, qui interdit au riche comme au pauvre de coucher sous les ponts, de mendier dans les rues, et de voler du pain.

Ces six personnes formaient le fond de la voiture, le côté de la société rentée, sereine et forte, des honnêtes gens autorisés qui ont de la Religion et des Principes.

La ligne de partage entre le bien et le mal ne sépare ni les Etats ni les classes ni les partis, mais traverse le coeur de chaque homme et de toute l'humanité.

(...) comme si la jeunesse n'était en rien une données biologique, une simple question d'âge ou de moment de la vie, mais plutôt une sorte de privilège réservé à ceux qui peuvent - de par leur situation - jouir de toutes ces expériences, de tous ces affects que l'on regroupe sous le nom d'adolescence.

I told Caitlin ‘we have to leave’ even though I knew that her fifth period class is the only one she likes because mr.harris is the coolest teacher I’ve never had. She could tell I meant it, though, because she got her serious face on and just left with me. That’s why I love her so much. That’s why I wish I was a better person.

[La petite bourgeoisie des nations africaines] doit être capable de se suicider comme classe pour renaître comme travailleurs révolutionnaires, entièrement identifiée aux aspirations les plus profondes du peuple auquel elle appartient.

La Rive Gauche, on Wisconsin Avenue. According to the State Department in-jokes, this was the most exclusive place in Washington. For its clientele was made up almost entirely of CIA and KGB agents watching one another watching other people.

Ho riflettutto molto su come descriverlo, e questo è quel che ho deciso: «Nessuno l'ha mai definito un grande cane, o anche un buon cane. Era sfrenato come un ossesso e forte come un toro. Affrontava gioiosamente la vita, con un entusiasmo associato spesso a disastri naturali. È l'unico cane che sia mia stato espulso da un corso di aducazione all'obbedienza». Continuavo: «Marley era un divoratore di divani, un demolitore di porte a zanzariera, un dispensatore di saliva, un ribaltatore di coperchi di pattumiera. Quanto al cervello, lasciatemi dire che ha dato la caccia alla sua coda fino al giorno in cui è morto, apparentemente convinto di essere sull'orlo di una grossa svolta nel mondo canino». Ma c'era dell'altro in lui, e descrissi il suo intuito e la sua empatia, la sua dolcezza con i bambini, e il suo cuore puro. Quelo che volevo realtmente dire era come quest'animale aveva toccato le nostre anime e ci aveva insegnato alcune delle lezioni più importanti della vita. «Una persona può imparare molto da un cane, anche da un cane strambo come il nostro», scrissi. «Marley mi ha insegnato a vivere ogni giorno con sfrenata esuberanza e gioia, a cogliere il momento e seguire il mio cuore. Mi ha insegnato ad apprezzare le cose semplici: una passeggiata nei boschi, una fresca nevicata, un sonnellino in un raggio di sole invernale. E mentre diventava vecchio e malandato, mi ha insegnato l'ottimismo di fronte alle avversità. Sopprattutto mi ha insegnato l'amicizia, l'altruismo e una profonda devozione.» Era uno straordinario concetto che solo ora, sulla scia della sua morte, stavo assorbendo totalmente: Marley come mentore. Era un maestro e un modello di comportamento. Era possibile per un cane, qualsiasi cane, ma soprattutto un pazzo cane incontrollabile come il nostro, indicare agli umani le cose che contavano realmente nella vita? Direi di sì. Lealtà. Coraggio. Devozione. Semplicità. Gioia. E le cose che non contavano. A un cane non servono automobili lussuose o grandi case o vestiti di sartoria. Gli status symbol non significano niente per lui. Un bastone fradicio gli va altrettanto bene. Un cane giudica gli altri non dal colore, il credo o la classe ma da chi sono interioremente. A un cane non importa se sei ricco o povero, istruito o analfabeta, intelligente o stupido. Dagli il tuo cuore e lui ti darà il suo. Era molto semplice, eppure noi umani, così più saggi e più sofisticati, abbiamo sempre avuto difficltà a immaginare quel che conta e non conta realemente. Mentre scrivevo quest'articolo di addio a Marley, mi rendevo conto che era tutto lì di fronte a noi, se solo avessimo aperto gli occhi. A volte occorre un cane con un alito cattivo, pessime maniere, e intenzioni pure per aiutarci a vedere.

By lunchtime, the rest of the school was still talking about last night’s epic howler at Hell Hall, but Mal had no interest. The party was the past; she’d moved on. She had bigger things to worry about now. All she could think about was how her mother wanted the Dragon’s Eye back. And how Maleficent wouldn’t see her as anything other than her father’s daughter—in other words, a pathetic, soft human—until Mal could prove her wrong. Mal kept reliving last night’s conversation over and over, so that she missed her first few classes and sleepwalked through the rest. She arrived for her one-on-one after-school seminar with Lady

The three of us exchanged glances but said nothing. After all, what was there to say? The truth was that hookers did take credit cards—or at least ours did! In fact, hookers were so much a part of the Stratton subculture that we classified them like publicly traded stocks: Blue Chips were considered the top-of-the-line hooker, zee crème de la crème. They were usually struggling young models or exceptionally beautiful college girls in desperate need of tuition or designer clothing, and for a few thousand dollars they would do almost anything imaginable, either to you or to each other. Next came the NASDAQs, who were one step down from the Blue Chips. They were priced between three and five hundred dollars and made you wear a condom unless you gave them a hefty tip, which I always did. Then came the Pink Sheet hookers, who were the lowest form of all, usually a streetwalker or the sort of low-class hooker who showed up in response to a desperate late-night phone call to a number in Screw magazine or the yellow pages. They usually cost a hundred dollars or less, and if you didn’t wear a condom, you’d get a penicillin shot the next day and then pray that your dick didn’t fall off. Anyway, the Blue Chips took credit cards, so what was wrong with writing them off on your taxes? After all, the IRS knew about this sort of stuff, didn’t they? In fact, back in the good old days, when getting blasted over lunch was considered normal corporate behavior, the IRS referred to these types of expenses as three-martini lunches! They even had an accounting term for it: It was called T and E, which stood for Travel and Entertainment. All I’d done was taken the small liberty of moving things to their logical conclusion, changing T and E to T and A: Tits and Ass!

Pour moi l'automne n'a jamais été une saison triste. Les feuilles mortes et les jours de plus en plus courts ne m'ont jamais évoqué la fin de quelque chose mais plutôt une attente de l'avenir. Il y a de l'electricité dans l'air, à Paris, les soires d'Octobre à l'heure où la nuit tombe. Même quand il pleut. Je n'ai pas le cafard à cette heure-là, ni le sentiment de la fuite du temps. J'ai l'impression que tout est possible. L'année commence au mois d'octobre. C'est la rentrée des classes et je crois que c'est la saisons des projets.

Denise était venue à pied de la gare Saint-Lazare, où un train de Cherbourg l’avait débarquée avec ses deux frères, après une nuit passée sur la dure banquette d’un wagon de troisième classe. Elle tenait par la main Pépé, et Jean la suivait, tous les trois brisés du voyage, effarés et perdus, au milieu du vaste Paris, le nez levé sur les maisons, demandant à chaque carrefour la rue de la Michodière, dans laquelle leur oncle Baudu demeurait. Mais, comme elle débouchait enfin sur la place Gaillon, la jeune fille s’arrêta net de surprise.

It doesn't matter how rich or poor a person is, what gender or social class, or how much fame or education she possesses. Verbal, mental, and physical abuse can happen to anyone. It doesn't matter what a woman’s ethnicity is because the only distinguishing color of abuse is black-and-blue.

Voleva mostrare al mondo i lati opposti della città che non dormiva mai. Voleva raccontare la sua storia attraverso i propri occhi, le proprie lenti. Molte persone avevano cercato di fare lo stesso. Nessuno aveva mostrato il lato davvero oscuro che si celava dietro i musical della classe media e delle celebrità che ammiccavano con falsi sorrisi ai paparazzi. O forse ce n’erano stati altri. Ma a lui non importava. Non voleva farlo per gli altri ma per sé. Comunque non aveva nessuno, a parte Rafe, a cui mostrare le foto. In ogni caso voleva farlo bene. Nonno Kevan aveva immortalato la sua vita con la macchina fotografica; era tempo che Pierce fotografasse la sua.

Parce que c'est ma mère, elle qui a sacrifié chacun de ses jours et plusieurs de ses nuits pour me voir libérée des servilités et soumissions qui étaient les siennes, qui a souahaité le plus ma réussite. Parce qu'elle a prié la vierge Marie à genoux dans toutes les chapelles pour que j'échappe aux fatalités du destin social. Parce que même si je me contruisais contre elle en embrassant les codes qui l'excluent, j'ai produit sa fierté. Parce que la trahison que l'ascension suppose était non seulement attendue mais espérée.

still the old man traveled on as if he was leading a tour through the descending class structure of Queens.

All these people talk about [Vivian Maier's] hoarding, the pack-rat way she went through life. Watching, I couldn't help but feel their reactions were at least partly about money and social status; about who has the right to ownership and what happens when people exceed the number of possessions that their circumstance and standing would ordinarily allow. I don't know about you but if I was asked to put everything I own in a small room in someone else's house, I might well look like a hoarder. Although neither extreme poverty nor wealth makes one immune to craving an excess of possessions, it's worth asking of any behaviour presented as weird or freakish whether the boundary being transgressed is class, not sanity at all.

Although quite correctly the name of Niccolò Machiavelli is to be associated with such a break between politics and morality, the Florentine was only the first of several political theorists who worked to furnish the ruling class its morally invulnerable position. In particular, Giovanni Botero, in his 1589 book La Ragion di Stato, was the first to openly argue that, for the safety of the State, men may legitimately perform actions that would be considered crimes were they committed with other purposes or by people not empowered by such a noble institution.

Proverò a parlare di me. A presentarmi con parole mie. L'ho fatto tante volte quando ero a scuola. Ognuno di noi a turno doveva mettersi di fronte alla nuova classe e presentarsi. Era una cosa che odiavo. O meglio, più che odiarla non ne vedevo il senso. Che potevo saperne io di me stesso? Ero proprio io quel personaggio che riuscivo a percepire con la mia coscienza? Proprio come quando uno non riconosce la propria voce incisa su un registratore, mi chiedevo sempre se l'immagine che percepivo di me stesso non fosse un'immagine distorta che mi ero fabbricato su misura. Ogni volta che ero costretto a presentarmi davanti alla classe, mi alzavo in piedi con una sensazione di disagio. Mi sembrava di essere un truffatore. Per questa ragione cercavo sempre di dire solo fatti oggettivi, evitando interpretazioni o commenti: Ho un cane, mi piace nuotare, non mi piace il formaggio eccetera. Malgrado ciò provavo lo stesso la sensazione di star parlando dei fatti immaginari di una persona immaginaria. Anche quando ascoltavo gli altri, mi sembrava che parlassero tutti di qualcuno che non erano loro. Tutti vivevamo respirando l'area irreale di un mondo irreale.

Io passo attraverso i muri. Attraverso le villette antiladro controllate dagli allarmi antizingaro, protette da inferriate antinegro con vernice antiruggine dove antipatici padroni antisemiti con crema antirughe fanno antipasti antiallergici in bunker antiatomici. Attraverso le banche videosorvegliate. Attraverso i muri delle caserme, dei manicomi, delle galere. E mi viene da ridere mentre una guardia prova a fermarmi, perché attraverso anche lei con la sua divisa. Lei che si girerà dicendo: – Brigadiere, che facciamo? Questa è stregoneria! E io le risponderò: – No, questa è lotta di classe.

As a result of its investigation, the NIH said that to qualify for funding, all proposals for research on human subjects had to be approved by review boards—independent bodies made up of professionals and laypeople of diverse races, classes, and backgrounds—to ensure that they met the NIH’s ethics requirements, including detailed informed consent. Scientists said medical research was doomed. In a letter to the editor of Science, one of them warned, “When we are prevented from attempting seemingly innocuous studies of cancer behavior in humans … we may mark 1966 as the year in which all medical progress ceased.” Later that year, a Harvard anesthesiologist named Henry Beecher published a study in the New England Journal of Medicine showing that Southam’s research was only one of hundreds of similarly unethical studies. Beecher published a detailed list of the twenty-two worst offenders, including researchers who’d injected children with hepatitis and others who’d poisoned patients under anesthesia using carbon dioxide. Southam’s study was included as example number 17. Despite scientists’ fears, the ethical crackdown didn’t slow scientific progress. In fact, research flourished. And much of it involved HeLa. 18

Embora a classe social e o dinheiro possam sempre contar com um tratamento priveligiado na sociedade, com isso a capacidade intelectual não pode contar: o maior favor que podem prestar à inteligência é ignorá-la, e se as pessoas a percebem, é porque a consideram uma impertinência, ou algo a que o seu possuidor não tem nenhum direito legítimo, e do qual ele apenas ousa se orgulhar; e, em retaliação e vingança por sua conduta, as pessoas secretamente tentam humilhá-lo de alguma forma; e se demoram para fazer isso é só porque esperam pela ocasião mais adequada. (...) se um homem quer agradar, deve ser intelectualmente inferior.

He stared at the glowing moon again, and he listened to the whispering ocean. His thoughts were more staticky than before, but for the first time since the summer started, he felt like he understood the ocean's whispering. It all came down to this. The darkness. The loneliness. The mystery. The fact that everyone's days were numbered, and it didn't matter if you were in premier class or worked in housekeeping. Those were only costumes people wore. And once you stripped them away you saw the truth. This giant ocean and this dark pressing sky. We only have a few minutes, but the unexplainable world is constant and forever marching forward.

Al llarg dels segles XIX i XX hem passat, per dir-ho clar, de la guerra (o lluita) de classes al conflicte d'interessos, per bé que persisteix el conflicte entre rics i pobres, entre classes altes i baixes. Aquest salt qualitatiu es fa a remolc del creixement econòmic -que és un anivellador social i que afovoreix un estàndard de vida- i de l'extensió i la millora de l'ensenyament -que integra els individus en un projecte comú.

Sottolineai tantissime frasi con forza, segnai punti esclamativi, freghi verticali. Sputare su Hegel. Sputare sulla cultura degli uomini, sputare su Marx, su Engels, su Lenin. E sul materialismo storico. E su Freud. E sulla psicoanalisi e l’invidia del pene. E sul matrimonio, sulla famiglia. E sul nazismo, sullo stalinismo, sul terrorismo. E sulla guerra. E sulla lotta di classe. E sulla dittatura del proletariato. E sul socialismo. E sul comunismo. E sulla trappola dell’uguaglianza. E su tutte le manifestazioni della cultura patriarcale. E su tutte le sue forme organizzative. Opporsi alla dispersione delle intelligenze femminili. Deculturalizzarsi. Disacculturarsi a partire dalla maternità, non dare figli a nessuno. Sbarazzarsi della dialettica servo-padrone. Strapparsi dal cervello l’inferiorità. Restituirsi a se stesse. Non avere antitesi. Muoversi su un altro piano in nome della propria differenza. L’università non libera le donne ma perfeziona la loro repressione. Contro la saggezza. Mentre i maschi si danno a imprese spaziali, la vita per le femmine su questo pianeta deve ancora cominciare. La donna è l’altra faccia della terra. La donna è il Soggetto Imprevisto. Liberarsi dalla sottomissione, qui, ora, in questo presente. L’autrice di quelle pagine si chiamava Carla Lonzi.

I learned to read at the age of five, in Brother Justiniano's class at the De la Salle Academy in Cochabamba, Bolivia. It is the most important thing that has ever happened to me. Almost seventy years later I remember clearly how the magic of translating the words in books into images enriched my life, breaking the barriers of time and space and allowing me to travel with Captain Nemo twenty thousand leagues under the sea, fight with d'Artagnan, Athos, Portos, and Aramis against the intrigues threatening the Queen in the days of the secretive Richelieu, or stumble through the sewers of Paris, transformed into Jean Valjean carrying Marius's inert body on my back.

Les haines foisonnaient : haine contre les instituteurs primaires et contre les marchands de vin, contre les classes de philosophie, contre les cours d'histoire, contre les romans, les gilets rouges, les barbes longues, contre toute indépendance, toute manifestation individuelle ; car il fallait « relever le principe d'autorité », qu'elle s'exerçât au nom de n'importe qui, qu'elle vînt de n'importe où, pourvu que ce fût la Force, l'Autorité ! Les

The Solitude Virgin, Lupe said, was “a white-faced pinhead in a fancy gown.” It further irked Lupe that Guadalupe got second-class treatment in the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad; the Guadalupe altar was off to the left side of the center aisle—an unlit portrait of the dark-skinned virgin (not even a statue) was her sole recognition. And Our Lady of Guadalupe was indigenous; she was a native, an Indian; she was what Lupe meant by “one of us.

As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it’s somewhat arbitrary, but I don’t insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are in general divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new word. There are, of course, innumerable sub- divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that’s their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood—that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It’s only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There’s no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me—and vive la guerre éternelle—till the New Jerusalem, of course!

Si, déracinant de son coeur le vice qui la domine et avilit sa nature, la classe ouvrière se levait dans sa force terrible, non pour réclamer les Droits de l’homme, qui ne sont que les droits de l’exploitation capitaliste, non pour réclamer le Droit au travail, qui n’est que le droit à la misère, mais pour forger une loi d’airain, défendant à tout homme de travailler plus de trois heures par jour, la Terre, la vieille Terre, frémissant d’allégresse, sentirait bondir en elle un nouvel univers…

Clearly, you don't know much about horror, he said. Horror is premised on the experience of what we do not and cannot understand, whereas what you're talking about is mere low-class smut, which every schoolboy has encountered before he's in long pants.

Antecedentes meus do escrever? sou um homem que tem mais dinheiro do que os que passam fome, o que faz de mim de algum modo um desonesto. E só minto na hora exata da mentira. Mas quando escrevo não minto. Que mais? Sim, não tenho classe social, marginalizado que sou. A classe alta me tem como um monstro esquisito, a média com desconfiança de que eu possa desequilibrá-la, a classe baixa nunca vem a mim. Não, não é fácil escrever. É duro como quebrar rochas. Mas voam faíscas e lascas como aços espelhados.

Selin, quello che le tue parole mi comunicano è una cosa molto semplice, molto naturale: la paura della competizione e la paura del rifiuto da parte dei tuoi coetanei. Ovviamente alle superiori sarai stata tra le più brillanti della classe. Poi arrivi a Harvard, ed ecco milleseicento ragazzi della tua età che sono altrettanto brillanti; alcuni magari anche più di te. In ogni conversazione con i tuoi coetanei trovi un sottotesto di competizione. Hai paura che stavolta non sarai all'altezza, che verrai rifiutata.

Un giorno un nazista ricevette l'incarico di piazzarsi fuori dalla porta dello studio di mio padre con un cartello su cui era scritto: "Tedeschi, attenti. Evitate gli ebrei. Chiunque avrà a che fare con un ebreo sarà rovinato." Mio padre, allora, indossò l'uniforme da ufficiale, vi appuntò tutte le sue decorazioni, tra cui la Croce di Ferro di prima classe, e andò a mettersi di fianco al nazista. Questi aveva l'aria sempre più imbarazzata, mentre, pian piano si radunava attorno a loro una piccola folla. All'inizio la gente rimase in silenzio, ma, man mano che il numero dei presenti cresceva, cominciarono a udirsi dei borbottii che si trasformarono ben presto in grida di scherno. L'ostilità era diretta al nazista tanto che questi, poco dopo, pensò bene di andarsene, Non tornò più, né fu sostituito. Trascorsi alcuni giorni, mentre mia madre dormiva, papà aprì il gas.

(...) d'ailleurs, il n'y a pas de quoi avoir honte de vieillir notamment quand toute la race humaine est concernée même si parfois elle semble être la seule parmi ses amies à vouloir fêter les années qui passent parce que c'est un privilège de ne pas mourir prématurément, leur dit-elle (...)

[Il buon lettore] non appartiene a una nazione o a una classe specifica. Non c'è direttore di coscienza o club del libro che possa gestire la sua anima. Il suo modo d'accostarsi a un'opera di narrativa non è determinato da quelle emozioni giovanili che portano il lettore mediocre a identificarsi con questo o quel personaggio e a "saltare le descrizioni". Il buon lettore, il lettore ammirevole, non s'identifica con il ragazzo o la ragazza del libro, ma con il cervello che quel libro ha pensato e composto. Non cerca in un romanzo russo informazioni sulla Russia, perché sa che la Russia di Tolstoj o di Cechov non è la Russia della storia ma un mondo specifico immaginato e creato da un genio individuale. Al lettore ammirevole non interessano le idee generali; ma la visione particolare. Gli piace il romanzo non perché gli permette di inserirsi nel gruppo; gli piace perché assorbe e capisce ogni particolare del testo, gode di ciò che l'autore voleva fosse goduto, sorride interiormente e dappertutto, si lascia eccitare dalle magiche immagini del grande falsario, del fantasioso falsario, del prestigiatore, dell'artista. In realtà, di tutti i personaggi creati da un grande artista, i più belli sono i suoi lettori.

He always liked learning. Loved it, really. If he could have spent his whole life sitting in a lecture hall, taking notes, could have drifted from department to department, haunting different studies, soaking up language and history and art, maybe he would have felt full, happy. That's how he spent the first two years. And those first two years, he was happy. He had Bea, and Robbie, and all he had to do was learn. Build a foundation. It was the house, the one that he was supposed to build on top of that smooth surface, that was the problem. It was just so... permanent. Choosing a class became choosing a discipline, and choosing a discipline became choosing a career, and choosing a career became choosing a life, and how was anyone supposed to do that, when you only had one? But teaching, teaching might be a way to have what he wanted. Teaching is an extension of learning, a way to be a perpetual student.

de l’amour bien pur ni bien tendre, mais de celui que vous pouvez avoir ; de celui, par exemple, qui fait trouver à une femme les agréments ou les qualités qu’elle n’a pas ; qui la place dans une classe à part, et met toutes les autres en second ordre ; qui vous tient encore attaché à elle, même alors que vous l’outragez

L'absolutisme politique et la dictature ont de nombreux points communs : les moyens et les méthodes utilisés pour atteindre un but donné finissent par devenir l'objectif. L'idéal du communisme, du socialisme, a cessé depuis longtemps d'inspirer les chefs bolcheviks. Le pouvoir et le renforcement du pouvoir sont devenus leur seul but (...) La dictature est devenue une nécessité absolue pour la survie du régime. Car là où règnent un système de classes et l'inégalité sociale, l'Etat doit recourir à la force et à la répression. La brutalité d'un tel régime est toujours proportionnelle à l'amertume et au ressentiment qu'éprouvent les masses.

Un très vieil ami de mon père, sorti premier de l'École normale, avait dû à cet exploit de débuter dans un quartier de Marseille : quartier pouilleux, peuplé de misérables où nul n'osait se hasarder la nuit. Il y resta de ses débuts à sa retraite, quarante ans dans la même classe, quarante ans sur la même chaise. Et comme un soir mon père lui disait : « Tu n'as donc jamais eu d'ambition ? - Oh mais si ! dit-il, j'en ai eu ! Et je crois que j'ai bien réussi ! Pense qu'en vingt ans, mon prédécesseur a vu guillotiner six de ses élèves. Moi, en quarante ans, je n'en ai eu que deux, et un gracié de justesse. Ça valait la peine de rester là. »

I’d forgotten the names of most of the plants, but back in Dana Ramos’s class I’d known them all. I only lived four years in New England, but I noticed more and learned more about what was around me there than I ever had in Indiana, and more than I ever would in LA, where there’s constantly something new and impossibly technicolor blooming on my street. I could still tell you a few of them, the stalwart trees and ephemeral flowers of New Hampshire: painted trillium, bunchberry, hemlock, sheep laurel, white cedar, bloodroot. Below me and above me and in the woods stretching thick and endless, their leaves made sugar out of nothing but light.

The bartender is Irish. Jumped a student visa about ten years ago but nothing for him to worry about. The cook, though, is Mexican. Some poor bastard at ten dollars an hour—and probably has to wash the dishes, too. La Migra take notice of his immigration status—they catch sight of his bowl cut on the way home to Queens and he’ll have a problem. He looks different than the Irish and the Canadians—and he’s got Lou Dobbs calling specifically for his head every night on the radio. (You notice, by the way, that you never hear Dobbs wringing his hands over our border to the North. Maybe the “white” in Great White North makes that particular “alien superhighway” more palatable.) The cook at the Irish bar, meanwhile, has the added difficulty of predators waiting by the subway exit for him (and any other Mexican cooks or dishwashers) when he comes home on Friday payday. He’s invariably cashed his check at a check-cashing store; he’s relatively small—and is unlikely to call the cops. The perfect victim. The guy serving my drinks, on the other hand, as most English-speaking illegal aliens, has been smartly gaming the system for years, a time-honored process everybody at the INS is fully familiar with: a couple of continuing education classes now and again (while working off the books) to get those student visas. Extensions. A work visa. A “farm” visa. Weekend across the border and repeat. Articulate, well-connected friends—the type of guys who own, for instance, lots of Irish bars—who can write letters of support lauding your invaluable and “specialized” skills, unavailable from homegrown bartenders. And nobody’s looking anyway. But I digress…

Il primo giorno di scuola, quando mia madre mi aveva lasciato in classe andando via, il pensiero che potesse accadermi qualcosa di male a sua insaputa mi aveva riempita di tristezza. Non era tanto la minaccia del mondo su di me, quanto l'impotenza di mia madre, a commuovermi. Che la mia vita scorresse mentre lei ne era ignara mi pareva inaccettabile. Ciò che restava nascosto, seppur non di proposito, era già un tradimento. In classe, avevo cercato una crepa nel muro, una ragnatela, una cosa che potesse essere mia come un segreto. Gli occhi avevano pagato per la stanza, che sembrava enorme; poi avevo notato un frammento di battiscopa mancante, e mi ero calmata.

je ne puis m'empêcher de voir dans le système scolaire tel qu'il fonctionne sous nos yeux une véritable machine infernale, sinon programmée pour atteindre ce but, du moins aboutissant à ce résultat objectif : rejeter les enfants des classes populaires, perpétuer et légitimer la domination de classe, l'accès différentiel aux métiers et aux positions sociales. Une guerre se mène contre les dominés, et l'École en est donc l'un des champs de bataille. Les enseignants font de leur mieux ! Mais ils ne peuvent rien, ou si peu, contre les forces irrésistibles de l'ordre sociale, qui agissent à la fois souterrainement et au vu de tous, et qui s'imposent envers et contre tout. (p. 124)

What about this, then?” The metal surface rippled at his touch, stretching and splitting into a million thin wires that made it look like a giant version of one of those pin art toys Sophie used to play with as a kid. He tapped his fingers in a quick rhythm, and the pins shifted and sank, forming highs and lows and smooth, flat stretches. Sophie couldn’t figure out what she was seeing until he tapped a few additional beats and tiny pricks of light flared at the ends of each wire, bathing the scene in vibrant colors and marking everything with glowing labels. “It’s a map,” she murmured, making a slow circle around the table. And not just any map. A 3-D map of the Lost Cities. She’d never seen her world like that before, with everything spread out across the planet in relation to everything else. Eternalia, the elvin capital that had likely inspired the human myths of Shangri-la, was much closer to the Sanctuary than she’d realized, nestled into one of the valleys of the Himalayas—while the special animal preserve was hidden inside the hollowed-out mountains. Atlantis was deep under the Mediterranean Sea, just like the human legends described, and it looked like Mysterium was somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. The Gateway to Exile was in the middle of the Sahara desert—though the prison itself was buried in the center of the earth. And Lumenaria… “Wait. Is Lumenaria one of the Channel Islands?” she asked, trying to compare what she was seeing against the maps she’d memorized in her human geography classes. “Yes and no. It’s technically part of the same archipelago. But we’ve kept that particular island hidden, so humans have no idea it exists—well, beyond the convoluted stories we’ve occasionally leaked to cause confusion.

[sur les parents qui veulent se la jouer “cool”, y compris envers l’éducation transmise à leurs enfants] "Mais ce qu’ils ont oublié, dans leur ferveur égalitaire et libertaire, c’est que les formes bourgeoises ont un fondement moral. Elles ne révèlent pas seulement un être ou une position de classe. Elles font entendre, jusque dans la comédie sociale, le souci d’autrui. Quand je mets les formes, je respecte un usage, bien sûr, je joue un rôle, sans doute, je trahis mes origines, peut-être. Mais surtout, comme l’a bien montré Hume, je fais savoir à l’autre ou aux autres qu’ils comptent pour moi. Je les salue, je m’incline devant eux, je prends acte de leur existence et atténuant la mienne." (p205)

You learned in science class once that all things shine. The color of something has to do with the kind of light it absorbs, and the kind it reflects. Red apples aren’t red, they just reflect the red that you see. And so the sky isn’t blue, and clouds aren’t white, and the color of anything is actually the color it won’t accept, because that’s what it’s giving to you.

Mais il conviendrait d'ajouter que cet orgueil, cet absolu - sur le plan intellectuel, tout au moins - ne sont pas le fait d'une "classe" sociale particulière, comme on vient de le montrer. C'est la culture maternelle même qui pêche en Europe et fausse chez l'individu, dès son enfance, sa conception du monde et de l'humanité. L'histoire et la civilisation commencent, pour lui, à Athènes, font un ricochet à Rome, disparaissent soudain pendant plus d'un millénaire, et reparaissent brusquement à la Renaissance, à Paris ou à Londres. Avant Athènes qu'y avait-il? Du vide. Entre Aristote et Descartes, qu'y a-t-il? Du vide. [...] C'est cette optique particulière qui fausse d'emblée l'humanisme occidental, qui fausse la politique européenne.

It's an old story," Julia says, leaning back in her chair. "Only for me, it's new. I went to school for industrial design. All my life I've been fascinated by chairs - I know it sounds silly, but it's true. Form meets purpose in a chair. My parents thought I was crazy, but somehow I convinced them to pay my way to California. To study furniture design. I was all excited at first. It was totally unlike me to go so far away from home. But I was sick of the cold and sick of the snow. I figured a little sun might change my life. So I headed down to L.A. and roomed with a friend of an ex-girlfriend of my brother's. She was an aspiring radio actress, which meant she was home a lot. At first, I loved it. I didn't even let the summer go by. I dove right into my classes. Soon enough, I learned I couldn't just focus on chairs. I had to design spoons and toilet-bowl cleaners and thermostats. The math never bothered me, but the professors did. They could demolish you in a second without giving you a clue if how to rebuild. I spent more and more time in the studio, with other crazed students who guarded their projects like toy-jealous kids. I started to go for walks. Long walks. I couldn't go home because my roommate was always there. The sun was too much for me, so I'd stay indoors. I spent hours in supermarkets, walking aisle to aisle, picking up groceries and then putting them back. I went to bowling alleys and pharmacies. I rode buses that kept their lights on all night. I sat in Laundromats because once upon a time Laundromats made me happy. But now the hum of the machines sounded like life going past. Finally, one night I sat too long in the laundry. The woman who folded in the back - Alma - walked over to me and said, 'What are you doing here, girl?' And I knew that there wasn't any answer. There couldn't be any answer. And that's when I knew it was time to go.

L'impatto con il dolore riconsegna la maggior parte di noi a una sorta di innocenza originaria. A un certo punto non abbiamo più difese, né risorse, non c'è assolutamente nulla che possiamo fare per evitare il peggio, e così, insieme con le difese, crollano i privilegi, le strategie, l'appartenenza di classe, la retorica, lasciando intravedere la fragile nudità di specie che ci accomuna tutti.

The early morning flight to Boise was uneventful. We took off from LaGuardia, which could be a lousier airport but not without a serious act of God. I got my customary seat in economy class, the one behind a tiny old lady who insists on reclining her seat against my knees for the duration of the flight. Studying her gray follicles and pallid scalp—her head was practically in my lap—helped distract me. Squares

She was the first close friend who I felt like I’d re­ally cho­sen. We weren’t in each other’s lives be­cause of any obli­ga­tion to the past or con­ve­nience of the present. We had no shared his­tory and we had no rea­son to spend all our time to­ gether. But we did. Our friend­ship in­ten­si­fied as all our friends had chil­dren – she, like me, was un­con­vinced about hav­ing kids. And she, like me, found her­self in a re­la­tion­ship in her early thir­ties where they weren’t specif­i­cally work­ing to­wards start­ing a fam­ily. By the time I was thirty-four, Sarah was my only good friend who hadn’t had a baby. Ev­ery time there was an­other preg­nancy an­nounce­ment from a friend, I’d just text the words ‘And an­other one!’ and she’d know what I meant. She be­came the per­son I spent most of my free time with other than Andy, be­cause she was the only friend who had any free time. She could meet me for a drink with­out plan­ning it a month in ad­vance. Our friend­ship made me feel lib­er­ated as well as safe. I looked at her life choices with no sym­pa­thy or con­cern for her. If I could ad­mire her de­ci­sion to re­main child-free, I felt en­cour­aged to ad­mire my own. She made me feel nor­mal. As long as I had our friend­ship, I wasn’t alone and I had rea­son to be­lieve I was on the right track. We ar­ranged to meet for din­ner in Soho af­ter work on a Fri­day. The waiter took our drinks or­der and I asked for our usual – two Dirty Vodka Mar­ti­nis. ‘Er, not for me,’ she said. ‘A sparkling wa­ter, thank you.’ I was ready to make a joke about her un­char­ac­ter­is­tic ab­sti­nence, which she sensed, so as soon as the waiter left she said: ‘I’m preg­nant.’ I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imag­ine the ex­pres­sion on my face was par­tic­u­larly en­thu­si­as­tic, but I couldn’t help it – I was shocked and felt an un­war­ranted but in­tense sense of be­trayal. In a de­layed re­ac­tion, I stood up and went to her side of the ta­ble to hug her, un­able to find words of con­grat­u­la­tions. I asked what had made her change her mind and she spoke in va­garies about it ‘just be­ing the right time’ and wouldn’t elab­o­rate any fur­ther and give me an an­swer. And I needed an an­swer. I needed an an­swer more than any­thing that night. I needed to know whether she’d had a re­al­iza­tion that I hadn’t and, if so, I wanted to know how to get it. When I woke up the next day, I re­al­ized the feel­ing I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing was not anger or jeal­ousy or bit­ter­ness – it was grief. I had no one left. They’d all gone. Of course, they hadn’t re­ally gone, they were still my friends and I still loved them. But huge parts of them had dis­ap­peared and there was noth­ing they could do to change that. Un­less I joined them in their spa­ces, on their sched­ules, with their fam­i­lies, I would barely see them. And I started dream­ing of an­other life, one com­pletely re­moved from all of it. No more chil­dren’s birth­day par­ties, no more chris­ten­ings, no more bar­be­cues in the sub­urbs. A life I hadn’t ever se­ri­ously con­tem­plated be­fore. I started dream­ing of what it would be like to start all over again. Be­cause as long as I was here in the only Lon­don I knew – mid­dle-class Lon­don, cor­po­rate Lon­don, mid-thir­ties Lon­don, mar­ried Lon­don – I was in their world. And I knew there was a whole other world out there.

Any meal at the front was an exercise in war-time ingenuity and devotion of the lower classes for their officers. The Petite Marmite a la Thermit was from beef-broth cubes, the tinned Canadian salmon was called Saumon de Tin A & Q Sauce. The Epaule d'Agneau Wellington, N.Z. was army ration lamb, and the terrine of foie gras aux truffes was a can of foie gras that I had bought from the French commanding general. There was a salad of fresh lettuce from somewhere (no one asked in what or whose fertilizer it had been grown in since we would all soon be dead anyway) and the Macedoine de Fruits a la Quatre Bas was a can of mixed fruit. Then fresh strawberries soaked in Cognac. All the usual wines starting with an amontillado, Pommery Extra Sec, Chateau Steenworde Claret, Graham's Five Crowns Port, Bisquit Dubouche Grande Champagne Cognac, Brandy and a Waterloo Cup.

Poi coloro che chiamavi rivoluzionari del cazzo, futuri seguaci dei fanatici, degli assassini che sparano revolverate in nome del proletariato e della classe operaia aggiungendo abusi agli abusi, infamie alle infamie, potere essi stessi. E guardali mentre alzano il pugno, gli ipocriti, con le loro barbette di falsi sovversivi, la loro grinta borghese di burocrati a venire, padroni a venire. Infine i preti, sintesi d’ogni potere presente e passato e futuro, di ogni prepotenza, di ogni dittatura. E guardali mentre si pavoneggiano nelle loro tonache oscure, coi loro simboli insensati, i loro turiboli d’incenso che annebbia gli occhi e la mente. In mezzo ad essi il Gran Sacerdote, il patriarca della chiesa ortodossa che ammantato di seta viola, grondante di ori e di collane, di croci preziose, zaffiri rubini smeraldi, salmodiava «Eonìa imì tu esù. Eterna sia la memoria di te»,

Aquella deixadesa institucionalitzada era la bandera de les classes populars, la seua absència de gust pel debat, la criminalització de tot discurs crític i intel·lectual. Aquella aversió no permetia aprofundir ni per descomptat alimentar detalls metafísics que sostingueren la ciutat en un nivell hermenèuticament superior. Tot pegava voltes als tòpics: l’himne, la paella, les falles, la ressaca del conflicte idiomàtic, la misèria moral que emanava de les restes del franquisme. La València literària era una mòmia dissecada, un manual de trinxeres. La il·lustració havia passat de puntetes per davant dels nostres nassos, deixant-nos una ciutat arrasada i servil que es delectava en el seu espill; una ciutat cegada per la llum, la força de les aparences, l’instint de felicitat gregària. Al final aplegava a una conclusió: aquella màscara era una altra variant suïcida de la melancolia.

Puisque la maîtresse me "reprenait", plus tard j'ai voulu reprendre mon père, lui annoncer que "se parterrer" ou "quart moins d'onze heures" n'existaient pas. Il est entré dans une violente colère. Une autre fois : "Comment voulez-vous que je ne me fasse pas reprendre, si vous parlez mal tout le temps!" Je pleurais. Il était malheureux. Tout ce qui touche au langage est dans mon souvenir motif de rancœur et de chicanes douloureuses, bien plus que l'argent.

Another Mexican American in another class, approaches Victor after class, carrying his copy of Fahrenheit 451, required reading for the course. The student doesn't understand the reference to a salon. Victor explains that this is just another word for the living room. No understanding in the student's eyes. He tries Spanish: la salon. Still nothing. The student has grown up as a migrant worker. And Victor remembers the white student who had been in his class a quarter ago, who had written about not understanding racism, that there was none where he had grown up, in Wennatchee, that he has played with the children of his father's migrant workers without there being any hostility. His father's workers. Property. Property that doesn't know of living rooms. And Victor thought of what the man from Wennatchee knew, what the ROTC Mexican American knew, what the migrant worker knew. And he thought of getting up the next morning to go with Serena to St. Mary's for cheese and butter. And he knew there was something he was not doing in his composition classrooms.

And he was right. Because Carlos De Vil’s brain, by way of comparison, was almost as big as Cruella De Vil’s fur-coat closet. That’s what Carlos tried to tell himself, anyway, especially when people were making him run the tombs. His first class today was Weird Science, one he always looked forward to. It was where he’d originally gotten the idea to put his machine together, from the lesson on radio waves. Carlos was not the only top student in the class—he was tied, in fact, with the closest thing he had to a rival in the whole school: the scrawny, bespectacled Reza. Reza was the son of the former Royal Astronomer of Agrabah, who had consulted with Jafar to make sure the stars aligned on more than one nefarious occasion, which was how his family had found their way to the Isle of the Lost with everyone else. Weird Science was the class where Carlos always worked the hardest. The presence of Reza, who was every bit as competitive in science lab as he was, only made Carlos work that much harder. And as annoying as everyone found Reza to be—he always had to use the very biggest words for everything, whether they were used correctly and whether he was inserting a few extra syllables where they might or might not belong—he was still smart. Very smart. Which meant Carlos enjoyed besting him. Just the other week they had been working on a special elixir, and Reza had been annoyed that Carlos had figured out the secret ingredient first. Yeah, Reza was almost as smart as he was irritating. Even now he was raising his hand, waving it wildly back and forth. Their professor, the powerful sorcerer Yen Sid,

Il n'y a que les imbéciles qui ne soient pas gourmands. On est gourmand comme on est artiste, comme on est instruit, comme on est poète. Le goût, mon cher, c'est un organe délicat, perfectible et respectable comme l’œil et l'oreille. Manquer de goût, c'est être privé d'une faculté exquise, de la faculté de discerner la qualité des aliments, comme on peut être privé de celle de discerner les qualités d'un livre ou d'une oeuvre d'art ; c'est être privé d'un sens essentiel, d'une partie de la supériorité humaine ; c'est appartenir à une des innombrables classes d'infirmes, de disgraciés et de sots dont se compose notre race ; c'est avoir la bouche bête, en un mot, comme on a l'esprit bête. Un homme qui ne distingue pas une langouste d'un homard, d'un hareng, cet admirable poisson qui porte en lui toutes les saveurs, tous les arômes de la mer, d'un maquereau ou d'un merlan, et une poire crassane d'une duchesse, est comparable à celui qui cofonderait Balzac avec Eugène Sue, une symphonie de Beethoven avec une marche militaire d'un chef de musique de régiment, et l'Apollon du Belvédère avec la statue du général Blanmont !

Ainsi, l’Éducation nationale et l’abolition officielle des charges héréditaires ont contribué à saper les divisions traditionnelles de classe car, désormais, c’était l’enseignement supérieur et non la naissance qui opérait comme tremplin vers une haute fonction publique. Cela explique en partie pourquoi, parmi les quatorze grandes démocraties riches du monde d’aujourd’hui, le Japon est celle dont la répartition des richesses est la plus égalitaire, et celle qui compte le plus petit nombre de milliardaires parmi sa population ; les États-Unis se situent à l’extrême opposé dans les deux cas.

The working class, in the course of its development, will substitute for the old civil society an association which will exclude classes and their antagonism, and there will be no more political power properly so-called, since political power is precisely the official expression of antagonism in civil society. Meanwhile the antagonism between proletariat and the bourgeoisie is a struggle of class against class, a struggle which carried to its highest expression is total revolution. Indeed, is it at all surprising that a society founded on the opposition of classes should culminate in brutal contradiction, the shock of body against body, as its final dénouement? Do not say that social movement excludes political movement. There is never a political movement which is not at the same time social. It is only in an order of things in which there are no more classes and class antagonisms that social evolutions will cease to be political revolutions. Till then, on the eve of every general reshuffling of society, the last word of social science will always be: 'Le combat ou la mort; la lutte sanguinaire ou le néant. C'est ainsi que la question est invinciblement posée.' -George Sand.

And there won’t be any TV or cable because all the people will be dead!” I was on a roll now. “So our only entertainment will be Gazzy singing the constipation song! And there won’t be amusement parks and museums and zoos and libraries and cute shoes! We’ll be like cavemen, trying to weave clothes out of plant fibers. We’ll have nothing! Nothing! All because you and the kids want to kick back in a La-Z-Boy during the most important time in history!” I was practically frothing at the mouth. Fang looked at me. “So maybe we should sign you up for a weaving class. Get a jump on all those plant fibers.

chose que des ustensiles de ménage ou des objets de luxure. Le dîner absorbé et l’animal satisfait, le poêle entre dans la vaste solitude de sa pensée ; quelquefois il est très fatigué par le métier. Que devenir alors ? Puis, son esprit s’accoutume à l’idée de sa force invincible, et il ne peut plus résister à l’espérance de retrouver dans la boisson les visions calmes ou effrayantes qui sont déjà ses vieilles connaissances. C’est sans doute à la même transformation de mœurs, qui a fait du monde lettré une classe à part, qu’il faut attribuer l’immense consommation de tabac que fait la nouvelle littérature.

Hommes et femmes de Londres, me voici. Je vous félicite cordialement d'être anglais. Vous êtes un grand peuple. Je dis plus, vous êtes une grande populace. Vos coups de poing sont encore plus beaux que vos coups d'épée. Vous avez de l'appétit. Vous êtes la nation qui mange les autres. Fonction magnifique. Cette succion du monde classe à part l'Angleterre. Comme politique et philosophie, et maniement des colonies, populations, et industries, et comme volonté de faire aux autres du mal qui est pour soi du bien, vous êtes particuliers et surprenants. Le moment approche où il y aura sur la terre deux écriteaux; sur l'un on lira: Côté des hommes; sur l'autre on lira: Côté des anglais. Je constate ceci à votre gloire, moi qui ne suis ni anglais, ni homme, ayant l'honneur d'être un docteur. Cela va ensemble. Gentlemen, j'enseigne. Quoi? Deux espèces de choses, celles que je sais et celles que j'ignore. Je vends des drogues et je donne des idées. Approchez, et écoutez. La science vous y convie. Ouvrez votre oreille. Si elle est petite, elle tiendra peu de vérité; si elle est grande, beaucoup de stupidité y entrera. Donc, attention. J'enseigne la Pseudodoxia Epidemica. J'ai un camarade qui fait rire, moi je fais penser.

Quand je la vois aujourd'hui, le corps perclus de douleurs liées à la dureté des tâches qu'elle avait dû accomplir pendant près de quinze ans, debout devant une chaîne de montage où il lui fallait accrocher des couvercles à des bocaux de verre, avec le droit de se faire remplacer dix minutes le matin et dix minutes l'après-midi pour aller aux toilettes, je suis frappé par ce que signifie concrètement, physiquement, l'inégalité sociale. Et même ce mot d'« inégalité » m'apparaît comme un euphémisme qui déréalise ce dont il s'agit : la violence nue de l'exploitation. Un corps d'ouvrière, quand il vieillit, montre à tous les regards ce qu'est la vérité de l'existence des classes. (p. 85)

This was no coincidence. The best short stories and the most successful jokes have a lot in common. Each form relies on suggestion and economy. Characters have to be drawn in a few deft strokes. There's generally a setup, a reveal, a reversal, and a release. The structure is delicate. If one element fails, the edifice crumbles. In a novel you might get away with a loose line or two, a saggy paragraph, even a limp chapter. But in the joke and in the short story, the beginning and end are precisely anchored tent poles, and what lies between must pull so taut it twangs. I'm not sure if there is any pattern to these selections. I did not spend a lot of time with those that seemed afraid to tell stories, that handled plot as if it were a hair in the soup, unwelcome and embarrassing. I also tended not to revisit stories that seemed bleak without having earned it, where the emotional notes were false, or where the writing was tricked out or primped up with fashionable devices stressing form over content. I do know that the easiest and the first choices were the stories to which I had a physical response. I read Jennifer Egan's "Out of Body" clenched from head to toe by tension as her suicidal, drug-addled protagonist moves through the Manhattan night toward an unforgivable betrayal. I shed tears over two stories of childhood shadowed by unbearable memory: "The Hare's Mask," by Mark Slouka, with its piercing ending, and Claire Keegan's Irishinflected tale of neglect and rescue, "Foster." Elizabeth McCracken's "Property" also moved me, with its sudden perception shift along the wavering sightlines of loss and grief. Nathan Englander's "Free Fruit for Young Widows" opened with a gasp-inducing act of unexpected violence and evolved into an ethical Rubik's cube. A couple of stories made me laugh: Tom Bissell's "A Bridge Under Water," even as it foreshadows the dissolution of a marriage and probes what religion does for us, and to us; and Richard Powers's "To the Measures Fall," a deftly comic meditation on the uses of literature in the course of a life, and a lifetime. Some stories didn't call forth such a strong immediate response but had instead a lingering resonance. Of these, many dealt with love and its costs, leaving behind indelible images. In Megan Mayhew Bergman's "Housewifely Arts," a bereaved daughter drives miles to visit her dead mother's parrot because she yearns to hear the bird mimic her mother's voice. In Allegra Goodman's "La Vita Nuova," a jilted fiancée lets her art class paint all over her wedding dress. In Ehud Havazelet's spare and tender story, "Gurov in Manhattan," an ailing man and his aging dog must confront life's necessary losses. A complicated, only partly welcome romance blossoms between a Korean woman and her demented

Sam era sempre stato diverso dalle altre ragazze, ma fu solo in terza elementare che passò da sentirsi diverso ad avvertire che c’era qualcosa di profondamente sbagliato. Per la prima volta lui e i suoi compagni di classe non erano più soltanto alunni, ma vennero divisi in due gruppi: maschi e femmine. La separazione sembrò portare con sé una nuova serie di regole, divieti e aspettative invisibili che lui non aveva mai imposto a se stesso. Tutto ciò lo metteva a disagio, ma non riusciva a capire il perché. Sapeva di essere una femmina, era ovvio, ma perché non si sentiva donna? Perché dentro di sé sentiva di essere un maschio? Perché voleva essere trattato come un ragazzo? Era confuso, frustrato e si sentiva sbagliato, e quel sentimento diventò sempre più forte col passare del tempo. L’infanzia di Sam fu tormentata da domande cui non riusciva a trovare risposta. Era uno scherzo della natura? C’era qualcosa di guasto dentro di lui? Dio aveva fatto un errore? Era andato a catechismo con il suo amico Joey, e sapeva di poter imparare come pregare e chiedere a Dio di aggiustarlo. Tutte le sere Sam pregava di svegliarsi il giorno dopo nel corpo giusto, ma le sue preghiere non vennero mai esaudite. Qualche anno più tardi, le prime fasi della pubertà gli sembrarono più un dirottamento che una naturale evoluzione. Il suo corpo stava crescendo, ma sembrava tradirlo ogni giorno di più. Stava diventando qualcosa che non andava d’accordo con quello che provava. Non importava quanti video sull’argomento guardasse, l’idea di emergere dai suoi anni da teenager come donna sembrava estranea e innaturale, come un bruco che da crisalide si trasforma in ragno. Sam pensò che se avesse ignorato i cambiamenti, il suo corpo avrebbe potuto respingerli o invertirli. Invece di procurarsi un reggiseno, Sam si avvolse intorno al seno una benda elastica, in modo che il torace apparisse piatto. Più i seni crescevano più stringeva la benda, tanto che finì per ferirsi. A un certo punto comprò un reggiseno sportivo che aveva lo stesso effetto, ma fu per lui un momento di sconfitta: stava perdendo la battaglia con il proprio corpo

Le lotte dal basso sono e saranno sempre senza speranza. La visione di un mondo pacifico in cui tutto è condiviso e i rapporti tra le persone non sono governati da semplici rapporti di forza è una visione del tutto utopistica e irreale. Del resto non importa che l’unico anello sia al dito di Sauron o a quello di un hobbit sfigato di nome Smeagol. Rimane il potere e quelli che lo subiscono. Chi domina e chi viene dominato. Chi prospera e chi decade. Ogni rivoluzione del popolo ghigliottina i suoi Danton e i suoi Robespierre. Ogni rivoluzione annega nel sangue i suoi Marat. Ogni rivoluzione degenera in un impero di Napoleone. Non che questo cambi le cose. Se vivi in uno Stato fascista che dice di non esserlo. Se perdi il diritto alla casa. Se subisci un’economia delirante che ti uccide con le nocività che produce. Se lavori per finanziare una classe dirigente che guarda solo se stessa. Se non vivi più, per lavorare e mantenere una famiglia, come uno schiavo... Come è possibile restare a guardare? Come non comprenderlo? Come continuare a subirlo? Se non sei un uomo stacchi il cervello e smetti di pensare. Se sei un uomo ti incazzi e lotti. Come Don Chisciotte con i mulini a vento. I Sancho Panza di questo mondo, che lottano per opportunismo e senza ideali, non lo comprendono e mai lo comprenderanno. Lottare è inevitabile e nobilitante. Nonostante non ci sia speranza. Lottare senza la speranza è l’unica cosa che ci è rimasta. I Don Chisciotte continueranno a farlo perché lottare li fa sentire vivi e liberi; e quando abbatteranno i mulini a vento i Sancho Panza di questo mondo se ne prendereanno il merito e saranno tiranni al loro posto.

Chaque fois que je vais dans un super-market, ce qui du reste m'arrive rarement, je me crois en Russie. C'est la même nourriture imposée d'en haut, pareille où qu'on aille, imposée par des trusts au lieu de l'être par des organismes d’État. Les États-Unis, en un sens, sont aussi totalitaires que l'URSS, et dans l'un comme dans l'autre pays, et comme partout d'ailleurs, le progrès (c'est-à-dire l'accroissement de l'immédiat bien-être humain) ou même le maintien du présent état de choses dépend de structures de plus en plus complexes et de plus en plus fragiles. Comme l'humanisme un peu béat du bourgeois de 1900, le progrès à jet continu est un rêve d'hier. Il faut réapprendre à aimer la condition humaine telle qu'elle est, accepter ses limitations et ses dangers, se remettre de plain-pied avec les choses, renoncer à nos dogmes de partis, de pays, de classes, de religions, tous intransigeants et donc tous mortels. Quand je pétris la pâte, je pense aux gens qui ont fait pousser le blé, je pense aux profiteurs qui en font monter artificiellement le prix, aux technocrates qui en ont ruiné la qualité - non que les techniques récentes soient nécessairement un mal, mais parce qu'elles se sont mises au service de l'avidité qui en est un, et parce que la plupart ne peuvent s'exercer qu'à l'aide de grandes concentrations de forces, toujours pleines de potentiels périls. Je pense aux gens qui n'ont pas de pain, et à ceux qui en ont trop, je pense à la terre et au soleil qui font pousser les plantes. Je me sens à la fois idéaliste et matérialiste. Le prétendu idéaliste ne voit pas le pain, ni le prix du pain, et le matérialiste, par un curieux paradoxe, ignore ce que signifie cette chose immense et divine que nous appelons "la matière". (p. 242)

Un professor de pintura molt amable que donava classe als nanos del gueto deia que pintar era una forma d'evadir-se molt lluny. Era un home culte i tan apassionat que ella mai no va gosar contradir-lo. Però, a ella, la pintura no la transportava a fora ni la feia pujar al tren d'altres vides, a diferència dels llibres. Ben al contrari, la pintura la catapultava cap endins de si mateixa. Pintar no era una via de sortida, sinó d'entrada. Per això els quadres que pintava a Terezín eren foscos, de traços rampelluts, cels carregats d'un gris dens i tenebrós, com si ja aleshores intuís que aquest cel interior es convertiria en l'únic que veurien quan els portessin a Auschwitz, un cel on els núvols són de cendra. Pintar va ser una manera de conversar amb si mateixa molts d'aquells vespres en què la vencia el desànim d'una joventut que encara no havia començat i que ja semblava haver conclòs.

Cette histoire n’est point exagérée, point embellie ; je puis dire même que je l’ai racontée faiblement, très faiblement, et qu’elle a perdu de sa délicatesse, parce que je l’ai rapportée avec nos formes de langage usuelles et réservées. Cet amour, cette fidélité, cette passion, n’est donc pas une fiction poétique ; elle vit, elle existe, dans sa parfaite pureté, parmi cette classe d’hommes que nous appelons incultes et grossiers, nous que la culture a formés pour nous déformer. Lis cette histoire avec recueillement, je t’en prie. Je suis calme aujourd’hui en t’écrivant ces choses ; tu le vois à mon écriture, je ne me presse ni ne barbouille comme d’ordinaire. Lis, mon cher Wilhelm, et songe bien que c’est aussi l’histoire de ton ami. Oui, voilà ce qui m’est arrivé, voilà ce qui m’arrivera, et je ne suis pas de moitié aussi courageux,, aussi résolu que ce pauvre malheureux, auquel j’ose à peine me comparer.

Tenien a les mans una cosa rigorosament prohibida a Auschwitz i si els descobreixen els poden condemnar a mort. Aquests objectes, tan perillosos que la seva possessió és motiu de pena màxima, no es disparen ni serveixen per punxar, tallar o colpejar. Això que tant temen els implacables guàrdies del Reich simplement són llibres: vells, desenquadernats, amb els fulls deslligats, pràcticament desfets. Però els nazis els busquen, els persegueixen, els veten de manera obsessiva. Al llarg de la història tots els dictadors, tirans i repressors, tant si eren aris, negres, orientals, àrabs, eslaus com de qualsevol color de pell, tant si defensaven la revolució popular, els privilegis de les classes patrícies, el manament de Déu com la disciplina sumària dels militars, fos quina fos la seva ideologia, tots s'han caracteritzat per una cosa en comú: sempre han perseguit els llibres amb acarnissament. Són molt perillosos, fan pensar.

Un matin où j’étais à l’école, un incident a eu lieu sur notre parcelle en présence de Papa. Une violente dispute avait éclaté entre Prothé et Innocent. Je ne sais pas de quoi il s’agissait, mais Innocent a levé la main sur Prothé. Papa a immédiatement licencié Innocent, qui ne voulait pas présenter ses excuses et qui menaçait tout le monde. La tension permanente rendait les gens nerveux. Ils devenaient sensibles au moindre bruit, étaient sur leurs gardes dans la rue, regardaient dans leur rétroviseur pour être sûrs de n’être pas suivi. Chacun était aux aguets. Un jour, en plein cours de géographie, un pneu a éclaté derrière la clôture, sur le boulevard de l’Indépendance, et toute la classe, y compris le professeur, s’est jeté à plat ventre sous les tables. À l’école, les relations entre les élèves burundais avaient changé. C’était subtil, mais je m’en rendais compte. Il y avait beaucoup d’allusions mystérieuses, de propos implicites. Lorsqu’il fallait créer des groupes, en sport ou pour préparer des exposés, on décelait rapidement une gêne. Je n’arrivais pas à m’expliquer ce changement brutal, cet embarras palpable. Jusqu’à ce jour, à la récréation, où deux garçons burundais se sont battus derrière le grand préau, à l’abri du regard des profs et des surveillants. Les autres élèves burundais, échaudés par l’altercation, se sont rapidement séparés en deux groupes, chacun soutenant un garçon. « Sales Hutu », disaient les uns, « sales Tutsi » répliquaient les autres. Cet après-midi-là, pour la première fois de ma vie, je suis entré dans la réalité profonde de ce pays. J’ai découvert l’antagonisme hutu et tutsi, infranchissable ligne de démarcation qui obligeait chacun à être d’un camp ou d’un autre. Ce camp, tel un prénom qu’on attribue à un enfant, on naissait avec, et il nous poursuivait à jamais. Hutu ou tutsi. C’était soit l’un soit l’autre. Pile ou face. Comme un aveugle qui recouvre la vue, j’ai alors commencé à comprendre les gestes et les regards, les non-dits et les manières qui m’échappaient depuis toujours. La guerre, sans qu’on lui demande, se charge toujours de nous trouver un ennemi. Moi qui souhaitais rester neutre, je n’ai pas pu. J’étais né avec cette histoire. Elle coulait en moi. Je lui appartenais.

In quel preciso momento, Karla è entrata nella stanza. Ha spento la televisione, ha guardato Todd fisso negli occhi e ha detto: "Todd, tu esisti non soltanto come membro di una famiglia o di una compagnia o di una nazione, ma come membro di una specie... sei un essere umano. Sei parte dell'umanità. Attualmente la nostra specie ha problemi profondi e stiamo cercando di sognare un modo per uscirne e stiamo usando i computer per cavarcela. La costruzione di hardware e software è il campo in cui la specie ha deciso di investire energie per la sua sopravvivenza e questa costruzione richiede zone di pace, bambini nati dalla pace, e l'assenza di distrazioni che interferiscano col codice. Non possiamo acquisire conoscenza attraverso l'informatica, ma riusciremo a usarla per tenerci fuori dalla merda. Quello che tu percepisci come un vuoto è un paradiso terrestre: alla lettera, linea per linea, la libertà di impedire all'umanità di diventare non lineare". Si è seduta sul divano e c'era il rumore della pioggia che tamburellava sul soffitto e mi sono reso conto del fatto che non c'era abbastanza luce nella stanza e che noi eravamo tutti in silenzio. Karla ha detto: "Abbiamo avuto una vita discreta. Nessuno di noi, a quanto mi risulta, è mai stato maltrattato. Non abbiamo mai desiderato niente, né abbiamo mai voluto possedere qualcosa. I nostri genitori sono tutti ancora insieme, a parte quelli di Susan. Ci hanno trattato bene, ma la vera moralità, qui. Todd consiste nel sapere se le loro mani sono state sprecate in vite non creative, o se queste mani sono utilizzate per portare avanti il sogno dell'umanità". Continuava a piovere. "Non è una coincidenza che come specie abbiamo inventato la classe media. Senza la classe media, non avremmo potuto avere quel particolare tipo di configurazione mentale che contribuisce in misura consistente a sputar fuori i sistemi informatici e la nostra specie non avrebbe mai potuto farcela ad arrivare allo stadio evolutivo successivo, qualunque esso sia. Ci sono buone probabilità che la classe media non rientri neanche parzialmente nella prossima fase evolutiva. Ma non è né qui né là. Che ti piaccia o no, Todd, tu, io, Dan, Abe, Bug, e Susan... tutti noi siamo fabbricanti del prossimo ciclo Rem del sogno umano. Tutti gli altri ne saranno attratti. Non metterli in discussione, Todd, e non crogiolartici dentro, ma non permettere mai a te stesso di dimenticarlo".

Dans la bouche de ces prétendus représentants du prolétariat, toutes les formules socialistes perdent leur sens réel. La lutte de classe reste toujours le grand principe ; mais elle doit être subordonnée à la solidarité nationale1. L’internationalisme est un article de foi en l’honneur duquel les plus modérés se déclarent prêts à prononcer les serments les plus solennels; mais le patriotisme impose aussi des devoirs sacrés2. L’émancipation des travailleurs doit être l’œuvre des travailleurs eux-mêmes, comme on l’imprime encore tous les jours, mais la véritable émancipation consiste à voter pour un professionnel de la politique, à lui assurer les moyens de se faire une bonne situation, à se donner un maître. Enfin l’État doit disparaître et on se garderait de contester ce qu’Engels a écrit là-dessus; mais cette disparition aura lieu seulement dans un avenir si lointain que l’on doit s’y préparer en utilisant provisoirement l’État pour gaver les politiciens de bons morceaux ; et la meilleure politique pour faire disparaître l’État consiste provisoirement à renforcer la machine gouvernementale ; Gribouille, qui se jette à l’eau pour ne pas être mouillé par la pluie, n’aurait pas raisonné autrement. Etc, etc.

MÁRIO DE SÁ-CARNEIRO (1890-1916) Atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale! CAT . Morre jovem o que os Deuses amam, é um preceito da sabedoria antiga. E por certo a imaginação, que figura novos mundos, e a arte, que em obras os finge, são os sinais notáveis desse amor divino. Não concedem os Deuses esses dons para que sejamos felizes, senão para que sejamos seus pares. Quem ama, ama só a igual, porque o faz igual com amá-lo. Como porém o homem não pode ser igual dos Deuses, pois o Destino os separou, não corre homem nem se alteia deus pelo amor divino; estagna só deus fingido, doente da sua ficção. Não morrem jovens todos a que os Deuses amam, senão entendendo-se por morte o acabamento do que constitui a vida. E como à vida, além da mesma vida, a constitui o instinto natural com que se a vive, os Deuses, aos que amam, matam jovens ou na vida, ou no instinto natural com que vivê-la. Uns morrem; aos outros, tirado o instinto com que vivam, pesa a vida como morte, vivem morte, morrem a vida em ela mesma. E é na juventude, quando neles desabrocha a flor fatal e única, que começam a sua morte vivida. No herói, no santo e no génio os Deuses se lembram dos homens. O herói é um homem como todos, a quem coube por sorte o auxílio divino; não está nele a luz que lhe estreia a fronte, sol da glória ou luar da morte, e lhe separa o rosto dos de seus pares. O santo é um homem bom a que os Deuses, por misericórdia, cegaram, para que não sofresse; cego, pode crer no bem, em si, e em deuses melhores, pois não vê, na alma que cuida própria e nas coisas incertas que o cercam, a operação irremediável do capricho dos Deuses, o jugo superior do Destino. Os Deuses são amigos do herói, compadecem-se do santo; só ao génio, porém, é que verdadeiramente amam. Mas o amor dos Deuses, como por destino não é humano, revela-se em aquilo em que humanamente se não revelara amor. Se só ao génio, amando-o, tornam seu igual, só ao génio dão, sem que queiram, a maldição fatal do abraço de fogo com que tal o afagam. Se a quem deram a beleza, só seu atributo, castigam com a consciência da mortalidade dela; se a quem deram a ciência, seu atributo também, punem com o conhecimento do que nela há de eterna limitação; que angústias não farão pesar sobre aqueles, génios do pensamento ou da arte, a quem, tornando-os criadores, deram a sua mesma essência? Assim ao génio caberá, além da dor da morte da beleza alheia, e da mágoa de conhecer a universal ignorância, o sofrimento próprio, de se sentir par dos Deuses sendo homem, par dos homens sendo deus, êxul ao mesmo tempo em duas terras. Génio na arte, não teve Sá-Carneiro nem alegria nem felicidade nesta vida. Só a arte, que fez ou que sentiu, por instantes o turbou de consolação. São assim os que os Deuses fadaram seus. Nem o amor os quer, nem a esperança os busca, nem a glória os acolhe. Ou morrem jovens, ou a si mesmos sobrevivem, íncolas da incompreensão ou da indiferença. Este morreu jovem, porque os Deuses lhe tiveram muito amor. Mas para Sá-Carneiro, génio não só da arte mas da inovação nela, juntou-se, à indiferença que circunda os génios, o escárnio que persegue os inovadores, profetas, como Cassandra, de verdades que todos têm por mentira. In qua scribebat, barbara terrafuit. Mas, se a terra fora outra, não variara o destino. Hoje, mais que em outro tempo, qualquer privilégio é um castigo. Hoje, mais que nunca, se sofre a própria grandeza. As plebes de todas as classes cobrem, como uma maré morta, as ruínas do que foi grande e os alicerces desertos do que poderia sê-lo. O circo, mais que em Roma que morria, é hoje a vida de todos; porém alargou os seus muros até os confins da terra. A glória é dos gladiadores e dos mimos. Decide supremo qualquer soldado bárbaro, que a guarda impôs imperador. Nada nasce de grande que não nasça maldito, nem cresce de nobre que se não definhe, crescendo. Se assim é, assim seja! Os Deuses o quiseram assim. Fernando Pessoa, 1924.