Ryszard Kapuscinski Quotes

Literature seemed to be everything then. People looked to it for the strength to live, for guidance, for revelation.

When man meets an obstacle he can't destroy, he destroys himself

It still would be years before I understood the seriousness of my change of view. Much later, I recognized it in "Revolution," the essay of Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski, who describes the moment when a man on the edge of a crowd looks back defiantly at a policeman — and when that policeman senses a sudden refusal to accept his defining gaze — as the imperceptible moment in which rebellion is born. "All books about all revolutions begin with a chapter that describes the decay of tottering authority or the misery and sufferings of the people," Kapuscinski writes. "They should begin with a psychological chapter — one that shows how a harassed, terrified man suddenly breaks his terror, stops being afraid. This unusual process — sometimes accomplished in an instant, like a shock — demands to be illustrated. Man gets rid of fear and feel free. Without that, there would be no revolution.

in reference to Persepolis and all palaces, cities and temples of the past: could these wonders have come into being without that suffering? without the overseer's whip, the slave's fear, the ruler's vanity? was not the monumentality of past epochs created by that which is negative and evil in man?

The man who ceases to be astonished is hollow, possessed of an extinguished heart.

The richness of every European language is a richness in ability to describe its own culture, represent its own world. When it ventures to do the same for another culture, however, it betrays its limitations, underdevelopment, semantic weakness.

on war and conquest: in the realm of human affairs one also needs a pretext. it is important to give it the rank of a universal imperative or of a divine commandment. The range of choices is not great; either it is that we must defend ourselves, or that we have an obligation to help others, or that we are fulfilling heaven's will. the optimal pretext would link all three of the motives.

The witch is a dangerous person. Neither his appearance nor his behaviour betray his satanic nature. He does not wear special clothing, he does not have magical instruments. He does not boil potions, does not prepare poisons, does not fall into a trance, and does not perform incantations. He acts by means of the psychic power he was born. Malefaction is a congenital trait of his personality. The fact that he does evil and brings misfortune owes nothing to his predilections. It brings him not special pleasure. He simply is that way.

The European and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton, time is absolute: “Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equitably and without relation to anything external.” The European feels himself to be time’s slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function, he must observe its ironclad, inviolate laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days, and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man’s defeat—time annihilates him. Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course, and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors ). Time is even something that man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone. If two armies do not engage in a battle, then that battle will not occur (in other words, time will not have revealed its presence, will not have come into being). Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it. It is a subservient, passive essence, and, most importantly, one dependent on man.

It is one of the eternal stories that are told about soccer: when Brazil gets knocked out of a World Cup, Brazilians jump off apartment blocks. It can happen even when Brazil wins. One writer at the World Cup in Sweden in 1958 claims to have seen a Brazilian fan kill himself out of “sheer joy” after his team’s victory in the final. Janet Lever tells that story in Soccer Madness, her eye-opening study of Brazilian soccer culture published way back in 1983, when nobody (and certainly not female American social scientists) wrote books about soccer. Lever continues: Of course, Brazilians are not the only fans to kill themselves for their teams. In the 1966 World Cup a West German fatally shot himself when his television set broke down during the final game between his country and England. Nor have Americans escaped some bizarre ends. An often cited case is the Denver man who wrote a suicide note—”I have been a Broncos fan since the Broncos were first organized and I can’t stand their fumbling anymore”—and then shot himself. Even worse was the suicide of Amelia Bolaños. In June 1969 she was an eighteen-year-old El Salvadorean watching the Honduras–El Salvador game at home on TV. When Honduras scored the winner in the last minute, wrote the great Polish reporter Ryszard Kapuscinski, Bolaños “got up and ran to the desk which contained her father’s pistol in a drawer. She then shot herself in the heart.” Her funeral was televised. El Salvador’s president and ministers, and the country’s soccer team walked behind the flag-draped coffin. Within a month, Bolaños’s death would help prompt the “Soccer War” between El Salvador and Honduras.

The Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski, acclaimed as the most brilliant and perceptive reporter of his time, writes in "Travels with Herodotus" that with every new town visited, with every new foreign word learnt, the traveller experiences small, almost imperceptible personal changes. Wherever you go becomes part of you and the person who returns home is never the same as before departing. Knowing new people is in many ways like travelling, and those who you meet along your road become part of your existence too.

But there comes a moment when the mood burns out and everything ends. As a matter of reflex, out of custom, we go on repeating the gestures and words and want everything to be the way it was yesterday, but we know already — and the discovery Appalls us — that this yesterday will never again return. We look around and make another discovery: those who were with us have also changed —something has burned out in them, as well, something has been extinguished.

Por supuesto, resulta espantosa e insoportablemente aburrida esta inactividad tan absoluta, este quedarse sentado sin hacer nada en un estado de postración mental, pero, por otro lado, ¿acaso no pasan el tiempo de esa manera tan pasiva y apática millones y millones de gentes del planeta? Y además, ¿no lo hacen así desde hace años, desde haces siglos, independientemente de la religión, de la cultura, de la raza? Basta con que, en América del Sur, vayamos a los Andes o nos paseemos en coche por las polvorientas calles de Piura o naveguemos por el Orinoco: en todas partes encontramos aldeas de barro, poblados y villas pobres y veremos cuánta gente permanece sentada en la puerta de su casa, sobre piedras o en bancos, inmóvil, sin hacer nada. Vayamos de América del Sur a África, visitemos los solitarios oasis del Sáhara o los poblados de pescadores negros que se extienden a lo largo del Golfo de Guinea, visitemos a los misteriosos pigmeos en la jungla del Congo, la diminuta ciudad de Mwenzo en Zambia, la hermosa y dotada tribu Dinka en Sudán: en todas partes veremos gentes sentadas que de vez en cuando articularán alguna palabra, que por la noche se calentarán alrededor de un fuego, pero que en realidad, aparte de permanecer sentadas, inmóviles e inactivas, no hacen nada en absoluto y se encuentran (podemos suponer) en un estado de postración mental. ¿Acaso Asia es diferente? ¿Acaso, yendo de Karachi a Lahore o de Bombay a Madrás o de Yakarta a Malangu, no nos chocará ver que miles, qué digo, millones de paquistaníes, hindúes, indonesios y otros asiáticos están sentados inmóviles con la vista fija en no se sabe qué? Cojamos un vuelo a las Filipinas o a Samoa, visitemos las inconmensurables extensiones del Yukón o la exótica Jamaica: en todas partes veremos el mismo panorama de gentes sentadas que permanecen inmóviles durante horas enteras en unas sillas viejas, en unos tablones de madera, en unas cajas de plástico, a la sombra de olmos y mangos, apoyadas contras las paredes de las chabolas, las vallas y los marcos de las ventanas, independientemente de la hora del día y de la estación del año, de si hace solo o llueve, gentes aturdidas e indefinidas, gentes en un estado de somnolencia crónica, que no hacen nada excepto permanecer allí sin necesidad y sin objetivo, y también sumidas (podemos suponer) en una postración mental.

A los doce años, James Joyce escribía cartas dignas de atención; yo, con la misma edad, corría por el campo en pos de las vacas y no había leído un solo libro.