Acts 16:33
At that hour of the night the jailer took them [Paul and Silas] and washed their wounds; then immediately he and all his family were baptized.

When the jailer accepted the word of God that Paul and Silas shared with him, his eyes were opened and with those open eyes came compassion. Paul and Silas were no longer just prisoners but injured men who needed attending. Before that, the jailer had been complacent.

I wonder how often I have missed human need and suffering because of a callous heart. I drive the same streets every day. I walk the neighborhoods. I go to the same grocery store and eat at the same restaurants. Am I looking and not seeing?

Martin Buber spoke eloquently of man’s ability to look at “the other” without seeing in his book, I and Thou. Am I looking at other as “object” … as an “it,” or as a person … a true “thou.”

William Shakespeare captured this idea slightly differently (but effectively) in the Merchant of Venice through one of the speeches of Shylock: “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die?” [Act III, sc 1] Replace the word Jew with “the poor” and you get the idea.

The jailer could not do much. He couldn’t free Paul and Silas, he couldn’t change their circumstances, but he could give a small comfort: he could wash their wounds.

When I see poor and wretched souls, I become numb with the enormity of their deprivation. What can I possibly do? Perhaps it’s only the small act that needs doing in the moment…. washing wounds by listening, touching, asking, engaging, feeding, sharing. Perhaps I should stop worrying about what I cannot do and simply do what I can do.

I have heard it said that we can never “out give” the poor. Their need will always be greater that our ability to meet it. This sentiment reverberates in Jesus’s own words: “The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want…” [Mark 14:7a]

the bag-carried charms of lonely school-girls

blue crushed dreams drowned at noon-day

vented fortunes melted and re-created

morphed laughters reflected in a magenta pool

shadowy remains of the over-large green lantern

vultured skulls swinging by their guitar strings

music honeyed lions pondering the dancing stars

there a stare – here a smile – everywhere death

paper-thin mannequins feasting on shrimp salads

oceanic largesses buttoned and stored sideways

sun-dried tomatoes drank with overmuch salt

zion led saints proportioning those fairly decked nuns

swing crushed remains – the bread cracks of yore

the vegan induced convulsions of some carnivore

emperor dreamed lords dressed in nakedness

street whispered symphonies overtaken with sun-dried laughters

slithering oysters wrestling with some stranded toe

darling buds gnashing their teeth as they gently kiss those receding winds

suffocated wedding bands recalling past conquests

suffused pleasures desiring a proper vessel

the sweaty palms of boys chained in boarding schools

green sullied roof tops laced in brown jacaranda leaves

death masked violins overran with a craving for strings

there be but a remainder of mats – herded feet whistling their displeasure

overmuch excitement – the sure emblem of lovers at war

gloried bosoms rounder than the fairest august apple

middle apportioned fortunes starved of the seasons fallings

i pose a conundrum – suppose i cared

those circular yearning s teasing the pathetic fortunes of our failings

trombone led bands cowering beneath flute dresses

museum honeyed murals of masters unknown

leather clobbered loins remained upon the chiefest lizard cliffs

shop stewed beans rustling in their metal prisons

willows distantly dancing a fresh of the flowing muds

the punished sounds of choirs hanged at dawn

boot driven passions remained on a plastic plate

a loose lip here – a shoe there – everywhere death

numidian mushrooms sheltered beneath kilimanjaros shoulders

kissed birds overcome with grief

the booked imaginings of shy pupils giggling in rain

pampered lobsters sunbathing in their coffins

oiled thighs standing erect besides michelangelo’s david

yellow scented lusts of husbands given over to theatre

comedy driven longings – the perpendicular stares of wronged lover

the karoo streams – kalahari basins – toureg chants – gorgon encampments

they all be but simple venison servings

table laid charms bottled in salt

how fair are those dancing bears – even the same fur-less devils

suspended aloft that soon disappearing iceberg

night stars rushing purposefully to their deaths

sychellian crustaceans wallowing in grief

the bushveld  tropics leaning gently upon fair mozambique’s cheeks

soon-approaching monsoons announcing their arrival in himalayan chants

train hurried suns murmuring for a lack of attention

the haired touching of lovers stranded at and in the sea

easterly badlands housed in some papal estate

toe-tugged yearnings elegantly decked in straw skirts

of epher’s children – salute them with a gentle tug in either direction

craven red shoes seated upright in some rainy mud hut

of mau mau and his abandoned harlots – whistle only and touch not

burning forests housed wholly in her mouth

olympian straits considered and rejected

righteousness forced upon unwilling saints – they chose sin instead

snow-covered churches overcome with laughter

coat pocketed jealousies of rivals resorting to righteousness – dueling

scorched lands immigrating downward and into hell

cherry scented mustangs awash in fresh aloe

dew carried feet refusing the flung serving of fresh boots

the remaining african horn fed to the nomadics of eritrea

diseased waters bottled and sent to epher’s descendants

soap deprived ankles painted in valley yellow

dark suns prejudiced at the sight of blue oranges

suited bullfrogs desiring an audience with the priest

mournful dirges of some tragic anthem lorded over the plains

serengeti woodlands teaming with overmuch grasshoppers

lateral – dental – palatial

the rice grown hatreds of aphrite’s rude cousins

millet rinsed touchings of loves and lovers clothed in burnings

sight condemned ancients rehearsing their final movements

hurried motionings of sharks harpooned at the high deserts

drunk instructors condemned to the wine cellars

drought moustaches grown arrogant with the occasional brush

ankle dipped hands dancing on freshly painted ceilings

roman centurions sheepishly waiting upon the priests

the back covered lashes of whips crying at dawn

zebra teethed lions lying sideways – the feed was much

meditating monks nightly preaching patience as they doubt its efficacy

rib jointed searchings of parents transfixed upon some tragic statute

guitar stringed understandings of lovers soon to be loosened

hurricane gales refusing freely gifted medications – they instead desire destruction

church chimed machinations – the loud shadows of sarcadortal hems

leather-covered sweaters speaking of soon returning father abraham

marsh covered bibles resurrected to their mournful parents

papered lips pretending to care yet found out

fortuned souls buried in moses’ bosoom

piano starved school children emaciated and in need of fresh cassava

drunk pilgrims desecrating their holy places

curses courtiers given over to overindulgence

pleasured hips forgetting how to dress

earth abused servants despising their hoes

equator neglected bears doubly aggrieved

polluted musics distilled in yellow barley

tomato crushed dreams of lovers separated by war

tributaries of untamed passions spewing from eva’s bosom

tribal instincts of mothers caressing their pops – confused loves

crucified sailors condemned for purity of passions

the yellow ribbons circling about in their blue trousers

bus driven fears of known futures

boiled mannequins cascading in sheltered rage

the oiled ankles of lovers destined to fail

teaming marshes pregnant with the anticipation of your impending hanging

what would shylock do

such purity contained in those unassuming holy loins

not a penny more or less

the weighty pendulums of earthly expectations placed shoulderwise

upon such lowly flesh – pray for his rich poverty

freely consider the run – jonah did

circular chains layered outwardly upon her cheeks

wandering stares of the decomposing tortoise

craged backs of prisoners rejoicing at the sight of a whip

unseemly lovings of the nile priests

snow married rains competing for the mastery

roaming preachers begging for fresh underwear

any recall the simple pleasures of death

hyacinth troubled waters refusing to suffocate

consider the daffodils and their fair cousins – the black mamba

following – continue your runnings

street dancing muses overtaken with giggling willows

haggard poets taking up whistling

layered burnings of victims returned from their nightly flames

the bleached denials of lovers untrained in the art – of lying

caressed lips of saints hanged and burned by the eclipse

green creeks snaking around eva’s proud towers

ever populated with the bagged trifles of smiles sealed and delivered

expected rains falling only the honest sinners

touch not but freely reach

the flasked remains of wars forced upon the innocent

dirt condemned shoulders praying for rain

honeyed nights scribing the moanful chants of reunited lovers

built ruins of some ancient king – god

boot-straped cowboys jeaned and straightwith saddled

onion ringed stairs of pilgrims unfurling their carpets in prayer

stoned devils loosened on an unassuming friday afternoon

the shamelessly chanted charms of choirs rehearsing compassion

free range grains frustrated at the sight of a sickle

garden manufactured sandals covered in cassava peelings

the red vases of fortunes’ train soon approaches

temple plundered riches housed in some temple

boat driven suspenders tugging the wily doe

arabian summers spend it hibernation

square run destinies married to music slithered hands

love-worn seagulls taking up residence on greenland’s beaches

the pilgrim stares of submerged penguins

superfluous gains of tormentors destined to burn

collected unicorns aimlessly peddling their air cycles

terrace covered nakedness of summers spent at the arctic

zerubabel conducted symphonies arrested by the passing eclipse

the retrograde joys of past loves recalled in regret

of pains  known and grown out of – try harder

vase-shaped frustrations – even the same man nurtured

sandals of ambitions dead at birth

any care pass along the rope – how make you a proper noose

how sweet the contradiction daily raping humanity

baleful mourns of innocence hushed in the still of the night

bewildered stares fixed upon the priestly robes of the temple vultures

scavengers given over to overmuch prayer – before consuming their flesh

teeth mapped meats shaking with fear

with love and for love yet always serving self

hades scented saints marching triumphantly towards their sabbath pews

those proper passions gently housed in some harlots bosom

care consider her kind

rude awakenings of skirts hugged one upon another

round fingers – the meandering coins emblazoned with sea fortunes

sword kissed deaths transfixed upon some tragic mount

that they too desire to commune with father moses – any care find him

knee-nursed yearnings of some crawling pop

kettle-whispered lovings of mothers overcome with joy

loves journeyed in darkness only to be condemned by the searching light

some waffled longings of imprisoned cousins – twice removed

fortunes plundered and straightaway surrendered to mightier foes

watched yearnings of those round face anthills

care imitate the socialized hatreds of the sheppard

joyous singings at the news of the stranded winters upon the seas

today be the burial of some tragic figure – some son of three parents

scared remains of lovers burned in love – rather it be love that burned then -

or love caused these burnings – love burned them – in a word: they be dead

the dragon costumes singularly common yet without a mother

companies of soldiers bewailing their blood-muddied swords

pure-bred expectations of fathers married to daily runnings

parisian harlots – even those decadent damsels of notre dame

lamp lighted walkings of some painted corridor

symphonic laughters given over to overmuch prayers

recall the butterfly laced travels of righteous odysseus

the drought peopled apartments quietly screaming for chardonnay

touched purities of priests aggrieved in spirit yet glad in the flesh

palm lined libraries of cairo giddily seated adjacent jerusalem’s famous lamps

summer covered carpets laced with gerbera ferns

nightly runnings of forbidden lovers conspiring their next escapes

apostolic sureties of saint eva – blessed be her musical loins

poems collected in empty wooden wine skins

coerced laughters masked in the lying giggles of the anaconda

prayerful knees of the arabian monk wrestling with an empty sea shell

rehearsed returns of the blue women of the green lagoon

liberian tiles refusing their ordained marriages to cuban cements

any care hear of the loud shrills of the debauched crickets

plimsol expectations of princes ignored in plain sight

the returned piercings of lapped waters dancing in a great danes mouth

restrained sheep recalling their wild histories as dakota mustangs

of sacrifices a dove yet wholly unrepentant

rosy mornings carried in an empty jar

that the sistine chapel was erected by a harlot – aye even eva

that most righteous and upwardly decked saint of the weeping sheets

known of most for her convulsing inducing hands

virgin pilgrims remained upon their store-bought piety

some raisin cured yawns of the whited sepulchers housing her blessed remains

glass layered centuries of accusations returned and loosened

sweet-honeyed chirpings of the wooly mammoth

crane-spoted hyenas jumping rope in the serengeti plains

crowned turtles desiring the company of boiling lobsters

any recall the tearful repentances of proud nabucco

slaves become masters and enslaving their fellow slaves

how that in running – they instead lost themselves

have a care

Balzac e Dostoievski, escritores consagrados do século XIX, viviam atolados em dívidas, não admira que ambos tenham criado personagens sovinas e egoístas

*por Moacyr Scliar

Embora muitos já tenham esquecido, o Brasil viveu períodos de grandes surtos inflacionários, nos quais o dinheiro perdia rapidamente o seu valor. Era muito comum ver moedas nas sarjetas das ruas; ali ficavam porque valiam tão pouco que ninguém se dava ao trabalho de abaixar-se para apanhá-las. Isso nos remete a um fato básico da economia e da vida social: a rigor, o dinheiro é uma ficção. Mas exatamente por causa desse ângulo, digamos, ficcional, ele assume também caráter altamente simbólico. E não muito agradável, segundo Freud. Observando que ao longo da história o dinheiro foi freqüentemente (e ainda é) associado à sujeira, o pai da psicanálise postulou que a proposital retenção de fezes, característica da chamada fase anal do desenvolvimento infantil, teria continuidade, no adulto, com a preocupação com o dinheiro. O avarento é um exemplo caricatural disso.

Aos escritores essas coisas não poderiam passar despercebidas, mesmo porque muitos deles tinham, e têm, problemas com dinheiro; Honoré de Balzac (1799-1850) e Fiódor Dostoievski (1821-1881) viviam atolados em dívidas, sobretudo o escritor russo, que era um jogador compulsivo. Não é de admirar que avarentos tenham dado grandes personagens da ficção. O primeiro exemplo é, naturalmente, o Shylock, de William Shakespeare (1564-1616) na comédia O mercador de Veneza, do fim do século XVI. Shylock era um agiota. Na Idade Média, o empréstimo a juros era proibido aos cristãos e reservado ao desprezado e marginal grupo dos judeus. Um arranjo perfeito: quando o senhor feudal não queria ou não podia pagar dívidas contraídas com os agiotas, desencadeava um massacre de judeus, um grupo desprezado e marginalizado, e resolvia o problema. Shylock sente-se desprezado e quando empresta dinheiro a Antonio, um mercador, pede em garantia uma libra da carne do devedor: ele quer que este se revele inadimplente e pague a dívida com a matéria de seu próprio corpo: um esforço desesperado e grotesco para ser respeitado.

Outro usurário que aparece na peça O avarento (1668), de Jean-Baptiste Molière (1622-1673) é Harpagon. Quanto mais rico fica, mais mesquinho se torna, e mais faz sofrer os filhos, o jovem Cléante, apaixonado por Mariane, moça pobre – Harpagon obviamente se opõe ao namoro – e a filha Élise, que ele quer casar com o velho Anselme. Além das brigas com os filhos, Harpagon tem outros motivos para se inquietar: enterrou em seu jardim uma caixa com dez mil escudos de ouro e é constantemente perseguido pela idéia de que sua fortuna será roubada. No fim, a avareza é castigada e Cléante e Élise podem se unir às pessoas que amam.

Avarentos também não faltam nos romances de Charles Dickens (1812-1870), um dos mais conhecidos é o personagem Ebenezer Scrooge de Um conto de Natal (1843), um homem velho, egoísta, insensível, que odeia tudo – até o Natal – uma festa que evoca bondade e generosidade. Scrooge maltrata seu empregado Bob Cratchit, que tem um filho deficiente físico, o Pequeno Tim, mas na noite de Natal é visitado por misteriosas entidades, os Espíritos do Natal, e muda por completo, tornando-se generoso, ajudando Cratchit e sua família. Em Silas Marner, novela de George Eliot (1819-1880) que usava o pseudônimo de Mary Ann Evans, o personagem, um misantropo que prefere o ouro às pessoas, aprenderá, assim como Scrooge, a sua lição. Ele é roubado, mas, ao tomar sob seus cuidados o menino Eppie, mudará, tornando-se um homem melhor. Em Eugénie Grandet (1900), de Balzac, somos apresentados a Félix Grandet, um rico e sovina mercador de vinhos, que se opõe à paixão da filha pelo sobrinho pobre.

Como se pode ver em todas essas obras, a obsessão pelo dinheiro resulta de uma personalidade repulsiva ou patética. Freud tinha razão: o poder simbólico do vil metal não é pequeno e tem atravessado os séculos incólume.

*Moacyr Scliar é médico, escritor e membro da Academia Brasileira de Letras

FONTE: Revista Viver Mente e Cérebro

Here is an item from the Reuters:
‘Major U.S. newspapers called on the Oscar winner to account for the crime, and commentators said U.S. public opinion was running strongly against Polanski.”
This reminds me of a similar public outcry in the Victorian England. Here the target was an Irish genius, a wit and his jibes, a thorn on the side of hypocritical Victorian society. Oscar Wilde had ridiculed their hypocrisies and when he fell they made it sure he was destroyed. Evil of these hypocrites took the guise of social orderliness and fatherly feeling. Marquess Queensberry was seen by the public as a father who would resist his son being corrupted by a pederast. In real his son was a confirmed homosexual even before Oscar Wilde began ‘feasting with panthers ‘as he put it. But the public outrage needed a victim and Wilde, the outsider fitted the bill perfectly. So much for the public outcry against so called ‘moral turpitude.’ The US newspapers are no different from those who gloated on the downfall of Wilde.Polanski is an outsider,of Polish and French extract. His lifestyle was not of American pie and flag waving as of the moral majority.
Wilde found fame in London just as he fell because he was an outsider. Law tried him as an equal only that justice was of doubtful quantity.
Justice that the public cried was not so much for establishing their middleclass correctness or for propriety or justice. When he was sentenced the prostitutes danced on the streets because homosexuals were cutting into their business.
Why did Queensberry pursue Wilde with implacable hatred? He was convinced that his one son had died earlier in a homosexual scandal in which Lord Roseberry who later became the PM of Great Britain was a party.(His son Drumlanrig was afraid of blackmail over his relations with Roseberry.)
From above we see that before Law all are equal but Justice served comes in  tainted dishes.

Thus when the US public cries for justice they merely hide all their prejudices and social injustices to which they are party to and gives lip service to Justice. If only there was a public outcry against Bush when he embarked on his war against Iraq or against Abu Gharib atrocities. There are so many wrongs still in circulation that they could rail against and also work for the good of all.
Tailspin: Law sent Wilde to prison and broke him. His creative genius could not survive the inhuman treatment meted out to him after the fashion of Victorian sense of Justice. Redeeming nature of their prison system was not what could have left the best part in him, his genius, in tact. Effect of justice for a dockworker is different from that of man of letters. Shylock in the Merchant of Venice had the right to his pound of flesh but he had no right to the man’s blood. Collateral damage the Law exacts from his spirit or from those who are dependent on him makes Justice somewhat questionable.
benny

Una blogger (cuius nomen Godot est) mi fa giustamente notare che i personaggi “cattivi” di Shakespeare sono sistematicamente più riusciti di quelli buoni. Che Romeo (per dirne uno) è noioso, mentre Riccardo III ecc.

Vero. Verissimo. Romeo è noioso.

Non importa se tutti gli adolescenti anglosassoni lo interpretano almeno una volta nella vita, sperando che la compagna di corso che interpreta Juliet si lasci prendere dalla parte.

Per vivacizzare il personaggio hanno dovuto inventarsi una storia complicatissima come SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE, con una donna che si finge uomo per interpretare una donna… Vabbè, sapete tutti come va a finire Shakespeare in love, no?

Ma voglio aggiungere un paio di altri esempi. Anzitutto, la tragedia di OTELLO.

Otello è un personaggio “buono”, ma patetico: sostanzialmente un BABBEO, ingannato dal demoniaco Iago, che se lo gira intorno al mignolo con una facilità sconcertante.

Iago ha il doppio delle battute di Otello, è sempre in scena. Mi sembra evidente che mastro Shakespeare è affascinato da questo genio del Male, che invoca continuamente le “divinità dell’inferno” e che dimostra un’astuzia e una conoscenza della psiche umana (a cominciare dalla gelosia, naturalmente) degne di miglior causa….

Infine, IL MERCANTE DI VENEZIA: il protagonista dovrebbe essere il mercante Antonio (che rischia la vivisezione per un ritardo nei pagamenti); eppoi ci sono Bassanio e Porzia (con la storia d’amore, gli scrigni, gli anelli ecc), ma…

…ma il vero protagonista (secondo me) è l’usuraio Shylock, un personaggio da tragedia innestato in una commedia.

Apro parentesi. L’antisemitismo non l’hanno inventato i tedeschi. Agli spettatori di Londra piaceva moltissimo un ebreo sulla scena, un ebreo da insultare e spernacchiare. Shakespeare li accontentò, come li aveva accontentati Marlowe. Ma lo trattò con insolità dignità, come vedremo. Chiudo parentesi.

Intendiamoci, Shylock è un “cattivo” (infatti è stato interpretato da Orson Welles, Al Pacino, Paolo Stoppa, ecc: attori capaci di grandi performance “cattive”): presta a usura (è il precursore delle BANCHE che ti negano il mutuo se non dai garanzie e ti strozzano se non paghi le rate in tempo) e pretende ferocemente il pagamento della penale, cioè la morte di Antonio.

Ma la sua durezza  è resa umana (commovente, direi) dalla famosa tirata del terzo atto. Leggete con attenzione queste parole: sono le parole di un “cattivo”, ma lasciano trasparire una lunga storia di sofferenze.

“Un ebreo non ha occhi? Un ebreo non ha mani, membra, sensi, affetti, passioni? Non si nutre dello stesso cibo, non è ferito dalle stesse armi, non va soggetto alle stesse malattie? …..se ci pungete, non sanguiniamo? se ci fate il solletico, non ridiamo? se ci avvelenate, non moriamo?

E se ci offendete, non dobbiamo vendicarci?”

am i not human, just like u? if u prick me, do i not bleed? i hv always loved shylock in shakespeare’s the merchant of venice… perhaps becos i hv always felt a sense of social injustice, long before i learnt the word “asperger’s”… i first read the merchant of venice when i was 11 years old… i performed shylock’s speech in a dramatic speech competition when i was 13 years old and won a prize… i felt a kinship with shylock in many ways… the outcast, the accused and condemned, the misunderstood, the tormented turned tormentor… but why shd there be an eye for an eye, or any need at all for revenge?

i seek no revenge… i only seek healing for myself… my life is simple and an open book… hiding in dark corners and dodging the light of day are not skills that i can grasp, master nor understand the need for… i m different… i need the light, i thrive in simplicity, no hidden agenda nor veiled meanings, just honesty… u said u r my friend, but in truth, alas, i hv discovered far too late, that to u, i m nothing but an invisible phantom screaming silently – and u want me to remain that way… but it is over…

i m not ashamed to be me anymore… does my nakedness now offend u? i guess it does…

perhaps u r ashamed to be u?… that is why u need to wear so many different pieces of clothing, to shield u from the truth…

Det finns ett famöst stycke klotter på en toalett i biblioteket på Stockholms universitet, nedklottrat i början av 1990-talet. “Per Gahrton är den ende MANNEN i Sverige”. Gahrton hade tidigare några fans i akademin tydligen. 

Undrar hur det står till med den fan-basen idag. Nu har Sveriges ende man skrivit på Newsmill att Israelsambassadören som skrev det beklagande pressmeddelandet om Aftonbladets lilla Shylock-saga “måste kallas hem och läxas upp av Carl Bildt och undervisas i elementär svensk yttrandefrihet”. Innovativt!

Att låta statsråden kritisera myndighetspersoner för att de använt sin yttrandefrihet till att uttrycka kritik över hur andra använder sin yttrandefrihet verkar vara ett smart drag för att visa hur vi står upp för svensk yttrandefrihet.

Inte.

Shylock? Hollyoaks? Jeremy Kyle? Bowser?

They’re all there in the latest 16-Bit Boy on the mighty Resolution website;

http://resolution-magazine.co.uk/content/16-bit-boy-baddies/

SHYLOCK:
“To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction”

—Act III, scene I

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND—You have to love metaphors. Or hate them. At crossroads, choosing a path, a fork in the road, so many ways to describe the choices we make that lead us to our destinies. So far I’d have to say that the summer is playing itself out pretty much to plan but I have made a few diversions. I have decided not to return to Valencia with my son for my daughter’s birthday on the 15th—which she understands completely and seems not to mind in the least. She says that we’ll just have to make a big party in Liverpool when she arrives. And a big party she will have indeed! I suppose she’s used to having a summer birthday when many of her friends are away and her birthday parties are usually quite modest compared to those children who are able to celebrate their birthdays during the school year. Anyway, she’s very easygoing and  flexible and we will make her a 10th birthday party to remember. My decision not to return to Valencia this week was based on a number of things. I was supposed to take the kids to a week-long summer camp in Ciudad Real from the 19th to the 26th where I was to work as the English-speaking counsellor, but I decided that I just wasn’t up to it. I don’t like how the camp is run—it’s organized by a friend of mine in the Police and Firefighters’ Union—it seems kind of thrown together—and I’m not sure that I’m up to the task of looking after 50 kids in 90 degree weather for a week even though my kids could have come along for free and I would have pocketed about 500 bucks for the effort. Sometimes it’s not only about the money. I would have also had to have spent a couple of nights on both sides of camp week in my “alternative living space,” and this time of year Valencia’s a tinderbox and the likelihood of my spontaneously combusting would have been quite high. So, I’ve jumped ship on summer camp and will remain in Liverpool where it’s partly sunny most of the day and temps average out in the mid to high 60s. My kinda weather and the sky and cloud formations that change constantly are breathtaking. The new plan is that I will go to Valencia and pick my daughter up in a whirlwind 24-hour “search and rescue operation,” whereby I’ll only need to spend one night in “the hole.” That will probably be sometime during the week of the 27th. We’re all very excited to get her over to England and to get ready for my mother’s visit in just three short weeks. And speaking of visits, Wendy’s parents arrive Thursday night, so there will be plenty of excitement around the “Tower of Babel” during the coming weeks.

Not much news to report on the employment front. I submitted my 1.5 million pound fundraising project proposal to the Princes Road Synagogue Fundraising Committee last week and the Board of Trustees meet on the 21st, so fingers crossed on that one. I’ve given a lot of thought to getting in the fundraising game professionally and with the experience I have in funding acquisition both at the grassroots and corporate level, I think I may have a good argument for at least doing some exploratory work into the feasibility of that. I’ve done some research on Fundraising Consultancies and nearly all of them only advise—as opposed to actually doing the fundraising themselves—and with my experience and chutzpah I think I’m well prepared to undertake this type of work. So while the consultants charge a hefty fee advising organizations on how to best go about their fundraising activities, I’ll actually do it, and at no cost to the charitable organizations I work for, taking only a modest commission on the money I raise. Do the math yourself, it could be pretty lucrative and I’m already set up to work at home with a free calling plan and broadband which is basically all I need to get up and running. To that end I’ve also given some thought to getting back into the contract publishing game, which I was quite successful in the first time around but not so the second. I guess it’s all about believing in what you’re pitching and who you’re representing.

I’ve also gone back to considering getting my teaching credentials in the U.K. I could do a two-year course at the university where Wendy works or find a school to sponsor me and do my practicum there and get certification that way while getting paid. I’ve already spoken to one of the head teachers at the King David school in Liverpool who has said she would try to get me into their teacher training program in the fall. I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst option, the hours and pay are good and being a Jewish day school—though only about 20 per cent of the school population is Jewish—all the Jewish holidays are observed and summer vacation is always a teacher’s best fringe benefit. I look at it this way, I love teaching and if I can make a contribution I figure I’d have at least a good 15 to 20 more years to dedicate to education. I also read in the paper this weekend that there is a big shortage of male primary school teachers in the U.K. and now that Spanish will be offered as part of the re-structured curriculum, I think my chances of becoming a Spanish teacher are excellent. Who would have ever thought…?

My son’s been in Liverpool with Wendy and I 15 days now and I think he’s really enjoying himself. We’re keeping busy going and doing and at home he plays guitar, chats with his friends back in Valencia and surfs the Web looking for “how to” videos to learn all the hot guitar licks. Last week it was Heart’s “Crazy on You,” this week it’s Guns-n-Roses’ “Sweet Child O Mine.” When I was a kid I was happy just cranking out “Smoke on the Water!” My how times have changed.

This week we’ve seen two jazz concerts at the Walker Gallery, been to the World Museum and the Transportation Museum in St. Helens, took a bus ride to the bedroom town of Maghull, took a walk though Dingle, where Ringo Starr was born and followed a Protestant marching band as they paraded to the center of town; we finally ended up the week seeing a great performance of Shakespeare’s “A Merchant of Venice,” at Hope University which was put on by the Cambridge Shakespeare Festival. Michael Eyres portrayed one of, if not the best Shylocks I have ever seen.

So I am indeed living some of the best of times and some of the worst of times, and on many levels constantly finding myself at a fork in the road. I am trying at all costs to stay positive but recognize that there are moments when I fall into the trap of feeling like a failure and letting the rough bits get the best of me. I often feel the haze of depression settling about me and while at times I can fight it off, other times it engulfs me and takes hold of my capacity to think clearly, communicate my feelings and look for ways to free myself from its chokehold.

This week I’ll need to make a trip to the Spanish Consulate in Manchester as I’ve decided to try to renew my Spanish residency which if renewed should facilitate my staying and working legally in the U.K. Rabbi Kievman, who makes the drive to Manchester to take his children to school there every day, has offered my son and I a ride on whatever morning I decide to go. We’ll spend the day as there’s always plenty to do and see there and I’d like to visit the Jewish Museum and take my son to the Urbis.

On the literary front I’m spending a good amount of time editing and re-formatting “Birdland,” a collection of poems I wrote in Granada, Spain in 1987 to upload to my Writer’s Blog (http://rmusatinsky.wordpress.com). It’s quite top heavy at just under 16,000 words so I anticipate it taking another week to finish up. Have given the novels and the documentary film treatment another week off, I think my focus and ganas are slowly beginning to resurface so hopefully I’ll get back on task shortly.

Finally some family notes. Wendy, now in her 19th week, is doing fine (no more crackers by the side of the bed!). My mother had her knee “re-surfaced” thanks to the modern miracle of arthroscopic surgery and only after a week has the bandage off and is having the stitches removed today. She plans on being 100% by the time she arrives in England on August 4th. And a happy belated birthday to my great-uncle Alex Satin, who celebrated his 85th birthday last month with a luncheon at his country club attended by 35 family members and close friends. On a more somber note, I was informed this morning that the sister of one my oldest friends, Marcy Weed, is being treated for a blood clot and lung cancer and would ask all of my friends and family to please pray for a Refuah Shleimah—a full and speedy recovery—for Tracy Miller-Anderson, daughter of Barbara Miller.

I leave you all for now wishing everyone a productive and healthy week filed with all the love and joy that life has to offer.

Mi buena amiga española, para quien en principio fueron redactados estos artículos, me respondió objetando que el “discurso de Shylock” siempre le pareció grandioso. Y que además, no es la única en sentir así… Reproduzco pues dicho monólogo, en el cual deberé concentrar mi análisis a continuación:

SOY JUDÍO
¿ACASO UN JUDÍO NO TIENE OJOS?
¿NO TIENE UN JUDÍO MANOS, ÓRGANOS, DIMENSIONES, SENTIDOS, AFFECCIONES, PASIONES?
¿ALIMENTADO CON LA MISMA COMIDA
HERIDO CON LAS MISMAS ARMAS
SUJETO A LAS MISMAS ENFERMEDADES
CURADO POR LOS MISMOS MEDIOS
CALENTADO Y ENFRIADO POR EL MISMO INVIERNO Y VERANO
QUE UN CRISTIANO?
SI NOS PINCHÁIS, ¿NO SANGRAMOS?
SI NOS HACÉIS COSQUILLAS, ¿NO NOS REIMOS?
SI NOS ENVENENÁIS, ¿NO MORIMOS?
Y SI NOS HACÉIS MAL, ¿NO NOS VENGAREMOS?

En la práctica, lo cierto es que hasta la fecha los judíos no han hecho ningún plan ni movimiento conjunto tendiente a “vengarse”. Y eso que motivos de peso, nunca les faltaron. Por eso dije en mi mensaje anterior, que quienes de hecho sí no habrían podido contenerse y sí se habrían vengado con salvaje crueldad, de estar en la situación de los judíos, son precisamente los Xtianos… Shylock es por lo tanto, un Xtiano puesto en los zapatos del odiadio judío durante unos segundos. Y lo que dice es lo que el Xtiano sentiría y desearía hacer de estar en su lugar. Pero puesto bajo el examen de la Historia, no representa en absoluto lo que han hecho o sentido los propios judíos…

No sé si leíste realmente el Mercader de principio a fin, o solo leíste ese monólogo citado en algún lugar, y por eso tu impresión acabó siendo tan injustificadamente favorable… Pero permíteme recordarte que del discurso de Shylock, lo único que el personaje lleva a la práctica no es su humanidad, sino su sangrienta y diabólica sed de venganza. En el Mercader, Shylock se quiere ensañar precisamente con un personaje que en principio es completamente inocente, ajeno al asunto. Y lo hace de una manera que, no es de extrañar, recuerda demasiado sospechosamente los llamados “líbelos de sangre“: Shylock desea concederse el discutible placer de arrancarle un pedacito del corazón a su inocente víctima. Y es mediante esta macabra triquiñuela shakesperiana que, pese a que el grupo de jóvenes héroes Xtianos de hecho ESTAFAN al viejo judío (nótese la oposición, que dudo sea fruto del azar), el final es “feliz”: han triunfado “la justicia, el amor y el espíritu de juventud” Xtianos, sobre “la iniquidad, el odio y la vetustosidad” judíos…

Líbelo de Sangre: los "pérfidos" judíos jamás hicieron esto a NINGÚN Xtiano. Pero con la excusa de esta macabra leyenda, los "caritativos" Xtianos han cometido crueladades peores contra millones de judíos, incluídos sus niños.

Moraleja: a ciertos personajes hay que diseccionarlos en mucha mayor profundidad de la que parecen merecer a simple vista.

Tras publicar el Post anterior, seguí pensando un poco más sobre este tema de Shylock. Entonces caí en la cuenta de que el simpático grupito de jóvenes Xtianos que protagonizan el drama, lo que hacen a fin de cuentas es ESTAFAR al judío. Al final le han arrancado una enorme suma de dinero que jamás le devolvieron. Da la impresión que desde el principio, lo que buscaban era tomar sin devolver. O sea, ROBARLE.

-

Ahora bien: si un judío roba o estafa a un Xtiano, ¿qué no se dice de él? Pero si Xtianos roban o estafan a judíos, ¡eso está bien! ¡Eso demuestra que son brillantes, inteligentes, astutos, traviesos, simpáticos, dignos de aplauso y reverencia! Releyendo el drama con meticulosidad, no hay absolutamente ningún juicio negativo del autor hacia sus personajes por la estafa que acaban cometiendo. Es un final feliz. A fuer de W. Sh., estos personajes y sus métodos son irreprochables: LOABLES…

-

Caer en la cuenta del doble rasero moral aquí presente, por demás característico en la literatura (¿y por ende, en la mentalidad?) europea, me hizo recordar por asociación un hecho similar, narrado en el Cantar del Mío Cid. La obra lírica, que se desahace en elogios para con las virtudes caballerescas del Cid, al que considera íntegro y sin tacha, contiene una escena en que el Cid estafa a un amigo judío al que, nuevamente, consigue arrancarle una enorme suma de dinero en calidad de “prestamo” con la intención de no devolverla jamás. Dicho y hecho: el Cid no devuelve el dinero (obvio). Y eso es prueba de su inteligencia y brillantez. Claro que si hubiese sido a la inversa, habría que ver si al judío se le festejaría tal demostración de “sana picardía”…

-

¿Y entonces?
Entonces tenemos el líbelo por una parte, y la cruda realidad por la otra. Según el líbelo, un Xtiano (desde ya asumido como la más pura encarnación del bien, la belleza, la bondad, la misericordia y la virtud) no puede confiar en un judío, porque el último es astuto, mentiroso, avaro, cruel, estafador… En la práctica vemos que son los judíos quienes no pueden fiarse de los Xtianos, porque hasta los más virtuosos y “caballerescos” de ellos los estafarán apenas se les presente la oportunidad. ¡Y todavía se jactarán de ello!

-

Y en definitiva, eso demuestra que el líbelo existe para justificar la perversidad Xtiana REAL, con la excusa de una inexistente perfidia judía, teóricamente mayor pero meramente mitológica, que solo existe en la imaginación de los verdugos que, no obstante su violencia asesina, se quieren sentir pobres e inocentes víctimas. El mundo patas arriba.

-

Estas reflexiones sobre obras literarias tan antiguas carecerían de importancia, si no fuese porque el mundo no ha cambiado nada desde entonces. Solo la cáscara es diferente. Por dentro, la gente sigue pensando y reaccionando según los mismos patrones de antaño.

Él "Shylock" más feo que encontré en la Web. ¿Quedan dudas del carácter judeófobo del personaje?

Recuerdo que leí el Mercader de Venecia, sin saber de qué venía la cosa, hará un par de años. Las escenas con el Shylock ese me parecieron repugnantes: no sé si equipararlo al odioso personaje Fagín (el judío malvado de “Oliver Twist”, de Charles Dickens) o si  considerarlo peor. Hasta el nombre es estrafalario. Jamás oí semejante nombre judío, “shylock“. No tengo idea de qué pueda ser, ni en qué idioma. Pero si existe la palabra, aunque sea por asociación fonética, y el Sr. William lo sabía, apostaría lo que quieras que la palabra no significa nada agradable. Seguro.

-

Este Shylock de Shakespeare es curioso por partida doble: si te fijas, en la época de W. Sh., Inglaterra llevaba varios siglos “Judenrein“, y lo seguiría siendo por bastantes años más…

-

Los judíos fueron expulsados de Inglaterra en el año 1290 (tras sufrir una serie de pogroms y ejecuciones masivas escalofriantes). W. Sh., por su parte, vivió entre los años 1564-1616. Y en lo que respecta a los judíos, solo fueron readmitidos en Inglaterra a partir de 1650… O sea que el caso Shylock es interesante, pues tienes aquí un mito judeofóbico, basado en los clásicos líbelos demonizantes judeofóbicos, de parte de un autor especialmente laudeado (W. Sh. es a las letras inglesas lo que Cervantes a las españolas), pero en un país sin judíos. En menos palabras: la judeofobia no necesita judíos para perpetuarse. Y eso demuestra que la judeofobia es una enfermedad que nada tiene que ver con los judíos reales de carne y hueso. Cualesquiera sean sus causas, no hay que buscarlas en los judíos, sino en los propios judeófobos.

-

Volviendo a Shylock, es un personaje monstruoso. O por lo menos, así me lo pareció cuando leí el “Mercader” por primera vez. Sencillamente monstruoso. No obstante, pienso que muy posiblemente un Xtiano, puesto en la piel del judío sí pensaría y reaccionaría como él. ¿Por qué? Porque también cuando no tuvieron ningún motivo, se ensañaron con los judíos por pura diversión cada vez que pudieron. Los judíos en cambio, sin importar en este caso por qué, el hecho es que han demostrado tener una paciencia formidable, y una capacidad de resistir sin devolver con la misma moneda, digna de admiración.

-

Definitivamente, Shylock no es un personaje judío. Es más bien el calco de lo que habría sentido, pensado y querido hacer un Xtiano, si por un momento lo hubiesen obligado a ponerse en los zapatos del judío. Y esa, a mi entender, es una dirferencia abismal…

-Domovilu-.

Hello.

Got a cold? A terrific headache? A random old person muscle pain?

Well, screw you! SUFFER!

The FDA wants to make medications that contain acetaminophen by prescription only.

Because Americans can’t read labels. Because we need the FDA to tell us what to do and how to live. Because rational decisions should never be left to the great unwashed.

So if I have the flu and I want to grab something to relieve my symptoms, because 1600 people annually refuse to believe the dosage limits, I have to pay to see a doctor, and inflated prices to get it from a pharmacy?

It as great big scheme. A definite money maker to be sure. Everyone gets a twinge or a headache. I don’t know too many people in my line of work who don’t carry pain relievers on their person. Usually giant bags of it . That doesn’t mean we’re tossing them back with abandon or snarfing them down every fifteen minutes. The reason people overdose is because they are impatient or have not taken the meds with enough water to make them break down and begin to work. Those are the Morons who should  have every one of their decisions monitored. The rest of us can read. And think. And function quite well without 24 hour supervision by a government agency known for corruption and kickbacks, thank you.

Stop trying to regulate us to death. We don’t need a bloated group of greedy bastards to determine the collective level of common sense. Americans are smarter than we are given credit for. Well, mostly. Our politicians are making it hard to back up that statement but the rest of us are just fine. Mostly.

Hey here’s an idea, why don’t we start actually regulating the regulators?  The FDA pretty much does as they please in the interest of ‘public health’. As long as it will inflate their bank account.

If they’re so good at their  job why is there a never-ending supply of E. Coli in our food?  They are the FOOD and Drug Administration aren’t they? Start there zipperheads and then worry about Grandpa choking down a Tylenol for his back pain.

Dogwoman

Estaba conversando con Maca por teléfono, ya íbamos casi media hora hablando de todo, cuando le dije que todo lo hacíamos para que nos quieran más. Ella se sorprendió y le gustó y yo quise creer que ella creía que yo había tenido algún tipo de epifanía. La verdad era que yo me había perdido en lo que ella me contaba y divagando, miraba las persianas y miraba el techo. Mientras ella hablaba, aunque sólo había dejado de oírla unos segundos, miraba las aspas del ventilador de mi cuarto, había ido ya muy lejos hasta ese espacio donde están los deseos sinceros, todas las suciedades que contenemos, lo real que nos queda.

En vez de pensar en lo que ella me argumentaba, neurótica, genial y graciosa, dando unos pasos había llegado a mi escritorio donde descubrí bajo mi edición de Leaves of Grass una foto en blanco y negro. Pensaba, viendo en ella el agua, sus reflejos y destellos luminosos por primera o segunda vez en varios meses, en un lugar, un instante, otro momento. Había recordado fugazmente eso y otras cosas dispersas y trazando un enlace a través de la UPC y un tío que opinaba que sí, Shylock era un calificativo demasiado generoso para Bustamante, me había acordado de Alfredo Bryce. Me había acordado de eso que dijo sobre por qué escribíamos los que escribíamos.

Ahora me acuerdo que estábamos hablando del suicidio y de cómo lo haríamos si nos diera una enfermedad que nos impidiera querer a otro. Ella dijo que no sabía, pero que ciertamente lo había pensado. Yo le respondí que lo tenía todo planeado en caso fuera necesario: que saltaría como un clavadista, envuelto en un manto technicolor, corriendo iría contra el borde y despegaría convertido en una cantora y desplumada ave gay desde la terraza del piso 22 en el que trabajo.

Entonces fue que recordé a Bryce y lo extendí e interrumpí lo que decía ella, la detuve y le dije Maca, al final la verdad es que todo lo que hacemos lo hacemos para que nos quieran más. Ella no supo que estaba plagiando -que estaba plagiando a un plagiador y que eso me hacía mucho peor o mucho mejor que él- y todavía una vez más pude ser sabio, mordaz, auténtico, incluso cool, apuntalado por el ingenio de otro.

(From Chapter 18, “Kosher Hooks” by S.I. Fishgal, http://stores.lulu.com/fishgal)

“…Who made the revolution, if Russians are innate slaves?”
“In 1917, Bolsheviks were the smallest of the Russian socialist parties – 25,000 members at best. Most noted after Lenin were Jewish socialists. Strictly between us, Lenin himself was a Chuvash-German-Jewish-Kalmyk-Sweden mixture. Not a drop of the Russian blood.”
“But he was in Switzerland then.”
“Germans thought he was their Russian enemy’s troublemaker and allowed him and his followers, mostly Jews, to pass to the Russia in a sealed train. While he hid in a branch shelter between Leningrad and Sestroretsk, Trotsky, born Bronstein, prepared the October putsch, then fathered and headed the Red Army to the victory in the Civil war. Thus, we’re obliged to Trotsky for all that we have now. Albeit he said that he was an internationalist and Jews as such were of no interest to him.”
“But in 1917 he was out of Russia too,” Roma puzzled.
“He arrived from the North America with three hundred Jews at the same time as Lenin. After his performance in the Petrograd Soviet back in 1905, and his masterminding of the seizure of power in 1917, nobody doubted his stature as a revolutionary and military leader. Sverdlov, Kamenev, Zinovyev – all Jews – had major posts, ahead of Comrade Stalin.”
Anti-Semitism was a great force as long as Russia existed, most notably since taking over the western territories with a large Jewish population. The tsarist government restricted Jews to a circumscribed area termed the Pale of Settlement, subjected them to admission quotas into public institutions, barred from the civil service and officer corps. The neighbors vandalized or destroyed the Jewish property. The press vilified Jews as economic exploiters of ethnic Russians and the threat to Russian racial purity.
The revolution caught the Jews. Two thousand pogroms killed a hundred or two hundred Jews, mostly in Ukraine. Ukrainian Hetman Petlura and General Denikin, the Commander of the White Russian Army, accused the Jews as the communist supporters.
“Hitler linked Jews and Bolsheviks as common enemies and reused the blood-libel myth as justification for the Holocaust,” the professor said.
“What did Jews do to him personally?”
“He’s rumored got a venereal disease from a kosher hooker. Yet, Hitler, Goering, Himmler and Goebbels felt no biological disgust of Jews.”
Young Hitler had a Jewish friend and during the WWI got the Iron Cross upon his Jewish commander’s presentation.
Poor Goering lived in a Jew’s castle. Back in 1923, wounded at a demonstration, he was brought into a Jewish couple’s nearest house. A Jewish professor treated him. Actually, before the Third Reich’s end Goering wanted to get in touch with Western Jewish communities.
As to Goebbels, he respected his university’s Jewish professors. One guided his doctoral thesis. Besides, a bride of his was half-Jewish, and his wife lived well with her Jewish stepfather.
“I saw in movies and photos, those poor guys did not look as Aryans, were neither blond, nor blue-eyed,” Roma noted.
“What’s more, Hitler allegedly had a half male endowment. Our medics examined his remains.”
“One testicle?”
“Yes, a half-eunuch.”
“A half sexual drive?”
“He was a masochist – asked women to pee and defecate on him. Ironically, the Nazi hots were obsessed with making Germans look Nordic.”
“Did they hate themselves then?”
“They were politicians first of all. Hate unites the mob. The anti-Semitism became the expedient foundation of their ideology.”
Medieval Europe excluded Jews from land ownership and crafts. They turned to peddling, which Christians viewed as financially unrewarding and morally suspect. After commerce became lucrative and respectable, they forced Jews out of trade into the emerging financial field from which the Bible’s prohibition on usury barred the Christians. Jews’ stereotype became Shakespeare’s money-grubbing Shylock. Yet, by the mid-nineteenth century, Jews, who were one percent of Germany’s population, generated one-fifth of the economy. Out of 147 members of the stock, produce and metal exchanges in 1933, 116 were Jews. Yet, the majority of European, especially Eastern European, Jews remained poor.
“Why did Germans swallow the Master Race ideas?” Roma asked.
“Some saw the absurdity. In the interest of the racial purity, once storm troopers interrupted a Sunday mess. We must get rid of non-Aryans, the gang leader announced. All those whose fathers are Jews are to leave this church at once. A few worshipers got out. Now all those whose mothers are Jewish out, he ordered. The pastor took the crucifix:
“It’s our turn now, Brother, to get out.”
“Nazis’ anti-Semitism saved the world from turning into Hiroshima,” Roma stated boldly. “Otherwise, Hitler would have Einstein, Fermi, Szilard, Wigner and the rest worked on the nuclear bomb.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right, Rommy.”
“Even my brother is a blue-eyed blond with a straight nose,” Roma said. “Poor Nazis had very hard time to distinguish the Jews from the rest.”
“We play down that our Russians, Ukrainians and others helped them. Besides, our documents identify so-called nationality as well.”
“According to Stalin, a nation is a community of people with a language, territory, economic life, culture and character in common,” Roma went on. “Jews have nothing, but a two-millennium old Palestine origin in common. A paper nation, he said, something mystical, elusive and beyond the grave. But Jews suffered not on paper.”
“Before revolution the Jews had no positions in the tsarist government,” Professor avoided criticizing the dictator. “Only 5% Bolsheviks were Jewish. While Russians made 80% of the first Soviet government, 16% leading revolutionaries were the Jews. And of course, light weighed Trotsky overweighed everyone, except Lenin. When it mattered, the Jews reacted quickly to the changed circumstances with the maximum benefit.”
“Was that situation unique only because of Russians’ slavish mentality?”
“Forty years ago Italy had 0.1% of Jews,” Professor smiled. “Yet, a Jew was a Prime Minister, and the Senate had 5% of the Jews. What’s more, originally, even Mussolini’s Fascist movement was philo-Semitic. His right-hand man, party newspaper editor and Finance Minister were Jews. Of the fifteen jurists who drew up the Fascist constitution, three were Jews. Naturally, when Mussolini joined Hitler, the policy changed.”
“However, we’re in Russia,” Roma put in. “If Lenin’s Jews were smart enough, they would not perish as the enemies of the people.”
“Unlike them, Comrade Stalin was a pragmatic organizer and a committee man. His instinctive grasp of the administrative power secured control of the party. Lenin and the rest didn’t grasp the extent of Stalin’s ambitions, didn’t want his job and allowed so much authority to him.”
“So, all Lenin’s assistants, except Comrade Stalin, were the enemies of the people?” Roma concluded.
“Sverdlov died early, in 1918. Trotsky had stature, charisma and the revolutionary leader’s aura shared with and was the obvious successor to Lenin. He urged Trotsky to accept the top job. Yet, his ambition was only to write books and be like Marx. When Lenin was sick, Zinovyev, Kamenev, and Stalin decided the party policy and the day to day affairs.”
“Why the three most important Jews did not take over?” Roma asked.
“Moses said that everything is from God, Solomon – from the head, Jesus – from the heart, Marx – from being, Freud – from sex, Einstein – from relativity, Trotsky – from the permanent revolution. You see, as many Jews as many opinions. But this is a deviation. On any question, two Jews have at least three opinions. All four Jews disliked each other, but the distrust to Trotsky united Kamenev, Zinovyev and Stalin.”

Documentário genial com a história mundial da origem das finanças e instituições financeiras no mundo. Claro, sobre ascenção e queda dos sistemas financeiras, causas e consequências.  Alto nível.

LO REAL

Se veía venir. Todo el mundo comenzó a mirarme de manera rara cuando las primeras noticias salieron en la radio. Incluso los visitantes que, en un principio se acercaban con curiosidad, fueron cambiando hacia el recelo hasta dar paso a la desconfianza.

Siempre luchando contra los prejuicios de los demás. Y aquí, en esta sociedad en la que nunca he estado bien visto, lo único que me faltaba era lo de las noticias.

Los cuchicheos de mis compañeros de trabajo y el desdén de mis jefes fueron dando paso a los escupitajos de los visitantes, los dedos acusadores, el aislamiento. A medida que las noticias se hacían más alarmantes, comenzaron a surgir las primeras voces que pedían mi salida. Primero solicitando el aislamiento y luego, cuando ya se daba por sentado que aquello era un problema mundial, directamente mi exterminio. Pero ¿acaso soy responsable de algo que no puedo controlar y que ni siquiera proviene de mí? ¿Acaso creen que con mi muerte van a conseguir acabar con el problema? Les da igual que sea el único de mi especie. Les da igual que haya tenido la espada de la extinción como compañera diaria. A ellos les da igual. Lo único que ven en mí es que soy un cerdo.

LAS NOTICIAS

FUENTE:  (enlace)

È partita la IV Edizione del Concorso per videoproduzioni “Venice & Video“, Concorso di cortometraggi che si prefigge di raccontare la città di Venezia (isole incluse) con immagini e storie lontane da visioni stereotipate:

Venice&Video nasce dal desiderio di raccontare, attraverso la creatività di giovani artisti, una diversa dimensione della Città in tutti i suoi diversi aspetti.

A partire da questa Edizione “Venice & Video” si rinnova e propone una tematica specifica: quest’anno l’attenzione è centrata sulla multiculturalità declinata al femminile, il titolo della IV Edizione è infatti “Donne senza confini“:

Conoscere, quindi, in un’ottica di genere, le culture “altre”, scoprire quale ruolo hanno le donne in quelle culture e quali rapporti nascono quando sono proiettati in paese stranieri e soprattutto capire come la Città e la terraferma si rapportano con le culture altre.

Il Concorso è aperto a tutti i videomaker non professionisti al di sotto dei 35 anni di età. La partecipazione è gratuita. La domanda di partecipazione deve pervenire entro il 20 aprile 2009, presso la segreteria di SHYLOCK Centro Universitario Teatrale di Venezia. I lavori pervenuti saranno valutati da un’apposita giuria, e saranno presentati giovedì 28 maggio 2009 nel corso della premiazione che avrà luogo presso il Teatro ai Frari di Venezia. Il vincitore riceverà un premio di €.700,00. Il Concorso è organizzato da Cinit-Cineforum Italiano in collaborazione con il Centro Donna del Comune di Venezia e da Shylock-Centro Universitario Teatrale di Venezia. Shylock-CUT è un’associazione fondata nel 1999 per volontà di alcuni membri del precedente C.U.T., attivo dal 1991 al 1998. L’ associazione promuove e organizza attività di ricerca, produzione e formazione nel settore dello spettacolo. Tra le tante e ricche attività di ricerca in corso vi è il progetto “Immigrazione e confronto interculturale a Venezia“, (guarda il nostro post su questa notizia), realizzato in collaborazione con il Master sull’Immigrazione-Fenomeni migratori e trasformazioni sociali dell’Università Ca’ Foscari . Il bando del video concorso si può scaricare dal sito di Shylock.

Grazie a ST33VO per la foto!