The Ground Beneath Her Feet- Salman Rushdie

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For a long while I have believed – this is perhaps my version of Sir Darius Xerxes Cama’s belief in a fourth function of outsideness – that in every generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed, who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, if you like, without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race; that there may even be millions, billions of such souls, as many non-belongers as belongers, perhaps; that, in sum, the phenomenon may be as “natural” a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that has been mostly frustrated, throughout human history, by lack of opportunity.

And not only by that: for those who value stability, who fear transience, uncertainly, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform, we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities beneath the false skins of those identities which bear the belongers’ seal of approval.

But the truth leaks out in our dreams; alone in our beds (because we are all alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly, we flee. And in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks.

What we forbid ourselves we pay good money to watch, in a playhouse or a movie theater, or to read about between the secret covers of a book. Our libraries, our palaces of entertainment tell the truth. The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the thief, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil, the sinner, the traveler, the gangster, the runner, the mask: if we did not recognize in them our least-fulfilled needs, we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time.

<3<3<3

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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.

Sylvia Plath- The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Alber Kami: “Jelenino progonstvo”

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Originally posted on A . A . A:

Mediteran ima svoju sunčanu tragiku, drugačiju od tragike magli. Ponekad s večeri, na moru, u podnožju planina, noć pada na savršen luk nekog malog zaliva, a iz mirnih voda počinje da se penje neka nespokojna punoća. Na takvim mestima shvatamo da ako su Grci dospeli do očajanja, to je uvek bilo preko lepote i onoga što je u njoj podjarmljujuće. U toj pozlaćenoj nesreći, tragedija dostiže vrhunac. Naše je doba, međutim, othranilo svoje očajanje u ružnoći i grčevima. Zato bi Evropa bila gnusna, kada bi ono što boli ikada moglo da bude takvo.

Mi smo izgnali lepotu, Grci su ustali na oružje zbog nje. To je prva razlika, ali koren joj je dubok. Grčka misao se uvek čvrsto držala pojma granice. Ona ništa nije isterivala do kraja, ni svetinju, ni razum, jer ništa nije ni poricala, ni svetinju, ni razum. Ona je uključivala sve, uravnotežujući svetlost senkom. Naša Evropa, naprotiv…

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Pljas

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Iluzija je da samo

čitaš ovu pjesmu

stvarnost je da je ovo

više nego

pjesma.

ovo je prosjački nož. ovo je lala.

ovo je vojnik što maršira

kroz Madrid.

ovo si ti na samrtnom odru.

ovo je Li Po koji se smije

pod zemljom.

ovo nije jebena

pjesma.

ovo je konj koji spava.

leptir u

tvom mozgu.

ovo je đavolji

cirkus.

ti ne čitaš ovu

stranicu.

stranica čita

tebe.

osjećaš li?

to je kao kobra.

kao izgladnjeli orao

što kruži po sobi.

ovo nije pjesma.

pjesme su dosadne,

od njih ti se

spava.

ove riječi tjeraju te

u novo

ludilo.

blažen si,

gurnut si u

zasljepljujuće polje

svjetlosti.

slonovi sada

sanjaju

sa tobom.

krivina prostora

savija se i

smije.

sada možeš da umreš.

možeš da umreš jer je

ljudima suđeno da

umru:

veličanstveno,

pobjedonosno,

slušajući muziku

postajući muzika,

hučeći,

hučeći,

hučeći.

Charles Bukowski

Eulogy to a Hell of a Dame- Charles Bukowski

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jane-cooney-baker[1]

Jane Cooney Baker

some dogs who sleep
tonight
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you’ve been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here’s a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about.