Des petits trous

"J'suis l'poinçonneur des Lilas

Le gars qu'on croise et qu'on n' regarde pas

Y a pas d'soleil sous la terre

Drôle de croisière

Pour tuer l'ennui j'ai dans ma veste

Les extraits du Reader Digest

Et dans c'bouquin y a écrit

Que des gars s'la coulent douce à Miami

Pendant c'temps que je fais l'zouave

Au fond d'la cave

Paraît qu'y a pas d'sot métier

Moi j'fais des trous dans des billets

J'fais des trous, des p'tits trous, encor des p'tits trous

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

Des trous d'seconde classe

Des trous d'première classe

J'fais des trous, des p'tits trous, encor des p'tits trous

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

J'suis l'poinçonneur des Lilas

Pour Invalides changer à Opéra

Je vis au cœur d'la planète

J'ai dans la tête

Un carnaval de confettis

J'en amène jusque dans mon lit

Et sous mon ciel de faïence

Je n'vois briller que les correspondances

Parfois je rêve je divague

Je vois des vagues

Et dans la brume au bout du quai

J'vois un bateau qui vient m'chercher

Pour m'sortir de ce trou où je fais des trous

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

Mais l'bateau se taille

Et j'vois qu'je déraille

Et je reste dans mon trou à faire des p'tits trous

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

J'suis l'poinçonneur des Lilas

Arts-et-Métiers direct par Levallois

J'en ai marre j'en ai ma claque

De ce cloaque

Je voudrais jouer la fill'' de l'air

Laisser ma casquette au vestiaire

Un jour viendra j'en suis sûr

Où j'pourrais m'évader dans la nature

J'partirai sur la grand'route

Et coûte que coûte

Et si pour moi il n'est plus temps

Je partirai les pieds devant

J'fais des trous, des p'tits trous, encor des p'tits trous

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

Y a d'quoi d'venir dingue

De quoi prendre un flingue

S'faire un trou, un p'tit trou, un dernier p'tit trou

Un p'tit trou, un p'tit trou, un dernier p'tit trou

Et on m'mettra dans un grand trou

Où j'n'entendrai plus parler d'trou plus jamais d'trou

De petits trous de petits trous de petits trous."

Serge Gainsbourg, Le poinçonneur de Lilas.

Contrarevolució cultural

"Wang i la seva colla de companys criden l’atenció a Xian Ying, un poble agrícola de 8.000 habitants a la província de Pequín. Amb el seu estil urbanita són la nota de color d’un municipi on la gent encara feineja als conreus amb les mans i un ase. Són graduats universitaris que han acceptat l’oferta per assessorar les administracions locals en un intent del govern central de modernitzar l’estructura funcionarial de la Xina rural.
Milers d’aquests joves han estat enviats arreu del país en una mobilització que té paral·lelismes amb la Revolució Cultural (1966-1976), l’onada d’opressió que va estar orientada per una suposada finalitat de purgar la Xina de qualsevol esperit burgès. Milions de persones van ser perseguides pel terror dels guàrdies rojos i els estudiants van ser enviats al camp a aprendre el veritable esperit de la Xina comunista. 33 anys després, els estudiants tornen al camp, però per portar els avenços de la societat urbana al medi rural. “Envien els estudiants al camp perquè necessiten cervells”, diu la llicenciada en Dret Lian Na S’ocupa de feines estadístiques a Yan Qing la capital comarcal on hi són un 10% dels 2.000 universitaris destinats a les àrees agrícoles de Pequín.
El 2006 es va instaurar el projecte dels “cun guan”, com s’anomena en xinès la posició laboral d’aquests assistents. L’executiu central ha reservat 100.000 places de cun guan fins al 2010. El govern preveu augmentar les places a les zones més pobres del país, a l’Oest, sobretot per donar més sortides laborals als estudiants en un moment que la crisi econòmica està augmentant l’atur fins i tot entre les persones més qualificades.
La feina aporta un salari d’entre 2.000 i 3.000 yuans mensuals (215 i 325 euros). Després d’un període de tres anys, els graduats reben una posició fixa com a funcionaris de l’Estat. Aquest i la garantia de rebre el permís de residència permanent a la ciutat on han estudiat són els principals objectius dels joves per aplicar-hi. La gran majoria dels qui assumeixen aquesta tasca són estudiants amb nota insuficient en les oposicions al cos de funcionaris de l’Estat. Wang també defensa que els “cun guan” s’hi ofereixen motivats per la màxima del Partit Comunista Xinès (PCX) de servir voluntàriament pel bé del poble. “Mao ja deia que a les zones rurals hi ha moltes coses per fer”, cita Wang, no per casualitat. Hi ha lligams entre la missió del cun guan i la dels universitaris forçats fa trenta anys a aprendre del proletariat agrícola. Després de dècades de silenci entorn la Revolució Cultural apareixen intel·lectuals xinesos que miren de recuperar-la de la memòria, però per destacar-ne allò que consideren que va ser positiu. Zhang Yinde, prestigiós professor de literatura comparada de la Universitat París III, destacava en un assaig recent el parer d’aquells que interpreten la Revolució Cultural com “una alternativa a la modernitat hegemònica capitalista, proposant solucions als problemes causats pel capitalisme contemporani en la seva expansió internacional.”
Els 45 cun guan a Xiang Ying representen gairebé la meitat dels empleats del govern local. Asseguren que la seva jornada de feina és extenuant. Se’ls assigna un districte de la regió per parelles, on hauran d’assessorar els pagesos en qualsevol dubte que tinguin, participar en l’oficina municipal d’arbitratge de disputes i recopilar dades de la regió per analitzar la seva evolució.
Es fan càrrec de tasques com donar lliçons d’informàtica o posar en marxa accions de reclam turístic. També ajuden els analfabets a escriure formularis burocràtics, assisteixen les famílies perjudicades per la pèrdua de llocs de treball entre la massa immigrant a les ciutats i es dediquen a missions concretes segons la seva especialitat acadèmica. Jia, una companya de Wang a Xian Ying, està titulada en prevenció mèdica i dedica part del dia a fer inspeccions en ambulatoris de la comarca, regulant la distribució de vacunes gratuïtes o ensenyant mesures bàsiques com prendre la pressió arterial. Zhang és un llicenciat en Econòmiques de 25 anys que centra la seva energia en explicar als pagesos com poden tenir majors beneficis: “els aconsello quin tipus de collita plantar segons la demanda del mercat, com assolir un millor rendiment si fan collites conjuntes o com cedir a d’altres veïns la gestió d’un conreu”.L’experiència rural també serveix als futurs governants de la Xinaper entendre la base social xinesa i aprendre de primera mà l’únic sistema d’elecció lliure del país, l’elecció d’alcaldes de poble, o de districte i de les seves comissions locals. La majoria dels batlles són membres del PCX –com també ho són molts dels cun guan- però al poble designat per a Wang, l’alcalde els últims 12 anys és un no militant, indica Wang, i valora que “cal conèixer el que passa a les zones rurals per fer carrera a l’administració”.

Cristian Segura. Versió curta a l'Avui d'avui.

Por fin, Baozi

"Reconozco que tengo una obsesión por los baozi, unos bollos blancos y esponjosos con rellenos diferentes: de carne, pescado, verduras, etc. En cada región de China los cocinan de manera diferente y se suelen comer para desayunar. No hay que confundirlos con los shuijiao, o jiaozi, los populares raviolis chinos que venden congelados en cualquier supermercado. Sólo hay que hervirlos durante cinco minutos y listo. Los baozi también se venden congelados y normalmente son los que sirven en los restaurantes. Siempre son mejor los caseros: la masa no tiene esa textura achicletada y la albóndiga es más sabrosa.

Desde que el buen tiempo llegó a Pekín y los restaurantes sacan las mesas a la calle para cenar al aire libre, la ciudad entera huele al vapor de las bandejas de baozi.

[...]

Los dueños de los restaurantes aprovechan cualquier rincón de la acera para colocar sus mesas. En los barrios humildes, una tabla de madera colocada sobre un bidón vacío sirve como mesa para cuatro. Los vecinos se traen sillas de casa e improvisan taburetes con pilas de cartón o cajas de cartón que todavía huelen a la fruta que transportaban: mangos, lichis y sanías son las más abundantes en primavera. En otoño, son los dátiles chinos. En verano, el melón. En Pekín, los carritos de fruta ambulante marcan el calendario de las estaciones. La gente mayor suele salir a cenar baozi o un bol de tallarines -algunos locales sólo ofrecen estos dos platos- y quedarse allí sentadoa hasta que cae la noche, comiendo pipas y cacahuetes y jugando a las cartas."

Andrea Rodés, Por China con palillos.

They're supposed to be writers

"Rose Maloney was quite a friend of mine. I thought of her rather as a child think of a family dependent. I knew she was a writer but I grew up thinking that writer and secretary were the same except that a writer usually smelled of cocktails and came more often to meals. They were spoken of the same way when they were not around -except for a species called playwrights who came from the East. There were treated with respect if they did not stay long -if they did sank with the others into the white collar class.

Rose's office was in the "old writers' building." There was one on every lot, a row of iron maidens left over from silent days and still resounding the dull moans of cloistored hacks and bums. There was the story of the new producer who had gone down the line one day and then reported excitedly to the head office.

"Who are those men?"

"They're supposed to be writers."

"I thought so. Well, I watched them for ten minutes and there were two of them that didn't write a line."

Francis Scott Fitzgerald, The love of the last tycoon.

You lost interest about three days ago

"Her name had become currently synonymous with the expression bitch. Presumably she had modelled herself after one of those queens in the Tarzan comics who rule mysteriously over a nation of blacks. She regarded the rest of the world as black. She was a necessary evil, borrowed for a single picture.

[Red] Ridingwood walked with Stahr toward the door of the stage.

"Everything's all right," the director said. "She's as good as she can be."

They were out of hearing range and [Monroe] Stahr stopped suddenly and look at Red with blazing eyes.

"You've been photographing crap," he said. "Do you know what she reminds me of in the rushes- 'Miss Foodstuffs.'"

"I'm trying to get the best performance."

"Come along with me," said Stahr abruptly.

"With you? Shall I tell them to rest?"

"Leave it as it is," said Stahr, pushing the padded outter door.

His car and chaffeur waited outside. Minutes were precious most days.

"Get in", said Stahr.

Red knew now it was serious. He even knew all at once what was the matter. The girl had got the whip hand on him the first day with her cold lashing tongue. He was a peace-loving man and he had let her walk through her part cold rather than cause trouble.

Stahr spoke into his thoughts.

"You can't handle her", he said. "I told you what I wanted. I wanted her mean- and she comes out bored. I'm afraid we'll have to call it off, Red."

"The picture?"

"No. I'm putting Harley on it."

"All right, Monroe."

"I'm sorry, Red. We'll try something else another time."

The car drew up in front of Stahr's office.

"Shall I finish this take?" said Red.

"It's being done now," said Stahr grimly. "Harley's in there."

"What the hell-"

"He went in when we came out. I had him read the script las night."

"Now listen, Monroe-"

"It's my busy day, Red," said Stahr tersely. "You lost interest about three days ago."

It was a sorry mess Ridingwood thought. It meant he would have to do next picture he was offered whether he liked it or not. It meant a slight, very slight loss of position -it probably meant that he could not have a third wife just now as he had planned. There wasn't even the satisfaction in raising a row about it- if you disagreed with Stahr you did not advertise it. Stahr was his world's great costumer who was always - almost always right.

"How about my coat?" he asked suddenly. "I left it over a chair on the set."

"I know you did," said Stahr. "Here it is."

Francis Scott Fitzgerald, The love of the last tycoon.

Enriqueta, la joguina del mal

Había sido detenida en 1909 en su domicilio de la calle de Minerva, donde descubrieron que tenía un prostíbulo de menores de ambos sexos y de edades que iban desde los cinco hasta los 16 años. Con ella había sido detenido un cliente joven que resultó ser hijo de familia distinguida. Enriqueta fue procesada, pero la causa se perdió en los archivos gracias a las influencias ejercidas por una persona muy conocida y muy poderosa de la ciudad.
(La vampira del carrer Ponent, El País)


"El 1912 una dona tafanera del carrer de Ponent, ara Joaquín Costa, va lligar caps en veure una criatura amb cara de pena mirant-la fixament des d’una finestra interior d’una casa del mateix carrer. El barri n’anava ple per la desaparició d’una nena, i ella va pensar si no seria aquella. Pel que sabia en aquella casa hi vivia un matrimoni amb una nena, però ella la coneixia i no era la que havia vist enganxada als vidres de la finestra. Com que tenia bona relació amb el municipal que solia patrullar pel carrer, li va contar les seves cabòries.
El municipal no va voler actuar pel seu compte i va explicar al seu cap que li havia dit la dona tafanera. Aquest va pensar que no es perdia res per provar, ja que feia dies i dies que seguien pistes que no els havien dut enlloc. El matí del 27 de febrer del 1912 dos municipals van trucar a la porta de l’entresol del número 29 del carrer de Ponent, que corresponia a la finestra sospitosa. Va obrir una dona amb cara de malfiada i li van donar l’excusa, prefabricada pel comissari, que algú havia denunciat aquell pis perquè hi havia gallines... Hi van trobar dues criatures i ella va sortir dient que eren filles seves. Li demanaren el nom i els el va donar: Enriqueta Martí Ripollés. Un dels municipals es va quedar i l’altre va anar a la comissaria per veure què en trobava, de la tal Enriqueta. La sort li somrigué: Enriqueta Martí, de quaranta-tres anys, tenia antecedents de corrupció de menors, i en el seu dia se la va acusar de regentar un prostíbul de nois i noies menors d’edat al carrer de Minerva, a Gràcia...
Van marxar amb les dues criatures cap a la comissaria, i pel camí una de les nenes li a dir “mama”. Ja a la comissaria, aquesta mateixa nena va explicar que un dia havia vist com la dona matava un nen sobre la taula del menjador, i va acabar reconeixent que no era la seva filla...
Van escorcollar la casa més a fons i van acabar trobant un sac amb roba de nen tacada de sang. Al fons del pis hi havia un saló molt ben decorat, que no lligava gens amb la resta de la casa, i van acabar descobrint que algunes de les visites especials hi passaven alguna estona íntima amb les criatures segrestades. També van descobrir una habitació amb la porta mig amagada, tancada amb clau, dins la qual hi havia prestatges amb flascons que contenien sang coagulada, greixos humans i altres substàncies sospitoses i, curiosament, un quadern amb receptes de remeier.
Enriqueta Martí, davant les evidències, va acabar reconeixent que havia fabricat ungüents i filtres amb determinades parts del cos humà, i que sortien millor si es tractaven de nens i joves...
La policia va seguir investigant i als anteriors domicilis que havia tingut la dona els agents van descobrir, horroritzats, més flascons amb els mateixos continguts i també ossos de criatures...
Els diaris van començar a omplir pàgines amb la història d’Enriqueta Martí i es preguntaven com fins aquell moment, i encara d’una manera tan casual, no s’havia descobert res de les activitats d’aquella dona malvada. A la presó també van arribar les notícies. Enriqueta va intentar llevar-se la vida, però l’hi van impedir. Finalment, ningú no va poder evitar que fos linxada per algunes companyes al patí de la presó d’Amàlia...
Un eixerit industrial es va inventar una joguina, coneguda popularment com l’Enriqueta, que consistia en una anella de ferro en la qual anaven enfilades, de manera alternativa, ossos i caps de criatura. Es tractava de treure els ossos sense tocar els caparrons.”

Josep Maria Huertas, Mites i gent de Barcelona.

Eating grapes during the battle

Scene 1:
"The day before I arrived, Vollick and Khan, after months of long-range firefights across fields and vineyards, had planned an ambush of Taliban who, villagers said, sometimes gathered at a cemetery some five hundred yards from the base. The Hazaras took up a position near the cemetery, and soon two men carrying heavy blankets rounded a corner and passed a mud wall. Vollick stayed back to watch how the policemen behaved. They passed the first test by not immediately killing both men. But as soon as Khan’s men called for the Talibs to halt, they dropped the blankets and raised Kalashnikov assault rifles that were hidden underneath. The Hazaras outdrew them, and one policeman—who looked several years younger than his stated age of eighteen—emptied an entire magazine at one of the men, who fell dead with more than twenty bullets in his chest. The other man scrambled away, wounded.The Hazara men had never been this close to their enemy before, and they were eager to pursue the wounded man. But Vollick shouted at them to stay where they were, fearing that they would be led into a trap. “They were losing their minds, they were so excited,” Vollick told me later.The dead man wore an orange skullcap, a loose shalwar kameez, sandals that the Hazaras identified as Pakistani, and Chinese military webbing that held his ammunition and weapons. Vollick found a small book of names and phone numbers, as well as a rusted rifle whose stock had been shortened for easy concealment. Moments later, the group heard shots nearby. Another patrol had encountered a third insurgent, and two policemen killed him at point-blank range.Soon, insurgents began shooting wildly from a concealed position. Vollick ordered a retreat, and the group ran through the alleys toward the base. The policemen moved with their Kalashnikovs raised, and Vollick shouted at them to lower their weapons, to avoid shooting innocent farmers. The group returned with no casualties other than its composure and professionalism; the Hazaras had behaved more like a paramilitary group than like a professional police team. They hung the rusty rifle on a wall as a trophy. In the next days, every Hazara I met pointed to it with pride. That evening, they listened eagerly to the Taliban’s radio channels, which featured confused messages about someone named Bashir. Villagers later reported that the wounded man had died."
Scene 2:
Cox’s mission was to lead soldiers to the village to find out what had happened, and to see whether they could harness any anti-Taliban feeling. Some areas haven’t seen a patrol in years, so even farmers who might sympathize with the government lack any guarantee that the government will protect them if they oppose the Taliban. “How are these people supposed to know about their government and support it when there’s no police there?” Cox asked. The men on duty were not inattentive, but they seemed fundamentally unserious. They lacked initiative, and sat back and murmured to one another while the Canadians interviewed a local farmer. The Canadians barely spoke with their A.N.A. contingent at all, and the Afghan soldiers seemed to regard it as their principal duty to stand in place while the Canadians conducted their search.The team cornered a farmer, who confirmed that some villagers had persuaded the Taliban to set up their heavy machine gun in another area, in case the Canadians sent in artillery to destroy the position. The team seized on the disclosure as a sign that the villagers could rise up against the Taliban. The farmer shook his head. “No,” he said. “We can argue with you. Not with them. If we say just one thing against the insurgents, they will come and kill us.”“Have the insurgents come back to say that to you?” the Canadian asked.The farmer leaned in and looked around. “They always come here.”Soon afterward, Cox received word that some insurgents were just a few hundred yards away. An unmanned aerial vehicle had spotted men clustering south of us, across a vineyard and near a suspected weapons cache. Cox summoned an A.N.A. quick-reaction force, to support an assault against the position. Half an hour later, no one had arrived, and Cox was furious. He yelled at his counterpart in the Afghan forces, stabbing his finger at the soldier, who was suppressing a laugh: “I’m asking you if they’re ready to come here and help us fight. If you want to take this job half-assed, then fucking get out of the Army.”When the Afghan quick-response force arrived, its soldiers stood looking dazed. We started to move toward the insurgents’ position by fanning in two directions—one of the most basic tactical maneuvers an infantry unit can attempt. The Afghans now looked slightly frightened—less of the Taliban ambush than of their officer, an Afghan captain trained by Green Berets. As he issued commands through a radio, the soldiers moved down the road and into the vineyard, correctly enough but with uneasy attention to detail, like a troupe of dancers staring at their feet. When we had closed half the distance, I crouched in a furrow, amid grapevines, until a soldier ahead of me—a stubbly, spindly man with a backpack full of rocket-propelled grenade warheads—yelped “Gun!” and pointed at the ambush point. Seeing a weapon triggered the rules of engagement, and we ran toward the position. I kept my head low, looking at the ground a few steps ahead of me to avoid I.E.D.s. We leaped over an irrigation ditch, and, when I looked up to make sure I was still running in the right direction, I saw the soldier again. He had his grenade-launcher in one hand and, in the other, a colossal bunch of grapes, which he had started to eat. By the time we arrived at the place where the surveillance had spotted the insurgents, the Taliban had long since vanished back into the surrounding villages. As we stood in the empty Taliban position, I noticed that most of the Afghan soldiers carried grapes that they had picked up during the maneuver, and that they looked pleased."

Graeme Wood, Policing Afghanistan. The New Yorker.

El whisky, el mejor amigo del hombre

"Por pura casualidad, Carlinhos Lyra no encontró a Vinicius [de Moraes] en la bañera, cuando fue a su apartamento en Parque Guinle, en 1961. Allí pasaba Vinicius la mayor parte del tiempo, sometiéndose a un elaborado ritual. El agua tenía que estar ardiendo cuando él entraba. A su alrededor, en bancos, barquitos y taburetes, se repartía lo que entonces se conocía aún como "parafernalia": café, whisky, hielo, tabaco, bocadillos, libros, periódicos, revistas, bloc, lápiz y teléfono. A nadie le sorprendería ver por allí un patito de goma. Si llegaba alguien -una visita o incluso periodistas o fotógrafos-, Vinicius les invitaba a quitarse la ropa y meterse en la bañera, que era donde él recibía, y no por lascivia... Sino para demostrarles los efectos reconstituyentes del baño.
Y Vinicius necesitaba reconstituirse cada día. Su frase de que el mejor amigo del hombre no es el perro, sino el whisky, no era una broma. "El whisky es el perro embotellado."

Ruy Castro, Bossa Nova. La historia y las historias.

Goleada Bossa Nova

"La expresión pasó a designar todo lo que fuera diferente o, aunque no lo fuese, supusiera una nueva interpretación. El Flamengo derrotó al invencible Santos de Pelé por uno a cero, con gol en propia meta: y eso era una "goleada bossa nova". Los paracaidistas brasileños acudían al Canal de Panama con un uniforme nuevo... y era un uniforme "bossa nova". En la UDN, un partido político que no cesaba de elegir militares, se formó un sector moderadament renovador: y ésta era la "bossa nova de la UDN". La bossa nova no era culpable de tales abusos.

La empresa de electrodomésticos Brastemp lanzó una nevera "Príncipe de bossa nova", que era "mayor por dentro y menor por fuera". La Westinghouse inventó la lavadora para ropa de color, con el esmalte del cuadro de mandos en colores: y se la llamó "bossa nova". Aparatos de radio, gramófonos, enceradoras, máquinas de afeitar y demás utensilios que empezaban a producirse en Brasil, nuevos modelos de zapatos, corbatas y hasta edificios, se lanzaban bajo la etiqueta "bossa nova". Todo esto formaba parte de la oleada de modernización que se había adueñado de Brasil en 1960."

Ruy Castro, Bossa Nova. La historia y las historias.

Haft eines Handlungsreisenden

Ulrich Reichert hat keinen Spiegel. Er würde gern sein Gesicht sehen. Reichert hatte noch nie eine Glatze. Er hatte sich entschlossen, mit den Zellengenossen zum Anstaltsfriseur zu gehen: »Im Gänsemarsch zum Kahlschlag.« Er, der Ausländer, müsse nicht gehen, hatten sie gesagt, und die Aufseher hatten zugestimmt. Doch er wollte Teil der Gruppe bleiben, als einziger Fremder nicht noch mehr auffallen. Er teilt sich eine Zelle mit 17 Insassen. Mit Menschen, die seine Sprache nicht sprechen. Immerhin respektieren sie den Weißen, vor allem, nachdem sie erfahren haben, dass Reichert Managing Director der Niederlassung eines deutschen Baumaschinenherstellers ist. [..]
Zelle 315, das neue Zuhause: 40 Quadratmeter für 18 Gefangene

[...]

Als Reichert in die Zelle zurückkehrt, entdeckt er bei einem Blick in einen Nachbarhof einen Stuhl, auf dem ein Häftling festgeschnallt sitzt. Er fragt den Singapurer, was es damit auf sich hat. »Das ist der Strafstuhl«, erklärt der ihm. »Wenn sich Häftlinge prügeln oder sich nicht benehmen, werden sie an den Händen und den Füßen am Strafstuhl festgebunden.« Sie werden weder zum Essen noch zum Toilettengang losgebunden, sondern müssen alles auf dem Stuhl verrichten. Sie werden von ihren Zellengenossen gefüttert und gewaschen. »Wie lange muss man da sitzen?«, will Reichert wissen. »14 Tage«, antwortet der Singapurer.

[...]

Reichert kommt gegen eine Kaution von 100.000 Euro frei."

Frank Sieren, Haft eines Handlungsreisenden. Die Zeit.

(Translation into English: "Ulrich Reichert doesn't have a mirror. He would like to see his face. He never went bald. He decided to go to the jail's hair dresser with his cell mates. "In indian file to the clear-felled land". They told him that he was the foreigner and shouldn't go this way, and the wardens agreed. But he wanted to be part of the group and not to stay apart as the only one foreigner. He shared the cell with 17 other prisoners. With persons that didn't understand his language. They always respected the white man, specially when they discovered that Reichert was general manager of a [China] subsidiary of a german construction machinery maker. [...] Cell number 315, the new house: 40 square meters for 18 inmates. [...] When Reichert came back to his cell, he discovered that in a neighboring yard there was a prisoner strapped down on a chair. Reichert asked the singaporean what was going on with that chair. "This a punishment chair. When inmates don't behave properly, they are strapped on the chair.They aren't allowed to go to eat or go to the toilet, all must be done on the chair. They are fed and washed by their cell mates". Reichert wanted to know for how long should they sit there. "14 days", answered the singaporean."

Look now, pay later

"Our history will be what we make it. And if there are any historians about fifty or a hundred years from now, and there should be preserved the kinescopes for one week of all three networks, they will there find recorded in black and white, or color, evidence of decadence, escapism and insulation from the realities of the world in which we live. I invite your attention to the television schedules of all networks between the hours of 8 and 11 p.m., Eastern Time. Here you will find only fleeting and spasmodic reference to the fact that this nation is in mortal danger. There are, it is true, occasional informative programs presented in that intellectual ghetto on Sunday afternoons. But during the daily peak viewing periods, television in the main insulates us from the realities of the world in which we live. If this state of affairs continues, we may alter an advertising slogan to read: LOOK NOW, PAY LATER.

For surely we shall pay for using this most powerful instrument of communication to insulate the citizenry from the hard and demanding realities which must be faced if we are to survive. I mean the word survive literally. If there were to be a competition in indifference, or perhaps in insulation from reality, then Nero and his fiddle, Chamberlain and his umbrella, could not find a place on an early afternoon sustaining show. If Hollywood were to run out of Indians, the program schedules would be mangled beyond all recognition. Then some courageous soul with a small budget might be able to do a documentary telling what, in fact, we have done--and are still doing--to the Indians in this country. But that would be unpleasant. And we must at all costs shield the sensitive citizens from anything that is unpleasant.
I am entirely persuaded that the American public is more reasonable, restrained and more mature than most of our industry's program planners believe. Their fear of controversy is not warranted by the evidence. I have reason to know, as do many of you, that when the evidence on a controversial subject is fairly and calmly presented, the public recognizes it for what it is--an effort to illuminate rather than to agitate.

[...]

This instrument can teach, it can illuminate; yes, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise it is merely wires and lights in a box. There is a great and perhaps decisive battle to be fought against ignorance, intolerance and indifference. This weapon of television could be useful.
Stonewall Jackson, who knew something about the use of weapons, is reported to have said, "When war comes, you must draw the sword and throw away the scabbard." The trouble with television is that it is rusting in the scabbard during a battle for survival. Good night, and good luck."

Good night, and Good luck. Movie about the life of Edward Murrow. Directed by George Clooney.

(text of the entire speech)

Per sobre de les llibertats individuals

"Per mantenir l’ordre social, desde fa dues dècades es potencien en el sistema educatiu els valors jeràrquics del confucianisme, com explica el sinòleg de la Universitat de Ginebra Nicolas Zufferey: “La prioritat de la família sobre l’individu, la importància de l’ordre social per sobre de les llibertats individuals, el respecte pels ancians i les jerarquies troben els seus fonaments teòrics en el confucianisme... A la Xina popular, la rehabilitació d’aquest corrent de pensament coincideix amb l’emergència de discursos autoritaris.”

Cristian Segura, Lluny de la revolució. A l'AVUI d'avui.

Free soup again

"Through the early 1900s, the United States played a role in the world economy suprisingly similar to China's in recent years. Until the start of the Wolrd War I, the United States had long been a "net debtor" country. It had relied on foreign loans and investments to build the factories and lay the railroads that ultimately made it an industrial titan. By the end of the World War I, it had become a "net creditor", as its undamaged industrial base supplied European combatants and the former costumers of ruined european companies.

Until the 1920s, its farms and industries made America the workshop of the world. It ran trade surplusses with most other economies, which meant that a disproportionate share of the world's jobs were in America (it was doing work that other people consumed), and a disproportiante share of what it made went for other people's use. Foreigners paid the difference by transferring gold reserves or taking on loans and investments from Americans. So far, this is like China's story. And so far, so good.

This very role as global exporter made the United States unusually vulnerable when global demand collapsed in the 1930s. Haing had more than its 'fair' share of the world's jovs to begin with, America had more of them to lose. This doesn't mean that Americans suffered more deeply than Europeans. We got Franklin Roosvelt; they got Hitler, Stalin, Franco and Mussolini."

James Fallows, China's Way Forward, on The Athlantic Monthly.

Lenin was right

"Competition with China was structurally and qualitatively unequal. The chinese fixed the value of their currency against the US dollar, keeping it undervalued so as to give their exports greater competitiveness They provided little or no welfare for their workers, so their costs were artificially low. There were no independent unions in China, so the safety standards he had seen in Chinese factories would have been illegal in America. The state banking system provided cheap credit to state companies that could default without consequences. The central government gave generous value added tax rebates to exporters that were not available to US companies. Restrictions on emissions in China were lax, so companies had to play relatively little to keep the environment clean. Chinese companies routinely stole foreign intellectual property, but it was difficult to prosecute them because their courts were either corrupt or under government control.

[...]

The problem was that Boeing, like most multionationals, had worked out that it could save a lot of money by sending some if its manufacturing functions to China and other low-cost countries. It needed to do this to maximise the returns to its shareholders. But in doing so, it threatened to put out of business many of its small, long-term suppliers such as those of the Rockford dinner. The process was self-reinforcing. The more Boeing outsourced, the quicker the machine tool companies that supplied it went bust, providing opportunities for Chinese competitors to buy the technology they needed, better to supply companies like Boeing. Boeing makes money, but ultimately at the expense of the industries and jobs that sustain Middle America. In the opinion of Eric Anderberg, capitalism had lapsed into cannibalism. "Lenin said that America would tear itself apart from the inside through greed", he said. "And you know what? He was right."

James Kynge, China shakes the world. The rise of a hungry nation.

A whole life of nightmares

-Have you been getting nightmares lately?
-Nightmares? No, man.
-It's like I can't fucking sleep, man. Like last night, man. I kept hearing cries and shit like, man. I keep seeing these fucking bodies, man. These fucking women laid out, fucking dead. Their kids. It's not so much the guys, man. It's more like the women. And then I see pictures of, like my fucking mother laying next to them. I just wish I could fucking change a lot of shit, man.
-What are you talking about?
-I feel like a lot of those fucking people I killed personally. You know what I mean? And I'm fucking gonna live with this guilt for the rest of my life, man. And nobody fucking understands it either, man. I feel like I'm personally responsible for all those motherfuckers that died underneath me. Every Marine that died under, underneath me, I feel like I'm personally responsible. Like I could have fucking changed it, you know what I mean? Fucking hate the motherfuckers, the officers that send us in."

Battle for Haditha, by Nick Broomfield.
(Haditha Killings: Wikipedia and BBC. )

La solución para la Humanidad

"Nadie en 1619 pudo decir: 'Éste es el segundo año de la Guerra de los Treinta Años, quedan pues veintiocho'. No, el hecho o el conjunto de hechos que representa la Guerra de los Treinta Años sólo es el hecho o el conjunto de hechos al que conviene ese nombre, mirándolo o mirándolo como pasados...

¿Y por qué fue un importante 'hecho histórico'? Porque la Guerra de los Treinta Años y la Paz de Westfalia representan el definitivo hundimiento del viejo orden europeo, porque representan unas fechas que marcan el inicio de la Europa moderna, porque por lo menos representan el triunfo definitivo de la dimensión política de la Reforma Protestante, porque representan el inicio del fin del imperio romano-germánico, porque marcan la fecha en que el mundo hispano queda descolgado de la evolución europea protestante, porque marcan el inicio de un tipo de organización política y de equilibrio entre organizaciones políticas (los estados nacionales) que en el siglo XX ha generado increibles catástrofes en la historia de la especie, porque fue el inicio del triunfo del tipo de organización política que afortunadamente ha quedado por fin superada por un tipo de organización política supraestatal y supranacional...

Para quienes vivieron la Guerra de los Treinta Años empezó contando como enfrentamientos religiosos generalizados y después como una situación de la que a toda costa había que salir, desde 1648 pudo contar como la Guerra de los Treinta Años, siguió contando como... y quizá a mediados del siglo XXI pueda contar como el principio de algo que quedó por fin felizmente superado... Los hechos históricos no cobrarán su sentido completo y definitivo mientras en el futuro no se cierre toda la historia."

M. Jiménez Redondo, introducción a Conocimiento e Interés, editado por la Universitat de València,

+-+-+-+

"Sólo cuando la filosofía, repasando el curso dialéctico de la historia, descubre el reguero de violencia que desfigura y distorsiona un diálogo intentado una y otra vez, y que una y otra vez se vio expulsado de los carriles de una comunicación exenta de coerciones, sólo entonces podrá la filosofía impulsar ese proceso... El proceso de avance de la especie humana hacia la emancipación...
La unidad de conocimiento e interés se acredita en una dialéctica que partiendo de las huellas históricas del diálogo reprimido reconstruye lo reprimido".

Jürgen Habermas, Conocimiento e Interés.

Jesucristo García

Concreté la fecha de mi muerte con Satán.

Le engañé y ahora no hay quien me pare ya los pies.

Razonar es siempre tan dicifil para mí.

Que más da si al final me sale todo siempre bien del revés.

Nací un buen día, mi madre no era virgen

no vino el rey, tampoco me importó.

Hago milagros, convierto el agua en vino,

me resucito si me hago un canutito.

Soy Evaristo, el rey de la baraja

vivo entre rejas, antes era chapista

los mercaderes ocuparon mi templo y me aplicaron ley antiterrorista.

¿Cuánto más necesito para ser dios?

¿Cuánto más necesito convencer?

Y perdí la cuenta de las veces que te amé.

Desquicié tu vida por ponerla junto a mí

Vomité mi alma en cada verso que te dí

Olvidé me quedan tantas cosas que decir

Por conocer a cuantos se margina

un día me vi metido en la heroína

y aún hubo más, menuda pesadilla,

crucificado a base de pastillas.

¿Cuánto más necesito para ser dios?

Extremoduro, Jesucristo García.

Lúcida perquè menjava poc

"Sortia d'un d'aquests viatges au bout de la nuit, ha dit recentment a Baltasar Porcel en una entrevista publicada a Serra d'Or, "durant els quals escriure sembla una ocupació espantosament frívola: la fugida de París, a peu, amb alguns espectacles al·lucinants: incendi d'Orleans, bombardeig del pont de Beaugency, amb carros plens de morts... Dos anys a Limoges, morint al dia, com deia aquell; dos anys a Bordeus, vivint-hi..." No escriu pràcticament res, replegada en ella mateixa i massa ferida per les necessitats de la vida quotidiana. "El món d'abans de la guerra em semblava un món irreal", diu en un altre lloc de l'entrevista citada, "i no m'havia refet encara. I el temps que vaig tardar! Tot cremava per dintre, però imperceptiblement ja s'anava tornant una mica anacrònic. I això és el que potser feia més mal. No hauria pogut escriure una novel·la baldament m'haguessin apallissat. Estava massa deslligada de tot, o potser massa terriblement lligada a tot, encara que això pugui semblar una paradoxa. Només tolerava els més grans: Cervantes, Shakespeare, Dostoievski... Estic segura que mai no he estat tan lúcida com aleshores; potser perquè menjava poc."

J.M. Batllori, pròleg sobre la vida de Mercè Rodoreda per a la segona edició de La meva Cristina i altres contes.

The period police

"To keep my life from ruin, I launched a self-rescue mission. Firstly I bought a fragment of deer horn musk at considerable expense -its strong aroma was supposed to trigger a miscarriage. I sniffed it greedily like a dog and kept it under my pillow at night. But nothing happened. The following night, I went to the dark riverside to jump down from the steep embankment, hoping to jerk the baby out of my body. Despite my milirary style vigor, nothing happened. Later, I returned to dive into the river and soak myself into the smelly cold water -icy water could induce an abortion, it was believed. I just caught a cold."
[...]

Doctor Zhang put her mask back on, ready to datai -"beat the fetus"- the painfully graphic Chinese term for abortion. "Da, da, da, beat, beat, beat", my ears began to ring. I gripped the edge of the operation table, terrified I was to be butchered alive. No anesthesia. I heard the machine being switched on, then something cold and metal went deep inside me and stabbed my tender womb.
[...]

It was growing very well. I kept hearing the cheerful remarks the nurse had made when she took the aborted fetus away. Chinese women attached little emotion to abortion, a common form of birth control. My sister had one and my mother three or four. I thought I would be overjoyed to be rid of it, like a tumor. But I was gripped by a hollow feeling.
[...]

"Aiya, Little Zhang, why are you looking so pale?" Boss Lan greeted me when I made my way to the workshop. "Study late last night?"
"No, woman's problem. I'll have to go to the hygiene room shortly," I replied with perfect assurance [...]
"Zhang Lijia, from Work Unit Number Twenty-three," I showed my work pass to the woman behind the desk, cracking watermelon seeds. There was already a pile of husks on the concrete floor.
"Haolai", the woman, short and round, her width almost equal to her height, took my pass and turned around to look for my file. Every month, when each woman in the factory had her period, she needed to report to family planning staff, nicknamed the "period police", stationed at this hygiene room.
"Oh, you're rather late this month," she remarked, studying my card, dense with the dates of my monthly visits [...]
She tailed me closely to the toilet, still chewing. Before squatting down to wash my private parts with hot water from pipes fitted with foot-controlled valves, I showed her my bloodstained sanitary towel. Most women might be embarrased by the task, but she had been performing it uneasiness. In fact, she often remarked on what she saw. "Oh, you`ve got very heavy flow Ask your mum to boil you some eggs." Or "Aiya, what bushy hair you've got down there!" Privacy was a luxury in no Chinese expected. Presently, she crancked her neck for a better look and said: "You've got some blood clots. No wonder you are late. Try black-boned chicken soup with ginseng". She fancied herself as an amateur gynecologist."

Zhang Lijia, Socialism is great! (and my review)

The chinese antiChrist

"L'homme distingue les quatre points cardinaux afin de se repérer par rapport à ce qu'il davant ou derrière lui; il se conforme à la distinction du passé et du présent, du commencement et de la fin pour donner un ordre à ce qu'il voit et à ce qu'il entend...
Mais, du point de vue du principe d'organisation spontanée (li) et des energies invisibles, il n'est pas vrai qu'il y ait un avant et un après. Dans l'absence de toute orientation temporelle ou spatiale du chaos dans lequel le principe d'organisation dirige les énergies, le commencement et aussi la fin, le créé est aussi l'origine du créé, ce qui est au repos est aussi ce qui circule, ce qui se sépare est aussi ce qui s'unit. Il n'est rien qui ne commence, rien qui ne soit achevé."

Jacques Gernet, La Raison des choses. Essai sur la philosophie de WANG FUZHI.

Spanish English Translation by myself:

(The human being distinguish between the four cardinal directions to make clear what is in front or behind him. The human being has enough distinguishing between the past and the present, the beginning and the end, to give an order to those things that he observes and understands...
But from the point of view of the spontaneous organization principle (li) and the invisible energies, is not true that there is a before and an after. In the absence of any temporary or spatial orientation in the chaos where the organization principle leads the energies, the beginning is the end, what is done is also the origin of what is done. what is resting is also moving, what separates is also unified. There is nothing that begins and nothing that is achieved.")

(El hombre distingue los cuatro puntos cardinales para determinar qué hay delante o detrás suyo; el hombre se conforma con distinguir entre el pasado y el presente, entre el comienzo y el fin para dar un orden a aquello que observa y aquello que entiende...
Pero desde el punto de vista del principio de organización espontáneo (li) y de las energías invisibles, no es cierto que haya un antes y un después. En la ausencia de toda orientación temporal o espacial del caos en el que el principio de organización dirige las energías, el comienzo también es el fin, lo creado es también el origen de lo creado, lo que está en reposo también está circulando, lo que se separa es también lo que está unido. No hay nada que empiece y nada que sea completado.")