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Se afișează postări din 2017

Diavolul si bunul Dumnezeu, Sartre

Îmi place de Sartre şi îmi place să citesc orice e scris de el. Momentan am ajuns la Diavolul şi bunul Dumnezeu şi, deşi începutul mi s-a părut cam lent şi confuz, acum nu mă mai satur de piesă şi de Goetz. Însă scena cu leprosul este de departe scena mea preferată din piesa lui Sartre: 
TETZEL: Sînt un om al Bisericii, fraţilor; iar în afara Bisericii nu există iubire. Biserica e mama noastră a tuturor, prin mijlocirea călugărilor şi a preoţilor ei ea împarte tuturor fiilor ei, celor dezmoşteniţi cît şi celor ocrotiţi de soartă, aceeşi dragoste de mamă. (Clopoţei şi huruitoare. Apare leprosul. Ţăranii, cuprinşi de panică, fug în capătul celălalt al scenei.) Ce este? Preotul şi călugărul se refugiază în biserică.  ŢĂRANII (arătîndu-l pe lepros cu degetul): Uite, uite; ia seama! Leprosul!  TETZEL (îngrozit): Sfinte Iisuse! Pauză. Goetz se apropie de Lepros. GOETZ (arătînd spre Lepros, lui Tetzel): Sărută-l!   TETZEL:Cîh!  GOET: Dacă Biserica iubeşte fără scîrbă şi sfială pe cel mai d…

39/50 shades of Si

Imagine
am vazut pe blogul lui Mâzgălica o leapsa care mi s-a parut interesanta, asa incit m-am gindit sa preiau ideea. e simplu, trebuie sa scriu despre mine. 50 de lucruri despre mine, mai precis:

1. imi plac ciinii si urasc pisicile. cred ca o sa am toata viata macar un ciine prin preajma. Lucy mi-a bucurat copilaria, iar Cora ma distreaza acum. daca as avea ceva mai mult spatiu, mi-ar placea sa am doi ciini.

2. imi place sa citesc, imi place sa discut despre carti si imi plac oamenii care nu citesc timpenii.
3. imi iubesc toamna si ploaia. nicioadata nu ma simt mai libera si mai vie ca prin ploaie, motiv pentru care ies la plimbare cam de fiecare data cind ploua.
4. sint plina de prejudecati si sint foarte dura atit cu mine, cit si cu oamenii din jurul meu.
5. sint pesimista, negativista si usor depresiva. in acelasi timp sint cinica si ironica.
6. sint atee.
7. imi plac varzarile.
8. sint obsedata sa respect reguli si ma enerveaza cei care triseaza/fenteaza.
9. imi plac foarte putini o…

Muştele, Sartre

BĂTRÎNA: Ah! mă căiesc, stăpîne, dacă ai şti cum mă căiesc, şi fiică-mea se căieşte, şi ginerele meu jertfeşte în fiecare an o vacă, iar pe nepoţelul meu, care merge pe şapte ani, l-am crescut în căinţă: e cuminte ca o icoană, bălai şi pătruns de pe acum de sentimentul păcatului săvîrşit inainte de-a se naşte.
[...]
JUPITER: Un oraş întreg se căieşte pentru el. Căinţa se măsoară la cîntar. [...] Nu-i judeca pe zei, tinere, au taine dureroase. [...] Pleacă, pentru că altfel ai să-i aduci la pierzanie: dacă-i opreşti din drum, dacă-i abaţi fie şi numai o clipă de la remuşcările pe care le au, toate greşelile făptuite se vor împietri peste ei ca untura sleită. Au cugetul încărcat, le e teamă - dar teama, cugetul încărcat sînt o mireasmă plăcută pentru nările zeilor. Da, zeilor le plac aceste suflete jalnice. Vrei să le răpeşti bunăvoinţa divină? Ce-o să la dai în schimb? O digestie liniştită, tihna morocănoasă a provinciei şi plictiseala, ah! plictiseala zilnică a fericirii.
[...]
JUPIT…

life (4)

cînd oboseala mă ajunge din urmă, cad. toate mă apasă şi nu ştiu cum să scap din tumultul vieţii cotidiene. de cele mai multe ori nici nu reuşesc să scap. ce mă ridică de jos e tot viaţa, cu tumultul şi ritmul ei enervant. şi apoi cad iar. şi iar. şi iar.
şi-atunci mă apucă dorul şi mi-e dor de mine. de o ţigară, de o plimbare lungă. de o bere rece băută direct din sticlă. în tavernă sau în max. de o carte bună şi-atunci mă uit cu jind la anticariatele de pe lăpuşneanu sau la cărţile din bibliotecă, care mă aşteaptă de multă vreme.
dar tot nu ajung la ele pentru că mîine iar sună ceasul devreme, iar trebuie să fiu acolo dimineaţă, iar am nu ştiu ce dupa-amiază şi iar o iau de la capăt.
pînă cînd?

life (3)

tick-tack.
      tired of being
                    a fucking robot.
                                    tick-tack.

life (2)

29. tick-tack.

life

Imagine
Think of the hubris you must take to yank a soul out of nonexistence into this meat. And to force a life into this thresher. Yeah, so my daughter, she spared me the sin of being a father. - Rust Cohle

un lup printre oi

Înlăuntrul tău sălășluia o imagine pe care ți-o făcuseși tu despre viață, o încredere, o cerință anume, erai gata de fapte, erai gata să suferi, să te sacrifici - pentru ca apoi, pas cu pas, să-ți dai seama că lumea nu cerea de la tine niciun fel de fapte și sacrificii sau ceva de genul ăsta, că viața nu e un poem eroic cu roluri de eroi și alte lucruri dintr-astea, ci un salon confortabil pentru oamenii cu obiceiuri burgheze, în care individul se declară pe deplin mulțumit dacă mănîncă și bea, dacă își soarbe cafeaua, dacă împletește ciorapi, joacă taroc și ascultă muzică la radio. Iar cine vrea altceva, purtînd în el însuși eroicul și frumosul, admirația pentru marii scriitori sau admirația pentru sfinți, nu-i decît un nebun și un fel de cavaler Don Quijote. - Hermann Hesse, Lupul de stepă

cormac mccarhty, the crossing

To see God everywhere is to see Him nowhere. We go from day to day, one day much like the next, and then on a certain day all unannounced we come upon a man or we see this man who is perhaps already known to us and is a man like all men but who makes a certain gesture of himself that is like the piling of one's goods upon an altar and in this gesture we recognize that which is buried in our hearts and is never truly lost to us nor ever can be and it is this moment, you see. This same moment. It is this which we long for and are afraid to seek and which alone can save us. 

Long voyages often lose themselves. [...] It is difficult even for brothers to travel together on such a voyage. The road has its own reasons and no two travelers will have the same understanding of those reasons. If indeed they come to an understanding of them at all. Listen to the corridos of the country. They will tell you. Then you will see in your own life what is the cost of things. Perhaps it is true that…

i luv gloria

21 mayo 80
 Dear mujeres de color, companions in writing - I sit here naked in the sun, typewriter against my knee trying to visualize you. Black woman huddles over a desk in the fifth floor of some New York tenement. Sitting on a porch in south Texas, a Chicana fanning away mosquitos and the hot air, trying to arouse the smouldering embers of writing. Indian woman walking to school or work lamenting the lack of time to weave wr riting into your life. Asian American, lesbian, single mother, tugged in all directions by children, lover or ex-husband, and the writing. It is not easy writing this letter. It began as a poem, a long poem. I tried to turn it into an essay but the result was wooden, cold. I have not yet unlearned the esoteric bullshit and pseudo-intellectualizing that school brainwashed into my writing.  - Gloria Anzaldua, "Speaking in Tongues" in This Bridge Called My Back

acculturation

Margarita, a girl (Mexican, that is) on her kindergarten (American,  that is) graduation day:
We are all wearing white, white dress, slip, socks, and, Miss Fernandez, is it alright if our hair is black? (Qtd in Vicki Ruiz's From Out of the Shadows)

Little lamb, who made thee?

Little lamb, who made thee Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o'ver the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
William Blake, The Lamb (1789)


If I were to believe in a god, I would most certainly not believe in Jesus or the Almighty. Not in the paternal, powerful, threatening and always punishing God, since there are so many things I fail to understand in relation to him: who would be so cruel as to give life to his son and then give him death or who would be so mean as to treat his children differently based on their gender?   Besides, I can understand or, better yet, accept death but I cannot understand illness. Ok, in his never-ending affection towards us, his children, God decides to punish us for our curiosity. For our thinking outside the box attitude and our creativity.
He decid…

Ph.D.

Conceiving a Ph.D. thesis or even dreaming of ever doing so can be a tiresome and nerve consuming activity. Towards the end of the researching and/or writing process, one can get to hate not only all his/her professors and colleagues, but also the subject of the thesis itself. One's life-long, or at least college-long, passion, to put it differently. Yet, from time to time, one accidentally comes upon short phrases, passages that rekindle one's long-forgotten passions. I've just experienced this and want to share with everybody my recently rekindled passion, i.e. latina literature. Though when I feel I hate my thesis the most it is suffice to read only a few fragments from Gloria Anzaldua, this time it's Sandra Cisneros' The House on Mango Street:
Esperanza rejects her inheritance of waiting "by the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow". (Cisneros qtd in Quinn-Sanchez's Identity in Latin American and Latina Litera…

I love Joyce Carol Oates! However, (2)

I love Joyce Carol Oates' writings. However, I feel that her short stories are less great than her novels. Surely, they do  share some of the great elements of her novels (e.g. mystery, psychological depth, absurdity), yet they lack the value of Oates' novels.
What I did like about this collection of short stories, DIS MEM BER and Other Stories of Mystery and Suspense, is not the psychological insight or the way she constructs the path towards the climax in each of the seven short stories (since these are far more great in her novel Daddy Love), but the feminist traces placed inside this book of mystery and suspense:
"[...] it was a time when breast, uterine, and cervical cancer were referred to as mother's shame and all medical problems related to women's reproductive organs were designated with vague distastefulness as female problems."
 "It was like my father to be rude sometimes. But it was not like my father to be rude to another man, especially a m…

Vers 13, Judith Ortiz Cofer

Mamacita

[...]
Mamacita's wordless song was her connection to the oversoul, her link with life, her mantra,
a lifeline to her own Laughing Buddha,
as she dragged her broom
across a lifetime of linoleum floors.



Orar: To Pray

After thehissed pleas, denunciations -
the children just tucked in -
perhaps her hand on his dress-shirt sleeve,
brushed off, leaving a trace of cologne,
impossible, it seemed, to wash off
with plain soap, he'd go, his feet light
on the gravel. In their room, she'd fall
on her knees to say prayers composed
to sound like praise; following
her mother's warning never to make demands
outright from God nor a man.


On the other side of the thin wall,
I lay listening to the sounds I recognised
from an early age: knees on wood, shifting
the pain so the floor creaked, and a woman's
conversation with the wind - that carried
her sad voice out of the open window
to me. And her words - if they did not rise
to heaven, fell on my chest, where they are
embedded l…

alas!

My first experience with Elif Shafak took the form of Three Daughters of Eve (2016) and left me somewhat disappointed. It is a well written book and I could easily recognise the author's talent and  her intelligent use of various narrative techniques, yet it could have been a splendid book had it not been for the few supernatural appearances, unrealistic experiences and some elements of the plot.
  It could have been a great book dealing with modern day problems like terrorism, religion and its place in the 21st century, feminism, Eastern and Western societies, democracy and so forth. Unfortunately, Shafak turned all these stringent problems into some sort of a classic professor-student love story.
  I could have happily written pages on feminism and motherhood; on how Peri evolved from a curious little girl who swore not to repeat her mother's mistakes into a brave, powerful and independent woman, who raised her three children in the spirit of feminism and globalization. I…

oppression

Or the woman at the checkout stand who had to tell me it was a shame I was having kids at such a young age. My two-year-old brother was with me in line holding on the colored coupons after I'd counted them. I was fourteen and not yet bleeding. (Ednie Kaeh Garrison, "Sitting in the Waiting Room of Adult and Family Services at SE 122nd in Portland, Oregon, with My Sister and My Mother Two Hours Before I Return to School" in This Bridge We Call Home, Anzaldua and Keating, eds.)

tineriada

bun, am fost în piață, mi-am strigat nemulțumirile alături de oamenii de acolo (mai ales în primele zile, cînd magazinele încă aveau vuvuzele în stoc), m-am certat cu părinții, am înjurat foarte mult, mai între dinți, mai direct, m-am simțit abuzată de o mînă de ticăloși, iar m-am certat cu părinții, am simțit cum mi se năruie întregul sistem de valori, ba chiar m-am gîndit să mă mut din țară, să caut un loc mai civilizat și mai onest. pesimistă din fire, nu am crezut nicio clipă din cele în care-am înghețat în piața unirii că dragnea o să dea înapoi.

în teorie (și în discursurile agramate ale politicienilor noștri drăguți) am cîștigat, dar nu mă simt deloc învingătoare. știm cu toții că e o chestiune de timp pînă cînd prevederile din OUG 13 vor intra în parlament, sub o formă sau alta. simt doar că mi s-a dat o șansă să-mi mai hodinesc nițel picioarele. astăzi stau acasă, dar mîine știu unde mă duc!

ce mă mîhnește profund e protestul pro-guvern. sînt perfect de acord ca oricine să pr…

Make America Great [Britain] Again!

One American Dream by Bernard Beck is yet another book (on its way to becoming a bestseller) about the [futile] pursuit of living the American dream. This time the protagonists are neither African-Americans nor Latin Americans, but second and third generations of Jews coming from Poland and struggling to find success and happiness.  Jacob Rubinowitz, in particular, seems to be obsessed with becoming a real American. He was only a child when his mother took him to the States and, as soon as the law allowed him to, he changed his name and became John Rubin. Still, each time he got a bit closer to finally becoming a true American, he felt he lacked authenticity: "Throughout my life I have invented, reinvented, burnished, refurbished, constructed, and reconstructed myself as often as necessary in order to achieve my ultimate goal: to be a real American". Thus this became John's obsession and it marked his entire existence and even his relationships with his close family, his…

dor

imi e dor de ploaie ca de mine insami.

A humorous discovery

A humorous discovery or how I came to like Judith Ortiz Cofer's writing after reading two of her autobiographic works that didn't impress me much. A less good writer of memoirs than a storyteller, Judith Ortiz Cofer surprised me in The Line of the Sun as having a great sense of humour and a gift for storytelling: Small towns are vindictive, and when it became known that El Padrecito Cesar had been sent away to a mountain retreat for his health, a rumor began to circulate that the young priest had been caught "in flagrante" by the housekeeper, Leonarda, who had then aroused Don Gonzalo from a deep sleep. For days Leonarda was sought after by the townswomen for afternoon coffee, and even invited into the wealthier homes in town, where the old woman had never crossed the threshold except to wash floors. They interrogated her endlessly about the scandal up at the rectory, but she played the coy maiden and would only say that the little priest had too many wild friends v…

2016 in books

another harsh and interesting year is over and i find myself, yet again, feeling sorry for not reading as much as i could have. so, 2016 means the following books and articles:
1. Maya Socolovsky, Troubling Nationhood in U.S. Latina Literature: Explorations of Place and Belongings 2. Ellen McCracken, New Latina Narrative. The Feminine Space of Postmodern Ethnicity 3. Judith Ortiz Cofer, Silent Dancing: A Partial Remembrance of a Puerto Rican Childhood 4. Jennifer Browdy de Hernandez (ed), Women Writing Resistance. Essays on Latin America and the Carribean 5. Cherrie Moraga, Giving Up the Ghost, Teatro in Two Acts (I am so happy to remember having read it in the Erlangen-Nurnberg train) 6. Cherrie Moraga, Loving in the War Years 7. Herta Muller, Încă de pe atunci vulpea era vînătorul 8. Martha Lorena Rubi, Politically Writing Women in Hispanic Literature. The Feminist Tradition in Contemporary Latin American and U.S. Latina Writers 9. Svetlana Alexievich, Voices from the Chernobyl: Th…