This book fills a much needed gap

Ryszard Kapuscinski, from the second chapter titled It’s Coming, It’s Coming inside The Emperor
Penguin Classics, 2006 (org. in Polish as Cesarz, 1978) 

Also from this book: The Throne & The Collapse


[After a failed coup d’etat…] That same night His Unrivaled Highness ordered that his favorite lions be shot, because instead of defending the Palace they had admitted the traitors.
74


These generals, with His Gracious Majesty’s help, arranged such a good life for themselves that in out Empire, which contained thirty million farmers and only a hundred thousand soldiers and police, agriculture received one percent of the national budget and the army and the police forty percent.
93


His August Majesty chided the bureaucrats for failing to understand a simple principle: the principle of the second bag. Because the people never revolt just because they have to carry a heavy load, or because of exploitation. They don’t know life without exploitation, they don’t even know that such a life exists. How can they desire what they cannot imagine? The people will revolt only when, in a single movement, someone tries to throw a second burden, a second heavy bag, onto their backs. The peasant will fall face down into the mud—and then spring up and grab an ax. He’ll grab an ax, my gracious sir, not because he simply can’t sustain this new burden—he could carry it—he will rise because he feels that, in throwing the second burden onto his back suddenly and stealthily, you have tried to cheat him, you have treated him like an unthinking animal, you have trampled what remains of his already strangled dignity, taken him for an idiot who doesn’t see, feel, or understand. A man doesn’t seize an ax in defense of his wallet, but in defense of his dignity, and that, dear sir, is why His Majesty scolded the clerks. For their own convenience and vanity, instead of adding the burden bit by bit, in little bags, they tried to heave a whole big sack on at once.
97

A reader nicknamed JetBlackEvil comments on a The Guardian article titled “If the rioting was a surprise, people weren’t looking” by Stafford Scott about the recent violent riots in the UK:

Listen, these kids aren’t rioting because some guy got shot by a cop. They’re rioting because they’ve had enough and this is the tipping point.

They’ve had enough of a crappy, lying government; a crappy economy; crappy phone-hacking; crappy MPs expenses; crappy employment prospects; crappy police with their bribe-taking, Tomlinson-killing lack of respect for ordinary, decent people; crappy footballers; crappy disregard for the NHS and the education system; crappy knife crime; crappy reality TV; crappy petrol costs; crappy rent prices; crappy public transport; crappy binge drinking; and crappy weather.

Their actions are not justifiable, not remotely, but they are entirely understandable. This is apex causality.

Lesley Hazelton, After the Prophet: The Epic Story of the Shia-Sunni Split in Islam
Doubleday, September 2009 


   Mısır’da olanlar için “Bu bir Allah-sız devrim!!” diyenlerin anlamadıkları en az iki şey sayabilirim: Devrim, ve Allah.
//
   I can speak of at least two things which those who say that “This is an Allah-free revolution” about what happened in Egypt do not seem to quite understand: Revolution, and Allah. 


   « The ruling class of Mecca was back in control, and with a ven geance. There was no doubt as to who was drawing the milk, and the ones left holding the horns became increasingly outspoken as nepotism and corruption devolved into their inevitable correlates: wrongful expropriation, deportation, imprisonment, even execution. The most respected early companions of Muhammad began to speak out in protest, as did all five of the other men who had sat in caucus and elected Othman, and none more clearly than Ali.

   The property of Islam was being embezzled, he warned. The Umayyads were like a pack of hungry animals devouring everything in sight. “Othman shrugs his shoulders arrogantly, and his brothers stand with him, eating up the property of God as the camels eat up the springtime grasses.” Once that brief treasured lushness was gone, only barren desert would be left.

   But the voice that gained the most attention was that of Aisha, who found herself for once on the same side as Ali. “That dotard,” she called Othman—a doddering old man in thrall to his relatives—and the word stuck, demeaning and mocking.

   Some said she was roused to action only when Othman reduced her annual pension to that of the other Mothers of the Faithful, challenging her prominence. Others said she acted in the hope that her brother-in-law Talha would take over as Caliph. But there is also no doubt that Aisha was truly outraged by the extent of the corruption, which came to a head over the scandalous behavior of Walid, one of Othman’s half brothers.

   As the governor of the garrison city of Kufa in central Iraq, Walid did not even bother to disguise his aristocratic disdain for the residents under his control. With a kind of Arabian snobbery that would surface again and again, he contemptuously dismissed the native Iraqis as “provincial riffraff.” Unjust imprisonment? Expropriation of lands? Embezzlement from the public treasury? Such complaints against him, Walid declared, were worth “no more than a goat’s fart in the desert plains of Edom.”

   One particular goat’s fart, however, would reach all the way to Medina when Walid appeared in the Kufa mosque flagrantly drunk and, in front of the assembled worshipers, vomited over the side of the pulpit. The Kufans sent a delegation to Medina to demand that he be recalled and publicly flogged, but Othman refused them point-blank. Worse, he threatened to punish them for daring to make such a demand, and when they then appealed to the leading Mother of the Faithful for support, he was heard to sneer in disdain: “Can the rebels and scoundrels of Iraq find no other refuge than the home of Aisha?”

   The gauntlet was thrown: a challenge not just to “the rebels and scoundrels of Iraq” but to Aisha herself. As word spread of Othman’s sneer, many thought it a foolish thing to have done. Perhaps Aisha had been right in calling Othman a dotard. Perhaps he really was losing his grip, or at least his judgment. Certainly it seemed that way when a respected Medinan elder stood up in the mosque in public support of the Iraqis’ demands, and Othman’s response was to order him thrown out—so violently that four of his ribs were broken.

   If Aisha had been outraged before, she was now incensed. That the guilty should go free and the innocent be beaten? No curtains or veils could stop her. Covering her face in public did not mean muffling her voice, not even—particularly not—in the mosque. The following Friday she stood up at the morning prayers, brandishing a sandal that had belonged to Muhammad. “See how this, the Prophet’s own sandal, has not yet even fallen apart?” she shouted at Othman in that high, piercing voice of hers. “This is how quickly you have forgotten the sunna, his practice!”

   How could Othman have underestimated her? But then whoever would have thought that a mere sandal could be used so effectively? As the whole mosque erupted in condemnation of the Caliph, people took off their own sandals and brandished them in Aisha’s support. A new propaganda tool had made its first powerful impression, one not lost on all the caliphs and shahs and sultans of centuries to come, who would produce inordinate numbers of ornately displayed relics of the Prophet—sandals, shirts, teeth, nail clippings, hair—to bolster their authority. »

Ernest Hemingway, from “The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio” inside The Snows of Kilimanjaro and other stories
Charles Scribner’s Sons, NY, 1955 (org. 1933)

“I am a cheap card player, only that.” He stopped, then continued. “When I make a sum of money I gamble and when I gamble I lose. I have passed at dice for three thousand dollars and crapped out for the six. With good dice. More than once.”

“Why continue?”

“If I live long enough the luck will change. I have bad luck now for fifteen years. If I ever get any good luck I will be rich.” He grinned. “I am a good gambler, really I would enjoy being rich.”

“Do you have bad luck with all games?”

“With everything and with women.” He smiled again, showing his bad teeth.

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“And what is there to do?”

“Continue, slowly, and wait for luck to change.”

“But with women?”

“No gambler has luck with women. He is too concentrated. He works nights. When he should be with the woman. No man who works nights can hold a woman if the woman is worth anything.”

“You are a philosopher.”

“No, hombre. A gambler of the small towns.” •


In spite of this introduction of emotion, Mr. Frazer went on thinking. Usually he avoided thinking all he could, except when he was writing, but now he was thinking about those who were playing and what the little one had said.

Religion is the opium of the people. He believed that, that dyspeptic little joint-keeper. Yes, and music is the opium of the people. Old mount-to-the-head hadn’t thought of that. And now economics is the opium of the people; along with patriotism the opium of the people in Italy and Germany. What about sexual intercourse; was that an opium of the people? Of some of the people. Of some of the best of the people. But drink was a sovereign opium of the people, oh, an excellent opium. Although some prefer the radio, another opium of the people, a cheap one he had just been using. Along with these went gambling, an opium of the people if there ever was one, one of the oldest. Ambition was another, an opium of the people, along with a belief in any new form of government. What you wanted was the minimum of government, always less government. Liberty, what we believed in, now the name of a MacFadden publication. We believed in that although they had not found a new name for it yet. But what was the real one? What was the real, the actual, opium of the people? He knew it very well. It was gone just a little way around the corner in that well-lighted part of his mind that was there after two or more drinks in the evening; that he knew was there (it was not really there of course). What was it? He knew very well. What was it? Of course; bread was the opium of the people. Would he remember that and would it make sense in the daylight? Bread is the opium of the people.

“Listen,” Mr. Frazer said to the nurse when she came. “Get that little thin Mexican in here, will you, please?”

“How do you like it?” the Mexican said at the door.

“Very much.”

“It is a historic tune,” the Mexican said. “It is the tune of the real revolution.”

“Listen,” said Mr. Frazer. “Why should the people be operated on without anesthetic?” 

“I do not understand.”

“Why are not all the opiums of the people good? What do you want to do with the people?”

“They should be rescued from ignorance.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Education is an opium of the people. You ought to know that. You’ve had a little.”

“You do not believe in education?”

“No,” said Mr. Frazer. “In knowledge, yes.”

“I do not follow you.”

“Many times I do not follow myself with pleasure.”

“You want to hear the Cucaracha another time?” asked the Mexican worriedly.

“Yes,” said Mr. Frazer. “Play the Cucaracha another time. It’s better than the radio.”

Revolution, Mr. Frazer thought, is no opium. Revolution is a catharsis; an ecstasy which can only be prolonged by tyranny. The opiums are for before and after. He was thinking well, a little too well.

They would go now in a little while, he thought, and they would take the Cucaracha with them. Then he would have a little spot of the giant killar and play the radio, you could play the radio so that you could hardly hear it. 

[James] Tully, I would suggest, is not using the term ‘democracy’ in the sense in which we’d ordinarily understand it today. Tully understands ‘democracy’ in an early modern sense. In the 17th and 18th centuries the term ‘democracy’ was commonly linked to popular protest. Before the rise of elected governments, the term ‘democracy’ was associated with rowdy peasant gatherings in streets and town squares, often prefiguring riot or revolt. For authorities of the day, ‘democracy’ was a ‘term of abuse’.

Charles Bukowski, Sıradan Delilik Öyküleri
Parantez Yayınları

devrimin yarın sabah gerçekleşeceğini sanıyor. gerçekleşebilir de, gerçekleşmeyebilir de. kimse bilmiyor. devrimin DIŞARIDAN-içeriye doğru değil, İÇERDEN-dışarıya doğru gerçekleşmesi gerektiğini anlattım ona, asıl sorun burada. bu tiplerin ayaklanma başlar başlamaz yaptıkları ilk şey gidip bir renkli televizyon yağmalamak. düşmanı yarı-zeka yapan aynı zehri kendileri için de istiyorlar. ama dinlemiyor beni. tüfeğini temizleyip hazırlamakla meşgul. devrimcilere katılmak için Meksika’ya gitmiş, devrimciler tekila içip esniyorlarmış. üstüne üstlük dil engeli var. şimdi kanada diye tutturdu. kuzey eyaletlerin birinde gıda ve silah ikmali yapmışlar. atom bombaları yok ama. y.arağı yemişler. hava desteği de yok.

“Vietnamlılarda da yok. ama canavar gibi savaşıyorlar.”

“Rusya’dan ve Çin’den korktuğumuz için atom bombasını kullanamıyoruz da ondan. ama Oregon’da Castro’larla dolu bir sığınağı bombalamak istediğimizi varsayalım. bu bizim iç meselemiz sayılır ve kimseyi ilgilendirmez, öyle değil mi?”

“iyi bir Amerikalı gibi konuştun.”

“siyasetim yok benim. gözlemciyim.”

“allahtan herkes senin gibi değil, yoksa hapı yutmuştuk.”

“ne yani, hapı yutmadık mı?”

“emin değilim.”

“ben de. ama devrimcilerin çoğunun göt olduklarını biliyorum, ve üstüne üstlük son derece SIKICI insanlar. moruk, yoksullara yardım etmeyelim, eğitimsizleri eğitmeyelim, hastaları tedavi etmeyelim demiyorum. ama bu devrimcilerin çoğuna rahip cübbeleri giydiriyoruz, demek istediğim bu. ve bunların bazıları karıları tarafından terk edilmiş, akne sorunları olan, boyunlarına kanlı Barış Sembolleri asan çok hasta insanlar. çoğu fırsatçıdır bunların, bir yolunu bulsalar Ford için çalışmayı yeğlerler. bir kötü yönetimden başka bir kötü yönetime geçmekte yarar görmüyorum ben. her seçimde yapıyoruz bunu zaten.”

“yine de devrimin bokun bir kısmını temizleyeceğini düşünüyorum.”

“doğru, ama birçok iyi şeyi de yok edecek. tarih çok ağır ilerler. ben kuş yuvasını yeğlerim.”

“daha iyi gözlem yapabilmek için m?”

“daha iyi gözlem yapabilmek için. bir bira daha iç.”

“yine de bir gerici gibi konuşuyorsun.”

“dinle, Haham, ben duruma bütün açılardan bakmaya çalışıyorum, sadece kendi açımdan değil. kodamanlar ne yaptıklarını çok iyi biliyorlar. onlarla her zaman masaya otururum. Spock’a [1] yaptıklarına bak. Kennedy’ler. King. Malcolm X. liste uzar gider. bu herifler şakaya gelmez, aceleci davranırsan kıçının üstüne oturturlar adamı. ama bir şeyler değişiyor. gençler bir zamanlar yaşlıların düşündüğünden daha iyi düşünüyorlar ve yaşlılar ölüyor. bu işi kan dökmeden halletmenin bir yolu var hâlâ.”

“gözünü korkutmuşlar senin. bana sorarsan ‘ya Zafer ya da Ölüm’ derim”

“Hitler de öyle dedi. sonunu biliyorsun.”

“ölümün nesi var?”

“bu gece hayatın sorunlarını konuşuyoruz, ölümün değil”

“DEHŞET CADDESİ gibi bir kitap yazıyor, sonra da atillerle el sıkışmak istiyorsun”

“el sıkıştık mı, Haham?”

“şu anda işkenceler sürerken sen ağzının kenarından konuşuyorsun”

“örümcek ile sineği mi kastediyorsun, yoksa kedi ile fareyi mi?”

“artık bazı şeyler idrak etme kolaylığına sahip olmasına rağmen İnsan’a karşı İnsan’ı kastediyorum”

“bu söylediğinde doğruluk payı var”

“var tabii. ağzı olan tek sen değilsin”

“iyi de, ne diyorsun? kenti ateşe mi verelim?”

“hayır, ülkeyi ateşe verelim”

“dediğim gibi, çok iyi bir Haham olacaksın”

“teşekkür ederim”

“peki, ülkeyi yaktık, yerine ne koyacağız?”

“Amerikan Devrimi, Fransız Devrimi, Rus Devrimi başarısız mı oldu sence?”

“bütünüyle başarısız olmadılar. ama bütünüyle başarılı da olmadılar”

“denediler en azından”

“bir santimetre ilerlemek için kaç kişiyi öldürmeliyiz?”

“bir santimetre bile ilerlemediğimiz için kaç kişi ölüyor?

“bazen Plato ile konuşuyormuş gibi hissediyorum kendimi”

bir süre susuyoruz, sorun aramızda asılı kalıyor. bu arada sefilhaneler toplumun ıskartaya çıkardığı sefillerden geçilmiyor; yoksullar doktor yokluğundan düşkünler koğuşunda ölüyorlar. cezaevleri öylesine dolu ki mahkumlar yerlerde yatıyorlar. insanları satranç piyonları gibi kullanan toplum yüzünden akıl hastanelerinde boş yatak yok…

bir aydın ya da yazar olarak KENDİ kıçın kapanda değilken bu hoşlukları gözlemlemek pek memnuniyet verici. aydın ve yazarların sorunu BU -kendi rahatları ve kendi acıları dışında fazla bir şey hissedemiyorlar. ki doğal, ama boktan.

s.119-120

[1] Benjamin McLane Spock (1903-1998), zamanının en ünlü çocuk doktoruydu. The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care isimli kitabı hâlâtüm zamanların en çok satan kitapları listesinde yedinci sıradadır. Bunun dışında siyasal alanda da son derece aktif bir adam olan Spock, nükleer silahlanmanın önüne geçilmesi, “kurbansız suç”lara (homoseksüellik, marihuana vb.) konan yasakların kaldırılması, her aileye asgarî bir ücretin ödenmesi ve daha mühimi de Vietnam savaşının bitirilmesi ve tüm yabancı ülkelerden Amerikan askerî varlığının geri çekilmesi gibi çağrılarını sık sık yinelemesinden ötürü kovuşturmalara uğramış, “vatan hainliği” ile suçlanmış ve tahmin edebileceğiniz diğer sıkıntılara maruz bırakılmıştı.

[2] Bir ay kadar önce Simurg‘da bakınırken Charles Bukowski’nin Kavgası ve Satır Aralarındaki Solculuğu isimli bir kitaba rastladım. Daha yeni de: ilk basımı Ocak 2009 görünüyor. Bu bahsettiği solculuk ne menem bir solculuk henüz bilemiyorum. Şöyle diyor, yazar Ali Ulvi Özdemir, önsözünde: “Kitabımın özgünlüğü Bukowski’nin söylediklerinin bir kısmı ile Yalçın Küçük‘ün ve Karl Marks’ın damadı Paul Lafargue‘nin bazı söylemlerinin birbiriyle örtüştüğünü gösterme iddiasından geliyor”. Kastettiği, Yalçın Küçük’ün şimdiki tahtası eksik eksantrik ırkçılığından önce sahip olduğu söylenen özgün eleştirelliği ise, bir yargıya varacak bilgiye sahip değilim; ama Lafargue ile ilgili kısımları merak etmiyor da değilim hani. Marx‘ın, açık Proudhon (archnemesis!) hayranlığından ve Frenk-İspanyol-Hint-Afrika kırması melezliğinden dolayı, kızına talip olan bu adama şüphe içinde sağ kaşını olabildiğince yukarı kaldırdığı söylenir. Öyle ki müstakbel damada şöyle bir mektup yazmış müstakbel kayınpeder:

My dear Lafargue,

Allow me to make the following observations:

1. If you wish to continue your relations with my daughter, you will have to give up your present manner of ‘courting’. You know full well that no engagement has been entered into, that as yet everything is undecided. And even if she were formally betrothed to you, you should not forget that this is a matter of long duration. The practice of excessive intimacy is especially inappropriate since the two lovers will be living at the same place for a necessarily prolonged period of severe testing and purgatory … To my mind, true love expresses itself in reticence, modesty and even the shyness of the lover towards his object of veneration, and certainly not in giving free rein to one’s passion and in premature demonstrations of familiarity. If you should urge your Creole temperament in your defence, it is my duty to interpose my sound reason between your temperament and my daughter. If in her presence you are incapable of loving her in a manner in keeping with the London latitude, you will have to resign yourself to loving her from a distance.

Metni aldığım yerde (Marx Myths!) dendiği gibi, her Viktorya dönemi aile reisinin gururla altına imzasını atacağı, samimi bir uyarı sadece.