Weaker and weaker.
Week by week.
Day by day.
Who cares?
Why?
As long as there are
such moments of joy ...
Would I know
there's not much time left
I might like to write
about veracity, tonight. 
About manipulation,
about ethics,
(not only)
for journalists and photographers.
The peace of the night
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| "It is not a political decision, but a constitutional imperative to maintain a media structure that enables the inclusive character of the public sphere and a deliberative character of the formation of public opinion and will." * |
It is hard for me to listen to a perpetually nose-grabbing fast talker, but easy to recommend reading this article by Slavoj Žižek in the Guardian: Pacifism is the wrong response to the war in Ukraine.
This Work, published in 2001 by Steidl,
seems not been translated into English, yet.
Its title would perhaps read:
Work and Human Dignity
Oskar Negt * 1 August 1934
 |
| The Revolt of the Masses * "Better beware of notions like genius and inspiration; they are a sort of magic wand and should be used sparingly by anybody who wants to see things clearly." |
José Ortega y Gasset (9 May 1883 – 18 October 1955)
“La palabra es libertad.”
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| The Intellectuals in Spain's Drama (written 1936/37) |
María Zambrano 22 April 1904 – 6 February 1991)
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I, and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am just waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner.
All is well.
Tod bedeutet gar nichts.
Ich bin nur nach nebenan verschwunden.
Ich bin ich und du bist du.
Was immer wir füreinander waren, das sind wir noch.
Nenne mich bei dem alten vertrauten Namen.
Sprich von mir, wie du es immer getan hast.
Ändere nicht deinen Tonfall.
Zwinge dich nicht zu aufgesetzter Feierlichkeit oder Traurigkeit.
Lache weiterhin über die kleinen Scherze, an denen wir gemeinsam Spaß hatten.
Spiele, lächle, denke an mich, bete für mich.
Lass meinen Namen weiterhin so geläufig sein, wie er immer war.
Sprich ihn unbekümmert aus, ohne die Spur eines Schattens.
Das Leben bedeutet all das, was es bisher bedeutete.
Es ist genauso wie immer.
Es geht uneingeschränkt und ununterbrochen weiter.
Ist der Tod nicht nur ein unbedeutender Zwischenfall?
Warum sollte ich vergessen sein, nur weil du mich nicht mehr siehst?
Ich warte einstweilen auf dich, ganz in der Nähe, nur um die Ecke.
Alles ist gut.
Henry Scott Holland (27 January 1847 – 17 March 1918)
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| There was a mouse. What a cat left over do banquet some wasps. Somehow my future. Who will eat me?* |
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| For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. |
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| I am told peace-loving people somewhere far away are competing in rocket science. Surely there will soon be peace. And when the stones are swimming, the leaves will sink. The peace of the night. |
