It is strange but perfectly understandable that people who have dedicated themselves to investigating my past life in depth place my entry into the world of secret services more or less in this period --- even though I have completely denied this delusion several times recently the discovery of Brazil as a nest of Russian spies has once again intrigued the curious --- I myself took advantage of this opportunity to write some improvised fiction in this sense --- in 2024 and 2023
(Throughout the entire presentation of the writer E. Morell, I thought about the question of mutual experience and coexistence with postmodern writers as the question of competitive neurosis disguised as the highly rotating civility of a shopping mall --- from the agitated, the repetitive, the repressed, the restless, the hallucinating, who revealed themselves wounded and stigmatized at the first moment of approach, like Fábregas and Juan, to the somber, still, or who gave a false appearance of serenity and self-awareness (the latter above all was really scarce in our midst) --- what filled me with this bitter taste were the reminiscences that Morell's life stories brought me, that sound of my own determined steps in my ears walking towards an unknown that progressively stratified itself: for example, I remembered that while I was seriously thinking about a career as a writer, until I was 23, the environment around me was totally political, partisan-political, an eternal Us-Against-Them, everyone talked about nothing but politics and the energies (artistic or otherwise, sexual or otherwise) that were not employed in the COMMITMENT and the PROJECT (those two tedious Sartrean concepts), were part of the alienated barrel organ of the system;
obviously, this involved a great submission disguised as a spirit of sacrifice, collaboration was sought for some internal, social or economic reward, even if it was officially nothing, the psychological atmosphere was that of a highly hierarchical career framework --- it was necessary and obligatory whenever possible to stop and listen to the elders of the historical struggle on a daily basis, and to keep in memory each encounter with them as a privilege on the path of SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, against the shadows of a society that existed only to distract us from the struggle, that hid our own future from us --- in the heart of the Left, no one reached the bottom of the ladder young alone; to feel like they were "really living", like "big people", you needed a track record of service rendered --- My luck (I thought) was precisely to have culminated my early literary efforts at the exact moment the "Revolution" had happened, in 2002, and in less than a year of the PT in power the Left was already completely cracked ---
an atmosphere of discord and betrayal had been created overnight and I remember many people crying in front of me with hatred for this or that --- Sometimes, I saw them anxiously in front of me, waiting for what I had to say, and I often had nothing or said NOTHING --- ''WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THE COUNTRY NEEDS NO WORDS'' --- It was a whole world of ideas and expectations that had disappeared overnight, taking with it all those lineages of engaged art that had subsisted fed by the expectation of the New Regenerative Politics, and which soon became frustrated and disappeared, replaced by the ''Culture'' of public money --- plans for the future? What plans for the future? All its exponents, in less than a year, completely limited by the intra-party restriction in relation to the ways of defending their decades-old projects against the "priorities" of the leadership --- the vote --- dirty money --- The time had come and revealed a row of old heralds shaking their heads in contempt, as if they had just read in the mind of the Revolution the functioning of a false DNA, followed by the grotesque blinking of an army of corrupt people --- those who were communists were too communist, they called them Stalinists, agents provocateurs and excluded them to a life of bars, dirty glasses and moldy little books of poetry ---
Unable to utter a decisive word, at that moment I always seemed trapped in a stupid and blissful silence (although somewhat perplexed by everything I saw), as if I had forever lost the thread of my thoughts, avatar of a life almost entirely physical and alcoholic --- I didn't deign to discuss anything else because, deep down, that rigorous observance of the socio-political, practical-political and practical-inert asperities in the art of writing had IMMEDIATELY migrated to the gratuitousness of the merely chimerical and "gourmet" use of a mere meaningless skill --- "It would be so easy for me to abandon all this!" I thought in secret, watching the ruin and chaos transform old, hardened and eloquent characters into impotent gunslingers facing each other in the desert --- standing, smoking, boiling inside, outraged, excessively cautious and no longer knowing against what, all the maneuvering ground lost to impostors --- by placing themselves against the Left in Power, it was also their relationship with women that made them fall so low, since women always tend towards Power or, at the very least, towards its Shadow ---
I had in my favor the fact that I was always close to Power, and therefore I knew its Fantasy better than other people; the "quota of sons of bitches I was capable of knowing" increased overnight, and I chose to "accumulate information in silence" under the madness of the dazzled and insufferable people I manipulated; I saw them relativizing each other's behavior, in the high spheres of federal complicity, and instead of foaming with rage, like the old offended communists, I gave the calming but unfathomable impression of someone who was always distant in a pleasant and harmless conversation with himself --- always a purpose of vague politeness --- never an imperative gesture, useless or overly familiar, no deranged greed out of time and place --- living like that with some pretty young girls, recently co-opted by the money and influence of Power to the outskirts of my social circle revealed flowers recently transplanted from one trash can to another, by the simple fact of the presidential succession in the country ---
some third- or fourth-tier appointments went straight to their heads, and meant beach houses and sometimes, such strange things related to the egos of upstarts and their eccentric possibilities for expansion --- something that's not even worth trying to name --- How many whirlpools of trash stirred up at the top! --- I changed girlfriends almost every month, and used my close relationships with the sphere of Power to act in social circles where not even Power itself was influential, such as the legal and business circles of some regions of the state --- And amidst so much talk about high-quality coffee beans, new business opportunities and new girlfriends, WHO CARES ABOUT THE FUTURE OF LITERATURE? --- under the PT government, I saw an avalanche of absolutely ridiculous poetry and novel books being financed and promoted in front of my eyes, and at no point did I show myself particularly shocked or offended (me!, the archimandrite of the great inviolable canons of literary quality), because it was MONEY, not ART, that made life fun under the sign of malevolence and corruption ---
I realized that for people who published instantly praised books in that milieu, books that wouldn't stand up to a one-sentence critique, life was still MODEST, DEPENDENT, SUBMISSIVE, and that in such circumstances my life as emperor of a small and specific theater of expanding social operations was much better, so much better that I went so far as to feign interest in what they published and brought me --- a handshake often opened doors, and I didn't want my name off any list just because I wasn't capable of flattery)
It is strange but perfectly understandable that people who have dedicated themselves to investigating my past life in depth place my entry into the world of secret services more or less in this period --- even though I have completely denied this delusion several times recently the discovery of Brazil as a nest of Russian spies has once again intrigued the curious --- I myself took advantage of this opportunity to write some improvised fiction in this sense --- in 2024 and 2023
ResponderExcluir(Throughout the entire presentation of the writer E. Morell, I thought about the question of mutual experience and coexistence with postmodern writers as the question of competitive neurosis disguised as the highly rotating civility of a shopping mall --- from the agitated, the repetitive, the repressed, the restless, the hallucinating, who revealed themselves wounded and stigmatized at the first moment of approach, like Fábregas and Juan, to the somber, still, or who gave a false appearance of serenity and self-awareness (the latter above all was really scarce in our midst) --- what filled me with this bitter taste were the reminiscences that Morell's life stories brought me, that sound of my own determined steps in my ears walking towards an unknown that progressively stratified itself: for example, I remembered that while I was seriously thinking about a career as a writer, until I was 23, the environment around me was totally political, partisan-political, an eternal Us-Against-Them, everyone talked about nothing but politics and the energies (artistic or otherwise, sexual or otherwise) that were not employed in the COMMITMENT and the PROJECT (those two tedious Sartrean concepts), were part of the alienated barrel organ of the system;
ResponderExcluirobviously, this involved a great submission disguised as a spirit of sacrifice, collaboration was sought for some internal, social or economic reward, even if it was officially nothing, the psychological atmosphere was that of a highly hierarchical career framework --- it was necessary and obligatory whenever possible to stop and listen to the elders of the historical struggle on a daily basis, and to keep in memory each encounter with them as a privilege on the path of SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, against the shadows of a society that existed only to distract us from the struggle, that hid our own future from us --- in the heart of the Left, no one reached the bottom of the ladder young alone; to feel like they were "really living", like "big people", you needed a track record of service rendered --- My luck (I thought) was precisely to have culminated my early literary efforts at the exact moment the "Revolution" had happened, in 2002, and in less than a year of the PT in power the Left was already completely cracked ---
ResponderExcluiran atmosphere of discord and betrayal had been created overnight and I remember many people crying in front of me with hatred for this or that --- Sometimes, I saw them anxiously in front of me, waiting for what I had to say, and I often had nothing or said NOTHING --- ''WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THE COUNTRY NEEDS NO WORDS'' --- It was a whole world of ideas and expectations that had disappeared overnight, taking with it all those lineages of engaged art that had subsisted fed by the expectation of the New Regenerative Politics, and which soon became frustrated and disappeared, replaced by the ''Culture'' of public money --- plans for the future? What plans for the future? All its exponents, in less than a year, completely limited by the intra-party restriction in relation to the ways of defending their decades-old projects against the "priorities" of the leadership --- the vote --- dirty money --- The time had come and revealed a row of old heralds shaking their heads in contempt, as if they had just read in the mind of the Revolution the functioning of a false DNA, followed by the grotesque blinking of an army of corrupt people --- those who were communists were too communist, they called them Stalinists, agents provocateurs and excluded them to a life of bars, dirty glasses and moldy little books of poetry ---
ResponderExcluirUnable to utter a decisive word, at that moment I always seemed trapped in a stupid and blissful silence (although somewhat perplexed by everything I saw), as if I had forever lost the thread of my thoughts, avatar of a life almost entirely physical and alcoholic --- I didn't deign to discuss anything else because, deep down, that rigorous observance of the socio-political, practical-political and practical-inert asperities in the art of writing had IMMEDIATELY migrated to the gratuitousness of the merely chimerical and "gourmet" use of a mere meaningless skill --- "It would be so easy for me to abandon all this!" I thought in secret, watching the ruin and chaos transform old, hardened and eloquent characters into impotent gunslingers facing each other in the desert --- standing, smoking, boiling inside, outraged, excessively cautious and no longer knowing against what, all the maneuvering ground lost to impostors --- by placing themselves against the Left in Power, it was also their relationship with women that made them fall so low, since women always tend towards Power or, at the very least, towards its Shadow ---
ResponderExcluirI had in my favor the fact that I was always close to Power, and therefore I knew its Fantasy better than other people; the "quota of sons of bitches I was capable of knowing" increased overnight, and I chose to "accumulate information in silence" under the madness of the dazzled and insufferable people I manipulated; I saw them relativizing each other's behavior, in the high spheres of federal complicity, and instead of foaming with rage, like the old offended communists, I gave the calming but unfathomable impression of someone who was always distant in a pleasant and harmless conversation with himself --- always a purpose of vague politeness --- never an imperative gesture, useless or overly familiar, no deranged greed out of time and place --- living like that with some pretty young girls, recently co-opted by the money and influence of Power to the outskirts of my social circle revealed flowers recently transplanted from one trash can to another, by the simple fact of the presidential succession in the country ---
ResponderExcluirsome third- or fourth-tier appointments went straight to their heads, and meant beach houses and sometimes, such strange things related to the egos of upstarts and their eccentric possibilities for expansion --- something that's not even worth trying to name --- How many whirlpools of trash stirred up at the top! --- I changed girlfriends almost every month, and used my close relationships with the sphere of Power to act in social circles where not even Power itself was influential, such as the legal and business circles of some regions of the state --- And amidst so much talk about high-quality coffee beans, new business opportunities and new girlfriends, WHO CARES ABOUT THE FUTURE OF LITERATURE? --- under the PT government, I saw an avalanche of absolutely ridiculous poetry and novel books being financed and promoted in front of my eyes, and at no point did I show myself particularly shocked or offended (me!, the archimandrite of the great inviolable canons of literary quality), because it was MONEY, not ART, that made life fun under the sign of malevolence and corruption ---
ResponderExcluir
ResponderExcluirI realized that for people who published instantly praised books in that milieu, books that wouldn't stand up to a one-sentence critique, life was still MODEST, DEPENDENT, SUBMISSIVE, and that in such circumstances my life as emperor of a small and specific theater of expanding social operations was much better, so much better that I went so far as to feign interest in what they published and brought me --- a handshake often opened doors, and I didn't want my name off any list just because I wasn't capable of flattery)
Post script
ResponderExcluirNow,
ResponderExcluirI can be continue tomorrow by a large bridge between all tectonic's voices pieces composed for the infinity paper tongue in progress here!
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ResponderExcluir