Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘Ferdinand Celine

He doesn’t know it: Sargent Alcide communes with angels…

This flat canoe lands me in Tobo, a town of 3 large thatched huts (in current State of Togo, Africa, a former French colony). The landing stage (embarcadero) was constructed with bamboo.  The molluscs ate the bamboo every month and the landing was to be rebuilt…

You have the fat Lieutenant Grappa, Sargent Alcide and a dozen hired aboregenous militias from the environs.

Sargent Alcide’s voice of “Garde a vous” can be heard miles away, while the bare-feet militias arrange sacs of dirt and engage in assault maneuvers trying to steal the enemy flag…

Sargent Alcide has established a side trade of tobacco, cigarettes and alcohol in his hut. The militia “soldiers” learned to smoke their monthly pay on credit, gathered by Alcide’s hut.

Grappa was judge on Thursday morning. The black villagers would walk two days to attend these curious trials and lodge complaints…Grappa invited me to attend one of these sessions. An old man received 20 blows from a supple baton that would make a mule moo for 8 days. Why?

Grappa hates these sessions and has been discouraging the indigenes to come and save him these boring trials of same “harms done” and same complainants…And yet, they kept coming for the last 3 years, walking two days attend these sessions.

A young guy was to receive 50 whips last Thursday and did the disappearing act, because his third mother was sick…He arrived late after the session was over to get over with the punishment, but he was turned down, to return next week. He insisted of being beaten but was kicked out by the militia. He paid a quick visit to Alcide and bought what he needed…

One evening I needed to send a letter and knew that Alcide kept the materials in a tin box, the identical box used by all French Sargent.  Alcide felt embarrassed and tried to delicately prevent me from opening the box.

He relented and I saw the head picture of a lovely little girl in the inside cover. Alcide was mumbling kinds of shy confidence behind my back. I could live without confidences.

Alcide went on” It is nothing. This is Ginette, the daughter of my brother. They are both dead. The father and mother…”

“And who is taking care of Ginette back in Bordeaux? Your mother?” I asked

“Oh. I am taking care of her. I arranged for Ginette to attend an expensive boarding school run by nuns…I don’t want Ginette to feel that she is a poor relative… She is ten by now and write to me occasionally. Do you think that taking piano is nice for girls? I want her to learn English too. What do you think of English?”

I said: “Do you visit Ginette when you go home on vacation?”

Alcide said: I don’t have the guts to go on any vacation before I retire properly. If I leave for vacation, Grappa will replace me and I’ll lose my side trade… Ginette had suffered from infantile paralysis in her left leg. A specialist is treating her with electricity. Do you think Ginette will recover? Does this disease recurs?”

Alcide was talking with extreme precaution as if he could harm Ginette from afar

I said: “She’ll be alright and back to normal”

Alcide has extended his stay in this rat hole for another 3 years, a place were people died from yellow fever and all kinds of diseases like flies, and every one, whites and blacks were all sick and barely functional…

Alcide was about to sleep as he said: “It is hard on little kids, having no one to share vacations with.”

Alcide was already snoring and I got up to observe his face up close. Alcide looked pretty ordinary. I never took seriously this guy and might have had a little contempt for him.that he project

It would be swell if we could judge correctly a person by simply capturing the signals that he projects in the first instant we meet him, just to be able to discriminate the bad and good guys…

Alcide to not know it: He is in communion with angels. And I felt such a little creep, an insignificant impotent louse, compared to Alcide sublime heart.

Alcide was enduring hell in that rat hole in Africa, annihilating his poor life, in this torrid monotony…He was sacrificing his life for a little girl, far away, to have the opportunity for a decent life…

Alcide must be conversing with familiar angels, but he doesn’t know it, and nothing to the matter.

Would this little girl appreciate the sacrifices that an uncle endured for enjoying a decent future?

Note: Inspired from a chapter in the French book “Voyage au bout de la nuit” by Ferdinand Celine

Part 5. “Voyage to the end of the night” By Ferdinand Celine

NoteFerdinand Celine volunteered in WWI, was seriously injured in the first year.  Many authors vouched that this book was the most truthful in describing wars , the soldiers, the military, and its calamities, with direct, ironic writing, and new words and vocabulary that obfuscated the military and brought the ire of many “patriotic” people in France

Here are a few collection of statements and opinions by Celine:

Bravery is suspicious in wartime as well as in peacetime. Is a maggot brave? Rosy, pale, and soft: Similar to mankind, the maggot.

The war has lasted over a month by now. We were so tired and miserable that we lost a little of the fear on the roads.

We have been tortured by the top officers and by the subordinates, a condition that removed the last shred of hesitation to continue surviving. All that I wanted was to sleep, anywhere, anytime…

It required many cruel situations for our brain to allow one thought to make a complete rotation, paying quick visits to the convoluted crevices in the brain.

I never ceased wondering if the officers lacked battlefield maps and cards, would they be that pressured to send hundreds to their deadly fate?

It was the end of a dry summer, and villages were burning. Little villages on little hills, which we couldn’t locate in daytime, were fantastic apparition at night, burning down all night-long. Within a month, all villages were torched to the ground, churches, barns, trees…

Civilians had a one-way exit from the region, and the heavy artillery used the exclusive opposite direction. Even the General had to sleep in the open air, and morale sank to its lowest level, and the army began executing those too tired soldiers in order to “elevate” the morale of the remaining hopeless souls…

We advanced north, while the cold followed in our steps.

We were supposed to be searching for the Germans, and as we stumbled on a few of them haphazardly, we made a long detour to side-step them, the further away from the Germans the more secure the search and reconnaissance mission…

Squad leader Bardamu (the author) was ordered by Captain Orlotan to search for the remaining German soldiers lost in the region. Orlotan was on cocaine and seemed indefatigable, sending troops to certain death. Orlotan collaborated with death under contract, and he could barely walk: He broke so many bones in horse riding contests. On his weak legs and walking stooped, Orlotan resembled the ghost of the rear part of his horse…

The best guide to finding our ways was the odor of shit, of every conceivable living organism…The only exit for the crazed cats, from the constant bombardment, was to run and get drowned in any poodle of water…

You are hit, and still you keep picking up old sandals found on the road. The sheep is badly wounded, and resumes grazing, more and more grazing until it dies.

I was not wise at all, but I finally learned to be practical and a coward: I radiated calmness, which impressed my superiors and sent me on reconnaissance missions, all by myself…These missions seemed welcomed vacations, a fictitious deliverance…

After the war ended, everyone wanted to display his uniform, including the nurses, except the neutral and spies: Two buttocks in the same pant. The ridicule of this mass massacre was dawning on everyone. It was hard feeling proud, returning from the front, and naturally engaging in more murders as a reaction of our deep shame…

The old General had two grown up girls, and unmarried. It was because of this recollection that he got this habit of growing older than normal and constantly grumbling.  The binoculars hanged to his neck as the cow bell. He couldn’t suffer to be bothered, like an old dog who can’t wait to crawl between the pillows inside his basket.

Nothing like Generals to love roses..

I wished to be made prisoner. But how to go about it? You have an enemy, from the farthest part, deep in Europe and who hate you for obscure reasons, and what could I say to him as introduction in the split-second before he fires on me? Like: “what job you practiced before the war? Are you married with children?…”

I entered a village. It was empty. I owned the entire village, its moon, and a humongous fear…

“Voyage to the End of the Night” Part 4

These are excerpts of statements of a collection of stories describing the war, the after the war, and delivering physical care to the poorer district in Paris…

“The French race doesn’t exist. We are a bunch of seedy people like me, flea-infected, in transit…who ended up on these shores, with nowhere else to resume the flight, a long trip, fleeing famine, cholera, tumors, cold…the defeated individuals, arriving from the 4 corners of the world…

We are the generations of great parents, hateful, docile, raped, stolen, and cuckoled…We are born faithful, soldiers for free, heroes in the eyes of everyone, and talking apes: We are the darling of King Misery.

We change nothing, neither socks, nor opinions, nor our masters… (It sounds like Celine was describing the Lebanese people…)

Love is infinity at the reach of dogs, and I’m not dignified enough for that luxury.

I needed over 20 years and participating in an ugly war before I learned that two distinct kinds of humanity exist: The poor and the rich. It took me that many years and many more miseries to start asking for the price of things and people, before I touch and keep things and people

We have this urge for making love as we scratch. It is harder to renounce on love than on life: We pass our time killing or adoring, and often time doing both concurrently.

We do our best to relay our sperms to the next generations of bipeds, frantically, at any price, as if it were extremely agreeable to sustain procreation. We are tacitly hoping that, eventually, in a distant future, mankind will get its revenge and reach a phase of living forever

And yet, all our love-making is tinged with shame, (and it is because of this feeling of shame attached to this activity that we keep at it…keep scratching all the way…)

Love is like drinking alcohol: The more drunk and impotent, and the greater is our feeling of power and cunning, and the stupider is our certainty for our divine rights over our partner…a feeling of power that hides our endemic lack of courage…

Poems of heroism possess the soul of those not on the front lines, and particularly, those making huge profit from wars…and this is done without any resistance

Lola (an American nurse from the east coast) had these steel blue eyes that looked you straight in the eyes.  Lola rambled on the side of optimism and the joy of living, as most privileged people do, invested with health, security, money, and a long life ahead of her. I had a thousand irrefutable reasons to have contrary emotions. To Lola, I was no longer in the vibrant and radiant mood…Lola harassed me in the matter of the soul. To me, the spirit was the vanity and pleasure of the healthy bodies and of those in want of getting out of the body during extreme sick periods… And it became my project to pay a visit to the USA and meet more of these healthy girls…

As long as the little people are paying the tab, out of their labor, sweat and miseries in order to advance the lot of the privilege class, what difference does it make if they pay in Marks, Francs or Dollars? What could the little people lose when the building of the owner burns down? Another owner will take over…(It is better the new owner does not speak the local language: The little people can enjoy these fleeting instances of feeling superior, making fun of the proprietor and ridiculing him out loud…)

Note 1: Ferdinand Celine worked 4 years on his manuscript at nights after a long harassing day as a physician.  The manuscript lacked all kinds of punctuation, 25 years earlier than Kerouac first manuscript “On the Road” and it was not like Celine didn’t know how to punctuate.

Note 2: If you like to read part 3 https://adonis49.wordpress.com/2012/08/28/voyage-to-the-end-of-the-night-by-ferdinand-celine-part-3/

Every day of the week is dedicated to a God: Asking for the destruction of followers of the other and same God?

Friday, when some Devils, with deafening voices of going to war, stoop low to the ground to praise the divine, those who shoot sermons of hate…. My faith, I lost faith.
Saturday, when some other Devils, while swaying toward a wall, not only to praise their divine for the promise “Land”, but go so far as to demand the wiping out of the goyim (all the non-Jews) from the face of earth….My faith, I lost the faith.
Sunday, when some other Devils, hands raised, thanked their divine for their misfortune, as God apparently created them. They kneel before Him, even though He never kept his promises… I can’t take it anymore. I decided to join my friends… it is hell where they are.
Monday, when some other Devils, giving equal balanced adoration to the devils and archangels… On the ground that devils have demonstrated their power and might in our daily living. After all, evidences point to that direction, of who is winning the battle of good or evil…Those pragmatic worshipers are no longer in power, in any recognized state. Is it too late? And the ants will survive in the long run…
Tuesday. when some other Devils, sun worshipers…and also losing the battle: With skin cancer all the rage. Only those in cloudy, rainy, and snowy countries are taking their revenge on vacation periods…tanning to death their white/rosy skin.  The white supremacist should rule the world, against all odds…They didn’t lose their faith, machine-gunning people, and having no remorse whatsoever (lately in Norway)
Wednesday, when some other Devils, the Moon worshipers…Being harassed on Full Moon days, turning to wolves, snarling at the cat-like and cunning mankind…Dancing around a huge bonfire, in a secluded forest, and…
Thursday, when some other Devils, the animist, worshipers of nature, trees and the changing of seasons.  They are scared and losing the battle: Nature is dying…and the bees are vanishing quickly…Who is to pollinate nature, flowers, fruits…?
I can’t take it anymore. I decided to join my friends… it is hell where they are?
“This One God, counting minutes and dimes… A despaired, sensual and grunting God. A pig in gold wings, falling down everywhere, tommy up, waiting to be scratched and cajoled…He is our Master. Let’s hug one anotherFerdinand Celine

Note: I borrowed the French parts related to Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from a posted notice by Khalil Toubia on Facebook, translated it correctly and resumed for the other days of the week

The French version:

Vendredi, quand certains diables, de leur voix de va-t’en guerre, se fléchissent pour louer le divin et se shooter de sermons de haine….ma foi…je la perds la foi.

Samedi, quand certains autres diables, tout en se balançant, ne se contentent pas de louanger leur divin pour la promesse « Terre », mais s’en vont en requêtes auprès de lui pour la « nettoyer »….ma foi….je la reperd la foi.

Dimanche, quand certains autres diables, les mains jointes, remercient leur divin pour leurs malheurs, qu’il leur a créé apparemment, et à genoux le louent, même s’il ne tient pas ses promesses, qu’il ne leur a jamais fait…..je n’y peux rien, je choisi de rejoindre mes amis…c’est en enfer qu’ils y sont.

At the Fair: Has anything changed?

Progress is visible in the Fair: In the stand of “Shooting of Nations“, the targets are jet fighters and “terrorists” wearing assorted headgear, variety of styles in long beards, and chest detonating jackets… Where the empty eggshells have gone?

Everything else is unchanged: Music for all, emanating from every corners, special stalls, mechanical cars, wooden horses…

Whatever it takes to cheat and delude the little people, that the living is paradise incarnate at the end of a hard slaving week…

Flags, glorious banners, soldiers on retirement, spiritually maimed, wrestlers without much muscles…

The fun is elevated to riding tiny electric cars that bump and derange whatever spared brain you still have, churning up sturdy stomach…No limit to crashing into the bewildered soft-hearted riding with a crazy driver…

As the band is readying to play, sing, or act…there is always a missing member…A posy is sent to locate him and fetch him back among the harmonious band.  One member is returned and two have already parted company, drunk as they possibly could be…

Mothers are completely exhausted and valiantly waiting for the firework to get going back home, before the mass wake up and start moving haphazardly as a mob, stepping on kids, crushing feet…

Mother would give up on this joyful day, if they can finally tuck in the over excited kids and call it a day.

The fair is the “waiting” per excellence for the steady heads, the arrogant who refuses to let go and join the communal fun, to mingle and be harassed by the little cheaters at the end of the week…

The fair is the constant crying of babies and kids, short on nickels and dimes, crushed between chairs, ordered to tame their excitements, to learn to sober down their desires to mount wooden horses, carousels, anything that turns and swing and flip-flop…

The fair is the ideal training ground to forging characters, to learn that fun cost money, and there are not enough saved to go berserk…

The fair is a fantastic opportunity for parents to initiate the rules to the kids of how to start reflecting, setting priorities on what games to select, among the hundreds of them, all equally great, and how to maximize the fun for the little money to spend…

The fair is great for learning the golden rule: “You want fun, you pay for it…” and the best methods to finally get it is administering frequent slaps and boxes…until the Pavlov reaction is mastered

The lights, fixed and gyrating, won’t go down until the little cheating businessmen have counted their dimes, checking and rechecking the day’s receipt of the funny kids…and the little helpers dozing on rickety chairs, on the floor, on a swing…waiting for the boss to part of some of his profit…

Note 1: Kids don’t need money to discover the pleasure of living.  All they need is to be out of home and be free to run and connect with other kids, free from any discrimination factors.  It is the parents who ruin the cheerfulness and joy of living for the kids, with their idiosyncratic principles, boring habits, faulty ideas on how to keep good entente with neighbors and community…

Note 2: Post inspired by a section of the French book “Voyage to the end of the night” by Louis Ferdinand Bardamu (Celine as pen name, the first name of his mother)

“Trip to the End of the Night” by Ferdinand Celine (Part 3)

This French book, published in the early 1930’s, is basically a collection of autobiographical stories of a freshly graduating physician in his mid thirties who established his “clinic” in a poor working neighborhood in the suburb of Paris.

Paying visit to patients after sundown and the medical tour lasting till dawn generate real life stories.

The followings are excerpts, not of the stories, but of the kind of statements that the living among miseries bring up in our mind and emotions.

We have no illusions: We know that the only story we care to communicate is the variety of our pains, aches and frustrations…We care less of what people tell us of their pains and frustrations…All that we do is transfer our aches…The irony is that our pains remain intact, whole, and never vanish…We are expert with grimaces, and with old age, making the face of pain becomes too heavy and complicated…

I am walking and got caught by a mass of people obstructing the street. They were standing in circles and big rosy pig grunting in pain in the middle. The masses were pretty happy and hysterically laughing: They had this golden urban opportunity to hurting the pig, twisting his ears, encouraging a little dog to mount the pig and bite it…And the pig was moaning, whining, and trying to flee from this crazy and hellish circle of insane people…The pig was tugging on the rope, urinating, and going nowhere…Nothing was working for the pig to feel freedom…The butcher was holding a large knife and making faces and wildly gesturing to make people laugh louder…The butcher has learned the best method to amuse the guests at the wedding of his daughter…

What of this famous author husband (Montaigne) who sent his wife a letter on the occasion of the death of her newborn: “Don’t worry dear woman…Things will work out in life, eventually…I just finished reading a letter that another famous author wrote to his wife on a similar occasion…Read this attached letter over and over, and disseminate the content to our friends and acquaintances… I feel pretty serene right now…”

Dr. Baryton stayed away from any physical health intervention. He used to tell me: “Science and life form a destructive mixture. Any question you formulate to the condition of your body is a sure gap that thickness will sneak in…Any beginning of worry, obsession… is ground to let sickness in…What is already known is way enough for me to handle…”

In my case, I longed for a severe flu, high enduring fever, anything that would force me to the quietude of a deep sleep…I have lost confidence of sleeping like normal people do…this state of indifference that neutralizes my worrying nature…to getting this stupid and divine tranquility of the living…

Misery for misery, I prefer the ones not displayed in newspapers…

What could we do if we refuse to go forward, leaded as we are with all the boredom we constantly carry in living…? Sticking to our regular habits is the least annoying to our eternal boredom

It is useless to comprehend what is it to come back to a life of miseries, and the waiting, until we observe all those little people hoping to get  the promised pension, before they pass away. Like those suffering from tuberculosis when there were no cure for it: They believe they will surely get well after they receive the pension, no doubt about it…Pension is a cure it all…There is no urgency to getting well before pension time: To do what? Get back to the harsh useless work?

There come a time we talk less and less about what we desired the most…and if we are nudged to talk, it is with great effort. We abridge the story of our desires and wants…We don’t care to insist on the right and wrong.  All that we need is a little food, plenty of heat, and sleeping as much as we can, on this long and rough road of nothingness.

We lack this desire to invent new stories…We keep the griefs of the departed people who had left a little sunshine in our heart in our childhood…

Come a time we feel that we got old all of a sudden: We no longer get excited or interested in people’s stories and their worries.  It doesn’t matter how hard we pretend, the world has already left us before we vanish in the great darkness...

“Trip to the End of the Night” by Ferdinand Celine (Part 2)

This French book, published in the early 1930’s, is basically a collection of autobiographical stories of a freshly graduating physician in his mid thirties who established his “clinic” in a poor working neighborhood in the suburb of Paris.

Celine (pen name) used to be called to pay visit to patients after sundown, and his medical tour will last till dawn, from a poor patient to another dying girl aborting in the room of her parents, because the parents refused to send her to the hospital for face-saving…

Celine volunteered  in WWI,  was caught in the machinery and couldn’t get out, and was able to flee to the USA and worked at the noisy and boring Ford factories in Detroit. He returned to France and studied medicine.

The followings are excerpts, not of the stories, but of the kind of statements that the living among miseries bring up in our mind and emotions.

The biggest tiredness of the living is this tremendous effort invested in looking “reasonable”, along the decades of our growth: Everything is justified as long as we never exhibit ourselves, as we are: vile, foul, atrocious, absurd…This long nightmare of presenting this little universal ideal, superman during the day, this sub-man that we inherited, handicapped from birth in so many ways…

It is a good feeling when we land in an unknown city: We can lure ourselves that the people are much nicer. It is good to dream that we can spare a few hours in the public park, ogling the young girls…

I noticed that people have a vast reserve for love, plenty of it in reserve, genuinely pitying the handicapped, the blind…

The trouble is that love in reserve is never invested, not early enough, not ever: It is blocked inside, serving nothing and nobody…This kind of love in reserve dies slowly, and is reduced to nothing: Inflation of hatred, contempt, self deprecation exhaust all the initial wealth in love, bottled up inside…

It’s astonishing how hard it is to figure out what may render a person, more or less, agreeable to others.  We really want to be of service, to be favorable, but we keep mumbling and blubbering…The first uttered words, and we are swimming in the vast sea, unable to swim. Al the unconscious distract you as you approach the topic of being friendly…

Detritus do not increase or last: They are decomposed one way or another.  It is mankind who keeps defecting, urinating through his half-decomposed body, and exacerbate this mess with conversations that are half-cooked and ill expressed

Our torture is imprisoned in a body, characterized by a specific foul nauseating odor, a particular trademark of every individual, his signature…And our molecules keep their unrelenting navigation, to getting out of our body and rejoin this universe of infinity…

What’s life after all, but a bit of light that ends in the dark? Most of our adventures and undertakings that counts to our heart are done mainly in the dark of the night: Shameful endeavors that we think the others don’t know or have the secret, and the details of our dark maneuvers…

Fear never does reply by a Yes or a No. All that fear does is to gather what we are thinking, all that we say, everything we do…Fear just control our emotions and our actions, unknown to our conscious mind…

Relocating your business has a single advantage: The time it takes for your clients to discover the best way to harm you, you are already enjoying a tranquil relative break from people’s harm.  It is this short period that is the most agreeable in relocating your living.  The best tactic is turning over from one side to the other in your bed…

The simple crazy and the one tortured by civilization (book review)

Dr. Baryton is confiding to Dr. Ferdinand about the case of their colleague Parapine:

“Parapine is an intelligent guy, though of a totally arbitrary kind of intelligence.  He refuses to adapt. He is not in his skin in his profession. He cannot suffer the current world civilization, and he is a highly tormented mind.

In my case, if earth starts to spin in the opposite direction tomorrow, all that I would do is sleep an additional 12 hours, and the day after will find me totally adapted to this new reality.

Not Parapine. He won’t accept this injustice: earth turning counter-clockwise! He will ruminate projects for ever and in bitterness and dejection. He will lose sleep, contemplating ways to return to the previous normal state of affairs.  One of his desperate alternatives would be to blow earth all together.

And the worst part of it is that Parapine will succeed in chattering earth to pieces…

There are simple crazies, and you have those crazies who are tortured by civilization.

Once, Parapine told me: “Between the penis and mathematics, nothing exists. It is the total void…” He is waiting impatiently for the advent of the”Age of Mathematics“.  A world of pure logic, completely governed and functioning by programmed logic…

I know Ferdinand that you are Not taking my story seriously, and you are damn wrong in your view of Parapine. I have already witnessed and treated the cold and hot delirium cases, and I know what I’m talking about…

I am someone largely uninhibited by words and sentences: Words don’t scare me.  In the case of Parapine, I am ready to be on my guard when he speaks.

Parapine extravagances are contagious and are terribly formidable in their originality. For the moment, Parapine case is an exaggerated conviction.

Particularly, those who speak of Justice are enraged people. Those “righters of wrong” are maniacal terrors. The same fatalist individuals who work on my nerves.

Last month, I received the case of an author who kept repeating “Liquidate…liquidate…” I told the family members that the problem is mainly physical in nature: there is a restriction in his bladder, and I had to empty his urine one drop at a time… The family insisted that his temporary insanity is due to his genius that hit him suddenly…

Go figure. Families refuse to pay for a condition related to rotting matters in suspension…The monetary reward must be linked to a genius condition…”

Baryton was no musician by any long shot: If he decides to quit his institution for the mentally sick and deranged, he will destroy everything in his path, like a bear, and vanish.  The requests of the rich families for Baryton to keep updated in modern technology, electrical, magnetic, resonance, lobotomy…any thing that fry the brain once for all…is driving his egoism for his liberty to desperation.

The families have dragged him deeper into the life of routine…

The end of the tragic story of mankind is a total lack of measure and moderation…

Note: Article onspired by a section in the French book “Trip to the end of the night” by Ferdinand Celine (a pen name)

“Trip to the End of the Night” by Ferdinand Celine

This French book, published in the early 1930’s, is basically a collection of authobiographical stories of a freshly graduating physician who established his “clinic” in a poor working neighborhood in the suburb of Paris.

Celine (pen name) used to be called to pay visit to patients after sundown, and his medical tour will last till dawn, from a poor patient to another avorting dying girl because the parents refused to send her to the hospital for face saving…

Celine volunteered in WWI and was caught in the machinery and could no longer escape this infernal absurdity.  He was able to flee to the USA and worked at Ford factories in Detroit. He returned to France and studied medicine.

The followings are excerpts, not of the stories, but of the kind of statements that the living among miseries bring up in our mind and emotions.

It is imperative to comprehend why we are so stubborn to refuse a cure for our solitude…We keep hiding from acquaintances. I recall the words of this young corporal, hospitalized during the war. He confided: “Earth is sick and dead, and we are fat decaying worms…All rotten since birth…” He was good enough to be carried by two soldiers to be executed by a firing squad: He was an anarchist as the War council decided…I didn’t know better at the time to take time and listen to these soldiers: I wouldn’t know how to ask the right questions anyway…

The old patient was saying: “I can’t feel my feet, I feel cold up to my knees. I can’t drink anything…I want to touch my feet but I can’t…” He was kind of half out of life, he couldn’t get rid of his lungs…He exhaled but air would come in anyway. Kind of his lungs relentlessly making him suffer to the very end. That’s a harsh job staying alive…He struggled as harder to stay alive as to die

Life is a special class of boredom and annoyances, and they are the eternal pions. Boredom is here all the time, spying on you, and you have to frequently look occupied, at any price…Masturbating is an excellent pass time: You are occupied and getting some pleasure.  Mostly, we would like to have an endless series of pleasure-like activities to survive the long 24-hour day. A day is really very long to surmount and suffer the ever ready presence of boredom…Even in our continuous boredom, we refuse to reflect on ourselves…Nothing very pleasurable here, self-reflection.

It is impossible to swallow truth, like the death of your lover, or the death of your kid…The more distant the lover, literally, the more you cannot communicate face to face, and smell the rotten flesh…You keep adding and heaping values, good traits and lies to the reality of love…It’s natural and regular this tendency, loving from afar…

The little people can claim to have lived, only if the manage to overcome this habit of blind obedience, inculcated in the brain since childhood, and they should vomit obeying the rich and the authority figures once for al.

The balanced youth is who can respect everyone with no discrimination whatsoever…How come we cannot find these kind of youth?

It is not relentlessness that we ever lacked, but how to be on the proper road that lead to a tranquil death. The worst case scenario is when death takes us by surprise, in between two hesitations…

War is ever ready to wake up and grumble, due mainly to the criminal boredom that gets the little people out of their confined caves…How many of the poor people should be sacrificed before they comprehend the humour of it?

Note: Read part 2: https://adonis49.wordpress.com/2012/08/26/part-2-trip-to-the-end-of-the-night/


adonis49

adonis49

adonis49

July 2020
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