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Τι έκανες εσύ;
Τους άφησα να
φωνάζουν

Οι άλλοι τι έκαναν;
Τους σφάλησαν
το στόμα

Τι φώναζαν;
Φώναζαν
βοήθεια

Βοήθεια για ποιόν;
Μερικές φορές νομίζω
για μένα


Έριχ Φρηντ, Μετάφραση Ηλία Κυζηράκου.

Marwood walks



Οι τρεις πρώτες εικόνες από ένα ψηφιδωτό το οποίο μετά από πολλούς κόπους, αφού το ζωγράφισε από φωτογραφία του πρωτότυπου, κι αφού το έφτιαξε ο Γιάννης, έσπασε στο ξεκαλούπωμα για άγνωστους μέχρι στιγμής λόγους. Οι δύο δεύτερες από προγενέστερο ψηφιδωτό. Ο πίνακας με τίτλο "Άπονη αγάπη" και διαστάσεις περίπου 1,5 επί 1,5 μέτρο, ανεκτίμητης συμβολικής και καλλιτεχνικής αξίας του Αργύρη (για όλα τα άλλα υπάρχει η μάστερκαρντ). Μετά μια ημιτελής εκκλησία ή ένα ημιτελές κτίριο από πλαστικό πηλό.Και τέλος μια στάμπα της Βαγγελίας σε ύφασμα. Ή αγαπάει κανείς ή δεν αγαπάει (για την τέχνη λέω).

Marwood walks- Withnail and I

Τ.S.Elliot, Little Gidding

LITTLE GIDDING
(No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')

T.S. Eliot



I

Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable
Zero summer?

              If you came this way,
Taking the route you would be likely to take
From the place you would be likely to come from,
If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges
White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.
It would be the same at the end of the journey,
If you came at night like a broken king,
If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.

              If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.



II

Ash on and old man's sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house—
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
       This is the death of air.

There are flood and drouth
Over the eyes and in the mouth,
Dead water and dead sand
Contending for the upper hand.
The parched eviscerate soil
Gapes at the vanity of toil,
Laughs without mirth.
       This is the death of earth.

Water and fire succeed
The town, the pasture and the weed.
Water and fire deride
The sacrifice that we denied.
Water and fire shall rot
The marred foundations we forgot,
Of sanctuary and choir.
       This is the death of water and fire.

In the uncertain hour before the morning
     Near the ending of interminable night
     At the recurrent end of the unending
After the dark dove with the flickering tongue
     Had passed below the horizon of his homing
     While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin
Over the asphalt where no other sound was
     Between three districts whence the smoke arose
     I met one walking, loitering and hurried
As if blown towards me like the metal leaves
     Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.
     And as I fixed upon the down-turned face
That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge
     The first-met stranger in the waning dusk
     I caught the sudden look of some dead master
Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled
     Both one and many; in the brown baked features
     The eyes of a familiar compound ghost
Both intimate and unidentifiable.
     So I assumed a double part, and cried
     And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?'
Although we were not. I was still the same,
     Knowing myself yet being someone other—
     And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
To compel the recognition they preceded.
     And so, compliant to the common wind,
     Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,
In concord at this intersection time
     Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,
     We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.
I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy,
     Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:
     I may not comprehend, may not remember.'
And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse
     My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.
     These things have served their purpose: let them be.
So with your own, and pray they be forgiven
     By others, as I pray you to forgive
     Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten
And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.
     For last year's words belong to last year's language
     And next year's words await another voice.
But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
     To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
     Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak
     In streets I never thought I should revisit
     When I left my body on a distant shore.
Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us
     To purify the dialect of the tribe
     And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,
Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
     To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.
     First, the cold friction of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
     But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
     As body and soul begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
     At human folly, and the laceration
     Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
     Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
     Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
     Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
     Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.
From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit
     Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire
     Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.'
The day was breaking. In the disfigured street
     He left me, with a kind of valediction,
     And faded on the blowing of the horn.



III

There are three conditions which often look alike
Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference
Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
Being between two lives—unflowering, between
The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
For liberation—not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country
Begins as attachment to our own field of action
And comes to find that action of little importance
Though never indifferent. History may be servitude,
History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.

Sin is Behovely, but
All shall be well, and
All manner of thing shall be well.
If I think, again, of this place,
And of people, not wholly commendable,
Of no immediate kin or kindness,
But of some peculiar genius,
All touched by a common genius,
United in the strife which divided them;
If I think of a king at nightfall,
Of three men, and more, on the scaffold
And a few who died forgotten
In other places, here and abroad,
And of one who died blind and quiet
Why should we celebrate
These dead men more than the dying?
It is not to ring the bell backward
Nor is it an incantation
To summon the spectre of a Rose.
We cannot revive old factions
We cannot restore old policies
Or follow an antique drum.
These men, and those who opposed them
And those whom they opposed
Accept the constitution of silence
And are folded in a single party.
Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
We have taken from the defeated
What they had to leave us—a symbol:
A symbol perfected in death.
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching.



IV

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
     Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre—
     To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
     We only live, only suspire
     Consumed by either fire or fire.



V

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this
     Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one. 
 

 

Αντιγραφή από εδὠ:
http://www.tristan.icom43.net/quartets/gidding.html

The observers of the distant distance

 

Current 93 - Of ruin or some blazing star





"All The World Makes Great Blood"


sorry then bird flight
passes across my window
sorry then dog crouches
under the still sun
sorry then moi je
regrette tout ce que
j'ai fait
ou le soleil se couche
I lie me down I lay
with your body under the honeysun
suckled lovewing mine
you were
I was not yet dressed Tibetan red
and into you, as you'll recall
I fled

the twig-smashed landscape
is rolling and waving
wolf wild wide wind walking
soft smoke star space stalking
this is the comic book end
what we have waited for
and not believed in
oh nearly not at all
oh nearly not at all
once when we were young
oh once when we were so young
and the rainways licking the glass
made us the observers of the distant distance
we there watched the sky's goddy tears
and only once did GoodGod cry black
and then all the clockmovements start
to crick crack crick
by the hairs on my head
by the stare in my eyes
by the pain in my heart
I shall whisper through signs:
all this world makes great blood
all the world makes great blood
all the world makes great blood
all this world makes great blood
all the world makes great blood

all this world makes great blood
all this world makes great blood
all this world makes great blood

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42IY7roqtuc



The cloud of the unknowing

 
Αnd then when then Ι die
Ι feel Ι shall say
Ι have not understood
Ι have not understood any of this
my eyes are still coaldark
Ι have not understood
around and in my eyes the tiny flecks
of swirling crippled confused lights
and to my heart Ι will whisper
softly quietly
there is no death there is no death
(and goodbye to you all)

under the gorgon grinned arches
of London's great vaults
Ι have not understood
under the sunpuckered roofs of Kathmandu
Ι have not understood
along the soulstoned streets
of Lower and of Higher Germanie
Ι have not understood
Leipzig blackeyed pain and loss: she
Ι have not understood
in Clare near Ι
the empty lakes are open in the distance
and too close is the famineretchingroad
all these are ghosts
there i have not understood
(in the heart of the wood
oh there have i understood)
Ι rested at the temple of great black time -- her
and did not understand
though animalbled fleshmarbled rivers ran in her honour
his buckled body in blood
returns to the prebirth poise
spreadeagled like starfish --
there in his eyes
incomprehension mute pain disbelief what
blood there meant sorrow trickles there
this i could not understand
Ι bend the pages of yet another book
and in its lines great black lines
Ι have not understood
please gramercy pray for me
and oh goodbye sweetestheart
the wind roars in the nearness
and there in my heart
and all the clouds are spiralling towards us
descent indeed to the centre of it all
skipping lightly and lying truly
this we shall understand
Ι hope

wet bent humped trees
the great ones -- there
on the lapped shore
Dai Ichi
there also Ι do not know
this is all unknowable
and as the dust covers my empty eyes
you shall read in these foolish gapes
oh that i have not understood
(but if you look for the stag and the cross conjoined
there on my arm look there
there i have understood very well)

now you are all fading
all fading
as my age creeps on
as this age stumbles on
fires in the earth
fires in the sky
fires in our hearts
fires everywhere
the black eyes
already blacken
and this i have not understood

not peace
but a sword
this and he
unfortunately
Ι have understood
under the bowered greenwood tree
when first Ι lay
bright starre with thee
under the velvet branches dear
when sun and moon both came so near
under the starlit open dome
under the starsharp pointed lights
under the starloved greeny earth
when first Ι wanted to hold you
and all the world halfdead and halfalive
spat into my mouth
bluesea bitterwater
and Ι am almost dead
and Ι have not understood

under the rain and teeth of gods
under the pain and sleeping liddy eyes
under the brokked wetful heaven
if you are there
if you are there
if you are there
then Ι am singing with my eyes
if you are there


This shining shining world


consider the lillies of the field
consider the carnage and massacre
consider the love and embraces
consider the hangingred skies
consider the pain of your enemy
consider the hatred of your friend
there oh there there is the land
all the musics shall combine
and all the daughters are no longer brought low
they are araised
on brightfiregodgiven they rejoice
and those who deny this world
is the soul of the unbroken one
lie
this is indeed Paradise
(come i shall show you where the stars give birth and sleep)
and all around you is the warm bluegreen breath of heavens
do not fear
around you is the vast blueblack space of stars
do not fear
this is the great ocean
on which the endless waves crash down
God is not dead
there is no death Ι say
(come Ι shall show you where dreams go to when they die)

hurry now; the sun is descending
the shadows wait to play


Και τα υπόλοιπα τραγούδια του δίσκου εδώ:
http://lyrics.deviant.ru/text_pesni/67/current_93/a106_current_93_of_ruine_or_some.htm


 Death in June- But what ends when the symbols shatter?

The hollows of devotion

And I shall turn your eyes into tears
When all that's left
Are the hollows of devotion
And, out of vision
We shall bring
The void
Crowned with hoods
And crying with hope
Eagle on arm
And terror in eye
Resist and struggle
Your faith is a lie
And, the death of dreams
Shall be a beautiful end
With flowers of filth
And wine and fine men
Certains slips of the tongue
Are laced with disappointment
With disappointment
From start to end
Confront me with your dream
And lives so cruel I curse
And, I shall turn your eyes
Into tears
When all that's left
Are the hollows of devotion
And, out of vision
We shall bring
The void
Crowned with hoods
And crying with hope
And, the death of dreams
Shall be a beautiful end
With flowers of filth
And wine and fine men
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlLZ-XSBgGw

May. 4th, 2009

Joy Division- She's lost control

Confusion in her eyes that says it all.
She's lost control.
And she's clinging to the nearest passer by,
She's lost control.
And she gave away the secrets of her past,
And said I've lost control again,
And to a voice that told her when and where to act,
She said I've lost control again.

And she turned to me and took me by the hand and said,
I've lost control again.
And how I'll never know just why or understand,
She said I've lost control again.
And she screamed out kicking on her side and said,
I've lost control again.
And seized up on the floor, I thought she'd die.
She said I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.

Well I had to 'phone her friend to state my case,
And say she's lost control again.
And she showed up all the errors and mistakes,
And said I've lost control again.
But she expressed herself in many different ways,
Until she lost control again.
And walked upon the edge of no escape,
And laughed I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGMDBppWBOo&feature=related


George Orwell - Lear, Tolstoy and the Fool

http://www.george-orwell.org/Lear,_Tolstoy_and_the_Fool/0.html
Όπου ο Όργουελ υπερασπίζεται τον Σαίξπηρ έναντι της κριτικής (επίθεσης μάλλον) που του είχε κάνει ο Τολστόι με ένα φυλλάδιό του.

The truth and nothing but the truth.


Μουσική μονομαχία:

Vim Mertens, Often a bird
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XBb3Vchh6jU&feature=related

Λάμπρος Σκάρλας, Η Ζαχαρούλα
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRmnwYwH7Fk&feature=channel_page

Όχι, σ'όποιον κάνει καρδιά ας διαλέξει. Εμένα μου είναι αδύνατο.
Μερικές υποκειμενικές σημειώσεις για το βιβλίο του Υβ Λε Μανάκ "Ο κήπος", Εκδόσεις Αλήστου Μνήμης 2001, μετάφραση Γιάννη Ιωαννίδη.

Το βιβλίο απαρτίζεται από μια σειρά δοκιμίων που δημοσίευε ο Υβ Λε Μανάκ στο περιοδικό "Artichauts de Bruxelles" . Δεν το έχω διαβάσει ακόμα ολόκληρο γιατί η ανάγνωσή του  είναι βασανιστική:η νοσταλγία για την οποία γράφει στο δεύτερο δοκίμιο, διαπερνάει όλο το βιβλίο και μεταδίδεται. Το διαβάζω στη στάση του λεωφορείου περιμένοντάς το για να γυρίσω από τη δουλειά και η υπαρξιακή ένταση είναι κάτι το οποίο δεν ταιριάζει με τα υπόλοιπα πράγματα που με αφορούν και άρα δεν είναι και τόσο συνετό το να της δίνω πατήματα όλη την ώρα. Μερικά δοκίμια βέβαια έχουν πλάκα, αλλά κι εκείνα ακόμα μου προκαλούν νοσταλγία. Και το βλέμμα μου είναι σκοτεινό, γι'αυτό και υπάρχει πρόβλημα.

Επίσης δεν μπορώ να καταλάβω ξεκάθαρα τι λέει το βιβλίο. Αλλά επειδή μου αρέσουν πάρα πολύ οι κήποι (σχεδόν τόσο όσο τα ρώσσικα έργα) κι επειδή μου αρέσει πολύ ο τρόπος που γράφει ο συγγραφέας και οι αναφορές του, δεν μπορώ ούτε να μη το διαβάσω, ούτε να μην το σχολιάσω και χαίρομαι που το διαβάζω κι ελπίζω να μην το αδικώ (αν και μάλλον θα το πράξω εξ ου και ο τίτλος).  

Στην αρχή λόγω των προϋποθέσεων τις οποίες έχει ή νομίζω ότι έχει ο συγγραφέας μπερδεύτηκα και νόμιζα ότι ο τίτλος είναι ειρωνικός. Γιατί ο κήπος εκτός από ένα μέρος στο οποίο μπορεί να αποσυρθεί κανείς ή να μαζευτεί κόσμος, διαφόρων ηλικιών (τόπος δημοσίας συνάθροισης), εκτός του ότι καλύπτει την ανάγκη των ανθρώπων της πόλης να έρθουν σε επαφή με τη φύση η οποία είναι κατά το μάλλον ή ήττον εκτοπισμένη, εκτός από σύμβολο του παραδείσου, εκτός από καταφύγιο δηλαδή, είναι και το αντίθετο: ο κήπος είναι το σύμβολο της αγάπης αλλά και της ανάγκης προστασίας του ανθρώπου από το πολλές φορές εχθρικό φυσικό περιβάλλον, φέρει τη σφραγίδα της επιλογής του και της ανάγκης για ασυνέχεια: "αυτά τα φυτά μου αρέσουν γιατί κάνουν άνθη ή καρπούς, αυτά τα λουλούδια κι αυτά τα φρούτα μου αρέσουν, αυτά ξέρω πότε θα ανθίσουν και θα τα φυτέψω εδώ κι εκεί για να με ευχαριστούν και να έρχομαι εδώ όποτε θέλω ή ευκαιρώ". Η δουλειά του κηπουρού είναι να προφυλάσσει τα επιλεγμένα φυτά, δέντρα ή λουλούδια, που φύτεψε από τις καιρικές συνθήκες, τα έντομα, τα αγριόχορτα, να τα φροντίζει δηλαδή, να αντικαθιστά αυτά που μαράθηκαν κτλ. Ο κηπουρός δεν μπορεί να αγνοήσει βέβαια τις συνθήκες και να κάνει ότι του έρχεται ή να μην κάνει τις δουλειές που πρέπει την ώρα που πρέπει: αν συμβεί αυτό τότε ο κήπος σταδιακά θα χαλάσει, θα αγριέψει και θα φτωχύνει. Είναι περιφραγμένος καμιά φορά, αλλά αυτό δεν έχει να κάνει απαραίτητα με την προστασία μιας ιδιοκτησίας: η προστασία μπορεί να αφορά τις διερχόμενες κατσίκες  οι οποίες δεν άφηναν στο παρελθόν τίποτα να πέσει κάτω, ή στο παρόν τα διερχόμενα οχήματα. Ο κήπος είναι πεπερασμένος: δεν έχει ούτε την αγωνία, ούτε τη γοητεία του δάσους.

Παρ'όλα αυτά, ή ίσως γι'αυτό ακριβώς ο Υβ Λε Μανάκ στα αλήθεια προτείνει τον κήπο για σύμβολο.

Ἑνα από τα σημεία που έχουν μεγάλο ενδιαφέρον είναι εκεί που μιλάει για τη γλώσσα: λέει ότι οι εργάτες όπως και άλλες κοινωνικές ομάδες είναι αποκλεισμένες από την έκφραση και τη σκέψη γιατί δεν έχουν τα ίδια βιώματα με τις υπόλοιπες ομάδες. Ο Υβ Λε Μανάκ είναι εργάτης, σε ένα διήγημα λέει για το πόσο αγαπούσε τους διανοούμενους φίλους του: σε πολλούς από εμάς συμβαίνει ακριβώς το αντίθετο. Έχουμε σπουδάσει αν και παρακαλούσαμε από παιδιά να μας αφήσουν να μάθουμε μια τέχνη, όχι επειδή δεν αγαπούσαμε τα γράμματα (αυτό είναι κοινό) αλλά επειδή "η δουλειά είναι ένα δώρο και μόνο η χειρωνακτική δουλειά. Η πνευματική δουλειά σκοτώνει τον άνθρωπο", γιατί για να μην το πολυλογώ το να σκεφτόμαστε και να γράφουμε είναι μεν μια απασχόληση αλλά δεν σε κάνει καθόλου καλύτερο άνθρωπο. Θα μου πείτε σε κάνει η χειρωνακτική εργασία; ε τουλάχιστον είναι λογικότερη μερικές φορές.  (Αυτά όλα σε μια εποχή που η οικονομία είναι στραμμένη στον τριτογενή τομέα και γι'αυτό όταν έλεγες πχ  θέλω να γίνω αγρότης σε κοιτούσανε λες και είπες ότι θέλεις να βάλεις τα χέρια σου και να βγάλεις τα μάτια σου. Επαγγελματικός προσανατολισμός σου λέει μετά ).
Κι επίσης το σημαντικότερο, οι εργάτες και οι αγρότες είναι ως γνωστόν απαλλαγμένοι από την ενοχή της συμμετοχής στην εκμετάλλευση. (Τηρώ τη διαίρεση που μου πρότεινε ένας φίλος: ευγενείς, αστική τάξη, λαγός, αν και αυτή τώρα είναι πλέον εντελώς παρωχημένη).
Άρα και ο Υβ Λε Μανάκ είναι απαλλαγμένος από την ενοχή αυτού του αμαρτήματος: κι αυτό είναι προφανές. Έχει όμως και μια άλλη αρετή ακόμα σπανιότερη: λέει για την καταπίεση,την εκμετάλλευση κτλ χωρίς να ρίχνει τον λίθο του αναθέματος: "ακόμα και οι πλούσιοι υποφέρουν, αλλά κανείς δεν μιλάει γι'αυτό".
Εν προκειμένω το ωραίο είναι ότι ενώ λέει ότι γίνονται ανθρωποθυσίες κι ότι ξέρουμε καλά ποιοι είναι οι θύτες και ποιοι τα θύματα αφήνει μια ανοιχτή εκδοχή για το να είναι όλοι και τα δύο συγχρόνως. Κι αυτό είναι πάρα πολύ σημαντικό γιατί είναι αφενός ρεαλιστικό, λέει την αλήθεια για το ποιός έχει την ευθύνη αλλά, αφετέρου, εξουδετερώνει την ενοχική στάση η οποία κάνει έναν άνθρωπο που θεωρεί ότι ανήκει στους θύτες και η οποία τον κάνει ακόμα κι αν δεν είναι θύτης και να γίνει και να εμμένει στην απαίσια αυτή θέση.
(Από το να υπερασπίζεται δηλαδή τα δικαιώματα της "τάξης" του τα οποία ούτε δικά του είναι πολλές φορές, ούτε δίκαια για τον ίδιο ή για κάποιον άλλο).

Apr. 26th, 2009

STATE DEPARTMENT INFORMATION PROGRAM--INFORMATION CENTERS



    [Editor's note.--The literary witnesses on March 24, 1953 included the former Pinkerton detective turned novelist, Dashiell Hammett (1894-1961), author of Red Harvest (1929), The Dain Curse (1929), The Maltese Falcon (1930), The Glass Key (1931), and The Thin Man (1934), which later appeared as motion

pictures. Hammett had joined the Communist party in 1937, taught at the Jefferson School for Social Science, and was a trustee of the bail fund for the Civil Rights Congress. He was convicted of contempt of court for refusing to identify the contributors to the bail fund and served a prison term from July to December 1951.

    Under the pseudonym Helen Kay, Helen Colodny Goldfrank wrote such children's books as Insects (1939), Apple Pie for Lewis (1951), Snow Birthday (1955), Secrets of the Dolphin (1964), Apes (1970), and The First Teddy Bear (1985).

    Jerre Mangione (1909-1998) worked for Time magazine before becoming an editor for the Federal Writers' Project--the subject of his later book, The Dream and the Deal: The Federal Writers' Project, 1935-43 (1972). In 1943 he published Mount Allegro, an autobiographical account of his life as the son of

Sicilian immigrants, which his publisher believed would sell better if issued as a work of fiction. Mount Allegro became a best seller and was reissued five times by different publishers. In later years, Mangione taught English at the University of Pennsylvania.

    A major writer in the Harlem Renaissance, Langston Hughes (1902-1967) published his first book of poetry, The Weary Blues, in 1926. During the 1930s he wrote for the New Masses and traveled to Russia to make a film about race relations in the United States, which was never produced. The author of plays, novels, short stories, film scripts, musicals, war correspondence and a regular newspaper column for the Chicago Defender, Hughes was best known for his poetry, and edited the anthologies The Poetry of the Negro, 1746-1949 (1949) and New Negro Poets, USA (1964).

    Dashiell Hammett, Helen Goldfrank and Langston Hughes testified at a public hearing on March 26, 1953. Jerre Mangione did not testify publicly.]

                              ----------                             





                        TUESDAY, MARCH 24, 1953



                               U.S. Senate,

    Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations

                 of the Committee on Government Operations,

                                                    Washington, DC.

    The subcommittee met, pursuant to Senate Resolution 40,

agreed to January 30, 1953, at 2:00 p.m. in room 357 of the

Senate Office Building, Senator Karl E. Mundt, presiding.

    Present: Senator Karl E. Mundt, Republican, South Dakota;

Senator Everett M. Dirksen, Republican, Illinois; Senator John

L. McClellan, Democrat, Arkansas; and Senator Stuart Symington,

Democrat, Missouri.

    Present also: Roy Cohn, chief counsel; David Schine, chief

consultant; Daniel Buckley, assistant counsel; Henry Hawkins,

investigator; and Ruth Young Watt, chief clerk.

    Senator Mundt. The committee will come to order.

    Mr. Cohn. The first witness is Mr. Hammett, Mr. Chairman.

    Senator Mundt. Mr. Hammett, do you solemnly swear the

testimony you are about to give us is the truth, the whole

truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

    Mr. Hammett. I do.

    Senator Mundt. Be seated. Proceed, Mr. Cohn.



                 TESTIMONY OF DASHIELL HAMMETT



    Mr. Cohn. Mr. Hammett, will you give your full name,

please?

    Mr. Hammett. Samuel Dashiell Hammett.

    Mr. Cohn. And what is your occupation?

    Mr. Hammett. Writer.

    Mr. Cohn. You are an author?

    Mr. Hammett. That is right.

    Mr. Cohn. For how long have you followed that calling?

    Mr. Hammett. Since about 1922, roughly thirty years.

    Mr. Cohn. You know that a considerable number of your works are used in the State Department Information Program?

    Mr. Hammett. I did not know that until you told me on the phone.

    Mr. Cohn. Do you think we have given you a good civil suit for royalties?

    Mr. Hammett. I doubt that, because thinking about it, the chances are the radio end that was sold is owned by the movie people.

    Mr. Cohn. Are you a member of the Communist party today?

    Mr. Hammett. I decline to answer on the ground that the answer would tend to incriminate me, pleading my rights under the Fifth Amendment.

    Mr. Cohn. Were you a member of the Communist party in 1922?

    Mr. Hammett. I decline to answer on the ground that the answer might tend to incriminate me.

    Mr. Cohn. You have written a number of books between 1922 and the present time, have you not?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes.

    Mr. Cohn. About how many?

    Mr. Hammett. Five, I think.

    Mr. Cohn. Just five books?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes, and many short stories and stuff that has been reprinted in reprint books.

    Mr. Cohn. If I were to ask you as to each one of these

books if you were a Communist party member at the time you wrote the book what would your answer be?

    Mr. Hammett. The same.

    Mr. Cohn. You would refuse on the ground you stated?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes.

    Mr. Cohn. Did you write a story which could be classed as other than a detective story?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes.

    Mr. Cohn. What?

    Mr. Hammett. I have written quite a number of short stories that were not detective stories.

    Mr. Cohn. Any that deal with social problems?

    Mr. Hammett. I don't think so. Yes, I remember one, if you take it as a social problem. Some short stories have been in paper bound books that have been published in book form.

    Mr. Cohn. Did any of those deal with social problems?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes. As a matter of fact, roughly one that I remember, a short story called ``Night Shade.''

    Mr. Cohn. ``Night Shade''?

    Mr. Hammett. ``Night Shade,'' which had to do with Negro-white relations.

    Mr. Cohn. In what book is that published?

    Mr. Hammett. I don't know, because that was published in one of the reprints or collections of which a great many have been published. Practically all of the short stories have been published by either Mercury or Avon or Dell.

    Senator Mundt. Were they first all published in a magazine?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes, it was first published in a magazine that I think is now out of existence. I have forgotten what its name

was. I could look it up.

    Mr. Cohn. When you wrote this short story, ``Night Shade,'' were you a member of the Communist party?

    Mr. Hammett. I decline to answer on the ground the answer may tend to incriminate me.

    Mr. Cohn. Did that story in any way reflect the Communist line?

    Mr. Hammett. That is a difficult--on the word ``reflect'' I would say no, it didn't reflect it. It was against racism.

    Senator Mundt. Would you say that it resembled--whether it reflected or not--the Communist line with respect to race problems?

    Mr. Hammett. No, I couldn't pick out--I could answer that question, if you just put it, did it at all, but did it reflect that more than, say, other political parties, I would have to say no. I think the truth would be that it didn't reflect it consciously or solely.

    Mr. Cohn. Consciously or solely. Have you ever had any contact with the publications commission of the Communist party?

    Mr. Hammett. No.

    Mr. Cohn. You have not?

    Mr. Hammett. No.

    Mr. Cohn. Do you know any members of the publications commission of the Communist party?

    Mr. Hammett. You would have to tell me.

    Mr. Cohn. Do you know Alexander Trachtenberg?

    Mr. Hammett. I have to think about that. I think I decline to answer that on the ground that the answer might tend to incriminate me.

    Mr. Cohn. Do you know Louis F. Budenz?

    Mr. Hammett. No.

    Mr. Cohn. Did you know Alexander Bittelman?

    Mr. Hammett. I think, or my impression is, that he was in the West Street Jail at the same time I was there.

    Senator Mundt. Where--jail?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes. I did six months for the bail bond--five months, a month off for good behavior.

    Senator Mundt. Was that a contempt citation?

    Mr. Hammett. It was over the bail bond fund.

    Mr. Cohn. After the Communists jumped bail, the three trustees, including Mr. Hammett, were called in and refused to answer questions about the whereabouts of these fugitives, and they refused to produce books and records of the bail bond fund, and were sentenced to jail. That is a fairly accurate

statement?

    Mr. Hammett. Fairly.

    Senator Mundt. Was Bittelman in the jail for the same reason?

    Mr. Hammett. What happened, the bail bond bail was revoked, and since there were a group of so-called Communists out on bail put up by the fund, until that was revoked, they were out until they raised bail from other sources.

    Mr. Cohn. Do you get royalties from the purchase of your

books?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes.

    Mr. Cohn. In other words, if a copy of your book is bought, you get a royalty.

    Mr. Hammett. Yes.

    Mr. Cohn. What is the customary royalty?

    Mr. Hammett. I don't know. I think mine is 15 percent. Publishers' contracts run from 10 percent, and have provisions if there is a sale above a certain amount, it goes up. I think mine is a flat 15 percent, but I am not sure.

    Mr. Cohn. Have you ever contributed money to the Communist party?

    Mr. Hammett. I decline to answer on the grounds the answer might tend to incriminate me.

    Mr. Cohn. Do you have any other income other than that derived from your writings?

    Mr. Hammett. No. There have been times when I have. At the moment I haven't.

    Mr. Cohn. Have any moneys you have received as royalties from the sale of these books been contributed to the Communist party?

    Mr. Hammett. I decline to answer on the ground that the answer might tend to incriminate me, pleading my rights under the Fifth Amendment.

    Mr. Cohn. I think I have nothing more of Mr. Hammett, Mr.Chairman.

    Senator Mundt. You might say for the record how generally the State Department has been buying these books and distributing them throughout information libraries overseas.

    Mr. Cohn. Very widely. We will have the exact figures by the morning, but I would say that the number of copies in use are in the hundreds.

    Senator Mundt. Any other questions? If not, you may step

down.

    Mr. Cohn. Mr. Hammett, we might want you in public session tomorrow morning, as I explained to you. Would you be here tomorrow morning.

    Mr. Hammett. I can be.

    Mr. Cohn. At 10:15 tomorrow morning, in this room. Thank you.

    Mr. Hammett. I am through now for the day?

    Mr. Cohn. You are through until 10:15 tomorrow morning.

    Senator Mundt. I would like to ask you one more question, Mr. Hammett. You answered the question as to whether or not you received a royalty from your books. I think you said earlier that some of your plays or short stories or books were placed in the motion pictures. Is that right?

    Mr. Hammett. Yes.

    Senator Mundt. Do you get a royalty from that, too?

    Mr. Hammett. No. I said that in connection with the radio. The motion picture as a rule, mine have all been, the four books sold to motion pictures have been sold outright. But there is, as I said, on the radio thing a provision--I think I would have to look at the contracts--but motion picture companies put in a provision that gives them the radio right also.

    Senator Mundt. Do I understand that the motion pictures pay

you nothing for your work?

    Mr. Hammett. No. They buy the motion picture right. It varies with different companies, but the right for television is in dispute, because that had not come up then. But they took care of the radio.

    Senator Mundt. In other words, whenever they made a motion picture from the book or short stories, they made a contract that paid you outright for the motion picture rights?

    Mr. Hammett. That is right. The other they put in, because they had no intention of selling radio rights, because the thought of radio in those days as competing with motion pictures kept you from serializing on the radio at the same time.

    Senator Mundt. Will you stand, please, and be sworn. Raise your right hand. Do you solemnly swear the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

    Mrs. Goldfrank. I do.



The Macarthy hearings 1953-54 , vol.2 , p.999