war

Beirut

Written by Franco Berardi Bifo, 14.02.2012

yani

Nuovamente si spegne la luce. Quanto a lungo resteremo al buio questa volta? Mezzo minuto.

Ci sono queste brevi interruzioni dell’elettricità, nessuno ci fa caso. Ma ogni volta potrebbe essere la volta buona, you know what I mean. Yani. L’intercalare più frequente. Un attimo di sospensione. Un attimo prima.

Solo i computer non si spengono ai tavoli del bread republic, e ciascuno continua a digitare imperterrito la faccia illuminata dalla luce eterna del ciberspazio.

Mi sono svegliato presto stamattina alle sei e tre quarti in preda a un’eccitazione pericolosa, folle. Ieri sera al Time out con una siriana un indiano due palestinesi un’italiana tre libanesi una mezza inglese e mezza non so cosa a parlare dei Grundrisse, del general intellect, della poesia dell’esaurimento dell’energia fisica e psichica, e della demografia mondiale. Nessuno fa cenno a quello che sta succedendo in Siria perché tutti lo sanno benissimo. Duecento morti al giorno a un’ora di auto da qui, e la violenza pronta a esplodere in ogni istante all’angolo di strada per ragioni imperscrutabili. Come reagirà Hezbollah al possibile crollo del regime siriano? Come reagirà Israele alla possibile reazione di Hezbollah?

The Winter War

Written by Federico Campagna, 17.12.2011
Saint Augustine claimed that evil is just the lack of good. How else could we describe nature, the bottomless pit of the universe, the deserts of Saturn, the solar tempests, the carelessness of the weather? Humans, insects, birds, grass, fish, all living creatures are together in the struggle against evil. They are the rebels, doomed to a perennial fight. They are the resistance, because they are alive.
 

In medieval times, all wars stopped with the arrival of the winter winds. Before the imperialism of centrally heated offices, people used to be subjected to the evilness of nature more than to that of their fellow men. In that horrifically wise age, humans like us used to relegate the vanity of war to times of luxury, when the loss of one’s life or freedom could at least have been mitigated by the gentle warmth of the evening and the abundance of raspberries even at the edge of a serf’s field.

Now war expands to the darkest hours of January, when not even leaves dare to unfurl. War: the capital double-u like the cross of martyrdom of Saint Andrew, the final ‘ar’ like a scream softened by agony. Ages pass, martyrdoms take different names. So, it is Work today. The same cross, hiding the final sound of an Ogre, inhumanely muscular, insatiably hungry. On that cross the monster hangs his prey, cures them, lets them dry. And as their skin hardens like the leather of an executive chair, as their neurons take the square shape of silicon, he finally sinks his teeth into their flesh.

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