Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Idiot
MNOGI moji čitatelji u svojim mi pismima nerijetko postavljaju pitanje koje sve vas očito muči, ali sami na nj ne nalazite nedvosmislen ili potpun odgovor: pitate me tko je taj famozni imbecil o kojem ja tako često govorim u svojim poslanicama; tko je njihov priveligirani čitatelj!?
Ne bih li vam izašao ususret, odustat ću od suhoparnih a visokoparnih akademskih elaboracija difuznog fenomena imbecilinosti suvremenih naraštaja; radije, jer slika privodi vjeri bolje od tisuću riječi, i jer ste vi to tražili, u ovom postu dajem tipičan primjer, ujedno i hommage; već sam više puta naglasio da ja poštujem svoje čitatelje i odustajem od sugestija ili zaključaka u vaše ime: ta je prostačka navada koliko uvredljiva, toliko i perfidna i dostojna ovodobnih spin-doktora i tisuće mrtvaca!
Ne pada mi na pamet misliti za vas!
Zašto, zaključite sami.
Prije no što nastavimo, dobro pogledajte donju ilustraciju. Koncentrirajte se, i motrite je 60 sekundi.
(Da se ne dekoncentrirate, nije nužno baš 60 sec...oko 60 sec, recimo.)
U redu. Odgovorite na pitanje: Znadete li zašto sam izabrao baš ovu ilustraciju?
Izvrsno! Vi ste pravi čovjek na pravom mjestu. Nastavite s čitanjem.
posjetitelj, 23.03.2007. 23:51
Postoji neprepoznato "sačinjanje" (glupa riječ, no sam si je odabrao) između neBuloze i razIgravanja npr. Nesposobnost da se prepozna je u konkretnom slučaju isključivo problem tvojih ograničenja ili osobnog izbora. Radi se, dakle, o ispuštanju, no zato i jesam ovdje (ne mislim na blog). Ipak, ponekad i ti sam (ako se tako može reći) pogodiš. Vidio sam to nekoliko puta. Ima puno ljudi koji nemaju tu "tvoju" vrijednu osobinu. Ovo te saznjanje može ohrabriti, možda i usmjeriti, no od svega je važnije da odluke kojima postaješ donosiš sam.
U okviru se nalazi kratak tekst tipičnog posjetitelja blogosfere: pogađate, riječ je o imbecilu.
To je dakle imbecil i zatičemo ga na djelu.
Ponavljam, ne opisujem ga i ne želim ga tumačiti: već me vrlo dobro poznajete i možete mi vjerovati na riječ kad vam kažem da ja jedino i samo želim - pomoći!
Zato sam napisao sljedeću poruku: i nju dobro pročitajte, ako treba i s prekidima i vraćajući se na pojedine rečenice pa i više puta! Dajte si vremena. Vidjete ćete, za svoj ćete trud biti višestruko nagrađeni.
Posjetitelju, zabunom si stigao na Patologiju - ti vjerojatno tražiš Mišaka i njegov blog 'Preko ruba znanosti'. Naime, tamo je elaborirana tema koja je tebi od životne važnosti, ali da ne bazaš uokolo s tim svojim hendikepom na vratu, prosljeđujem ti, dobrohotan kakav već jesam u svojoj notornoj filantropiji, najvažnije informacije:
"Koliko nam je potreban mozak?
Kada je na Sveučilištu u Sheffield-u u Engleskoj, doktor primio jednog od svojih studenata zbog neke manje ozlijede primjetio je da je glava studenta malo veća od prosjeka. Proslijedio ga je na neurologiju kod profesora John Lorber-a na snimanje glave (CAT). Rezultat pregleda pokazao se dosta nevjerovatnim, naime umjesto dvije hemisfere koje bi ispunjavale prostor lubanje, u studentovoj glavi nalazilo se manje od 1 mm cerebralnog tkiva - odnosno laički rečeno taj čovjek uistinu nije imao mozga. Kao paradoks svemu tome student je imao IQ 126, i dobro mu je išao studij.
Prema onome malo što znamo o neurologiji student je po svim pravilima trebao biti mrtav, te nije čudno što je takav nalaz začuđivao u istoj mjeri koliko je i fascinirao. No to nije bio izoliran slučaj. 1970 godine u New Yorku na autopsiji čovjeka od otprilike 35 godine ustanovljeno je kako ni on nije imao mozak. Profesor Lorber je otkrio još ljudi sa istim nedostatkom, no ipak su živjeli posve normalnim životom.
Ovaj paradoks povukao je mnoga pitanja. Jedno od njih je: gdje pohranjujemo memoriju? Ukoliko mozak nije taj u kojem pohranjujemo sjećanja i iskustva, kako bi naučili živjeti - čemu on služi? Gdje se nalazi inteligencija i o čemu ovisi? Gdje je naš um?"
Eto. Bitno sam potcrtao ja. Nemoj zahvaljivati, pusti to. I ne boj se! nisi sam! ima i drugih nego ti koji nepoznati od tebe žive tvojim životom. Nažalost postoji pobratimstvo takvi lica (in fronte) u svemiru: dobri profesor Lorber otkrio je još ljudi s istim nedostatkom, no ipak su živjeli, tja, posve normalnim životom: jeli su, čohali se po trbuhu, navijali za Dinamo, pisali neBuloze, glasovali za HDZ ili SDP, čitali 'Sportske novosti', gledali Red Carpet i Schpitzu, nastupali u Najslabijoj karici, drkali uz Severinin home-video, pjevali uz Mladena Grdovića, ljetovali na Viru, čitali Bulića, šljakali u EPH (ahahahahahah...)...
Ima puno ljudi koji nemaju tu "tvoju" vrijednu osobinu. Ovo te saznjanje može ohrabriti, možda i usmjeriti, no od svega je važnije da odluke kojima postaješ donosiš sam: prije no se otruješ*, popuši si kurac. Kad stigneš na patologiju, konačno ćeš biti u nečemu jedinstven: bit ćeš prvi čovjek bez mozga koji je u glavi imao - kurac!
Nije puno, ali, i to je nešto.
Pogodiš li tajming i dozu, možda ti na usnama zauvjek ostane smiješak.
*Čemu trovanje? A kako si mislio drukčije? Pucanj u glavu gubitak je vremena i metaka: tebi metak uđe na jedno uho unutra, a na drugo izađe, kao čovječanstvu za Prvog svjetskog rata, kao je rekao Kraus. Vješanje se pokazalo neučinkovitim: tako praznoglav visio bi obješen i tijekom cijelog Božića a da se ništa ne promijeni, i samo bi ti stara majka predbacila da si obješenjak.
Da se giljotiniraš, nema svrhe, kako je pokazao slučaj glave Cara Lazara, tvog zagrobnog supatnika:"Pođe glava preko polja sama...". (Usput, pronašao sam u guslarskim napjevima o Kosovskom boju divnu sliku:"očima rasutim po polju: Aj krst i luna na nebu se kolju"; kako je imaginacija srpskog narodnog genija osebujna, primjećuješ li?)
Da ne duljim, ti si gotovo besmrtan: tebi je nemoguće nauditi dekapitacijom, tebi je nužno odstraniti tijelo, a ne glavu! Očito, Endlösung je u Gestaltu!
Nisam stručnjak, ali mislim da se riješenje krije u blokiranju autonomnog živčanog sustava i pokušaju da obustaviš disanje: jesi li probao ne izdahnuti? To bi bilo originalno!
Bio bi prvi čovjek u povijesti čovječanstva koji je umro Krajnjim Paradoksom: tvoj bi Epitaf glasio: Izdahno je, ne izdahnuvši!
E, ako ti ja nisam pomogao, ne znam tko jest!
Prof.dr.hi-fi Stefan Nemanja, veliki župan
Kao što vidite, ja držim do svoje riječi i ispunjavam obećanja: Vi ste praktički drugi čovjek!
Have a nice life!
Prof.dr.hi-fi Stefan Nemanja, veliki župan
Ceci n'est pas un post.
THEY passed through the same rooms which the prince had traversed on his arrival. In the largest there were pictures on the walls, portraits and landscapes of little interest. Over the door, however, there was one of strange and rather striking shape; it was six or seven feet in length, and not more than a foot in height. It represented the Saviour just taken from the cross.
The prince glanced at it, but took no further notice. He moved on hastily, as though anxious to get out of the house. But Rogojin suddenly stopped underneath the picture.
“My father picked up all these pictures very cheap at auctions, and so on,” he said; “they are all rubbish, except the one over the door, and that is valuable. A man offered five hundred roubles for it last week.”
“Yes—that’s a copy of a Holbein,” said the prince, looking at it again, “and a good copy, too, so far as I am able to judge. I saw the picture abroad, and could not forget it—what’s the matter?”
Rogojin had dropped the subject of the picture and walked on. Of course his strange frame of mind was sufficient to account for his conduct; but, still, it seemed queer to the prince that he should so abruptly drop a conversation commenced by himself. Rogojin did not take any notice of his question.
“Lef Nicolaievitch,” said Rogojin, after a pause, during which the two walked along a little further, “I have long wished to ask you, do you believe in God?”
“How strangely you speak, and how odd you look!” said the other, involuntarily.
“I like looking at that picture,” muttered Rogojin, not noticing, apparently, that the prince had not answered his question.
“That picture! That picture!” cried Muishkin, struck by a sudden idea. “Why, a man’s faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!”
“So it is!” said Rogojin, unexpectedly. They had now reached the front door.
The prince stopped.
“How?” he said. “What do you mean? I was half joking, and you took me up quite seriously! Why do you ask me whether I believe in God
“Oh, no particular reason. I meant to ask you before—many people are unbelievers nowadays, especially Russians, I have been told. You ought to know—you’ve lived abroad.”
Rogojin laughed bitterly as he said these words, and opening the door, held it for the prince to pass out. Muishkin looked surprised, but went out. The other followed him as far as the landing of the outer stairs, and shut the door behind him. They both now stood facing one another, as though oblivious of where they were, or what they had to do next.
“Well, good-bye!” said the prince, holding out his hand.
“Good-bye,” said Rogojin, pressing it hard, but quite mechanically.
The prince made one step forward, and then turned round.
“As to faith,” he said, smiling, and evidently unwilling to leave Rogojin in this state—“as to faith, I had four curious conversations in two days, a week or so ago. One morning I met a man in the train, and made acquaintance with him at once. I had often heard of him as a very learned man, but an atheist; and I was very glad of the opportunity of conversing with so eminent and clever a person. He doesn’t believe in God, and he talked a good deal about it, but all the while it appeared to me that he was speaking OUTSIDE THE SUBJECT. And it has always struck me, both in speaking to such men and in reading their books, that they do not seem really to be touching on that at all, though on the surface they may appear to do so. I told him this, but I dare say I did not clearly express what I meant, for he could not understand me.
“That same evening I stopped at a small provincial hotel, and it so happened that a dreadful murder had been committed there the night before, and everybody was talking about it. Two peasants— elderly men and old friends—had had tea together there the night before, and were to occupy the same bedroom. They were not drunk but one of them had noticed for the first time that his friend possessed a silver watch which he was wearing on a chain. He was by no means a thief, and was, as peasants go, a rich man; but this watch so fascinated him that he could not restrain himself. He took a knife, and when his friend turned his back, he came up softly behind, raised his eyes to heaven, crossed himself, and saying earnestly—‘God forgive me, for Christ’s sake!’ he cut his friend’s throat like a sheep, and took the watch.”
Rogojin roared with laughter. He laughed as though he were in a sort of fit. It was strange to see him laughing so after the sombre mood he had been in just before.
“Oh, I like that! That beats anything!” he cried convulsively, panting for breath. “One is an absolute unbeliever; the other is such a thorough—going believer that he murders his friend to the tune of a prayer! Oh, prince, prince, that’s too good for anything! You can’t have invented it. It’s the best thing I’ve heard!”
“Next morning I went out for a stroll through the town,” continued the prince, so soon as Rogojin was a little quieter, though his laughter still burst out at intervals, “and soon observed a drunken-looking soldier staggering about the pavement. He came up to me and said, ‘Buy my silver cross, sir! You shall have it for fourpence—it’s real silver.’ I looked, and there he held a cross, just taken off his own neck, evidently, a large tin one, made after the Byzantine pattern. I fished out fourpence, and put his cross on my own neck, and I could see by his face that he was as pleased as he could be at the thought that he had succeeded in cheating a foolish gentleman, and away he went to drink the value of his cross. At that time everything that I saw made a tremendous impression upon me. I had understood nothing about Russia before, and had only vague and fantastic memories of it. So I thought, ‘I will wait awhile before I condemn this Judas. Only God knows what may be hidden in the hearts of drunkards.’
“Well, I went homewards, and near the hotel I came across a poor woman, carrying a child—a baby of some six weeks old. The mother was quite a girl herself. The baby was smiling up at her, for the first time in its life, just at that moment; and while I watched the woman she suddenly crossed herself, oh, so devoutly! ‘What is it, my good woman I asked her. (I was never but asking questions then!) Exactly as is a mother’s joy when her baby smiles for the first time into her eyes, so is God’s joy when one of His children turns and prays to Him for the first time, with all his heart!’ This is what that poor woman said to me, almost word for word; and such a deep, refined, truly religious thought it was—a thought in which the whole essence of Christianity was expressed in one flash—that is, the recognition of God as our Father, and of God’s joy in men as His own children, which is the chief idea of Christ. She was a simple country-woman—a mother, it’s true— and perhaps, who knows, she may have been the wife of the drunken soldier!
“Listen, Parfen; you put a question to me just now. This is my reply. The essence of religious feeling has nothing to do with reason, or atheism, or crime, or acts of any kind—it has nothing to do with these things—and never had. There is something besides all this, something which the arguments of the atheists can never touch. But the principal thing, and the conclusion of my argument, is that this is most clearly seen in the heart of a Russian. This is a conviction which I have gained while I have been in this Russia of ours. Yes, Parfen! there is work to be done; there is work to be done in this Russian world! Remember what talks we used to have in Moscow! And I never wished to come here at all; and I never thought to meet you like this, Parfen! Well, well—good-bye—good-bye! God be with you!”
He turned and went downstairs.
“Lef Nicolaievitch!” cried Parfen, before he had reached the next landing. “Have you got that cross you bought from the soldier with you?”
“Yes, I have,” and the prince stopped again.
“Show it me, will you?”
A new fancy! The prince reflected, and then mounted the stairs once more. He pulled out the cross without taking it off his neck.
“Give it to me,” said Parfen.
“Why? do you—”
The prince would rather have kept this particular cross.
“I’ll wear it; and you shall have mine. I’ll take it off at once.”
“You wish to exchange crosses? Very well, Parfen, if that’s the case, I’m glad enough—that makes us brothers, you know.”
The prince took off his tin cross, Parfen his gold one, and the exchange was made.
Parfen was silent. With sad surprise the prince observed that the look of distrust, the bitter, ironical smile, had still not altogether left his newly-adopted brother’s face. At moments, at all events, it showed itself but too plainly,
At last Rogojin took the prince’s hand, and stood so for some moments, as though he could not make up his mind. Then he drew him along, murmuring almost inaudibly,
They stopped on the landing, and rang the bell at a door opposite to Parfen’s own lodging.
An old woman opened to them and bowed low to Parfen, who asked her some questions hurriedly, but did not wait to hear her answer. He led the prince on through several dark, cold-looking rooms, spotlessly clean, with white covers over all the furniture.
Without the ceremony of knocking, Parfen entered a small apartment, furnished like a drawing-room, but with a polished mahogany partition dividing one half of it from what was probably a bedroom. In one corner of this room sat an old woman in an arm-chair, close to the stove. She did not look very old, and her face was a pleasant, round one; but she was white-haired and, as one could detect at the first glance, quite in her second childhood. She wore a black woollen dress, with a black handkerchief round her neck and shoulders, and a white cap with black ribbons. Her feet were raised on a footstool. Beside her sat another old woman, also dressed in mourning, and silently knitting a stocking; this was evidently a companion. They both looked as though they never broke the silence. The first old woman, so soon as she saw Rogojin and the prince, smiled and bowed courteously several times, in token of her gratification at their visit.
“Mother,” said Rogojin, kissing her hand, “here is my great friend, Prince Muishkin; we have exchanged crosses; he was like a real brother to me at Moscow at one time, and did a great deal for me. Bless him, mother, as you would bless your own son. Wait a moment, let me arrange your hands for you.”
But the old lady, before Parfen had time to touch her, raised her right hand, and, with three fingers held up, devoutly made the sign of the cross three times over the prince. She then nodded her head kindly at him once more.
“There, come along, Lef Nicolaievitch; that’s all I brought you here for,” said Rogojin.
When they reached the stairs again he added:
“She understood nothing of what I said to her, and did not know what I wanted her to do, and yet she blessed you; that shows she wished to do so herself. Well, goodbye; it’s time you went, and I must go too.”
He opened his own door.
“Well, let me at least embrace you and say goodbye, you strange fellow!” cried the prince, looking with gentle reproach at Rogojin, and advancing towards him. But the latter had hardly raised his arms when he dropped them again. He could not make up his mind to it; he turned away from the prince in order to avoid looking at him. He could not embrace him.
“Don’t be afraid,” he muttered, indistinctly, “though I have taken your cross, I shall not murder you for your watch.” So saying, he laughed suddenly, and strangely. Then in a moment his face became transfigured; he grew deadly white, his lips trembled, his eves burned like fire. He stretched out his arms and held the prince tightly to him, and said in a strangled voice:
“Well, take her! It’s Fate! She’s yours. I surrender her.... Remember Rogojin!” And pushing the prince from him, without looking back at him, he hurriedly entered his own flat, and banged the door.