sábado, 19 de febrero de 2011

La estúpida espera de un milagro

"On the meridian of time there is no injustice: there is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and drama. If at any moment anywhere one comes face to face with the absolute, the great sympathy which makes men like Gautama and Jesus seem divine freezes away; the monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason or other, they should want roses. For some reason or other man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish it he will wade through blood. He will debauch himself with ideas, he will reduce himself to a shadow if for only one second of his life he can close his eyes to the hideousness of reality. Everything is endured –disgrace, humiliation, poverty, war, crime, ennui– in the belief that overnight something will occur, a miracle, which while a meter is running inside and there is no hand that can reach in there and shut it off. All the while someone is eating the bread of life and drinking the wine, some dirty fat cockroach of a priest who hides away in the cellar guzzling it, while up above in the street a phantom host touches the lips and the blood as pale as water. And out of the endless torment and misery no miracle comes forth, no microscopic vestige even of relief. Only ideas, pale, attenuated ideas which have to be fattened by slaughter; ideas which come forth like bile, like the guts of a pig when the carcass is ripped open…

Somehow the realization that nothing was to be hoped for had a salutary effect upon me. For weeks and months, for years, in fact, all my life I had been looking forward to something happening, some extrinsic event that would alter my life, and now suddenly, inspired by the absolute hopelessness of everything, I felt relived, felt as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders…

Had one single element of man’s nature been altered, vitally, fundamentally altered, by the incessant march of history? By what he calls the better part of his nature, man has been betrayed, that is all."

Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

viernes, 14 de enero de 2011

La fe

Aquí le leí a Chaves esta frase genial:
La fe, esa prótesis de la voluntad y la razón.
Me sirvo de ella para resumir mi posición (a riesgo de discriminación laboral) sobre la fe en este país católico fundamentalista, en el que el otro día me espetaron desafiantes mientras meaba "¿usted cree en Dios?".

No tengo problemas con la fe de los otros, mientras no sirva de prótesis a la voluntad y la razón. El problema que tengo es que cada vez más parece que esa es su única función.