 17 Aug 2003 @ 17:01, by Quidnovi
The human effort is not this beautiful young man smiling upright on his leg of stone or of plaster, and giving, thanks to the puerile artifices of the sculptor, the imbecile illusion of joy, dance and jubilation while evoking with his other leg up in the air the sweetness of the return home.
No.
The Human Effort does not carry a young child on his right shoulder, another one on his head and a third one on his left shoulder, and the tools of his trade hanging around his waist while he strides forward alongside a happy young woman holding his arm.
The human effort wears a truss and the scars of his struggles amidst an absurd and ruthless world.
The Human Effort doesn't have a home he can truly call his.
His wages are thin and so are his children.
His age is not the "age of enlightenment"
His age, is the age of barracks,
the age of prisons and detention camps,
the age of churches and factories,
the age of guns and tanks.
And he, who has planted all the vines everywhere and has tuned up all the violins,
he must feed upon bad dreams and drink the bitter wine of resignation,
and, like a large drunk squirrel, incessantly, he turns, round and round,
without end, inside the constricting, unfriendly, dusty old cage.
And, unceasingly, he forges the chain, the daunting chain upon which all is chained:
work, profit, misery, slaughter, sadness, misfortune, insomnia and boredom,
the daunting chain of gold,
of oil, coal, iron and steel,
of blast-furnace slag and dust,
passed around the neck of a dysfunctional world,
the wretched chain, on which cling the "divine" baubles, the sacred relics, the medals of honor, the swastikas, the knick-knack amulets, the medals of the old servants,
the trinkets of misfortune,
and the grand museum piece, the grand old portrait, the large equestrian portrait,
the full-face portrait, the finely chiseled profile portrait, the hop-scotch portrait,
the grand gilded portrait,
the grand old portrait of the grand old preacher,
the grand old portrait of the grand emperor,
the grand portrait of the grand thinker,
the grand rope jumper,
the grand moralizer,
the face of the dignified and sad practical joker,
the face of the grand bloody nuisance,
the face of the aggressive pacificator,
the police face of the grand liberator,
the face of Adolph Hitler,
the face of the dictator,
the face of the executioner,
of whatever country,
of whatever color,
the odious face,
the unhappy face,
the sort of face that just asks to be swiped,
the face of fear.
Jacques Prevert, "Paroles"
|
|
