New Possibility to Contribute to Art-tists Speak

Afternoon Nap, Bora Mici, 2014

Dear Readers,

I am writing to inform you that from today it is possible to make a small donation to support the work of Art-tists Speak, if you feel up to it and have the means. Otherwise you can keep reading just as you used to. It is only optional for those who would like to. Art-tists Speak will not change and will always be here in the foreseeable future. I have incorporated a button at the bottom left of the webpage which you can only see on Desktop view. Otherwise you can navigate to one of the main pages of the site to find the Ko-fi link. If you wish to support Art-tists Speak by donating, you can do so starting from today at the secure Ko-fi link or by clicking on the Contribute button at the bottom left of the webpage.    

Extract 2 from Saul Bellow's Herzog

Henri Matisse, Le bonheur de vivre, 1905-06

Extract in English from Saul Bellow's 1964 novel Herzog, chosen by Bora Mici

This second extract that has caught my attention from Saul Bellow's Herzog reminds me of Hannah Arendt's Banality of Evil and about Michel de Certeau's emphasis on the everyday tactics and footprints we leave on the grand strategies that those who make policy and lead institutions would have govern us. Herzog is a character who questions the divide between science and morality in our contemporary world as he considers how his ex-wife, a former Jewish convert to Christianity, betrayed him with his best friend and belittled and crushed him daily in favor of what Herzog deems was her ideological penchant. In a Romantic outpouring of emotion and individual struggle, Herzog writes a flurry of letters to all the different people who have influenced him in his journey, trying to break free from ideology in all its forms and learn to be self-sufficient. His unfinished academic work on Romanticism and Christianity informs the content of his letters and his reflections on his relationships. The banality of everyday evil lies precisely in our reliance on various ideologies to conduct our lives when we should try to unite our values and facts without deluding ourselves that we are called to obey a higher authority. We should question ideologies and become conscious of their effect on our everyday choices.        

"Living amid great ideas and concepts, insufficiently relevant to the present, day-by-day, American conditions. You see, Monsignor, if you stand on television in the ancient albs and surplices of the Roman church there are at least enough Irishmen, Poles, Croatians watching in saloons to understand you... But I, a learned specialist in intellectual history, handicapped by emotional confusion... Resisting the argument that scientific through has put into disorder all considerations based on value... Convinced that the extent of universal space does not destroy human value, that the realm of facts, and that of values are not eternally separated. And the peculiar idea entered my (Jewish) mind that we'd see about this! My life would prove a different point altogether. Very tired of the modern form of historicism which sees in this civilization the defeat of the best hopes of Western religion and thought, what Heidegger calls the second Fall of Man into the quotidian or ordinary. No philosopher knows what the ordinary is, has not fallen into it deeply enough. The question of ordinary human experience is the principal question of these modern centuries, as Montaigne and Pascal, otherwise in disagreement, both clearly saw. -- The strength of a man's virtue or spiritual capacity measured by his ordinary life. 

One way or another the no doubt mad idea entered my mind that my own actions had historic importance, and this (fantasy?) made it appear that people who harmed me were interfering with an important experiment."

Extract 1 from Saul Bellow's Herzog

Yves Klein, Anthropométries, 1960-1962

Extract in English from Saul Bellow's 1964 novel Herzog, chosen by Bora Mici

This extract is about the main character's Western view of history as a fatality rather than as an open path to a joyous life, which is what he seeks. I chose it because the idea of the Christian spirit of sacrifice and unhappiness are inextricably linked in my view and quite perverse at that. Herzog is a monument to a character that learns to extricate himself from this kind of perversity. I wish he would also be a vegetarian.   

"It was enough to make a man pray to God to remove this great, bone-breaking burden of selfhood and self-development, give himself, a failure, back to the species for a primitive cure. But this was becoming the up-to-date and almost conventional way of looking at any single life. In this view the body itself, with its two arms and vertical length, was compared to the Cross, on which you knew the agony of consciousness and separate being. For that matter, he had been taking this primitive cure, administered by Madeleine, Sandor, et cetera; so that his recent misfortunes might be seen as a collective project, himself participating, to destroy his vanity and his pretensions to a personal life so that he might disintegrate and suffer and hate, like so many others, not on anything so distinguished as a cross, but down in the mire of post-Renaissance, post-humanistic, post-Cartesian dissolution, next door to the Void. Everybody was in the act. "History" gave everyone a free ride. The very Himmelsteins, who had never even read a book of metaphysics, were touting the Void as if it were so much salable real estate. This little demon was impregnated with modern ideas, and one in particular excited his terrible little heart: you must sacrifice your poor, squawking, niggardly individuality--which may be nothing anyway (from an analytic viewpoint) but a persistent infantile megalomania, or (from a Marxian point of view) a stinking little bourgeois property--to historical necessity. And to truth. And truth is true only as it brings down more disgrace and dreariness upon human beings, so that if it shows anything except evil it is illusion, and not truth. But of course he, Herzog, predictably bucking such trends, had characteristically, obstinately, defiantly, blindly but without sufficient courage or intelligence tried to be a marvelous Herzog, a Herzog who, perhaps clumsily, tried to live out marvelous qualities vaguely comprehended. Granted he had gone too far, beyond his talents and his powers, but this was the cruel difficulty of a man who had strong impulses, even faith, but lacked clear ideas. What if he failed? Did that mean that there was no faithfulness, no generosity, no sacred quality?" (page 102-103, Penguin Books edition introduced by Philip Roth)

Translation: Italo Calvino Invisible Cities

Guy Debord, Psyschogeographic Guide to Paris, 1957

This is Bora Mici's original Italian to English translation of one of the brief one- to two-page descriptions of the many imaginary cities with female names of Italo Calvino from his collection Le città invisibili or Invisible Cities in English. This particular city description reminded me of Venice and of Guy Debord's concept of psychogeography, or a geography based on the concept of dérive or detour. Smeraldina is a city that encourages this very practice, and its potential map theoretically manages to trace each and every desire for an unpredictable route to one's destination, fueled by an architecture and an urban plan that structurally encourage novelty in making one's way around the city. After reading this extract, you might also find similar ideas in my translations of Michel de Certeau and Patrick Beaulieu's Art of Drift.   

"5. The City and Trade" by Italo Calvino from Invisible Cities, Le città invisibili, translated from Italian to English by Bora Mici

Smeraldina, an aquatic city, is made up of a network of canals and roads that are superimposed and intersect. In order to go from one place to another, you can always choose between the trip on land and the one by boat; and since the shortest distance between two points in Smeraldina is not a straight line but a zigzag that branches out into tortuous alternatives, the pathways available to every pedestrian are not just two but many, and they are multiplied even further for whomever alternates between ferrying by boat and transfers to dry land.

In such a way, the inhabitants of Smeraldina are spared the boredom of having to take the same routes everyday. And that’s not all: the network of passageways is not organized according to a sole layer, but follows small stairways, railed landings, humpback bridges and hanging walkways up and down. Combining segments of the different elevated or ground-level footpaths, every single inhabitant accords himself the daily distraction of a new itinerary for getting to the same places. The most habitual and calm lives of Smeraldina carry on without repetition.

Here like elsewhere, adventurous and secret lives are exposed to greater limitations. Smeraldina’s cats, thieves, and clandestine lovers get around on higher and discontinuous paths, jumping from one rooftop to the next, descending from a belvedere onto a balcony, avoiding the gutters with the careful step of tightrope walkers. Further down, the mice run around in the darkness of the sewers, one behind another’s tail, together with the conspirators and the contrabandists: they pop up from manhole covers and sewer tunnels, slide through interstitial walls and small alleyways, carrying cheese from one hiding place to the next, illegal merchandise, barrels of gunpowder, and cross the city’s dense fabric, permeated by the rays of underground passageways.

Marked in inks of different colors, a map of Smeraldina ought to contain all these trajectories, solid and liquid, hidden and in clear sight. What is more difficult is tracing onto the map the pathways taken by the swallows, which cut through the air above the rooftops, swoop to form invisible parabolas with their wings closed, take a detour in order to swallow a mosquito, spiral upward a pinnacle at razor-thin distance, and look over all of the points of the city from every point on their aerial trails.

Translation: Romanesque by Tonino Benacquista

Pierre-Auguste Cot, L'orage, 1880

This is Bora Mici's original French to English translation of the ending of the novel Romanesque by the contemporary French author Tonino Benacquista. It tells the story of a couple whose love is so strong nothing can beat it. The novel focuses on all of the adventures and adversities that the couple must overcome from the Middle Ages to the current day, as it travels through space and time trying to find a niche but always being confronted by societal expectations and customs that seek to define it and which it always flees from and defies. The ending does not spoil the reading of the story. It only hints at it.

Romanesque by Tonino Benacquista, Ending, translated from French into English by Bora Mici

Whomever has been touched by the affair of the lovers hurries to share it with a person of their choosing, oh quite a person of their choosing, a modest way of sending them a romantic message in order to suggest the idea that they themselves could have been these two, having dreamed forever in dissatisfaction of living a tale at once moral and immoral, a reminder of what love was a long time ago, before the inextricable misunderstandings it evokes today, before we had extinguished it with rhetoric, before the fear of engagement had paralyzed it, before we had reduced it to statistics, before we had calculated its probabilities, before we had optimized its chances, before we had attacked its ideals, before we had commented on its limits. Before pragmatism, realism, empiricism, rationalism joined forces against it, before the fear of suffering made us suffer, before we chose the guarantee of solitude against all its risks. The power of that kind of love does not need speeches, sociology, conceptual analyses: it is rebellious, it has taken to the underground, it’s bitten into an entire system, scratched at an established power, walked all over an authority. And while they are on the run, we wish the fugitives a fate that is uncommon, wild and never revealed.
….

This time no one wanted them on Earth or in the Sky. There was no empire in the universe that was crazy enough to provide a refuge for the intransigent lovers. In order to make them disappear forever, they were sent to a world that was hardly known, immaterial and out of time, which terrorized both the partisans of good and the artisans of evil.

It was a world that no one had created by design, that no one could have even imagined, not the fruit of a will, but the opposite.

It was a renunciation, which wanting to establish its State, had found this faraway territory, inaccessible to all forms of desire. Indifferent to radiation as much as to chaos, the renunciation knew that it was much more powerful than gods and devils united, too involved in their exaggerated plans, while it possessed a supreme ability to be indifferent and sought the inertia in all things. Before such a redoutable enemy, we could finally measure how many things good and evil had in common, how they were impassioned, capable of fighting hand in hand faced with this cold infinity, which was strong enough to absorb them both. Gods and devils came to asking themselves the question they feared the most: did they really exist, or had they been created by mankind in order to fight against the terror of seeing everything end once and for all?

One ended up in this world at the very end, after all afters, when all sequels were exasperated, where man had finally decided to disappear forever, without any hope of return, without a single butterfly or toad to grant him its carnal envelope because nothing more would exist after him, even his ashes would disappear, and he would also disappear from the memory of his descendants, who would never doubt whether he had existed at all.

If men feared so much this realm of absence, it was because it already resided in them while they were alive. Capable of loving or hating, their greatest inclination was to forget, to show their endless detachment, their absolute lack of curiosity: there resided the prefiguration of their fate after death, not in the blessings or the punishments that we let them anticipate,

The lovers were reunited in this mouth of nothingness, neither tortured nor soothed but empty of soul, not even moved by the need to seek one another. For the first time, they no longer vibrated with the force of attraction, which had allowed them to overcome all adversities; they were discovering a state of unimaginable desolation, that of no longer desiring, no longer cherishing, no longer hoping, no longer fearing the loss of anyone, no longer fearing that he or she suffers since even suffering was abolished there.

Ah, if they had known of the existence of such a place, they would have loved even more, cherished even more, they would have pleaded with their kin to forsake all economy, all touchiness, all suspicion. They learned it there—and it was too late—that if Paradise rewarded the giving and the kind, if Hell punished the corrupted and the cynics, there was another territory which caught hold of those who had feared life and risk-taking, preferring avoidance to confrontation, prudence to temptation, giving in to engagement.

It was unimaginable for the lovers, who had been consumed by passion, who had refused to get over one another, and who, despite their insistance on wanting to be isolated from the world, had taught so many humans not to strangle their desire under the weight of customs. Those two did not deserve to find themselves in this realm of abandonment, similar to the purgatory of the unborn.

A thousand deaths would have been preferable to this end, without a morality, lacking meaning, as if the whole path they had traveled had been in vain, and nothing would ever come again to put an end to this ending, because time could well try to defend itself from eternity, eternity suddenly seemed as limited as human imagination.

Already their heartbeats had begun to become spaced out so that one could distinctly count them one by one.

The time had come to say goodbye, to let go, to dissolve and to accept that nothing left behind would recall their existence, that their escapades no longer would inspire legends, that this human adventure was but a dream.

But before the last heartbeat was gone, they would grant themselves a last memory.

A single one.

Also, they had to hurry because their memories were crumbling in large swathes.

The bad ones had been erased first. Only the more harmonious, the more just, remained.

A wild kid with amber skin offers a bowl of water…A working woman shares her blanket on an icy night…An Indian woman hides her distress behind a radiant smile…An executioner, the ax in his hand, whispers into the ears of the condemned: You will feel nothing…A monk is happy to pass on his teachings to these rustic beings…A master gives an unknown woman his two dogs without which she would not survive…An anonymous person offers the bread of reconciliation…A crazy person prefers freedom to wisdom…An old couple has forgotten all but the most important…A dying man wishes a long life to a travelling woman…An artist recreates a face without even having seen it…In the storm a sailor sings to chase away his fear…A tyrant regrets having forgotten his people…A prisoner treats his prison mate as a brother…At the theatre, the spectators show they have as much talent as the playwright…A mother is lost in tears of gratitude for she who has brightened up her son’s smile…

But as soon as remembered these memories start to be dislodged too. Soon only the most radiant will remain.

The first look exchanged that morning at the corner of the woods.

That one held on so well that it led to another heartbeat, unexpected, insolent.

Because how could one think of that moment without hoping for the next, and all the others that would come.

Suddenly, in the middle of nothing, before forgetfulness sucked them up completely, the lovers’ hearts got going again.

The Nothing, surprised by this unexpected but stubborn counterpoint, started fearing that it was losing ground.

And it sent them where they had come from.

Translation: Performance in Contemporary Art

Yoko Ono, Cut Piece 1964

Is performance essential to our understanding of contemporary art?

Link to original article in French: https://www.bonart.cat/fr/n/46537/la-performativite-est-elle-essentielle-a-la-comprehension-de-l39art-contemporain

Translated from French into English by Bora Mici

Contemporary art often makes us uncomfortable because it no longer suffices for it to reflect reality like a mirror. In many cases, it intervenes in the world and modifies certain things: it creates situations, influences behaviors and creates new perspectives for relating to others. In this sense, the notion of performance becomes central. It is however important to specify that we are not talking about the same thing as the performing arts, which can be understood as simple “performances” in front of an audience. Here, the main idea is different: the work of art does not only create, but it encourages others to create too. As part of a constitutive logic, it functions like an apparatus that puts into motion the actions, decisions and relationships between people and which creates the conditions that favor the emergence of these phenomena.

Therefore, a work of art is performative when it mobilizes another’s actions and decisions, when it generates unexpected audiences, when it turns spectators into participants, and when it redefines what it means to be a creator, a work of art and a community. This point of view helps us understand that the way a work of art functions does not only depend on the artist because the audience and its degree of involvement, an institution and its norms, a space and its apparatuses, as well as the protocols and languages that assign roles and orient possible actions, also play a role. In the same way, the sociopolitical context with its material and emotional tensions shapes its effects.

However, there are no neutral actors. Performative art, in as far as it involves people and generates relationships and situations, cannot ignore the consequences of its implementation: it has to accept its responsibility. It is precisely for this reason that it becomes necessary to monitor its application and the conditions under which it is produced because performance can degenerate when it becomes stereotypical through eventification, instrumentalized participation or predictable and domesticated transgression.

It is why we must redefine our concept of its effectiveness, no longer to be seen as an immediate impact or a mediatic buzz, but as the ability to mobilize learning processes, to create relationships and modify habits, while leaving a mark as a process and not as an object. At a time when everything tends to devolve into quick consumption and fleeting attention spans, the crux of the matter shifts elsewhere: we no longer ought to ask “what this work is about?” but rather what it activates, what it transforms, how it affects us and what it encourages us to do. In this sense, we can perhaps understand performativity as a poetics of consequence: a way of articulating forms and situations that not only have meaning but also produce effects and leave a mark on our way of perceiving the world, our way of interacting with it and acting within it.

Translation: Nathalie Sarraute Tropisms I

Gustav Klimt, The Sunflower, 1907

This is Bora Mici's original French to Albanian translation of the first tropism in Nathalie Sarraute's French language collection Tropismes, an array of very short fiction pieces that acutely zoom into a given mind space that is turning, like plants do toward light - hence the title Tropisms - toward an outside stimulus and interacting with it. This particular one describes a crowd of people looking at shop windows in an anonymous town by focusing on their physical movements in space as a group as well as the psychology of their temperament. My father Sokol Mici also contributed to this translation. 

Tropisms, I translated from French into Albanian by Bora Mici

Dukej sikur buronin ngado, sikur mugullonin në ajrin e vakët paksa të lagësht. Derdheshin ngadalë, sikur po rridhnin nga muret, pemët e rrethuara me gjerdhe, stolat, trotuarët e ndotur, sheshet.

Shtriheshin në grumbuj të gjatë dhe të errët midis fasadave të pajeta të shtëpive. Herë pas herë, përpara vitrinave të dyqaneve formonin bërthama më të dendura, të palëvizshme që dridheshin, duke të krijuar përshtypjen e mpiksjeve të vogla.

Rrezatonin një qetësi të çuditshme, një kënaqësi të pashpresë. Sodisnin me kujdes pirgjet e ndërresave në Ekspozimin e të Bardhave, që imitonin bukur malet e mbuluara me dëborë, ose ndonjë kukull, dhëmbët dhe sytë e së cilës ndizeshin në intervale të rregullta. Ndizeshin dhe shuheshin, ndizeshin, shuheshin, ndizeshin, shuheshin, gjithnjë në intervale identike, ndizeshin dhe shuheshin përsëri.

Vështronin për një kohë të gjatë pa lëvizur. Rrinin aty, duke ofruar veten përpara vitrinave të qyqaneve. Shtynin gjithnjë largimin e tyre deri në intervalin tjetër. Ndërsa fëmijët e vegjël të heshtur që i mbanin nga dora, prisnin me durim pranë tyre, të lodhur nga soditja dhe të shpërqendruar.

Translation: Gianni Rodari, A King without a Crown

Kazimir Malevich, Supremus 55, 1917

This is Bora Mici's original Italian to English translation of the very short story A Re without a Corona, or A King without a Crown, in the children's collection Il libro degli errori, or The Book of Errors, by the 20th-century Italian author Gianni Rodari. In this book, Rodari creates playful poems and little stories, which remain very relevant to this day, and gently mock society through fun plays on words. I know I had promised you another entry from André Gide's journal, but Gide was too serious in tone for today, so I chose something lighter and which is probably on everyone's minds lately. 

A Re without a Corona or A King without a Crown — Gianni Rodari, translated into English by Bora Mici

Nota bene: Re means both the musical note D or Re and king in Italian, so keep that in mind when you are reading the translation. And a corona is a form of musical notation that can be translated as fermata or corona in English. Its function is explained in the story.

Once upon a time there was a Re without a corona.

He was the second note on the musical scale. He lived just under the staff, and so above him, he could see a Mi that had a huge corona, like this. As you know, musicians put a notation called a “corona” above certain notes, in order to let the performer know: — You can hold this note with a corona as long as you wish, as long as you have enough breath…

And so, it can happen that a Mi has a corona, and it’s fine. It can also happen that a Sol has it, but this is understandable, because it is the fifth note on the musical scale, and the fifth note is also called the “dominant” one. And it can happen that a “Re” does not have it at all. Most of the musical “Re’s” have never had a corona and they never complained about it to anyone.

But this Re kept complaining, and he did not want to hear otherwise.

“The author” — he said, “has unfairly ignored me. I will resign.” And in fact, he resigned and went away. The musician had to put the pause sign in his place, which was now left vacant.

Now when I play that piece on my violin, when I get to that spot, I have to observe a moment of silence in memory of the discontented Re.

Translation: André Gide Journal 4

Jean-Honoré Fragonard, Les hasards heureux de l'escarpolette, 1767-1769

Today's quote from the journal of André Gide dates from August 3, 1935. Tomorrow I will publish a longer entry on the same subject, written the following day, which delves deeper into the question of social class, poverty and the lust for life. As perhaps you have already understood from the entries I have published thus far that André Gide defied social categories and refused to align himself with any ideology other than that of pure creativity.   

"It would be good for the voice of the poor, which has been silenced much too long, to manage to be heard. But I cannot admit to only hearing this one voice. Man does not cease to be of interest to me when he stops being wretched: on the contrary. It goes without saying that it is important to help him, just like we first must water a plant; but in order to obtain the flower, and that is my concern." - André Gide  

Translation: André Gide Journal 3

Frank Stella, The Mat-Maker, 1990

Today's entry from André Gide's journal dates from Monday, May 7th, 1906. It is quite poignant and raises questions about the utility of art and literature, as well as the concept of art for art's sake. It reminds me of what Kant said about aesthetic contemplation: beauty is a disinterested form of purpose in itself through the free play of the imagination. Throughout his journal, Gide brings up Communism and Christianity often and seems to vacillate between a fascination and a rejection of their principles. He also is interested by the idea of objectification, which relates directly to the human need for rationalization and purpose. Whenever we interpret a work of art, we try to come up with a hidden structure or meaning it represents, no matter how abstract it is. And I believe that speaks to art's inherent purpose as a means of communication, but we can also contemplate it in silence and enjoy it sensorially. I invite all readers today to contemplate what honesty means to them and whether only purely aesthetic feelings are honest.  

"I doubt the honesty of a feeling as soon as it can be useful to me. I must meditate on this need for self-mortification." - André Gide

Translation: André Gide Journal 2

Portrait of J.V. Stalin by Isaac Brodsky, 1933

This entry in André Gide's journal dates from November 30, 1933. In a previous entry from the 29th of August of the same year, he writes a longer reflection on how Communism is just another religious fervor with its own dogmatic texts, and he renounces any such belonging to an authoritative tradition. Pour vraiment pouvoir renoncer à une idéologie, si on la considère telle, il faudrait pourtant la bien connaître. Personally I was raised in an atheist setting and I don't really know what communion is like. Et j'aurais aimé en avoir fait l'expérience, in order to choose à bon escient whether to reject it or not. Although, I think it would have made it more difficult to leave the fold if I had been immersed in it from early childhood. But who knows? The world is so complex nowadays, with so many influences and exposures, that there are many possibilities from which to choose. But I do have a certain longing for religion and wish I had experience with it. I think it is in contrast to my tendency to be an outsider and a creative who does not admit the anxiety of influence, even though I live with it daily. My friend once said there is nothing new under the sun. Is it true though? I am not so sure. Familiar things can take on unfamiliar guise. But do we ultimately recognize them as familiar? Who knows... I certainly think logic would have us reduce them to a concept or a bit of knowledge that we can process. But art and emotion are not limited ranges of experience. Maybe I have not lived long enough yet to know.   

"Indeed, it a barely a play on words: note that there is also communion in communism." - André Gide

Translation: André Gide Journal 1

Jupiter and Thetis, Jean Dominique Ingres, 1811

I serendipitously happened directly upon this quote as I opened André Gide's journal today, and since it is very short but very telling, I thought I would share it here on Arttists Speak. It dates from February 5, 1931. Are there any of you out there who identify with this sentiment? I have translated it from French into English, bien sûr. And if my whimsical élans permit, I will try to share more similar short quotes from this treasure trove that is the journal of the tortured French aesthete, the writer André Gide.

"If you are talented, you can do what you want: if you are a genius, you do what you can." I don't remember who said these admirable words (Ingres?). - André Gide

Translation: Snake by D.H. Lawrence

Mount Etna near Bronte, M.C. Escher, 1933

This is Bora Mici's original English to Albanian translation of the poem Snake, Gjarpri in Albanian, by the turn-of-the-century British writer and poet, D.H. Lawrence. It describes the author's awesome and strange attraction to a venomous snake that is drinking water at his water trough under a carob tree. The poem is about a chance encounter between a representative of human civilization, his admiration and his fears, and the forbidden underworld of Mount Etna's surroundings in the Sicilian landscape, represented by the poisonous snake, a sort of go-between, hiding and resurfacing and having seemingly come in peace. 

Gjarpri

Një gjarpër erdhi te burimi im
Në një ditë të nxehtë, shumë të nxehtë, dhe unë me pizhama nga nxehtësia,
për të pirë atje.

Nën hijen e thellë erë-çuditshme të pemës së rogaçit
Zbrita shkallët me brokën time
Dhe duhej të prisja, duhet të qëndroja e të prisja, se atje ishte ai te burimi para meje.

Zbriti poshtë nga një e krisur në murin prej dheu nëpër errësirë
Dhe zvarriti lirësinë e tij të verdhë-bojëkafe me barkun e butë poshtë, përmbi anës së burimit prej guri
Dhe vuri gushën mbi fundin e gurtë,
Dhe atje ku uji kishte rrjedhur nga rubineti, në një qartësi të vogël,
Thithi me gojën e tij të drejtë,
Piu dhe e përçoi ngadalë përtej trysave të tij të drejta, në trupin e tij të lirshëm e të gjatë,
Në heshtje.

Dikush kishte ardhur para meje te burimi im,
Dhe unë, i ardhuri i dytë, prisja.

E ngriti kokën nga e pira, siç bëjnë lopët,
Dhe më vëzhgoi paksa, siç bëjnë lopët,
Dhe nëpërmjet buzëve të tij valëzoi gjuhën e ndarë, dhe u mendua për një çast,
Dhe u përkul dhe piu prapë,
Bojëkaf si dheu, i artë si dheu nga brendësia e thellë e tokës që digjet
Këtë ditë Korriku në Siçili, me Etnën që nxjerr tym.

Zëri i edukimit tim më tha
Duhet vrarë,
Sepse në Siçili, gjarpërinjtë sterrë të zi janë të pafajshëm, të artët të helmojnë.

Dhe zërat brenda meje thanë, po të ishe burrë
Do të merrje një hu dhe do ta bëje copë tani, dhe do t’i jepje fund.

Por duhet të pranoj se e doja shumë,
Se isha shumë i lumtur që kishte ardhur si mysafir i urtë, për të pirë te burimi im
Dhe do të ikte në paqe, i qetë dhe i pavlerësuar,
Drejt e në thellësinë e tokës që digjet.

Ishte nga frika, që nuk guxoja ta vrisja?
Ishte zvetënim, që dëshiroja t’i flisja?
Ishte përulje, që ndjehesha i nderuar?
Ndjehesha mëse i nderuar.

Po prapë ata zërat:
Po të mos kishe frikë do ta vrisje.

Dhe vërtetë kisha frikë, kisha shumë frikë,
Por edhe kësisoj, ndjehesha akoma dhe më i nderuar
Që ai kërkonte mikëpritje
Nga prapa derës së errët të tokës misterioze.

Piu mjaftueshëm
Dhe ngriti kokën, ëndërrimtar, si dikush që ka pirë,
Dhe valëzoi gjuhën në ajër si një natë e prerë, sa e zezë që ishte,
Sikur po lëpinte buzët,
Dhe vështroi rreth e rrotull si një perëndi, pa parë gjë, në ajër,
Dhe ktheu kokën ngadalë,
Dhe ngadalë, shumë ngadalë, sikur tre herë në endërr,
Vijoi me tërheqjen e gjatësisë së tij të plogësht duke e harkuar,
Dhe u ngjit përsëri mbi murin e krisur.

Ndërsa po fuste kokën në atë vrimë te tmerrshme,
Dhe ndërsa po tërhiqej lart, duke shplodhur supet et tij prej gjarpri, dhe hyri më thellë,
Një farë tmerri, një farë proteste kundër tërheqjes së tij brenda asaj vrime të llahtarshme të zezë,
Hyrja me qëllim në atë skëterrë, duke e zvarritur veten pas tij ngadalë,
Më pushtoi tani që më kishte kthyer kurrizin.

Pashë rreth e rrotull, lëshova brokën,
Mora një hu të pagdhendur
Dhe e hodha me rrapëllimë bi burim.

Nuk mendoj se e ciku,
Por papritur ajo pjesë e tij që dukej ende u drodh me një ngutje të padenjë,
Gjarpëroi si vetëtimë, dhe u zhduk
Brenda vrimës së zezë, e krisura me një bulëzim dheu në faqen e murit,
Drejt së cilës, në mesditën e thellë të heshtur, vështrova i magjepsur.

Dhe menjëherë u pendova.
Mendova sa i vogël, sa vulgar, sa i poshtër ky veprim!
E urreja veten dhe zërat e edukimit tim të nëmur njerëzor.

Dhe mendova për albatrosin,
Dhe doja që të kthehej përsëri, gjarpri im.

Sepse përsëri më dukej si mbret,
Si një mbret i zbuar, pa kurorë, në ferr,
Dhe tani kishte ardhur koha për ta kurorëzuar prapë.

Dhe kështu, e humba rastin me një nga zotërinjtë
E jetës.
Dhe kam diçka për të shlyer:
Një zemërngushtësi.

Fragments from a Woman's Life, Part 2

James Rosenquist, Hole in the Center of the Clock, 2007

Fragments from a Woman's Life, Part 2 is the continuation of an original short story by Bora Mici written in Italian language. It follows the model of The Man Who Wore the News, which was published in July 2025, and uses unknown vocabulary words gleaned from various sources, including didactical texts, podcasts in Italian and Italian-language literature from authors such as Jhumpa Lahiri and Italo Calvino. Just like for The Man Who Wore the News, this story centering on a woman's daily life and memories, is woven around a list of vocabulary words that were either new to me or that I wanted to record for the sake of better remembering them, and I followed the list in order as I had created it spontaneously, without any particular attention to themes or an underlying logic. In that sense this story is dependent on that invisible order, which gives it an unexpected dynamic and forces me to creatively integrate words I might not have otherwise chosen into the fabric of the narrative. As always if you are a native Italian speaker reading this, you may pick up a mistake here and there because I have not had it edited, and I am still learning Italian in depth. However, you might be pleasantly surprised by the complexity of the story.

Fragments from a Woman's Life, Part 2: A Short Story by Bora Mici

Decise che avrebbe dovuto consacrare tempo ad una stesura schietta di ciò che l'attanagliava come un ago puntato sotto la sua gonna di lana ormai sgualcita dal starsene seduta così a lungo. Sentì un lieve ribrezzo all’idea di quelle scrittrici e personalità pubbliche che si vestono sempre con indumenti scuri. Si immaginò portando un golfino blu marino con un piccolo buco invisibile sotto l’ascella che pian piano si allargava e digrignò i denti perché tutt'a un tratto una fame roditrice la fece traballare nelle sue convinzioni.

Probabilmente se non fosse seduta in macchina si sarebbe sprofondata sul pavimento dalla vertigine che l’aveva colta d'improvviso. Le venne voglia di uno spicchio di cocomero gocciolante ma poi si ricordò che era inverno e le angurie erano fuori stagione. Si vide trafiggerlo con uno spiedo e gustarlo con delizia e con uno slancio tempestivo si mise di nuovo a rovistare nella sua memoria per azzeccare l’origine di quello sgomento che le aveva cagionato la vista dell’uomo sprovveduto sulla panca con lo scaffale di ottone. Stava per varcare la vetta della colle che separava la città dalla periferia quando avvertì che doveva fare un immane sforzo per districarsi da quel groviglio di pulsioni avventati che la colpivano senza sosta mentre cercava di ripararsi nella trincea angusta della carrozzeria protettrice della macchina. 

Il mondo fuori era tutto allagato da stimoli uguali in intensità senza però fornire la pianta che le avrebbe potuto schiarirne l’ordine e la via d’uscita. La spiazzante e stucchevole titubanza della sua anima in allarme non le permetteva di avvolgersi di quella coperta di sicurezza che l'avrebbe portata, come uno spettro muto scivolando, al di sopra del fiume straripante attraverso la foschia fitta del suo cruccio, facendola scendere dall’altra parte, dove un venticello primaverile le avrebbe schiarito la via di scampo. 

Ormai attendeva il bivio tanto auspicato, ma come avrebbe fatto per essere sicura che ci fosse arrivata davvero? Non voleva più imbattersi nella faccia dello scoglio frastagliato di un’altra delusione insulsa. Perciò, anche se era commossa e soggiogata dal indugiare continuo e dalla lotta interna con i contorni smussati della sua memoria, avverti un varco aperto alla realtà circostante, e per avere la chiarezza che le serviva, fece un sorriso scialbo e cercò di inerpicarsi più in alto. La macchina fece un balzo imbranato e si mise a scendere il pendio sbuffando come un bambino schizzinoso che si lamenta di dover camminare da solo fino a casa e piange e pesta con i piedi per essere portato. 

È poi arrivò la tregua. Ma non quella auspicata, che sarebbe stato frutto di una vittoria potenzialmente prepotente. Arrivò la tregua come un lutto, e la nostra scrittrice rimase vincolata alla sua sorte penzolante per aver trascurato di fare il pieno prima di inoltrarsi ... Ma dove stava andando davvero si chiese? La macchina si era fermata e non poteva più andare avanti dunque decise di scendere sul ciglio, aprire il cofano e portare fuori una sedia a sdraio, pieghevole e malconcia, con il tessuto un po’ sbrindellato, con le righe di un giallo spiccato. Si sedè sopra per attendere un viaggiatore che lo avrebbe soccorsa. 

Cercò di rincuorarsi mentre si rilassava sul bordo della strada sotto le ombre blu dei pini tuttora verdeggianti. Questo paesaggio invernale e la sua sedia a sdraio stonavano. Guardò verso il cielo grigio alle cime degli alberi di un verde veronese molto scuro e le parve che si torcessero in una voragine che agitava perfino l’aria e le nuvole. Si ricordò della foga con cui da bambina aveva scavalcato il recinto della casa in campagna dei nonni per salire su una quercia imponente e massiccia e poi tamburellare il petto come Tarzan, mentre cercava di non perdere l’equilibrio su un bivio nel tronco, spesso e ben radicato alla terra. 

Aveva dovuto incassare il severo cipiglio degli anziani che le erano corsi dietro per farla scendere giù, rimproverandola di averli spaventati in tal modo irresponsabile. Lei tirava la lingua ispirandosi alle avventure degli eroi dei suoi libri di giovinezza, quando ha cominciato a piovere ed il tronco dell’albero era diventato scivoloso e forbito. La nonna le diede uno spunto come fanno i registi con gli attori che non ricordano più le loro battute, e lei si arrampicò alla rovescia gridando le parole, "Arrembaggio!" Poi diede un bacio garbato a ciascuno dei nonni e corse via verso il granaio mentre un fulmine abbagliante accese il cielo e la pioggia scrosciante faceva strappare i volantini dai muri dove erano incollati. Si soffermò un attimo davanti alla porta socchiusa per identificare quell’idioma strambo che non le risultava decifrabile, e siccome non ci riuscì, si è affrettata a chiudere i battenti di legno di tutte le finestre del granaio prima di rifugiarsi dentro. Accese la luce nel fienile, e vide compiaciuta che tutti i suoi libri erano rimasti scompigliati sulla paglia asciutta, e che la nonna non era intervenuta per metterli in ordine come soleva. Prese in mano il suo bastone degno di una spada da pirata e si mise a giostrare con un pilone quadrato, scalfendo gli angoli con colpi taglienti inflitti di scatto. Poi si mise a correre goffamente nel verso opposto facendo brutte smorfie da spaventare persino i passeri.

Adesso questo rovello ritornava ad incalzarla. Chi era il uomo con la tromba? Ma no ... era uno scaffale no? Di ottone? Che cosa non avrebbe dato per rinfrancarsi un po’, magari con una limonata, così come era seduta sul margine di una strada di campagna poco frequentata quel giorno. Le pareva di essere rimasta lì da giorni interi ma ora pensava che questo paesaggio era proprio ammaliante con le sue streghe nascoste nei boschi dietro gli allori, lontane dal trambusto della vita quotidiana. Aveva il viso stremato, scialbo, ma non se ne accorgeva mentre sviscerava la sua memoria per capire chi fosse lo sconosciuto. Nel frattempo scaturivano altri ricordi e lei non si muoveva, bensì si lasciava sprofondare di più nella curva morbida della sedia a sdraio, rannicchiandosi come un bruco nel bozzolo, e il setaccio del tempo faceva il suo possente lavoro disordinato di smistamento a priori casuale. Tutt’a un tratto le parve che questo flusso le rendesse la vita più agevole. Chi poteva vantarsi di avere il tempo di bramare mentre sonnecchiava ad occhi aperti un'epoca andata, ficcata in mezzo agli alberi che sembrano forare il tetto del mondo con le loro cime da apribottiglie ondulanti.

Ha deciso di alzarsi e di fare qualche passo verso il bosco. Da subito si è inciampata in una radice d’albero dall’aspetto strampalato, e siccome si accorse che lì dentro faceva buio e umido, tornò subito indietro, maledendo il suo gusto sciapo di avventura. Tra l’altro il bosco sembrava dirle di non accanirsi ad intrufolarsi in quei luoghi oscuri e selvatici che non ammettessero di braccare dentro. Affranta e spossata stramazzò sulla sedia a sdraio e con uno sguardo schivo contemplò una grande cornacchia di un nero vischioso e scintillante che le faceva l’occhiolino da un ramo in su. Provò a puntellare la sua timidità di argomenti saldi ma ormai sentiva il freddo e l’avventura aveva perso ogni traccia dell'ebbrezza iniziale che cullava i suoi ricordi come fanno le onde del mare. Adesso sentiva il freddo agghiacciante di una solitudine sprovveduta di ogni impeto. Doveva soltanto aspettare lì finché qualcuno si fermasse a soccorrerla. Non si chiese neppure quanto fosse lontana la città, ne casa sua, e se poteva raggiungerli a piedi. Doveva aspettare. Ecco fatto. Era questa la sua soluzione di fortuna e le parve abbastanza buona per l'istante.

Read Part 1.

Read The Man Who Wore the News.

Translation: Ancient Fable about a Leather Drum

Marc Chagall, I and the Village, 1911

This is Bora Mici's original Albanian to English translation of a poem in a children's collection of poems by the Albanian poet Moikom Zeqo. As you will easily understand, because the style is very direct, the poem is about how humans will try to draw utility of everything, even living things, exploiting them until the end. It reminds me of Giovanni Verga's story about the donkey of San Giuseppe (La storia dell'asino di San Giuseppe in Italian) in which a donkey, who starts out strong and healthy, is subjected to various amounts of onerous labor by different owners and keeps getting sold from one farmer to another for lesser and lesser values until no one can get anything out of him any longer. This kind of mentality shows that we think of people and animals as commodities too and use them for our personal ends and gains, and that this tale is as ancient as the world. What would happen if we started treating sentient beings as ends in themselves? I think we have evolved to improve on this matter but we are still in a logic of reification and commodification of time and attention and what we consider food. I believe it is good for people to devote themselves to work and useful things because it gives their life meaning, but no one's labor should be exploited unfairly.      

An Ancient Fable about a Leather Drum

The leather on the drum
tells its
story:

Once a donkey
I was
in life’s glory

The master on my back
put
a load

When I could not walk
the whip
blowed

From fatigue I died
and collapsed
on the road

So the master
skinned
my coat

The drumsticks beat
the drumroll
plays

Now the donkey
Like a drum
Brays

Does suffering
turn
into cheers?

The master
won’t forget
the fable he hears:

He won’t give up
the merchandise
will try all his breath

in life
as in death

Translation: Gianni Rodari on Humility and Non-conformity

John William Waterhouse, Echo and Narcissus, 1903

Today I am going to be brief since Gianni Rodari and his children's parables command brevity, which we are told is the soul of wit. This is Bora Mici's original translation from Italian into English of two more short children's stories and poems by Gianni Rodari published in his Book of Errors, Libro degli errori, in Italian. They are funny and ironic and biting and as usual attempt to teach a lesson, in this case another lesson of humility and non-conformism. The poem presented some challenges of translation because Rodari's verse and prose is written in quite simple, day-to-day Italian and I had to resort to a bit of flourish, as usual, in order to retain the rhyme scheme. I would say this is one of my perennial challenges in translating poems. I'd rather keep the rhyme scheme because I love its musicality, but it often means straying from the simplicity of the original text. I suppose there is always a compromise that has to be reached between one format and another, one person and another, one language and another and one mind and another. All finished things are the result of such a compromise.   

The Echo That Was Wrong

Don’t come to me anymore to sing the praises of the echo. Yesterday they took me to test one out. I started with simple little math questions:

“How much is two times two?”

“Two,” responded the echo without even thinking. We were off to a good start, needless to say.

“How much is three times three?”

“Three,” shouted out joyfully the little nitwit. Obviously, math was not her forte. In order to give her another opportunity to show off what she knew, I decided to ask her:

“Listen, but think for a moment before answering. Which is bigger Rome or Como?”

“Como,” exulted the echo.

Ok, let’s forget geography too. Let’s try history. Who founded Rome, Romulus or Manfredini?

“Manfredini,” shouted the echo. A diehard fan too! I could not restrain myself anymore, and I wanted to give her the final blow:

“Who is dumber me or you?”

“You!” responded the echo. How impertinent!

No, no. Please don’t come to me anymore to sing the praises of the echo, etc. etc.

------------------------

A Wooden King

Once upon a time there was a wooden king.
He had a head of wood
a crown of wood
he was all made of wood, for then
he was just a statue of a sovereign.
The termites ate at his mantle
The spiders made their web
between his nose and his ears.
He was made of wood, and he was also quite advanced in years.
That king’s statue was so old
that the king of that statue
was already dead, buried and consumed
at the bottom of the past unexhumed
where real kings go
with all of their kingdoms
and where don’t go
wooden symbols.

Le chant des couleurs

Félix Ziem, Envol de flamants roses, étang de Vaccarès, 1895

This is an original poem written by Bora Mici using French-language expressions that relate to colors. The poem makes creative use of these idiomatic expressions and sometimes reinterprets them to insert an aesthetic background and an atmosphere as a setting for the juxtaposition of the colors, the singular character they describe and his concerns about nature and animals and the planet. Parts of it are inspired by lyrics from Belgian singer Stromae's songs, such as Carmen and Alors on danse, as well as Charles Aznavour's Ca vient sans qu'on y pense. As is now usual in my verbal creations, the poem includes a critique of modern technologies and their empire on nature and society and a message of peace inspired by my grandmother who used to say in Albanian "Truri bën hatanë, truri bën kalanë," echoed in the last line of the poem.     

Le chant des couleurs by Bora Mici

C’est un blanc-bec de rouge-gorge

très haut en couleur d’ailleurs
Il est mais vraiment fleur bleue
On dirait un merle blanc
Qui fait un rire jaune
Auprès des regards noirs
Il lui font une mine blanchâtre
Blême et pâle comme un linge
Et une peur bleue
Il ne sait jamais s’il est dans le vert ou dans le rouge
Où s’il a juste la côte
Comme le oiseau bleu de Twitter
Désormais un terte X
Qui fait grise mine aux utilisateurs
S’ils ne sont pas verts de rage
Les boutons d’or sont tellement mieux
Il porte des lunettes couleur rose
Mais il ne voit pas toujours la vie en rose
Parfois il broie du noir
Il se met au vert pour prendre de l’air
Pur comme des cristaux de neige et de ciel
Sous les rayons jaune d'oeuf du soleil qui coule
Il veut juste que le monde lui montre patte blanche
Il sait que c’est un jeu truqué, perdu d’avance
Malgré tout il avance
Il a compris que la vie est une danse
Et rien n’est vraiment perdu d’avance
Allez, haut les couleurs
On danse avec les flamants roses
ou les éléphants qu’on voit parfois
Qui n’ont pas une mémoire de poisson rouge, hein
On devrait carrément leur rouler le Tapis Rouge
Et les inviter à la Maison Blanche
Pour des pourparlers grisâtres
Sous la pluie
Ils peuvent faire part de leur avis
Qui tombe bien comme une couleur ravie du ciel gris
Sur l’achéminement de l’aide à la planète bleue
et ses régions sableuses, arides, couleur de paille et de poussière
Parfois verts comme des près
Mais qu’est-ce qu’un éléphant?
Il veut juste vivre dans son environnement
Comme tout les gens sensés
Qui savent que l’imagination est très colorée
Et qu’on lui doit la guerre et la paix.

A Contemporary Sermon on the Mount

Peter Paul Rubens, The Fall of the Damned, 1621

This is a reflection by Bora Mici on René Girard's mimetic desire and rivalry based on the original text by Girard, the French-language philosophy podcast Le précepteur by Charles Robin as well as the author's own experience. It is written in French and English, and the last part in English navigates all the questions surrounding the topic of why we all like to imitate each other and how this animates a cycle of violence that came to me as I was thinking through and writing about this topic. The last part is written in very plain English, has not been edited but represents my original train of thought and choice of words, and should be accessible to anyone who is willing to read with an open mind. 

Une courte réflexion sur ma vie pour commencer avant de rentrer dans le vif du sujet

I was thinking about how my life has become and I just think life is so lonely and alienating these days. Life may have been harsher before but at least everyone belonged. At least that’s what Fellini’s Amarcord shows. Now there are so many interlopers and lonely people and screen addicts and self-addicts of all sorts. Everyone is just looking in the mirror more than ever before, whether they want to look like the stars or be an influencer or simply spend all their time online. It’s just you and your projection of yourself in there, especially when the algorithm never bursts your bubble. But in order to really understand the world and not be afraid of it you have to experience it firsthand. That’s the only way to know what is possible and what is not and to understand human nature and behaviour.

J’ai eu envie de revenir sur le sujet du désir mimétique de René Girard qu’il expose dans son livre Mensonge Romantique et Vérité Romanesque. J’ai déjà lu une bonne partie de ce texte et je viens d’écouter un podcast de vulgarisation philosophique là-dessus, à savoir, le podcast La philosophie pour tous du Précepteur Charles Robin, que je vous recommande vivement. L’idée principale du désir mimétique c’est qu’en tant qu’êtres sociaux et aussi vaniteux, épris par le souci de mouler notre image de nous-mêmes sur un modèle extérieur, on est toujours à la recherche d’une autre personne qu’on est susceptible d’admirer et d’imiter. J’ai déjà discuté dans un autre article d’Arttists Speak d’où mène notre tendance à nous retrouver dans le regard d’autrui, c’est-à-dire une ruée conformiste irréfléchie et une existence inauthentique. Ici on va examiner plus en détail le problème des engouements de masse et leur antipode, la diversité sociale, à l’aune du désir mimétique et ses retombées logiques, ou parfois irrationnelles en l’occurrence.

Pour commencer on se focalisera sur la structure triangulaire du désir mimétique que relève Girard. À titre d’exemple, la médiation débute par le sujet qui souhaite posséder un objet ou une qualité dont fait preuve déjà l’être spécial pour lui. Pour reprendre les mots du titre de l’ouvrage de Girard, le mensonge romantique relève de la fiction que notre désir nous apparteint et qu’il est foncièrement original comme le croyaient les écrivains romantiques du 19è siècle. On les associait à une existence solitaire, houleuse au niveau des émotions et animée par une sorte de génie créatif porteur d’une sensibilité éperdument religieuse et passionnée. Cependant la vérité romanesque vient démentir l’apanage singulier de ces esprits libres de se projetter dans des élans inouis. La littérature et la fiction nous apprennent la vérité profonde qu’on dissimule à nous-mêmes, à savoir qu’on est toujours dans un procédé d’imitation issu de notre vanité, de notre désir de faire nôtre une identité favorable à l’image sociale qu’on se fait de nous-mêmes et que les autres admireront à leur tour.

Alors moi j’y ai réfléchi et je me suis dite que cette théorie est pertinente au niveau de nos agissements psychologiques et symboliques mais qu’elle perd un peu de sa puissance si on considère les choix qu’on fait tous pareils et les démarches qu’on execute tous de la même manière parce que c’est plus efficace d’agir ainsi au niveau de l’existence physique. À titre d’exemple, si un appareil electrodomestique est moins polluant, moins gourmand en énergie et abordable de prix par comparaison aux autres sur le marché, ne serait-il pas vraisemblable qu’on le préférerait tous et que cela ne reléverait pas juste du désir mimétique mais bien du pragmatisme rationnel? En plus, qu’est-ce qui se passerait si on se rendait compte de ce méchanisme caché? En réalité, je ne sais pas si on peut complètement échapper à sa prise parce que parfois nos désirs se révèlent insondables, mais on peut s’habituer à se poser la question-justement pourquoi je brigue ce que je souhaite pour moi et pour les autres-et en prendre conscience de manière plus active. Ça pourrait mener à une plus grande diversité et une meilleure ouverture d’esprit et on ne se comporterait plus comme des moutons de Panurge à une telle échelle qu’on pourrait effectivement être susceptibles de suivre les tendances et de créer des bulles économiques qui après se retournent contre nous. Selon Charles Robin on veut incarner quelqu’un d’autre parce on vit dans le manque d’une essence de l’ordre de l’existentiel, et la médiation triangulaire selon laquelle on accède à l’identité d’autrui par le biais d’un objet dont on a la possibilité de s’accaparer, se renverse et on commence à s’approprier l’identité même de l’être admiré pour finalement posséder les mêmes objets que la personne dont on voulait imiter le mode de vie tout au début de ce cycle qui se répète à l’infini. C’est à la suite de ce procédé de homologation qu’on devient tous semblables. C’est pourquoi la publicité nous vend des modes de vie et non pas des objets forcément utiles. L’engouement c’est un phénomène d’imitation de masse et on peut dire de même pour les petits groupes d’élite qui puisent leur prestige dans l’exclusivité. La distinction n’est jamais originale selon l’analyse de Robin du texte de Girard. Elle cache toujours un désir d’imitation et de la “supplantation existentielle” par quelqu’un qui semble avoir plus que nous ou une meilleure vie, même si le choix de notre objet d’admiration peut être subjectif dans une certaine mesure. C’est cette subjectivité qu’il faut encourager et décliner de la manière la plus variée possible. On nous dit que la diversité génétique est propice à la survie d’une espèce. Mais on nous dit également que l’unité fait la puissance. Donc voilà une petite contradiction logique qui défie l’intuition. Qu’est-ce que vous seriez plus enclins à croire, la première affirmation ou la deuxième? L’intuition est censé nous permettre de dépasser la contradiction en nous permettant de puiser dans l’ensemble de notre expérience vécue. Par exemple, comme l’explique Charles Robin dans un épisode sur le philosophe Henri Bergson, si on considère de façon mathématique qu’une flèche parcourt une certaine distance par moitiés successives, elle n’atteindra jamais sa destination, parce qu’après avoir parcouru une moitié du trajet on peut s’imaginer qu’elle ait toujours la moitié de la moitié restante à traverser. Mais notre expérience vécue nous montre qu’une flèche part d’un endroit précis et arrive toujours à un autre endroit précis un peu plus loin. Donc notre intuition, en s’appuyant sur notre observation passée, nous dit que dans le cas de la flèche, elle arrive toujours à destination, avec un minuscule décalage peut-être. Pourtant le calcul infinitessimal est bel et bien applicable sur des distances plus grandes, et à ce point-là notre intuition défaillit. Donc est-ce que vous pensez que c’est mieux de se faire nombreux et conformistes ou différents et un peu moins soudés, un peu plus en proie au processus de la découverte de nos différences, peut-être? Que signifie la vraie solidarité selon vous?

Questions and Answers about Rivalité mimétique

I don’t get why we want to imitate the desire of others. That’s the crux of the question. According to the analysis of Le précepteur if our mediator becomes internal rather than external, distant and unattainable, we become their rival. And we want to immitate their desire and participate in a competition for an arbitrary object, that might or might not be valuable or useful. We just want it for its symbolic value or for its symbolic capital in Bourdieu’s words. But why? Why can’t we want something else, not what someone else wants? The cycle he paints is love, loss, jealousy, violence, and when the violence becomes too widespread, a scapegoat. I don’t really understand it yet. Why does the scapegoat appease everyone temporarily? Desire is a feeling that subsists only through the delay or impossibility of its fulfillment. Is that true? When I get what I want and I enjoy it, I want it again. Why? Was there something unfulfilling about it or did I just get what I wanted and it was good and not perversely denied in the end, and the satisfaction I felt made me want to repeat the experience so I would feel not like I was lacking. We always respond to lack by seeking a way to fill the emptiness. If we don’t know something we go looking for the answer. But are there things we cannot have that would lead us to jealousy and violence? Kids who all want to play with the same toy, there’s always an exception. Even if there is no scarcity, do people still compete? Is it because they want to impress their friends? But surely there is a constructive way to do this, by sharing for example and by not instrumentalizing objects or people symbolically. Do people only care about the symbolic value something has? What if they just focused on utility and cooperation? What if they were taught not to cede to their vanity? What does my vanity instruct me to do? I am trying to understand this cycle in order to break it. I don’t need a scapegoat. Is coveting what your neighbor has sin? Desire is supposed to be an illusion because according to some it can never be fulfilled. But desire is what keeps us alive. We just need a less hungry relationship to it. In order to relate to other people we need to take their point of view. Is this possible? I hope there are other people who think like me. I am using my vanity to break the cycle of violence based on need. Is vanity what we need in order to relate to other people? My image of myself affects my interactions with others. And at the point where I am, if I think I have no self, then I think it’s pointless to exist or do anything, even though I still write and try to make sense of this non-dual contradiction. I guess I have to use my sense of self to deconstruct the problem of the self, because if it leads to violence and suffering based on a perceived scarcity or rarity, which is a cognitive bias, according to that theory, then it needs to be solved so our lives can be enjoyable, unless people enjoy violence, but I don’t think they do. Everyone shirks at the idea of enduring violence or suffering and I have empirical proof of this, noticing how everyone avoids it. That’s a good basis to start on. No one likes violence or suffering done upon them or anything or anyone they love. So why do they assume anyone else does? Why do they always like to transfer the violence which arises from a sense of rivalry that is not even real, that is purely an instinct of some kind that we need to identify and release? What is release? For me release is when I can externalize some internal question or strife or energy? Well we need to find non-destructive, non-violent ways to direct this conundrum. How do we do that? We go for a walk, we let our thoughts and our feelings subside, and we write or make art or talk to someone in a thoughtful purposeful manner. We become less reactive. We can probably rechannel the energy within our own bodies without doing harm. Where is this energy coming from anyways? An external stimulus or our own internal disorder? I suppose both are possible. But how does wanting what someone else has relate to our self-regulation? Do we need competition for the same resources or the same markets and consumers or can we all try to invent something that is different and of our own stamp? I think organizing ourselves in small collaborative entities that produce a similar commodity that is somehow useful is a good idea. The smaller the groups the smaller the egos and the ability to do harm based on competition and the desire to lead or conquer. The more variety there is the less impetus for sameness and competition over the same objects or positions. If we value diversity over sameness and we don’t become defensive or say that we are somehow in competition with each other then we are happier and everyone belongs. I think it’s part of our vanity to say we are different and therefore deserving of more or less than another, but if we say we are different but all worth of the same dignity and esteem then we all win because we are all accepted, not more not less. No one is more worthy than another. If we understand this then we end all wars and discord and our egos become smaller and more tranquil. So who likes their ego? Does your ego give you pleasure? I think it does or you would not insist on being better than everyone else. Well think about your ego and what you want it to be doing? And then decide. And think about the consequences. Will they aggrandize your ego and your lack? The two are often proportionally related? The more you seek the more you feed the hungry wolf in your consciousness. But killing your ego does not work either if you want to participate in being alive. So learn to moderate it and always keep in mind that violence comes from lack and giving that lack power over your actions. Often the lack is not real. It’s just you comparing yourself to others. That’s why you should learn to be yourself and not step on anyone else’s toes unless you come in friendship and love. What is love and friendship? It’s when you respect someone for their differences and accept that they are just as worthy as you are. Stop instrumentalizing life symbolically.

What is being good or doing a good action or speaking well or engaging in a beneficial activity? It is doing something that can feel good but also that benefits someone else without hurting anyone. The good subscribes to Kant’s definition of the categorical imperative. Whatever you will to be true ought to be a universalizable concept that everyone would accept to be done onto them and to all those they love. First we are born, then we see someone do something, then we mimic their behavior without really being able to judge its quality or utility or goodness/beneficiality for ourselves because we lack the experience of it. And we also lack the experience of greater things around it or around us. Our world is small and we are thus born into prejudice. Prejudice means judging something before hand, before we can really judge it for itself. We merely copy another person whom we trust or to whom we are entrusted. And this person presumably has more experience than we do but that experience is important in quality and quantity and in all the bias and prejudice it carries with it. Prejudice is also related to doing harm etymologically. If we judge something based on our vanity, which is formed progressively through mimicry and social expectations as we grow up and become integrated into the social fabric of symbolic prejudice running amok, then we are doing harm because we are putting ourselves above others. We think we are in a competition but this is a socially constructed illusion. What are we competing for? We are competing for who is the best. And what does that mean? Nothing if we judge for ourselves. If we judge for ourselves we will realize that symbolic value comes from peer pressure and rivalry, and not from intrinsic value. Everything is necessary to life, so everything has intrinsic value. And if we judge for ourselves we will create diversity and difference in equal worth for us all because we will realize that our self-worth does not depend on what others think. And thinking you are better than someone else means being prejudiced and doing harm and not thinking for yourself or being beneficial to yourself and others. I need to think about the material implications of this worldview, but therein lies the difference between things of equal moral worth we must respect while helping each other live a fulfilling life not defined by symbolic lack or unlivable material lack and therefore emphasizing that we recognize everyone’s worth and right to exist in non-violence.

Fragments from a Woman's Life, Part 1

James Rosenquist, Flowers and Females, 1984

Fragments from a Woman's Life, Part 1 is an original short story by Bora Mici written in Italian language. It follows the model of The Man Who Wore the News, which was published in July 2025, and uses unknown vocabulary words gleaned from various sources, including didactical texts, podcasts in Italian and Italian-language literature from authors such as Jhumpa Lahiri and Italo Calvino. This particular story is still in the making and will be published in installments as it evolves in the guise of a 19th-century roman feuilleton. However it will be a short story and not a novel. Just like for The Man Who Wore the News, this story centering on a woman's daily life and memories, is woven around a list of vocabulary words that were either new to me or that I wanted to record for the sake of better remembering them, and I followed the list in order as I had created it spontaneously, without any particular attention to themes or an underlying logic. In that sense this story is dependent on that invisible order, which gives it an unexpected dynamic and forces me to creatively integrate words I might not have otherwise chosen into the fabric of the narrative. This first installment is subject to minor modifications in the event that the subsequent one necessitates it. But I will notify you if I make any changes. As always if you are a native Italian speaker reading this, you may pick up a small mistake here and there because I have not had it edited, and I am still learning Italian. However, you might be pleasantly surprised by the complexity of the story.          

Fragments from a Woman's Life, Part: Short Story by Bora Mici

Si aggiustò i capelli aggrinzando un po’ le labbra mentre si guardava nello specchio. Stava appena albeggiando. Doveva mandare un email con il suo lavoro svolto la sera prima in allegato. Non se ne aspettava di ricevere una risposta prima del indomani. Il suo datore di lavoro le aveva comunicato che l’assegno era già stato imbucato da una settimana. Rideva sotto i baffi mentre pensava al suo sforzo frenetico ma finto per non consegnare il dossier in ritardo. In realtà avrebbe voluto spassarsela senza prendere il compito troppo sul serio. Si era veramente dimenata benché sapesse che tutto si sarebbe stato arrangiato ed avrebbe fatto un lavoro più che sufficiente. Adesso si sentiva benino mentre sognava un caffè ristretto. La bontà degli esseri umani le appariva un’evidenza schiacciante come gli uccellini che cantano sui rami senza averne coscienza. Si recò alla buca delle lettere ancora una volta per verificare che non fosse arrivato e rientrò in casa. Decise che quel giorno avrebbe messo entrambi le calze ed i calzini, ma niente calzoni, solo una gonna di lana per celebrare il freddo invernale insediatosi di recente nell’aria secca. La camicetta poi l’avrebbe messa soltanto per andare in ufficio perché altrimenti si sarebbe bagnata di sudore mentre passeggiava sotto i raggi abbaglianti del sole mattutino.

Avrebbe fatto il suo solito tragitto da una casella postale all’altra, da una cassetta delle lettere davanti a una casa che somigliava proprio alla prossima, tutte allineate sulla stessa riga scorrendo parallelamente al vicolo dove abitava. Avrebbe salutato il cassiere che stava per recarsi al supermercato, immaginandolo bonario e celibe, che inscatolava le ciliegie appena arrivate da chissà che paese lontano. Si infilò la cinghia di cuoio nero con la fibbia di metallo giallastro e gettò uno sguardo attraverso la finestra chiusa allo riverberare della luce bianca e liquida sul cofano della sua macchina rossa parcheggiata nel camino affiancando la casa. Siccome aveva delle inclinazioni ambientaliste, lo aveva fatto pavimentare di mattoni incastrati nel suolo a capofitto e spaziati tra di loro. In quelle crepe cresceva l’erba, piccola e dritta, che si era ormai ingiallita dal freddo.

Nel silenzio si rammentò il colloquio con il giornalista che le aveva chiesto come era stato di lavorare in negozio in tanto che commessa quando era giovane. Ricordava soltanto il modulo banale che doveva compilare senza nemmeno capire a cosa servisse, visto che una non chiede di diventare commessa se ha esperienze antecedenti di lavoro. Poi, d’improvviso, il suo pensiero rigalleggiò nel presente rivolgendosi ai contorni che aveva promesso di comprare per la festa di compleanno della sua migliore amica.

Due notti prima avevano fatto baldoria in una discoteca e lei le aveva lasciato sul cruscotto un foglio con l’indirizzo della festa, che purtroppo era stato bagnato nel diluvio notturno, mentre lei lo portava con sé nel corto tragitto dalla macchina in casa. Il domattina l’aveva trovato illeggibile.

Presto si sarebbe recata dalla fornaia e dalla fruttivendola ma prima doveva occuparsi della sua portiera guastata. Quando sarebbe arrivato l’assegno avrebbe impiegato un’oretta per incassarlo in banca. Non si era nemmeno resa conto di aver varcato la soglia della porta e di ritrovarsi nel giardino davanti a casa sua. Improvvisamente frugò nella buca delle lettere e vide che aveva dimenticato di recuperare una cartaccia coperta di inserzioni promettendo di fornire i prezzi più vantaggiosi per una interurbana. Doveva essere uno scherzo o una truffa! Chi ne avrebbe tratto un’utilità da un’offerta simile nell’epoca dei cellulari? In un lampo, sgualcì il foglio, ne fece una pallina, e con un sorriso lieto, pensò ad imbucarla nella cassetta del vicino così come era appallottolata. Invece si immagino che avesse davanti a sé un macellaio fiero di sé ed un monaco vegetariano e che ne uno ne l’altro avrebbe molto gradito questo suo modo di comportarsi come un monello maleducato, e che neppure stando al largo per fare loro strada, non gli avrebbe convinti che fosse un’adulta nubile che si sarebbe costituita una nuora degna di ogni onore. Le venne in mente che occorreva chiamare il padrone di casa per avvertirlo che il pagamento dell'affitto lo avrebbe consegnato quando avrebbe ricevuto il suo stipendio, e di sottecchi gettò uno sguardo alla parabrezza della macchina che era sporca, e pensò anche che doveva portarla a lavare tutta perché anche il paraurti ed il parafango erano coperti di chiazze di acqua infangata.

Aveva voglia di una pera che poi l’avrebbe anche aiutata a sciogliersi le budella, perciò rientrò in casa dal portone che era rimasto aperto, prese la sua pillola mattutina e si portò indietro quella pallottola di carta straccia e la buttò via insieme al prezzemolo marcio che trovò nel frigorifero. Qualora avesse avuto bisogno di altro ne avrebbe potuto comprare al supermercato a due passi da lì. Quantunque non le paresse necessario al momento, forse avrebbe fatto meglio a procurarselo subito per evitare ogni imprevisto. Dunque si recò a piedi al negozio del rione, sgualcì la ricevuta come aveva fatto con il foglio di inserzioni, e come un regista da film si vide salpare dietro l’orizzonte in una barca a vela sebbene le paresse seccante di essere stata interrotta nella sua fantasia dal pensiero del serbatoio quasi vuoto e della sottana di seta che doveva portare in biancheria e dopodiché averla aggiustata alla sua statura da grissino. Aprì la portiera della macchina rossa e mise il tergicristallo in moto per pulire un po’ la parabrezza. Tutt’a un tratto cominciò a tirare vento e si sentì un rintocco lontano di campana che segnalava le otto di mattina. Nel bagliore della luce del sole i suoi capelli sembravano che tornassero biondi come li aveva avuti da bambina. Sentì un tuono e si disse che da qualche parte c’era stata un’esplosione e poi si ricordò della vaglia che doveva mandare in raccomandata da subito.

Per ammazzare il tempo mentre guidava la sua macchina infangata nella direzione della posta si rammentava le vacanze presso il lago di Como dell’anno prima. Ci era andata con sua amica, quella della festa, e dapprima erano scese alla sponda per bagnarsi i piedi e tastare l’acqua. Poi immergendosi fino alla vita, avevano accennato alcune bracciate, facendo finta di nuotare. Tuttavia, siccome non erano esperte gli sembrava di non avanzare del tutto, bensì di muoversi in tondo mentre le sagome dei pesci giravano intorno alla parte sommersa dei loro corpi bianchi come il gesso che oscilla nella luce del sole. La svolta si compì quando riuscirono a galleggiare ma al contempo sentivano un lieve disagio cagionatosi dallo sguardo svergognato di due bambini che non smettevano di fissarle. Finsero il distacco, ma questa menzogna destò un desiderio inappagato in loro di andare incontro ai bambini e di incalzarli di urli e di rimproveri duri. Tuttavia si accontentarono di percepire la luce nei loro occhi maliziosi come una forza naturale ignota che si sarebbe smussata con il calo del sole all’imbrunire. Non erano del tutto felici e si dimenavano nell’acqua a malapena addestrate, segnalando appunti mentali su come fargliela pagare a quei mocciosi scarni mentre stentavano tuttora a strapparsi dalla superficie ormai torbida che gli infastidiva. La loro riserva di pazienza era già strapiena. L’estro con cui si erano avviate nel lago dapprima era sprofondato sottacqua come una cartella pesante e fradicia di dati ingombranti. Adesso i bambini si bagnavano a loro volta, i movimenti delle loro vite smunte lasciavano intravedere i passi premurosi e scorrevoli che compivano sulle sabbie moventi del fondo. Diversamente dalle amiche non sembravano affatto impacciati né avviliti dallo stento. Invece sorridevano quasi mansueti mentre lasciavano alle spalle il riparo della sponda. Si sprigionava un’energia bonaria e innocente dalle loro facce abbronzate e dalle loro membra esili e rilassate.

Mentre guidava passò accanto ad una panca di legno marcio sopra la quale avvertì uno scaffale di ottone brillante e sedutosi accanto un uomo spossato che la guardava in modo strambo come se le stesse chiedendo di fermarsi. Tutt'a un tratto lo vide sviare lo sguardo e porlo altrove, e decise che d’ora in poi non si sarebbe lasciata distrarre da persone che non conosceva neppure. I bambini del lago gli avevano davvero giocato un brutto scherzo quel giorno. Però la perizia nel barattare con se stessa rendeva il proposito un’impresa difficile da portare in porto. Non doveva darsela per scontata di poter far spargere così facilmente la foschia leggera ma sconfinata che si innalzava intorno a lei e dalla quale risaltava di nuovo il viso dello sconosciuto che la incalzava di azzardarsi a parlargli. Non si poteva permettersi di vagheggiare un tale incontro mentre guidava per spedire un’azione precisa che aveva una scadenza imminente. Invece la brama vaporosa traboccava dai confini della sua attenzione, rivolta alla strada, e che la portava sempre in avanti inesorabilmente per andare ad effettuare la spedizione del denaro. La foschia si radunava e si disfaceva a seconda delle sue emozioni che guizzavano, reggevano e poi si imbattevano abbattuti nella corsa selvatica della macchina verso l’ufficio postale. O stava andando in banca?

Si ricordò di non aver portato fuori la differenziata mentre cercava di attingere nei suoi ricordi più sepolti la ragione per cui quell'uomo sulla panca non le era sembrato una semplice inezia dell’azzardo. Era uno sforzo impegnativo e si rese conto che aveva schiacciato il pulsante sbagliato. Avrebbe dovuto accendere l’altro indicatore per segnalare che stava svoltando. Così, mentre progrediva a tentoni nella memoria annebbiata da una confusione travolgente, decise di schiarirsi le idee, tornare indietro e crivellare lo sconosciuto di domande inopportune. Aveva lavorato sodo il giorno prima, ed ulteriormente era di rado che le arrivasse di arrendersi a un impulso meno che sbrigativo. Sotto la sua corazza di impiegata infallibile c’era qualcosa di grezzo ed al contempo inafferrabile, come un graffio. Lei avrebbe dovuto spaccare in due il nodo per riuscire a svelarne il significato, dipanando così il filo che indicava la via d’uscita. Mentre rimuginava tutti questi pensieri storditi percepì un intralcio insuperabile in quanto scrittrice insofferente della mitezza con cui reagiva in realtà, malgrado la pioggia che le scrosciasse dentro.

Read Part 2.

Read The Man Who Wore the News.