from Rikki Ducornet's "The Fan-Maker's Inquisition,"

Following from Rikki Ducornet's priceless work "The Fan-Maker's Inquisition,"  in honor of Bastille Day, and the art of remembering.

In this passage, the Marquis de Sade is recalling the horrors of the French Revolution, and the perplexing fact that he has been imprisoned and is awaiting death, in a cell which is above the guillotine, so that daily he sees 'enemies of the state' being killed in the manner that eventually awaits him, for the crime of words, for the crime of setting an atyplical moral example of personal tastes and individual predilections.
--

Amie--

Up here in my eyrie I consider the facts, those five days in September when Satan, disguised as a citizen, ruled Paris.  And if the bodies of the victims are rotting away in their beds of lime and straw, if the courtyards are washed clean of blood and the gardens weeded of eyes and teeth, if, already, the world--so always eager to forget, is forgetting, I, Donatien de Sade, remember.

I remember how a vinegar-maker named Damiens cut the throat of a general before cutting out his heart, and how he put it to his lips--Ah!  The exemplary Mayan gesture!  how a flower girl was eviscerated and the wound made into the hearth that roasted her alive; how a child was told to bite the lips of corpses; how one Mademoiselle de Sombreuil was given a glass of human blood to drink; how the face of the king's valet was burned with torches; how one Monsieur de Maussabre was smoked in his own chimney; how the children incarcerated in Bicetre were so brutally raped that their corpses were not recognizable; and how the clothes of the victims taken from the corpses were carefully washed, mended, pressed and put up for sale!  The Revolution, ma mie, shall pay for itself.  And I remember, helas, I shall never forget, how my cousin Stanislas, that gentle boy, was thrown from a window the night of August tenth; how his body, broken on the street, was torn apart by the crowd.  All night the bells sounded--I hear them even now.  The bells of massacre.  The bells of rage.  "What do you expect?" Danton--all howl and black bile--said to the Comte de Segur. "We are dogs, dogs born in the gutter."

Already, although blood continues to spill and the trees of Paris are daily watered with tears, there are those who would say all this never happened, that the trials and executions are orderly, silent, and fair; that such stories--the head of Madame de Lamballe exhibited on a pike, of Monsieur de Montmorin impaled and carried to the National Assembly for display--are false, the fables so dear to the "popular imagination."  Well, then, I ask you:  If this is so, why am I, whose imagination is clearly as "popular" as the next man's, why am I still locked away?

...Which reminds me, I ate all the pastilles.  I shall lose my teeth; no matter.  Like Danton, "I don't give a fuck."  What will be left to bite into?  Without its kings, France will be as unsavory as America.  France, too, is to be run by merchants.  Merchants!  I have met some--a good number--in jail.  Their notion of beauty is forgery, their idea of virtue, counterfeit; their hearts are in deficit; their interests simple; their pricks as dog-eared and limp as old banknotes.  Welcome to the New Century!  We shall tumble into it as frightened rats tumble into a sewer. And the horrors that will be done in the name of Prosperity will make all the corrupt castles of my mind look like little more than the idle thoughts of a cloistered priest--and the excesses of Landa among the Maya of the Yucatan, a mere drop of oil in a forest on fire.

Speaking of fire:  Today in my idleness I imagined a fan that could be ignited by a tear.  Can such a thing be?

Ragnarök - Thoughts of Myths by AS Byatt

"for everything hangs together, and the world may be destroyed by too much attention, or too little care, towards a sand-eel, for example."
~from the principal text of AS Byatt's Ragnarök


After reading AS Byatt's Ragnarök twice, I read the essay which appears afterwards, and was stunned by the presence of the following passage, ideas of which are woven both throughout the novella, and my own thinking.  'The thin child' described is the person encountering the myths for the first time, during wartime in her own world, when the myths make more sense than the day to day, benign seeming reality. ~david

The death of the gods is a linear tale, with a beginning, a middle and an end.  A human life is a linear tale.  Myths proceed to disaster and maybe to resurrection.  The thin child believed in the eternal recurrence of growing things, and in weather.

But if you write a version of Ragnarök in the twenty-first century, it is haunted by the imagining of a different end of things.   We are a species of animal which is bringing about the end of the world we were born into.  Not out of evil or malice, or not mainly, but because of a lopsided mixture of extraordinary cleverness, extraordinary greed, extraordinary proliferation of our own kind, and a biologically built-in short-sightedness.  Every day I read of a new extinction, of the bleaching of the coral, and the disappearance of the codfish the thin child caught in the North Sea with a hook and line, when there were always more where those came from.  I read of human projects that destroy the world they are in, ingeniously, ambitiously engineered oil wells in deep water, a road across the migration paths of the beasts in the Serengeti park, farming of asparagus in Peru, helium balloons to transport the crops more cheaply, emitting less carbon whilst the farms themselves are dangerously depleting the water that the vegetables, and the humans and other creatures depend on.  I wanted to write the end of our Midgard - but not to write an allegory or a sermon.  Almost all the scientists I know think we are bringing about our own extinction, more and more rapidly.  The weeds in the fields the thin child sees and thinks of as eternal are many of them already made extinct by modern farming methods.  Clouds of plovers do not rise. Thrushes no longer break snails on stones, and the house sparrow has vanished from our gardens.  In a way the Midgard Serpent is the central character in my story.  She loves to see the fish she kills and consumes, or indeed kills for fun, the coral she crushes and bleaches.  She poisons the earth because it is her nature.  When I began working on this story I had a metaphor in mind - I saw the death-ship, Naglfar, made of dead men's nails, as an image for what is now known as the trash vortex, the wheeling collection of indestructible plastic in the Pacific, larger than Texas.  I thought how it had grown from the plastic beakers Thor Heyerdahl was distressed to find floating in the empty ocean, on his Kon-Tiki voyage in 1947.  But I wanted to tell the myth in its own terms, as the thin child discovered it. 

I have said I did not want to humanise the gods.  But I always had in mind the wisdom of that most intelligent thinker about gods, humans and mortality, Ludwig Feuerbach.  'Homo homini deus est', he wrote, describing how our gods of Love, Wrath, Courage, Charity were in fact projections of human qualities we constructed from our sense of ourselves.   He was talking about the incarnate god of Christianity,  a God in man who to Feuerbach was a man made god.  George Eliot translated The Essence of Christianity fluently and flexibly, and its influence is strong in her work.  But there is a sense in which the Norse Gods are peculiarly human in a different way.  They are human because they are limited and stupid.  They are greedy and enjoy fighting and playing games.  They are cruel and enjoy hunting and jokes.  They know Ragnarök is coming, but are incapable of imagining any way to fend it off, or change the story.  They know how to die gallantly, but not how to make a better world.  Homo homini lupus est, wrote Hobbes, man is a wolf to man, describing the wolf inside, Hobbes who had a grim vision of the life of men as solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.  Loki is the only one who is clever and Loki is irresponsible and wayward and mocking.

...As a child I had always sympathised with Loki, because he was a clever outsider.  When I came to write this tale I realised that Loki was interested in Chaos - his stories contain flames and waterfalls, the formless things inside which chaos theorists perceive order inside disorder.  He is interested in the order in destruction and the destruction in order.  If I were writing an allegory he would be a detached scientific intelligence which could either save the earth or contribute to its rapid disintegration.  As it is, the world ends because neither the all too human gods, with their arms and quarrels, nor the fiery thinker know how to save it.