Sudor de sangre

Al despertarme, las dos primeras sensaciones fueron de frío y sed, y en grado tan intenso que no pude por menos que lanzar un quejido.

Inmediatamente algunas voces débiles, inarticuladas como la mía, respondieron en la oscuridad. Vi entonces, aquí y allá, algunas manchas negras tendidas en el suelo, muy próximas a mí, y mirando con atención pude observar otras más lejanas, aún más distantes, hasta casi hacerse invisibles. Eran los moribundos y los muertos. Y entonces, como si hubiera dado la señal de los lamentos, de toda la llanura me llegaron estertores, sollozos y suspiros...

Éramos quizá dos mil los que esperábamos que vinieran a socorrernos o a enterrarnos. Una desesperación desmedida se apoderó de mi.

Pienso, Señor, que hay que pasar por eso para atreverse a hablar de la miseria de este mundo. Esto sin embargo, como verá, es sólo el comienzo.

Léon Bloy, Cuentos de guerra (Sueur du sang).

Un bell rosari de sang

Veyent acostar les flames
també reculà Dacià
la tanca dins d'una tina
que té sagetes per claus
tot encerclada de glavis
y gavinets de dos talls.

Baixada de Santa Eulàlia
tu la veres redolar
d'un abisme a un altre abisme
per aquells rostos avall
deixant un rastre en les herbes
un bell rosari de sanch.

Jacint Verdaguer.

The universe is only information

Kelly: According to your book, information underpins everything.

James Gleick: Modern physics has begun to think of the bit—this binary choice—as the ultimate fundamental particle. John Wheeler summarized the idea as “it-from-bit.” By that he meant that the basis of the physical universe—the “it” of an atom or subatomic particle—is not matter, nor energy, but a bit of information.

Kelly: That sounds almost spiritual—that the material world is really immaterial.

Gleick: I know it sounds magical, but it needs to be understood properly. Information has a material basis. It has to be carried by something.

Kelly: The extreme view would be that all these bits that make up atoms are running on a very big computer called the universe, an idea first espoused by Babbage.

Gleick: That makes sense as long as this metaphor does not diminish our sense of what the universe is but expands our sense of what a computer is.

Kelly: But as you note, some scientists say that this is not a metaphor: The universe we know is only information.

Gleick: I’m not a physicist, but that concept resonates with something that we all recognize: Information is the thing that we care most about. The more we understand the role that information plays in our world, the more skillful citizens we will be.

Kevin Kelly, Wired. Why the basis of the Universe isn't matter or energy - it's data.

Bradford

The Yorkshire ripper was from Bradford. The prostitutes who came down to London on the train on 'cheap-day return' tickets were from bradford. At a time when de game of soccer was threatened by so many troubles, Bradford seemed to have troubles of the most extreme kind. Days after the deaths in Brussels at the Heysel stadium, forty-seven Bradford football supporters were killed in one of the worst fires in the history of the sport. Eighteen months later, there was yet another fire, and a match stopped because of crowd violence.
[...]

It was everything I imagined a Bradford working-class community would be like, except that there was one difference. Everyone I'd seen since I arrived was Pakistani. I had yet to see a white face.
[...]

That evening, Jane –the friend I was staying with– and I decided to go put. we walked down the hill and into the centre of the town. It looked like many other town centres in Britain. The subways under the rundabouts stank of urine; graffiti defaced them and lakes of rainwater gathered at the bottom of the stairs. There was a massive shopping centre with unnatural lighting; some kids were rollerskating through it, pursued by three pink-faced security guards in paramilitary outfits. The shops were also the same: Rymans, Smiths, Dixons, the National Westminster Bank. I hadn't become accustomed to Bradford and found myself making simple comparisons with London. The clothes people wore were shabby and old; they looked as if they'd been bought in jumble sales or second-hand shops. And their faces had an unhealthy aspect: some were malnourished.

As we crossed the city, I could see that some parts looked old-fashioned. They reminded me of my English grandfather and the Britain of my childhood: pigeon keeping, greyhound racing, roast beef eating and pianos in pubs. Outside the centre, there were shops you'd rarely see in London now: drapers, ironmongers, fish and chip shops that still used newspaper wrappers, barber's shops with photographs in the window of men with Everly Brothers haircuts. And here, among all this, I also saw the Islamic Library and the Ambala Sweet Centre where you could buy spices: dhaniya, haldi, garam masala, and dhal and ladies' fingers. There wew Asian video shops where you could buy tapes of songs of Master SAjjad, Nayyara, Alamgir, Nazeen and M. Ali Shahaiky.

Hanif Kureishi, Granta. Bradford.

Sepultado en el sofá

De vez en cuando sentía el deseo de irse a algún sitio, de desaparecer por completo, e incluso un lugar oscuro y desierto le habría atraído si pudiera quedarse solo con sus pensamientos y nadie supiera dónde encontrarle. O, cuando menos, estar en su propia casa, en la terraza, con tal que no hubiese nadie allí, ni Lebdevev ni los niños, y echarse en el sofá, sepultando la cabeza en el cojín, y pasar de ese modo un día, una noche, y otro día. Había momentos en que soñaba con las montañas y, en particular, con cierto lugar que siempre le agradaba recordar, adonde siempre le había gustado ir cuando todavía vivía allí y miraba la aldea, el hilo blanco, apenas visible de la catarata allá abajo, las nubes blancas y las ruinas del viejo castillo. ¡Oh, cuánto anhelaba estar allí ahora y pensar en sólo una cosa –nada más que en esa cosa durante toda su vida, porque había bastante para pensar en ella mil años! ¡Y aquí que se olvidaran de él, que se olvidaran de él por completo! ¡Oh, eso era necesario, y hubiera sido mejor que no le hubiesen conocido en absoluto, y que todo esto no hubiera sido más que un sueño!
Fiodor Dostoyevski, El idiota.

La nueva Libia

La nueva Libia, si ha de depender de las personas que aguantan la base de la revolución, será muy parecida a una monarquía del golfo Pérsico, sin partidos políticos y sin separación entre Estado y religión, una democracia islámica, basada en el Corán y la ancestral estructura tribal, mucho más parecida a la monarquía saudí que a la república turca.

La élite tecnocrática e intelectual que forma el gobierno rebelde aspira a un Estado de derecho
capaz de integrar su economía con la europea, pero está tan metida en la dinámica bélica contra Gadafi, tan absorbida con gestionar el alzamiento, que ha dejado que los imanes le roben el terreno de la política. Gadafi nunca les permitió hablar de política. Ahora no hacen otra cosa. Los sermones de los viernes marcan las líneas de futuro. El pueblo, arrodillado, escucha y acepta.

"Hágame caso, conocemos muy bien a nuestro pueblo. Estamos todos unidos y no necesitamos
partidos políticos", dice el imán de una centenaria mezquita en el centro de Bengasi, mientras desgrana un proyecto de democracia directa, sin partidos políticos, que recuerda a la utopía que Gadafi no pudo alcanzar.

El imán nos recibió el jueves pasado después del rezo del mediodía con la condición de no revelar su nombre ni el del templo. No quiere problemas con las nuevas autoridades y aún teme a Gadafi. "Queremos que la charia sea la ley del Estado -explica-. Queremos una Constitución basada en la ley sagrada del Corán. Esto es lo correcto y así tendría que haber sido desde el principio".

Xavier Mas de Xaxàs, La Vanguardia. Arabia Saudí y no Turquía.

La història

HISTÒRIA
Aquí és un home.
Aquí és un cadàver.
Aquí és una estàtua.
[...]

RÈQUIEM
Tenen un wàter
d'aquells tan empipadors:
a la que vas una mica clar,
hi queda la merda enganxada.
[...]

MONUMENT
Consisteix a esculpir
l'interior d'un forat
monumental de manera
que el buit afecti la
forma d'una estàtua.

Propiedad particular.
Prohibido el paso.


Joan Brossa, El Saltamartí.

The Austrian cyborg

Sitting at Johnson’s conference table at City Hall beside Tower Bridge, where Arnold Schwarzenegger has agreed to a photo op riding a “Boris Bike”—the mayor’s environmentally friendly solution to auto exhaust in London—he needles the famously rumpled Johnson about his unruly mop of hair.
Schwarzenegger informs the mayor that his traveling aide “was insisting you don’t wear product in your hair; I say you do. Who is right?”

“What do you mean, ‘product’ ” Johnson demands in a plummy voice.

When Schwarzenegger explains, the mayor confides: “I used shampoo. I use the one that advertises on Desperate Housewives, where the woman is in the shower.”

Although the two have not previously met, they share a history. In October 2007, the governor was waiting to address a Tory party conference in Blackpool by satellite while then-mayoral candidate Johnson was onstage speaking. Schwarzenegger didn’t know his microphone was hot when he whispered that “this guy is fumbling all over the place.” After the press had a field day, Johnson noted that his oratorical style had been denounced “by a monosyllabic Austrian cyborg.”

“Our most famous encounter so far,” Johnson reminds Schwarzenegger, who replies: “Sorry about that. And I also heard about the comment you made about the Austrian cyborg.”
“I tried to get the ball back over the net. I had to say something.”

Schwarzenegger meets with the 44-year-old Cameron at the prime minister’s office in the House of Commons. They have been friendly since 2005, when New Labour was in power and Cameron was the freshly elected Tory leader.

“Governor! Governor!” the prime minister shouts, bounding into the room like an excited pup. Already that day he’s met with Peres and Gorbachev.

Gorbachev “is a terrific guy,” Schwarzenegger says. “He is so full of energy. I wish he could speak English, but just the Russian sounds great.”

“How do you think we’re getting on in Libya?” Cameron asks. “This was a tough call.”
“It’s terrific,” Schwarzenegger answers.

When Cameron announces that he’s off to Buckingham Palace for his weekly session with the queen, Schwarzenegger says, “Tell her I said hi.”

Lloyd Grove, Newsweek. Arnold's wild road trip.

Very evil-looking

Bishop was firing a pistol at her fellow scientists. For the better part of an hour, Bishop had been sitting at the end of a long conference table, listening to a dozen people discuss the biology department’s budget and other matters. Now standing near the room’s only door, she was transformed. Aiming at one colleague’s head after another, she pulled the trigger again and again. Boom. Boom.

Gopi Podila, the department chair who specialized in the molecular biology of plants, was already down and bleeding. So was Stephanie Monticciolo, the staff assistant who’d attended the 3 pm meeting to keep the minutes. Those two had been on Bishop’s right. Now she turned left and shot the person nearest to her: Adriel Johnson, an expert in gastrointestinal physiology. Next to Johnson was plant scientist Maria Ragland Davis. Bishop shot her, too. Then the department’s newest faculty member, molecular biologist Luis Cruz-Vera, was wounded in the chest by a ricocheting bullet or bone fragment. As Joseph Leahy, whose research focused on the biodegradation of hydrocarbons, ducked for cover, a bullet tore through the top of his head, severing his right optic nerve.

Moriarity had dived under the table. Now, kneeling on the rug, she grabbed hold of Bishop’s blue-jeaned leg. “Amy, don’t do this,” she pleaded. “Think about my grandson. Think about your daughter.” Bishop’s eldest daughter, Lily, was a student at the university; she studied biology with some of the people trapped in this room. “Please snap out of this,” Moriarity thought. “This has to stop.” As if in response, Bishop pointed the gun at Moriarity and pulled the trigger. Click. It didn’t fire. Moriarity, still on hands and knees, half-rolled, half-crawled toward the door, Bishop right behind her. Bishop’s eyes seemed cold and “very, very evil-looking.”

[...]

she acted no more unusual than any other scientist I’ve ever been with. You sit down with a bunch of scientists and—I hate to say it, but—their demeanor is more like him.” He nods toward his only son, curled up in a worn armchair in a corner. “You know, like a 9-year-old. Impulsive. Selfish. Me-first.”

Anderson and Bishop’s son, introduced to me earlier as “Kid Number Four,” is bright-eyed and skinny, like he’s going through a growth spurt. He has a drawing pad and a picture book about scary monsters in his lap. His face is rapt as he uses a pencil to copy a plaintive-looking creature, with its arms outstretched.

The boy’s last name is his father’s: Anderson. But his first name is the haunting one. It honors Amy Bishop’s brother, a violinist who died too young. Seth.

Amy Wallace, Wired. The Fury.

L'entrevista abans de Sant Jordi

Com creu que afecta la cultura catalana que aquesta burgesia parli i es relacioni en castellà?

El bilingüisme no em sembla una cosa dolenta, hi crec molt, i la societat catalana, independent o no, sempre serà bilingüe. Però aquesta burgesia, en els últims seixanta o setanta anys, ha tingut un efecte negatiu en la llengua i la cultura catalanes. Per desgràcia, tota societat té una elit, això és la història de l'homo sapiens, les elits han d'ajudar que la societat evolucioni sobretot culturalment, i aquesta burgesia amb la República va desconfiar de la plaça pública perquè se'ls van expropiar propietats i actius; llavors amb Franco van haver de vendre l'ànima al diable per recuperar el que són. Van fer el joc i es van tancar en el seu món privat, i tota aquesta desconfiança encara dura. A la resta d'Europa la burgesia inverteix en cultura i aquí els qui ho fan són excepcions. La majoria inverteix en parides com ara vaixells per al rei.

A la novel·la els protagonistes senten devoció per la monarquia.

La burgesia crec que sempre s'ha deixat enlluernar per la monarquia espanyola. El rei ha estat sinònim d'estabilitat i és el que la burgesia vol, en la vida privada que faci el que vulgui, seria diferent, però la burgesia l'estima perquè comporta estabilitat, i ell s'ha sabut moure molt bé en aquest entorn, amb el comte de Godó, amb el fet de tenir una filla aquí, a Baqueira...

Va escriure 'El cau del conill' a la Xina, hauria estat diferent construir-lo a Barcelona?

A principis del 2009 passava per un moment anímic força baix, no tenia esma de treballar de periodista, estava esgotat, i em vaig centrar a escriure aquest llibre. La distància d'escriure'l a la Xina em va ajudar molt, i de fet la Xina té un paper cabdal en la història. Potser no hauria estat el mateix fer-ho des d'aquí, o potser sí, no ho sé.

Que passava per un mal moment queda clar tot just obrir el llibre. La dedicatòria va adreçada a la persona que li va salvar la vida.

Vaig patir una depressió molt severa i em volia matar, vaig viure un moment molt dolent, i estava a prop de dir "ja no puc més". Un dia de drama, dels de cara o creu, vaig trucar a l'Andrea i em va recollir, em va salvar, li dec la vida. Crec que en els moments angoixants es pot ser més creatiu, Hume va escriure un assaig sobre la paradoxa de la tragèdia. És obvi que als éssers humans ens inspira.

Lídia Penelo, Público. Entrevista a Cristian Segura.