5 books on an island

For the new year, instead of useless resolutions, I propose my list of 5 books I'd take to a deserted island (if I will ever get to such a marvellous place).

1. Le città invisibili, Italo Calvino.

2. A Hundred Years of Solitude, Marquez.

3. All the works of Shakespeare (to read aloud to myself)

4. a la Recherche du Temps Perdu, Proust

5. The Great Gastby, Fitzgerald.

And if there is still room in my suitcase: all the books on Lord Peter Wimsey by D. L. Sayers, Thus Spake Zarathustra by Nietzsche, Leviathan by Hobbes, Minima Moralia by Adorno, the Bible (by you-know-who), the Ethics of Aristotle and Spinoza, something by Yaakov Shabtai, Walter Benjamin, Crime and Punishment, The Memoirs of Adrian and the entire oeuvre on Winnie the Pooh.

purity

Now is the season when everybody mush be good. Everyone tries to be kind and loving to their neighbours, as the holiday spirit demands. Oh, of course it is 'their' holiday. Does not regard 'us'. Funnily, right in the season of togetherness explodes a disgusting bubble of hatred when demonstrators in Tel Aviv demand the immediate expulsion of Africans from their city. As we are at it, let them throw out the Arabs as well, because they corrupt 'our daughters'.

Racial and ethnic hatred seems too deeply embedded in human nature. Could it ever be extinct? Who will have the courage to condemn it against the crowds? Sometimes, white people are less hated than the blacks. But this is meagre consolation. The hate arrow can easily be directed at minorities of every kind and sort. There is no salvation from the hatred, not even the holidays goodwill. Only sheer Hobbesian egoism can help: we must insist to resist the evil because we can still remember how terrible it would be if the arrow pointed at us.

Adorabile Adorno

"Per chi non ha più la patria, annche e proprio lo scrivere può diventare una sorta di abitazione. (..) L'esigenza di indurirsi e di non indulgere alla pietà di se stessi comprende in sé anche quella più tecnica di prevenire, con estrema cura, le cadute della tensione intelletuale e di eliminare tutto ciò che si viene a formare come un'incrostazione nel lavoro in corso, che continua a girare a vuoto, e che forse, in uno stadio antecedente, contribuiva a create, come ciarla o pettegolezzo, la calda atmosfera in cui l'opera può crescere e svilupparsi, ma che ora non è più che un residuo muffito e un deposito stantio. Alla fine allo scrittore non è concesso di abitare nemmeno nello scrivere. "

51. Dietro lo specchio, Minima Moralia.

Past-icide

1. Bologna in the winter sun, with the light scent of roast chestnuts, fills me with a subtle joy of reviving the nicer moments of the past. I had a rewarding hot chocolate in the caffe where I used to have breakfast in my first year before I discovered it was a fascist meeting spot; I sat in the sun in Piazza Santo Stefano and read Adorno; I had lunch in the osteria dell'Orsa; I had a posh marrocchino at Terzi; biked quickly down via Zamboni without watching out the cars; passed hours looking for inspiring books in the great bookshops; checked the fancy foodshops in the old market allies and obviously bought nothing of their expansive food, but had aperitivo at Tamburini.

A stroll in my old almamater to admire all that is human, local, temporary and yet strangely eternal.

2. Went to see The Special Relationship. Martin Sheen's Blair is a lost, yet cunning, youth in search for a mentor; Denis Quaid's Clinton is the worn-out, over-smiling infantile leader of the Free World. Both wanted glory and influence; in a sense, according to the movie, both just wanted to be loved, squashed between interests, wives, lovers, and annoying belligerent far-away countries. But somehow I felt these 'good guys' are too good. This is not politics, this is idealized liberalism. Were the filmmakers too keen to believe their characters' compelling speeches? Was there another story, more complicated, of pressures, power relations, impressive counselors and complex networks of the Political? It is nicer to believe that it all depended on Tony's smile, until the 'bad boy Bush' came along and ended the party. How much the 'special relationship' a real friendship and how much a myth? Since the movie is a clear contribution to the myth, while claiming there was a franc friendship, the answer to this question remains unclear.

Occupation!

Last Sunday I occupied the Senate House in Cambridge.

Well, more accurately, I joined in to those who had already stayed in the elegant SCR of the distinguished university. They have been there since Friday, taking part in what may be the most civilized, clean and polite occupation of a university. Indeed, the elegantly dressed guards of the building cheerfully chatted with the students as these illegally wandered about on the fancy lawn in front of the building. Quite subversive.

Substantially, the occupation is quite justified in underlining the practical and theoretical deficiencies of the proposal to raise university fees. As Raymond Geuss suggested in his talk with the students, subjecting universities to the logic of the market is not meritocratic or egalitarian. Education is not an individualistic purchasable benefit, but a public good.

Sadly, the protests have been too civilized. In order to make a political point one must have an enemy. Here it seems that the students are not regarded as worthy political rivals by the University, who will not negotiate, or by the Police, who will not forcefully evacuate. Thus, the students are marooned in the SCR, happily enjoying a long pyjamas party. Perhaps in order to succeed, a more decisive and less peaceful approach is needed. Are the well-bred Britons up to it? I dwell in my skepticism.

The best travel companion

Michael Palin described himself as the best travel companion because he never complains, eats what's available, always in for taking an adventurous road, has a torch and his own toilet paper, and a large supply of biscuits.

My best travel companion would indeed need to resist complaining (mostly because I cannot). Passion for gastronomic adventures is necessary. Seriousness about travelling, alongside a good sense of humour are very useful. Torch and biscuits are indeed a must, and perhaps sunblock, for lighter complexions.

But most of all, my adventures mate will have to be of the entrepreneurial kind. Knock on my door and take me away to hit the road together!

oral history

One night, after the soviets were in town for too many months, they heard that the Germans were moving north. There it was, the moment they all thought would come, and preferred to ignore. Her father worked in a newspaper and his friends still kept in touch every now and then, checking his family managed somehow after he died. One of them, a short mild-speaking man, told her mother this was a real danger for them all, that the Germans are not merciful. She had no patience for her mother's hesitation. She got up and looked around the room, there was not much they could actually take, if they really had only three days before the Germans arrived. This was the general estimate, that it would take them three days to cross the plains towards Riga.

One thing was clear, though. Abrasha could not come with them. His father did not want to leave, and he promised his mother, who was fortunate enough to get a certificate to emigrate to Palestine, that he would not leave his father alone. The next day, as she and her two younger sisters debated if winter jackets were necessary, he came to say goodbye. There was no way she could really say goodbye, he was too important to leave behind, but she was too afraid to stay. I will find you one day, he smiled. Maybe you will, but she knew she would never really be wholly herself anymore. One forgets, but one cannot remain the same. I will still love you, she whispered. And the next day she took the last train to Russia, with mother and the sisters. The men had already been drafted long ago, and Harry sent a photo in uniform. Photos were too important to leave behind, and at the very last moment she went back home, ran home as if her life depended on it, and took the photo album from her desk, leaving behind her secret album, locked in her night table. I will be back, anyway, she mumbled, not wanting to break open her nice little table.

She ran back to the station, her mother shouting anxiously. She stood quietly as the train moved, packed full. Please step down, the head of the train announced, the train will not continue. They were almost at the border, but the Russians would not let the train in. airplanes swarmed the skies, and randomly dropped bombs on the few intact houses sparse in the abandoned fields. let's go on, let's go on, there was panic in her voice. She was always the one to decide at home, and without knowing why, her mother signaled to the others to follow, not to look for shelter in the little farmhouse, like their fellow travelers did. A few moments later, the house was reduced to a pile of rubbles. How far this all seemed from their neat, clean apartment in the city centre, near the famous cafe where everybody went dancing at night. She could not stop and think about it. And she has always been very practical. But she wished he could be there, to smile at her, as they were all running as fast as they could, towards the Russian checkpoint.