Tripalium

Tripalium – do latim tardio “tri”, três, e “palus”, pau, literalmente, “três paus”, é um instrumento romano de tortura, uma espécie de tripé formado por três estacas cravadas no chão na forma de uma pirâmide, no qual eram supliciados os escravos. Daí derivou-se o verbo do latim vulgar tripaliare (ou trepaliare), que significava, inicialmente, torturar alguém no tripalium.

É comumente aceite na comunidade linguística que esses termos vieram a dar origem, no português, às palavras “trabalho” e “trabalhar”. No sentido original, o “trabalhador” seria o carrasco, e não a “vítima”.

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«É que o modelo trabalho, que define a ferramenta, pertence ao aparelho de Estado. Com freqüência se disse que o homem das sociedades primitivas não trabalhava propriamente, mesmo se suas atividades eram muito coercitivas e regradas; e tampouco o homem de guerra enquanto tal (…).

O elemento técnico torna-se ferramenta quando se abstrai do território e se assenta sobre a terra enquanto objeto; mas é ao mesmo tempo que o signo deixa de inscrever-se sobre o corpo, e se escreve sobre uma matéria objetiva imóvel. Para que haja trabalho, é preciso uma captura da atividade pelo aparelho de Estado, uma semiotização da atividade pela escrita.»

– Deleuze & Guattari, “Mille Plateaux”

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«Há um direito que só muito poucos intelectuais cuidam de reivindicar: o direito à errância, à vagabundagem. E no entanto, a vagabundagem é a emancipação, e a vida ao longo das estradas, a liberdade. Romper corajosamente um dia com todos os entraves que a vida moderna e a fraqueza do nosso coração, a pretexto de liberdade, fizeram pesar sobre os nossos movimentos, pegar no bordão e no alforge simbólicos e partir! (…) Ter um domicílio, uma família, uma propriedade ou uma função pública, meios de existência definidos, eis outras tantas coisas que parecem necessárias, indispensáveis quase, à imensa maioria dos homens, incluindo até mesmo os intelectuais que se crêem mais emancipados. Todavia, todas essas coisas são apenas formas variadas da escravidão (…)».

– Isabelle Eberhardt

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«Qualquer pessoa com um ofício conhecido – sapateiro, padeiro, médico, pintor, engenheiro, etc. – é uma presa para o Estado. Ter um ofício normal é perder a liberdade. Temos de exercer ofícios desconhecidos, que não tenham interferência na vida material, mas sim que produzam estados de consciência.»

– Alejandro Jodorowsky

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«… Estado que pretende formar, o mais cedo possível, empregados úteis, e assegurar-se da sua docilidade incondicional, por meio de provas muito duras, tudo isso tinha ficado mil milhas afastado da nossa formação. (…) Semelhante gozo do instante, sem qualquer objectivo, semelhante balanceio no baloiço do instante parecerá quase incrível – e, em todo o caso, censurável – na nossa época, hostil a tudo o que é inútil. Que inúteis éramos! Cada um de nós poderia ter disputado ao outro a honra de ser o mais inútil. Não queríamos significar nada, representar nada, tender para nada, queríamos carecer de porvir, o único que queríamos era não sermos úteis para nada, comodamente encostados no umbral do presente: e realmente éramos tudo isso; melhor para nós!»

– Nietzsche, “O Futuro das Instituições de Ensino”, p. 34.

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«O que o sistema, chegado ao alto ponto de inutilidade “objectiva”, produz e reproduz é o próprio trabalho. (…) À absurda circularidade de um sistema em que se trabalha para produzir trabalho corresponde a reivindicação da greve pela greve»

– Baudrillard, “A Troca Simbólica e a Morte”, vol. I, p. 54.

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«Haverá por acaso algo que destrua alguém mais rapidamente do que trabalhar, pensar, sentir, sem uma necessidade interior, sem uma escolha profundamente pessoal, sem prazer, como autómato do “dever”? Eis precisamente a receita da décadence, da própria imbecilidade… Kant tornou-se imbecil.»

– Nietzsche, “O Anticristo”

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«Eu preferiria vaguear e passar o tempo numa valeta lamacenta, a meu bel-prazer, do que ser colocado sob as restrições que um governante me imporia.»

– Chuang Tsé

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«…the relationship between lord and subject is established, hearts become daily filled with evil designs, until the manacled criminals sullenly doing forced labour in the mud and the dust are full of mutinous thoughts.»

– Bao Jingyan ou Pao Ching-yen, 4 A.D

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«Se um determinado livro não tiver sobre o leitor um tal impacto que no dia seguinte ele deixe de ir ao emprego, esse livro nada vale.»

– Albert Cossery

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«How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?»

– Charles Bukowski, “Factotum” (1975)

‘Mutter, ich bin dumm’

«Et il y a six hommes,
un pour chaque soleil,
et un septième homme
qui est le soleil tout
cru
habillé de noir et de chair rouge.

Or, ce septième homme
est un cheval,
un cheval avec un homme qui le mène.

Mais c’est le cheval
qui est le soleil
et non l’homme».

– Artaud, “Tutuguri – Le Rite du Soleil Noir”, 1925.

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dumm

  1. dumb, silent, mute, unable to speak;
  2. dumb, stupid.

“The Turin Horse” (2011), Béla Tarr

«In Turin on January 3rd 1889, Friedrich Nietzsche steps out of the door of number 6, Via Carlo Alberto, perhaps to take a stroll, perhaps to go by the post office to collect his mail.

Not far from him, or indeed very far removed from him, a cabman is having trouble with his stubborn horse. Despite all his urging,
the horse refuses to move, whereupon the cabman – Giuseppe? Carlo? Ettore? – loses his patience and takes his whip to it.

Nietzsche comes up to the throng and that puts an end to the brutal scene of the cabman, who by this time is foaming with rage.

The solidly built and full-mustached Nietzsche suddenly jumps up to the cab and throws his arms around the horse’s neck… sobbing.

His neighbor takes him home, where he lies for two days, still and silent, on a divan, until at last he mutters the obligatory last words: “Mutter, ich bin dumm” (“Mother, I’m foolish”).

He lives for another 10 years, gentle and demented, in the care of his mother and sisters.

Of the horse… we know nothing.»

«- Hey, you!

– What is it?

– Can’t you hear them either?

– What?

– The woodworm: they’re not making any noise. I’ve heard them for 58 years… but I don’t hear them now. They really have stopped.

– What’s it all about, papa?

– I don’t know. Let’s sleep.

She lies back and pulls the blanket over herself. Ohlsdorfer turns on his side, and fixes his gaze on the window. The girl stares at the ceiling, her father at the window. At times tiles can be heard falling down from the roof, and shattering noisily.
The gale roars relentlessly around the house.»

« – I had to realize, and I did realize, that I was mistaken, I was truly mistaken, when I thought… that there has never been, and could never be, any kind of change here on Earth. Because, believe me, I know now… that this change has indeed taken place.

– Come off it! That’s rubbish!»

«- What’s that? What’s happening?

– A cart’s approaching.

– Who are they?

– Gypsies, I think.

– What the fuck do they want here?

– I don’t know, but they’re coming this way!

– The stinking rotten bastards!

– What shall we do?

– Go and chase them away! What are you waiting for? Get moving!

– There’s water here. Come and help! Come and help, papa! Come on, hey! Come and drink! Hold the horse… Look! Here comes the girl… Here’s the girl. Her eyes are like the devil’s…

– Get away from here! Go away! What are you doing here? Get away from here!

– Come with us!

– I won’t! I’m not going anywhere!

– Come with us to America!

– Are you deaf? Let me go! I’m not going with you! God forbid!

– You’ll like it there!

– I don’t care! Let go!

– Fuck you, sons of bitches! Get the hell out of here! I’ll rip your guts out, for fuck’s sake! Dirty rotten gypsies!

– This is for the water…

– He’ll kill me! Papa! Papa! Faster! Just come over here, you worm…! We’ll be back! The water is ours! The earth is ours! You’re weak! You’re weak! Drop dead! Drop dead! Drop dead!»

«The storm continues to rage outside. The wind still sweeps relentlessly across the land from the same direction. But now there is nothing in its path to obstruct it. Only a great cloud of dust whipped up by the wind rushes recklessly forward. Bone-dry dust and ravaging nothingness which the wind rolls before it as it rages unbridled over the barren land.»

«- Why don’t you eat? You’re not going anywhere… Drink! At least drink a little water! For my sake!»

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Interview by Vladan Petkovic (excerpts)

«Béla Tarr: So, the horse has an owner and this owner is maybe as famished as the horse. There’s his daughter and somebody is falling out of this triangle. When one of them is out, the relationship is over. It’s really quite simple. (…)

When you’re doing a movie, you don’t do theories. I just look for locations. A location has a face – it’s one of the main characters. So I found this little valley in Hungary and the lonely tree. There wasn’t a house, we had to build it. I hate artificial sets, so we made a real house out of stone and wood. We also built the well and the stable. (…)

The Turin Horse is about the heaviness of human existence. How it’s difficult to live your daily life, and the monotony of life. We didn’t want to talk about mortality or any such general thing. We just wanted to see how difficult and terrible it is when every day you have to go to the well and bring the water, in summer, in winter… All the time. The daily repetition of the same routine makes it possible to show that something is wrong with their world. It’s very simple and pure. (…)

Now, I can just say it’s quite heavy and I don’t know what is coming, but I can see something that is very close – the end. Before the shooting I knew this would be my last film. (…)

Our starting point was Nietzsche’s sentence, “God is dead”. This character [the visitor] says, “We destroyed the world and it’s also God’s fault,” which is different from Nietzsche. The key point is that the humanity, all of us, including me, are responsible for destruction of the world. But there is also a force above human at work – the gale blowing throughout the film – that is also destroying the world. So both humanity and a higher force are destroying the world. (…)
 
The apocalypse is a huge event. But reality is not like that. In my film, the end of the world is very silent, very weak. So the end of the world comes as I see it coming in real life – slowly and quietly. Death is always the most terrible scene, and when you watch someone dying – an animal or a human – it’s always terrible, and the most terrible thing is that it looks like nothing happened

No quiso salir la Luna

“La Sandunga”, by Raphael

¡AY! SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA TU AMOR YO QUIERO
SI NO ME LO DAS SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA DE AMOR ME MUERO

¡AY! SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA NO SEAS TAN CRUEL
Y NO ME NIEGUES SANDUNGA
TU BOCA QUE SABE A MIEL

ME PASO LA NOCHE EN VELA
SOÑANDO QUE SOY TU DUEÑO
Y LUEGO POR LA MAÑANA
COMPRENDO QUE HA SIDO UN SUEÑO

¡AY! SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA TU AMOR YO QUIERO
SI NO ME LO DAS SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA DE AMOR ME MUERO

¡AY! SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA NO SEAS TAN CRUEL
Y NO ME NIEGUES SANDUNGA
TU BOCA QUE SABE A MIEL

LA NOCHE QUE NOS BESAMOS
A ORILLAS DE LA LAGUNA
CELOSA POR VERNOS JUNTOS
NO QUISO SALIR LA LUNA

¡AY! SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA TU AMOR YO QUIERO
SI NO ME LO DAS SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA DE AMOR ME MUERO

¡AY! SANDUNGA
SANDUNGA NO SEAS TAN CRUEL
Y NO ME NIEGUES SANDUNGA
TU BOCA QUE SABE A MIEL

Not a cult of death this

«At his dawn, the world must have been full of the same regal indolence.»

«Fate takes the form of a drunken guest.»

«The Mexican mocks death. (…) Not a cult of death this, not the stillness of stone or the awesomeness of stone idols… No! But man’s triumph over death through mockery of it!»

– Eisenstein, “Que viva México!”, 1932

 

La machine

«C’était, le long du couloir des chambres, une promiscuité de caserne, des filles souvent peu soignées, des commérages d’eaux de toilette et de linges sales, toute une aigreur qui se dépensait en brouilles et en raccommodements continuels. Du reste, défense de remonter pendant le jour; elles ne vivaient pas là, elles y logeaient la nuit, n’y rentrant le soir qu’à la dernière minute, s’en échappant le matin, endormies encore, mal réveillées par un débarbouillage rapide; et ce coup de vent qui balayait sans cesse le couloir, la fatigue des treize heures de travail qui les jetait au lit sans un souffle, achevaient de changer les combles en une auberge traversée par la maussaderie éreintée d’une débandade de voyageurs.»

«Cependant, il y avait peu de place pour les songeries dangereuses, au milieu de son existence de travail. Dans le magasin, sous l’écrasement des treize heures de besogne, on ne pensait guère à des tendresses, entre vendeurs et vendeuses. Si la bataille continuelle de l’argent n’avait effacé les sexes, il aurait suffi, pour tuer le désir, de la bousculade de chaque minute, qui occupait la tête et rompait les membres. À peine pouvait-on citer quelques rares liaisons d’amour, parmi les hostilités et les camaraderies d’homme à femme, les coudoiements sans fin de rayon à rayon. Tous n’étaient plus que des rouages, se trouvaient emportés par le branle de la machine, abdiquant leur personnalité, additionnant simplement leurs forces, dans ce total banal et puissant de phalanstère. Au dehors seulement, reprenait la vie individuelle, avec la brusque flambée des passions qui se réveillaient.»

«Etait-ce donc vrai, cette nécessité de la mort engraissant le monde, cette lutte pour la vie qui faisait pousser les êtres sur le charnier de l’éternelle destruction ? (…) Mon Dieu ! que de tortures ! des familles qui pleurent, des vieillards jetés au pavé, tous les drames poignants de la ruine ! Et elle ne pouvait sauver personne, et elle avait conscience que cela était bon, qu’il fallait ce fumier de misères à la santé du Paris de demain. Au jour, elle se calma, une grande tristesse résignée la tenait les yeux ouverts, tournés vers la fenêtre dont les vitres s’éclairaient. Oui, c’était la part du sang, toute révolution voulait des martyrs, on ne marchait en avant que sur des morts. Sa peur d’être une âme mauvaise, d’avoir travaillé au meurtre de ses proches, se fondait à présent dans une pitié navrée, en face de ces maux irrémédiables, qui sont l’enfantement douloureux de chaque génération. Elle finit par chercher les soulagements possibles, sa bonté rêva longtemps aux moyens à prendre, pour sauver au moins les siens de l’écrasement final.»

«Puis, il repartit violemment, il croyait à la toute-puissance de sa volonté.

— Je la veux, je l’aurai !… Et si elle m’échappe, tu verras quelle machine je bâtirai pour me guérir. Ce sera superbe quand même… Tu n’entends pas cette langue, mon vieux : autrement, tu saurais que l’action contient en elle sa récompense. Agir, créer, se battre contre les faits, les vaincre ou être vaincu par eux, toute la joie et toute la santé humaines sont là !

— Simple façon de s’étourdir, murmura l’autre.

— Eh bien ! j’aime mieux m’étourdir… Crever pour crever, je préfère crever de passion que de crever d’ennui !»

– Émile Zola, “Au bonheur des dames“.