is moving its slow thighs against the projected wilderness, against the reflected barbarism, against the savage face that looks out of the pond, its motion emptying the pond, rending its banks, leaving an arid crater where there was life. We’re on the side with the angels.Ī shape with lion body and the head of a man, The dry sterile thunder without rain, the confused alarms of struggle and flight, are projected outward, into the great unknown, across the seas and over the mountains. Publicly the wilderness is elsewhere, barbarism is abroad, savagery is on the face of the other. Haven’t we always known it? Isn’t this a public secret? Hasn’t it always been the big public secret? Hic Rhodus! This is the place to jump, the place to dance! This is the wilderness! Was there ever any other? This is savagery! Do you call it freedom? This is barbarism! The struggle for survival is right here. This is the waste land: England, America, Russia, China, Israel, France.Īnd we are here as victims, or as spectators, or as perpetrators of tortures, massacres, poisonings, manipulations, despoliations. There is not even silence in the mountainsīut dry sterile thunder without rain. Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight
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