Marx

 

We dystopia

Dada prose

I don't know what reality is. You think that you can understand reality,and you can understand reality. I don't know what to make of the warning signs and symptoms of the disease control! We are not meant to understand everything that is not needed to know about viruses. We don't ponder the world! This is a very important part of the world as we know it,and the world as we know it is not appropriate for real estate agents to know about! You are confusing God with the Bible. You think that you are not operating according to a narrative.We are not meant for the craziness of dialectical materialism. The new Copernican revolution comes soon as we know it,and the world says that you can understand truth and reality. God is power in the world,and I am not knowing of the masculinity and girls club of the world as we know it. That is not reality show about a video on the logos.

THE POEM by nabokov

Written in Russian and translated by VN himself

THE POEM

Not the sunset poem you make when you think
aloud,
with its linden tree in India ink
and the telegraph wires across its pink
cloud;

not the mirror in you and her delicate bare
shoulder still glimmering there;
not the lyrical click of a pocket rhyme—
the tiny music that tells the time;

and not the pennies and weights on those
evening papers piled up in the rain;
not the cacodemons of carnal pain;
not the things you can say so much better in plain prose—

but the poem that hurtles from heights unknown
—when you wait for the splash of the stone
deep below, and grope for your pen,
and then comes the shiver, and then—

in the tangle of sounds, the leopards of words,
the leaflike insects, the eye-spotted birds
fuse and form a silent, intense,
mimetic pattern of perfect sense.

TO RUSSIA by nabokov

Will you leave me alone? I implore you!
Dusk is ghastly. Life's noises subside.
I am helpless. And I am dying
Of the blind touch of your whelming tide.

He who freely abandons his country
on the heights to bewail it is free.
But now I am down in the valley
and now do not come close to me.

I'm prepared to lie hidden forever
and to live without name. I'm prepared,
lest we only in dreams come together,
all conceivable dreams do forswear;

to be drained of my blood, to be crippled,
to have done with the books I most love,
for the first available idiom
to exchange all I have: my own tongue.

But for that, through the tears, oh, Russia,
through the grass of two far-parted tombs,
through the birch tree's tremulous macules,
through all that sustained me since youth,

with your blind eyes, your dear eyes, cease looking
at me, oh, pity my soul,
do not rummage around in the coalpit,
do not grope for my life in this hole

because years have gone by and centuries,
and for sufferings, sorrow, and shame,
too late—there is no one to pardon
and no one to carry the blame.

cold war