Boris K na Rússia 3 Turgenev


 

cropped-12499139_535870049903599_1094217109_o.jpg..ele apertou a mão de Chekhov e continuou escrevendo, enquanto resmungava: “Deus sabe onde ele te levou, não vê que estou a terminar a minha tese de licenciatura? Se eu não a entregar a tempo, não me vou tornar médico. Volte para onde veio! O próprio Monge Negro enviou-o para interferir na minha carreira! Tenho de me pentear e calçar! “, disse o russo, tentando livrar-se do viajante do tempo. Na história, eles são Sholokhov e Turgenev. E deixe-me em paz “

Boris K. encontrou Turgenev, poeta da paisagem russa, sentado num banco em São Petersburgo, lamentando a morte de Gogol.

“Por que está a chorar?”, Perguntou Boris K.

“Fui expulso do funeral … Al, não enxugo as minhas lágrimas, elas são como uma tempestade após a qual uma pessoa fica mais calma”, disse o pensador revolucionário e gemeu ainda mais alto.

Boris K. sentou-se com ele. Choraram durante dois dias, cada um com suas próprias lágrimas, após o que Turgenev adotou uma atitude cavalheiresca e virou-se com desprezo para Boris K. – Você deve estar exausto! O que quer de mim?

“Você quer dizer os paparazzi?”, Boris K. refletiu depois do que contou a ele sobre o acidente.

“Eu nunca escrevi uma história assim, nem sofri um acidente. Você está realmente com problemas. Mas também há uma cura para isso!”, Turgenev piscou os olhos e deu uma palmadinha no ombro dele. “Você se parece com Gogi.”
(que era a alcunha carinhosa de Gogol)

“Venha ao fenómeno !”, Lamentou Boris K., percebendo que o russo não o ajudaria. (Talvez esteja escrevendo na Nova Inglaterra? Ou na Polónia? O endereço de E. T. Hofman? Boris K pensou…

– Boris K. Por experiência, afirmo que a erva arde como motivo da história e fonte de toda a inspiração. Turgenev disse. – A história começa “in medias res”, mas honestamente … É tão sincero que você quase acaba na prisão ou na fogueira. Vá: “Um homem – um ser que não pode amar! Então mulheres, homens e mulheres

(Boris K. ofegou de dor) …

… vao arrancar-lhe o cabelo, despir-lhe o casaco (o seu cabelo ainda está fixo, mas vejo que a sua máscara fica louca pelo reflexo na pia) –

Boris K. ficou surpreendido com o conhecimento de Turgenev.

Ivan, chamado Turgenev:

“Então chame a sua atenção para o outono escuro e o silencioso grito de amor que cheira à brisa de uma tarde ensolarada. Isso os acalmara. Depois, cite todas as ervas em que você puder pensar para fazer uma poção do amor.

Apenas citar as ervas dá uma página e meia. Enquanto cita as ervas e canta para o celebrante, os ouvintes bocejam e adormecem. Quando eles acordarem, você contará outra história que não tem nada a ver com a vida, e na nova história os pica-paus cantam e cantam … – Turgenev ficou silencioso – É tudo o que consigo pensar.a8cec49721b19826945c4fd228ec3a31.png

The speech about Boris K. “Serbian Chaplin” continues…


I have to stress that this is the second part of the promotion, there is more, but I think this part is the most representative for my book because I spoke a lot about Boris K. and other topics, too.

“The Adventures of Boris K” is a humorous and satirical story, among other things. In the midst of all the hardship he goes through, he has not forgotten to joke and play. He is a grown man but also a child. Still, it would be unfair to leave Boris K. only and exclusively in ” jaws ” of satire. The Phenomenon Republic may be an ideal state, but it must have its own Sewer opposition. These above are no better than the ones below, but, equally sadly, the lower alternative is also no better than the flappy opposition. Looks like Boris K. will see the writings’ on the wall whether he is at the top or he is down and it is not just him. The Republic is a totally totalitarian system where the opposition does not represent any kind of spiritual reprieve.

On the contrary. Boris K. does not suffer from belonging to literal ideologies. He simply wants to survive. That’s why BK chose communism because it doesn’t like injustice. Communism is in practice full of injustice, but  Boris K. does not enslave to ideologies. He is a man who would like to survive, and with whom some gods play with and place him in the most atypical situations. He is, in general, a revolutionary. Alone against everyone, from story to story, lonely but not classic, not like Clint Eastwood in spaghetti westerns. The first association with Boris K. is Joseph K. There are similarities between them, not only in the first letter of the surname! First of all, Boris K., like Kafka’s Joseph K., is actually in the midst of a “process.” The case of Joseph K. is a kind of quasi-judicial process, in the case of Boris K. about the process of so-called “phenomenization,” which is actually another name for all of us (in the countries where it was implemented) well known “transition”. The transition process is similar to the one in which Joseph K. found himself.- both of them are “adorned” by similar lawlessness and disrespect for the legal procedure, basically the defendants’ non-existent guilt, but also by the similar outcome of the process: at the end of the transition process (“phenomenization”) we see Boris K. broken, robbed, without beaten bell, bent over and reduced, to such an extent that he managed to fit a bottle of vodka in his landlady’s drawer, Froulline Suzi. But that’s the basic difference between Joseph and Boris K. – the Boris K. saga begins where the saga of Joseph K. ends, therefore, at the end of the process. Namely, in the first story in this collection of stories about Boris K.’s trials, tribulation”, the story of “Vodka”, we find him defeated by debt bondage enslaved in a bottle of vodka, condemned by the Transition Court, the so-called the “invisible hands” of the market, which grinds and crashes into bottles of alcoholic hopelessness all those who cannot adjust a cruel capitalist game called “The Dictatorship of Money” in which people and their happiness are completely irrelevant because only money matters.

(That is exactly how it is portrayed in the story “Boris K. In The Gambling Den”, in a plastic way, which explicitly states:

“Here in this casino, we do things a bit differently. You are not in control of the money, but rather the money controls you. Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you. Follow me? Follow me…” Ovde ne igraju ljudi u pare, već pare u ljude.” (srp.)

On the other hand, “The Adventures of Boris K” can also be read in the pop art key. Boris K. is the art hero of an animated cartoon for intelligent, adult people. Not being the winner of situations like the other Dylan Dog-type superheroes but a victim of transition. The connection between him and Dylan is that both are facing impossible tasks. The world in which Boris resides is no less horror than the world of ghosts and demons that Dylan Dog clashes with. With this being an emphasis on totalitarianism. To the horror of the bureaucracy. It is most similar to Asterix. In the episode when Asterix and Obelisk overcome all difficulties and duels, but when they are sent to a Roman municipality for documents, they go crazy because they realize that they have to go through 100 counters to complete the paperwork.

So they go on foot to the sixth floor, so it turns out that they have to go downstairs again because of one seal and then again on the sixth floor. It is similar to Calimero. Given how often the victim is, he is also somewhat Mr.Bean in terms of indiscretion. In any case, the reader can choose in which key they will read “The Adventures of Boris K.” because variety is the main determinant of the book. For fans of epic fantasy, on the menu are the adventures of Boris K. in the fight with witch Hurricane and Grandma Valentina (stories: “Boris K. and the Witch Hurricane”, “Boris K. and the Mirror”), for fans of pop art there are adventures similar to the story “Boris K. and Chuck Norris,” “Boris K. and Smooth Criminal.” In any case, the reader will follow Boris K. “Serbian Chaplin”,  SF traveler through space and time, in a Kafkaian atmosphere, with a healthy, childlike, throaty laugh, forgotten in childhood while reading our first favorite books, although it is essentially a very gloomy topic, on that I reckon I was able to open  doors of laughter to readers, because today is the hardest thing to make people laugh to tears.

Leila Samarrai, author of The Adventures Of Boris K

Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you.


…. Namely, in the first story in this collection of stories about Boris K.’s  trials, tribulations”, the story of “Vodka”, we find him defeated by debt bondage enslaved in a bottle of vodka, condemned by the Transition Court, the so-called the “invisible hands” of the market, which grinds and crashes into bottles of alcoholic hopelessness all those who cannot adjust a cruel capitalist game called “The Dictatorship of Money” in which people and their happiness are completely irrelevant because only money matters.

(That is exactly how it is portrayed in the story “Boris K. In The Gambling Den”, in a plastic way, which explicitly states:

“Here in this casino, we do things a bit differently. You are not in control of the money, but rather the money controls you. Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you. Follow me? Follow me…” Ovde ne igraju ljudi u pare, već pare u ljude.”  (srp.)

Leila Samarrai

i46ac3-leilaborisdownload.1jpgpeople-believe-there-is-no-difference-between-intelligence-and-smartness-45493692
Boris K. In The Gambling Den”, The Adventures Of Boris K.  an excerpt from the story

When Boris K. enters the Casino “Alexander” to try out his luck, he immediately notices there are no tables, no croupier, no chips, no slots, and no poker room. As he pauses, a seemingly invisible but powerful hand slams the door behind him with a BANG!

“Do you want to wager on red…or black?”, echoes a rough voice throughout the empty room. Since he was a Marxist by decree, Boris K.’s choice was red as expected.

Suddenly, the lights turn on and the room comes alive with gambling of every kind everywhere. The main lobby is full of blackjack tables and there are rows of slot machines. The croupier named Stendal grabs a flabbergasted Boris K. by his collar and leads him to the gaming table with an ominous whispering voice that carries within it a subtle hint of the apocalypse:

“Here, in this casino, we do things a bit differently. You are not in control of the money, but rather the money controls you. Your bets are not your own. In fact, the currency bets on you.  Follow me? Follow me…”

Quickly, the players from the noble banking houses are gathered together, so the betting process can begin. Mr.Dollar, a Canadian by origin, as well as his fellow American brother, a returnee from the Moon whom everyone fondly calls ‘Apollo,’ move toward each other, along with the ‘Euro-who-jumps’ and the inevitable ‘Serbian Dinar-to-drop,’ with the Avgan currency lagging behind auspiciously.

Seeing Boris K, the banknotes look to each other and then immediately reach toward him conspiratorially.

CATCH THAT MAN! They shout in unison.

They reach out their hands, grab Boris K., and spin him into the roulette wheel. He lies there prone and in shock.

“Lay a bet on Boris K…. put that little man on red, and make sure he doesn’t escape!” spoke a poker-faced George Washington, in a confident and authoritative voice. Being the hard cash, he was recognized as the calmest, coolest, and most collected of all the currencies.

“What are you saying, George? Move Boris K. back into the black! He is a Communist, for God’s sake, the state will always make sure he’s flush.”

“Let’s be reasonable, gentlemen”, replies Mr Dollar, carefully watching Boris K. as he spins within the roulette so fast, his head looks like it might pop off his body.

“Just wait until the Russians lay their hands on your bet!” With that comment, the eyes of the rounded Dinaric coin fill with tears that flow softly and quietly down her cheeks.

“Those Russians are originally Serbs from the Caucasus,” whispers the Serbian currency as she gazes wistfully into the distance, dreaming of Atlantis.

Boris K. was getting annoyed. To come out alive and a winner, he knew he needed to take this matter into his own hands. No more letting the chips fall where they may! He had to figure out a way to grab that roulette bead that was skillfully hopping around the rim of the roulette wheel, just out of his grasp.

A new player then arrives in the gambling hall with a confident sort of swagger acquired through years of marching through Moscow, as evidenced by her enviably muscled calves. The lovely, but deadly, Russian Ruble gets ready to sit down when she is stopped, mid-squat, by a singing Italian currency with a mythical lyre in her hand.

“Give me my seat back!, you pseudo-Christian globalist!” shouts the Ruble aggressively.

“No dice my dear. THIS chair is mine!”, roars the Italian Lira, indignantly.

Euro, who considers himself the most valuable currency in attendance, chooses not to help out Ruble because he can’t stand her acting live a diva all the time. Flushed and offended, Ruble imbibes a glass (or two) of vodka and then slaps Abraham across the face for watching innocently from the sidelines:

FUCK YOU, Abraham! She shrieks mid-slap.

At that, the strategizing Serbian Dinar jumps up with the help of the Hungarian Reserves to defuse the argument. Dinar then toots distractingly before initiating a four corners offence for Boris K. First, she takes the tranquillizers from the Albanian, AFN currency, who is distracted as she is turned toward Mecca, then Dinar wraps it inside of a paper airplane, and makes a ‘hail Mary’ pass toward Boris K, who catches it with one hand while finally grabbing the roulette ball in the other. He tranquilizes that damn ball and the game is over. With this victory, the banknotes take off running, so frenzied, many develop spontaneous wrinkles.

Taking advantage of the panicked mob mentality that no croupier, even Stendal the Swede, could calm with offerings of Francs and Ferraris, Boris K. escapes. He runs out of the gambling den and into the expansive parking lot where he sees a private jet with an open door. He runs, followed by a long line of currency and scurries onto the plane, just as the doors close. He sits down, looking at the roulette ball sleeping dreamily in his hands. He silently swears to never gamble again. “I will never lay another bet! No roulette wheel, not even Russian Roulette! “, Boris exclaims. That’s when he looks up, distracted by voices behind him. At this moment he realizes he’s boarded a plane owned by Al-Qaeda. Not only has he just been saved by a gassy Dinar, but now he’s surrounded by terrorists!…..

 

an excerpt from the story…

Boris K. i konačno rešenje za Viktora Frankla


Godina 1946. U  krčmi “Paviljon za samoubistva”, udaljenoj svega nekoliko koraka od centralnog groblja u Vieni, Boris K. I Viktor Frankl razgovaraju… Boris K. se žali na noćne more. Autor knjige “Kako da sačuvam živce”, napisao je gomilu knjiga koje su (reklo bi se) mogle biti od pomoći Borisu K. Boris K. koji je procitao sve  Franklove knjige.

Doktor ga sluša sa pola uveta. Cinicni osmejak mu obigrava oko usne. Boris K. nosi prepoznatljiv mu autfit – “mornar Popaj” majicu na pruge. Frankl nosi logoraško odelo. “Tako se lakše rve sa bolom..”, došaptavaju se gosti krčme od kojih je većina delila Franklovu sudbinu. (kao i autfit, i po koja krčmarica i konobar)

– Prolazim kroz teške čase.. – otvoreno će Boris K. – Morao sam da te vidim, doktore.
Psihijatar se počeša po glavi,  izgubljenog pogleda, razbarušene kose, zureći u prazan papir.

– Ne znam kako ti ja mogu pomoći, Borise K. – Frankl sleže ramenima, a Boris K. se zaplaka, na šta ga doktor s mržnjom pogleda, okrvavljenog oka..  Tad se pribra i nastavi, dok je Boris zadovoljno protrljao ruke – Obojica tumaramo po tami, Borise K.  s tim da je moja malo.. mračnija..  –  uskliknu i podiže mali prst uvis – Nad Evropom bde i bdiće, ujedinjene,  strava, kob i sen. Da svi bdimo sudbinom čovečjom, a ne samo sile svetle zvezde zlokobne, već sile noći bez kraja,  ti – uhvati Borisa K. za majicu na pruge i snažnim zahvatom je pokida na komade, kidajući pruge jednu za drugom i otkrivši Borisov mišićavi torzo –

“Ah! – postide se Boris K. pred krčmaricom koja zasikta ka njemu – Lakše to, doktore! Nemam rezervnu.. A i dama.. “

Doktorove zenice su se rumenele kao okrvavljena zora. Odmahnu rukom:

“Pridruži nam se, o Borise K. Živela revolucija i tamna brigada! Cannons to the left, cannons to the right, baš kao u pesmi”, Frankl obliznu palac, okrete stranicu i nastavi da pomno čita prazan papir, okrećući oči od Borisa u stranu….

Boris K. se strese pod utiskom sablasnog proročanstva.

Tad reši da istera stvari na čistac. Kako da dođe do rešenja vlastitog problema? Samo napred i hrabro, Borise, to je samo doktor..  Pitaj ga!:

– Recite, zašto ste dosad niste ubili, Viktore?

“Ko kaže da nisam?”, lakonski će Frankl i nastavi uz jedno “Dovraga!”, da zuri u papir. “Nemam ideja, a Tully me čeka!”

Tad priznade Borisu K da mu njegovo prusustvo ide na živce, ali da to ne shvati lično, jer “Nešto me draži kod tebe, Borise K. a ne umem da objasnim zašto.. Možda je do mirisa.. “

Boris K. shvati da se doktoru miris njegovih nogu nije dopadao.
“Isto je i sa gostima krčme – paviljona. Nerviraju me ti.. uspeli suicidi. Srećna kopilad”, mrmljao je psihijatar nepovezano u bradu.

Tad Boris shvati da Preživeli tumaraju krčmom odsutnog pogleda i okrvavljenih očnjaka. Obuze ga jeza.

I doktor Frankl se, najedared, ustremi ka njemu, izgladnelog pogleda, ispruživši ruke… Ostali mu se pridružiše dok je Boris K. hrlio ka ulazu ophrvan užasom i pobeže koliko ga noge nose.

Bilo je to sastajalište Preživelih. Ko je od njih živ, a ko mrtav, bilo je pitanje od manjeg značaja, mislio je nekoliko časa kasnije Boris K. zapalivši cigaretu Laki Strajka, sam samcijat, kraj kontejnera, delimično pribran i utešen svetlošću obližnje ulične bandere.

Boris K. stoga odluči da se vrati Franklu po savet deset milenijuma kasnije, kad se i psihijatar malo pribere.

Ako ga večnost u kojoj je boravio ne pretekne u plemenitom naumu.

The human race has completely failed because of emotions.


All emotions are one and the same: self-pity. Emotions are always between people and they occupy the space that should not exist. They mediate where there should be a direct touch.
When the emotions emerge, all forces should be imploded.
To do this, one needs to understand how it is created. It’s a program, as with the Russian scientist Pavlov.
Usually, mothers are the ones who teach children to react emotionally. It’s that frigging training we receive when we’re small and powerless to figure it out and resist it. This is THE mother-Medea who sacrificed us to misjudge others. Mothers are mostly intimidating children, so they learn. And the idea of caring mothers is to a large extent fake and fatal.
Mothers are mostly intimidating children, so they learn. And the idea of caring mothers is to a large extent fake and fatal.

Emotions are projections. That means, you project your emotions on someone and then he or she is for you only
a fraction, a part of some of your performances. In this way, you immobilize them, label them, you take away their freedom.
Look, when you offend someone, he or she immediately claims you owe him or her (apology, money, compensation).
It’s an emotional economy and it’s deadly. Look at those fools who, because of the cartoon of Muhammad, they go to bloody showdowns with anyone who gets in their way. It is a program that establishes power over people and
they obediently listen
because they can not understand what is happening to them and therefore they cannot resist to resist it.

The human race has completely failed because of emotions.

Plus, the same holds true for ideas. Emotions and ideas are complemented and successfully replaced. It’s all the same kind of programming.
And life itself, chemistry, physics, all is conditionality. Atoms are conditioned to react. We are conditioned by biochemical processes.
The only thing that we have and which does not condition us is our understanding, the ability to know what is actually happening and to distinguish and save ourselves at that point.

Watch just this saying: Logic dictates! That is, we are slaves, we are obligated to execute what “logic” requires. That’s “His master’s voice”. Slave conditioning.

Poetry should clearly expose this and mock it because it is in a superior position to clearly see all this scam.

From a strategic point of view, it is better for the wind to lift up all the rubbish so we can clearly see what is flying and what stands firm. Seize the opportunity and get rid of unnecessary delusions. It’s all that we, humans, can do, anyway. Of all that we have, the most valuable is our sense of humour. And the source of humour is pure knowledge. It is something much more reliable than emotions because it is indestructible unlike them.

The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.


The poet is the one whose mind and heart are puzzled over things, many of them gave up.

The poet, as the last Mohican, with his art, connects immortal to mortal, in the garden of the separating paths.

The poet suggests that the beauty of the spirit of the only permanent value in relation to which everything else does not matter. It never dies and the only shining at all times
as the moonlight that with its splendour breaks the blackness of the night.

Even when it sees the dark, and when surrounded by darkness, the poet offers light.
His poems are a conscious choice by which the poet moves the boundaries of the darkness pushing him out of his world glittering path to anyone who wants to see and do not tap in the dark.

Poems are prayers with which the poet boldly breaks false, dormant peace calling for awakening and liberation from grotesque characters whose zombie-like existence kills the liveliness of art and spiritual creation.

In the rousing kiss of the poetry,  the creator is ready to play their life convinced that only the beauty of pure artistic expression can win perversion.

Through the depth of their poems of which will not give up the poet shows that the bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poem must be an impeccably solid structure. It must be – solid.
The poem is a work of art. And the act must be closed in itself. This must be impeccable.

The one verse in the poem has several blind streets, signposts and goals than a writer ever succeeds to create a dozen pages.