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219 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1964
In the depths of the forest, a mile away from the road, beneath an enormous tree that had dried up of old age, stood a lopsided hut made out of enormous logs, surrounded by a blackened picket fence. It had been here since the beginning of time, its door was always shut, and there were crooked idols carved from whole tree trunks around its rotting porch. This hut was the most dangerous place in the Hiccup Forest. It was said that this was the very place to which the ancient Pekh would come every twelve years to deliver his offspring, after which he would immediately crawl beneath the hut and expire, so the hut’s entire cellar was filled with black poison. And when the poison seeped out—that’s when the end would come. It was said that on stormy nights, the idols dug themselves out of the ground, came out onto the road, and signaled to passersby. And it was also said that sometimes the windows shone with unnatural light, sounds resounded through the forest, and a column of smoke reached up from the chimney to the sky.
Not long ago, Irma Kukish, a sober simpleton from the farmstead of Plenitude (in common parlance, Stinkfield) foolishly wandered by the hut at night and peered into the windows. He came home completely incoherent, and after he recovered a little, said that the hut was full of bright light and that a man with his feet on the bench sat behind a crude table and guzzled from a barrel held in one hand. The man’s face hung all the way down to his waist and was spotted all over. It was obvious that this was the Holy Míca himself, before his conversion to the faith, a polygamist, drunkard, and blasphemer. To look at him was to be afraid. A sickly sweet smell wafted out the window, and shadows moved across the trees. People gathered from all over to hear the idiot’s story. And it all ended when the storm troopers came, bent his elbows to his shoulder blades, and hustled him off to the city of Arkanar. But people still talked about the hut, and it was now called nothing but the Drunken Lair.
“The essence of man,” Budach said, chewing slowly, “lies in his astonishing ability to get used to anything. There’s nothing in nature that man could not learn to live with. Neither horse nor dog nor mouse has this property. Probably God, as he was creating man, guessed the torments he was condemning him to and gave him an enormous reserve of strength and patience. It is difficult to say whether this is good or bad. If man didn’t have such patience and endurance, all good people would have long since perished, and only the wicked and soulless would be left in this world. On the other hand, the habit of enduring and adapting turns people into dumb beasts, who differ from the animals in nothing except anatomy, and who only exceed them in helplessness. And each new day gives rise to a new horror of evil and violence.”
“Can you read? Off to the gallows! Write verses? Off to the gallows! Know your multiplication tables? Off to the gallows, you know too much!”Obviously, the question is twofold here. First, how long can you stand to be an impartial observer in the face of atrocities? Second, how long before the mask you wear becomes your real face? And I suppose a logical third: what use is being a “god” when your powers cannot be used?
“The worst thing is to lose your humanity, Anton. To sully your soul, to become hardened. We’re gods here, Anton, and we need to be wiser than the gods from the legends the locals have created in their image and likeness as best they could. And yet we walk along the edge of a swamp. One wrong step—and down you go in the dirt, and you won’t be able to wash it off your whole life.”
“How I’d like to let out some of the hatred that’s accumulated over the past twenty-four hours, but it looks like I’ll have no luck. Let us remain humane, forgive everyone, and be calm like the gods. Let them slaughter and desecrate, we’ll be calm like the gods. The gods need not hurry, they have eternity ahead.”
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“The cold-blooded brutality of those who slaughter, and the cold-blooded meekness of those who are slaughtered. The cold-bloodedness, that’s the worst thing. Ten people stand around, transfixed with horror, and meekly wait, while another one comes by, picks his victim, and cold-bloodedly slaughters him. These people’s souls are full of rot, and each hour of meek waiting contaminates them even more.”
“On the other hand, the habit of enduring and adapting turns people into dumb beasts, who differ from the animals in nothing except anatomy, and who only exceed them in helplessness. And each new day gives rise to a new horror of evil and violence.”
“He heard the storm trooper stomping indecisively behind him and suddenly caught himself thinking that insulting words and careless gestures now came naturally to him, that he was no longer playing the role of a highborn boor but had largely become one. He imagined himself like this on Earth and felt disgusted and ashamed. Why? What has happened to me? Where did it go, my nurtured-since-childhood respect and trust in my own kind, in man—the amazing creature called man? Nothing can help me now, he thought in horror. Because I sincerely hate and despise them. Not pity them, no—only hate and despise. I can justify the stupidity and brutality of the kid I just passed all I want— the social conditions, the appalling upbringing, anything at all—but I now clearly see that he’s my enemy, the enemy of all that I love, the enemy of my friends, the enemy of what I hold most sacred. And I don’t hate him theoretically, as a “typical specimen,” but him as himself, him as an individual. I hate his slobbering mug, the stink of his unwashed body, his blind faith, his animosity toward everything other than sex and booze.”
این روزها با مرگ از دنیا نمیرویم
با مرگ ما را از دنیا میبرند.
“And no matter how much the gray people in power despise knowledge, they can’t do anything about historical objectivity; they can slow it down, but they can’t stop it.”
He emerged out of some musty basement of the palace bureaucracy three years ago, a petty, insignificant functionary, obsequious and pallid, with an almost bluish tint to his skin. Soon the then-First Minister was suddenly arrested and executed, a number of horror-stricken and bewildered officials died during torture, and this tenacious, ruthless genius of mediocrity grew like a pale fungus on their corpses.
Rumata yolun yarısını gözleri kapalı yürüdü. Aldığı her nefesle canı yanıyordu adeta. Bunlar insan olabilir miydi? İnsana ait ne kalmıştı bunlarda? Kimilerini sokaklarda kılıçlarla biçmişlerdi, diğerleriyse evlerinde oturuyor ve uysallıkla sıralarının gelmesini bekliyorlardı. Ve her biri, kimin canını alırlarsa alsınlar, yeter ki beni esirgesinler, diye düşünüyordu. Kılıç sallayanların soğukkanlı zalimliği, kılıçlarda biçilenlerin soğukkanlı uysallığı. Soğukkanlılık; en korkuncu da bu. On kişi, korkudan donmuş, uysalca bekliyorlar; sonra biri yanaşıyor, kurbanını seçiyor ve soğukkanlılıkla biçiyor onu. Bu insanların ruhları çürümüş, uysallıkla bekledikleri her saat, onları da da zehirliyor. Korkuyla sinmiş olan bu evlerde alçaklar, muhbirler, katiller, hayatları boyunca korkuyla zehirlenmiş olarak kalacak binlerce insan doğuyor, bunlar çocuklarına, onlar da kendi çocuklarına merhametsizce öğretecekler dehşeti. Daha fazla dayanamıyorum. Biraz daha devam edersem aklımı yitireceğim, onlar gibi olacağım, neden burada bulunduğumu bile anlamaz olacağım... Kendime gelmeliyim, bütün bunlara arkamı dönüp sakinleşmeliyim...
Akarsu yılının sonunda -yeniçağın şu-şu senesinde- merkezkaç kuvvetleri eski imparatorlukta belirginleşmeye başladı. Bundan yararlanan, esasen feodal toplumun en gerici gruplarının menfaatlerini temsil etmekte olan Kutsal Nişan, çözülmeyi her türden araçla durdurma girişimi sırasında... Ama şu kazıkların üzerindeki sıcak cesetler nasıl korkuyordu, biliyor musunuz? Sokağın tozu içinde, karnı yarılmış yatan çıplak bir kadın gördünüz mü hiç? İnsanların sustuğu, sadece kargaların gakladığı şehirleri gördünüz mü?