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Stratos Fountoulis. a simple reader – visual artist.

André Gide


“Wilde’s affected aestheticism was for him merely an ingenious cloak to hide, while half revealing, what he could not let be seen openly … Here, as almost always, and often even without the artist’s knowing it, it is the secret of the depths of his flesh that prompts, inspires, and decides…

Wilde’s plays reveal, beside the surface witticisms, sparkling like false jewels, many oddly revelatory sentences of great psychological interest. And it is for them that Wilde wrote the whole play––let there be no doubt about it…

Try to let some understand what one has an interest in hiding from all. As for me, I have always preferred frankness. But Wilde made up his mind to make of falsehood a work of art. Nothing is more precious, more tempting, more flattering than to see in the work of art a falsehood and, reciprocally, to look upon falsehood as a work of art… This artistic hypocrisy was imposed on him… by the need of self-protection.

— André Gide, on Oscar Wilde, from The Journals of André Gide


Robert Desnos, Poème à la mystérieuse

Credit: Robert Desnos, 1924 (b/w photo), Ray, Man (1890-1976) /
Private Collection / Photo © Christie’s Images / The Bridgeman Art Library

J’ai tant rêvé de toi que tu perds ta réalité.
J’ai tant rêvé de toi que tu perds ta réalité.
Est-il encore temps d’atteindre ce corps vivant
Et de baiser sur cette bouche la naissance
De la voix qui m’est chère?
J’ai tant rêvé de toi que mes bras habitués
En étreignant ton ombre
À se croiser sur ma poitrine ne se plieraient pas
Au contour de ton corps, peut-être.
Et que, devant l’apparence réelle
de ce qui me hante
Et me gouverne depuis des jours et des années,
Je deviendrais une ombre sans doute.
O balances sentimentales!
J’ai tant rêvé de toi qu’il n’est plus temps
sans doute que je m’éveille.
Je dors debout, le corps exposé
À toutes les apparences de la vie
Et de l’amour et toi, la seule
qui compte aujourd’hui pour moi,
Je pourrais moins toucher ton front
Et tes lèvres que les premières lèvres
et le premier front venu.
J’ai tant rêvé de toi, tant marché, parlé,
Couché avec ton fantôme
Qu’il ne me reste plus peut-être,
Et pourtant, qu’a être fantôme
Parmi les fantômes et plus ombre
Cent fois que l’ombre qui se promène
Et se promènera allègrement
Sur le cadran solaire de ta vie.

T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land



APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering          5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,   10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,   15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,   20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,   25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.   30
        Frisch weht der Wind
        Der Heimat zu,
        Mein Irisch Kind,
        Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;   35
They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,   40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Öd’ und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,   45
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.   50
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.   55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City,   60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.   65
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!
You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!   70
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!   75
You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out   80
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;   85
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended   90
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,   95
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale  100
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms  105
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair,
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.  110
“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
I think we are in rats’ alley  115
Where the dead men lost their bones.
“What is that noise?”
                      The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
                      Nothing again nothing.  120
You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
        I remember
                Those are pearls that were his eyes.  125
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent  130
“What shall I do now? What shall I do?
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
What shall we ever do?”
                          The hot water at ten.  135
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said,
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,  140
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,  145
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.  150
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said,
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.  155
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)  160
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.  170
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf

Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.  175
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;  180
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept…
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear  185
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse.  190
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.  195
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter  200
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.  205
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants  210
C. i. f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a week-end at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back  215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives  220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,  225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.  230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house-agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,  235
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;  240
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall  245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronizing kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;  250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,  255
And puts a record on the gramophone.
“This music crept by me upon the waters”
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City City, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,  260
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.  265
The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails  270
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach  275
Past the Isle of Dogs.
            Weialala leia
            Wallala leialala
Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars  280
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores  285
South-west wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
            Weialala leia  290
            Wallala leialala
“Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.“  295
“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised ‘a new start.’
I made no comment. What should I resent?”
“On Margate Sands.  300
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.”  305
      la la
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest  310

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
And the profit and loss.
                          A current under sea  315
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
                          Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,  320
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

After the torch-light red on sweaty faces

After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying  325
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience  330
Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink  335
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit  340
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mud-cracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring  350
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock  355
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together  360
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?  365
What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only  370
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London  375
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings  380
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains  385
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.  390
Only a cock stood on the roof-tree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves  395
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA  400
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed  405
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA  410
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours  415
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded  420
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
                      I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?  425
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins  430
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
      Shantih    shantih    shantih

Continue to the poem’s “Notes” h e r e >>>

Que l’Homme nous protège de la Pédophilie de « L’Eglise de Dieu »

photo © Le

photo © Le

Abus sexuels sur mineurs dans l’Église catholique

L’Église catholique fait face depuis la fin du XXe siècle à la révélation de nombreuses affaires d’abus sexuels sur mineurs commis par des prêtres et des religieux. Si certaines de ces affaires ont été portées en justice, d’autres sont prescrites. D’autres encore ont été couvertes ou étouffées par la hiérarchie ecclésiastique. Depuis le début du XXIe siècle, de nombreux diocèses tendent à reconnaître publiquement leurs torts et cherchent à mieux collaborer avec les autorités civiles […]
« Wikipedia », continue >>> 


Le scandale de la pédophilie dans l’Eglise catholique

Les actes de pédophilie sont abominables. Le bon développement des enfants relève de la responsabilité des adultes. Abuser d’eux est criminel. On ne le dira jamais assez. Et pourtant, c’est ce qu’ont fait des prêtres à travers le
monde, trahissant la confiance qui leur était donnée en raison de leur fonction d’autorité religieuse. Les tentatives de relativiser ces affaires en disant que la majorité des actes de pédophilie se déroulent dans les familles, comme dans les institutions scolaires ou dans d’autres religions n’enlèvent rien à l’ignominie de ces actes. Les fautes des uns n’excusent pas les fautes des autres, surtout de la part de ceux qui se sont engagés dans le célibat consacré et qui ont reçu la mission d’annoncer l’Evangile. Ainsi donc il faut bien affronter aujourd’hui l’indéfendable. Tout était resté caché pendant des décennies. Beaucoup d’évêques n’avaient pas voulu prendre au sérieux ces problèmes qu’ils connaissaient de loin, dont ils avaient entendu parler. Il a fallu que quelques cas explosent aux Etats-Unis dans les années 90 pour qu’ils s’en préoccupent réellement, que le bruit enfle de plus en plus jusqu’à devenir un véritable tsunami médiatique qui souffle jusque devant les portes du Vatican.

« Etudes », continue >>>


Pédophilie : l’Église revient sur dix ans de scandales

«Vers la guérison et le renouveau» est le titre du symposium international ouvert lundi soir à Rome jusqu’à jeudi, à l’initiative de l’Université pontificale grégorienne, pour réfléchir aux abus sexuels sur mineurs dans l’Église catholique.
Cent dix représentants des conférences épiscopales du monde entier, plus d’une trentaine de responsables de congrégations religieuses et une représentante de victimes, travaillent sur une crise qui secoue l’Église catholique depuis plus de dix ans. À l’issue, un centre international de ressources de «protection des enfants» sera accessible via Internet.

« Le Figaro », continue >>>


Vaticangate : le scandale des abus sexuels dans l’église catholique

L’Eglise catholique est dans la tourmente après une cascade de révélations d’abus sexuels sur des mineurs commis par des membres du clergé en Europe et dans le reste du monde. Des scandales souvent étouffés par la hiérarchie cléricale. Ces affaires ont éclaboussé le pape lui-même, accusé en Allemagne et aux Etats-Unis d’avoir couvert ces crimes.

« Euronews », continue >>>


USA: un prêtre catholique avance que les jeunes “séduisent” les pédophiles

Le frère Benedict Groeschel, un membre estimé du diocèse de New York a soulevé un tollé après la publication d’une interview où il affirme que, “dans beaucoup de cas”, ce sont les jeunes qui séduisent les pédophiles. Il a aussi pris la défense d’un entraîneur de football américain condamné pour avoir abusé de jeunes garçons pendant quatorze ans.
Le prêtre de 69 ans s’exprimait sur le site du National Catholic Register, à propos de Ray Sandussky, cet entraîneur de l’université de Penn convaincu d’avoir abusé de plusieurs jeunes garçons.
Le prêtre a clairement pris sa défense: “Ce pauvre homme a fait ça pendant des années. Pourquoi personne n’a rien dit ? Apparemment, certains enfants étaient au courant et n’ont rien dit. Vous savez, jusqu’à il y a quelques années les gens n’avaient pas gravé dans leur esprit qu’il s’agit d’un crime.” Pour Benedict Groeschel, un pédophile pris pour la première fois ne devrait d’ailleurs pas aller en prison…

« RTBF », continue >>>


La confiance en l’Eglise catholique en chute libre

Une enquête de la KUL (Université catholique de Leuven) révèle que la confiance en l’Eglise est en chute libre en Flandre suite aux scandales des prêtres pédophiles. En 2010, au moment du scandale autour de l’évêque de Bruges, Roger Vangheluwe, près de la moitié des catholiques convaincus ont perdu confiance en leur Eglise.
A la fin de l’année 2010, les journaux, les radios, les télévisions et les sites internet étaient déjà remplis de nouvelles sur des scandales de pédophiles dans l’Eglise catholique. Comme si cela ne suffisait pas l’évêque de Bruges Roger Vangheluwe devait démissionner. Durant cette période, trois sociologues de la KUL- Jaak Billiet, Koen Abts et Marc Swyngedouw- ont mené une enquête sur la confiance en l’Eglise catholique en Flandre.
L’enquête est intéressante parce que les personnes interrogées l’ont été avant et après le tollé provoqué par les abus sexuels dans l’Eglise. Les sociologues ont donc pu déterminer si ces scandales avaient eu un impact ou non sur la confiance dans l’Eglise au cours de cette période difficile. Ils ont aussi pu obtenir une réaction sur l’opération de dissimulation de l’Eglise et les demandes d’indemnisation des victimes et le fait de savoir si l’Eglise devait avouer sa culpabilité.

« Flandre Info », continue >>>


Les scandales de pédophilie secouent l’Eglise catholique

La révélation de cas de pédophilie dans le clergé secoue l’Allemagne, l’Autriche et les Pays-Bas. Le pape pourrait s’adresser prochainement à tous les catholiques sur ce sujet
Benoît XVI reçoit vendredi 12 mars auVatican Mgr Robert Zollitsch, président de la Conférence des évêques d’Allemagne. Au menu, les scandales de pédophilie qui ont touché des établissements religieux dans les années 1970 et 1980, à commencer par le collège jésuite Canisius de Berlin, et le prestigieux Choeur des petits chanteurs de Ratisbonne…[…]

« La Croix », continue >>> 


Pédophilie dans l’Eglise catholique. Les faits en bref

Les faits. En bref
C’est dès les années 1985 que le premier rapport, aux Etats Unis, rédigé par un prêtre, Th. P. Doyle, stigmatise une série de cas de pédophilie à la suite de plusieurs plaintes. Les évêques préfèrent agir seuls dans leur diocèse. Huit ans plus tard, une commission publie certaine règles pour la sélection des candidats à la prêtrise.
En 1995, quelques affaires éclatent en Europe. C’est le cas en Autriche, d’un cardinal soupçonné d’abus sexuels. Le cardinal Angelo Sodano, de la curie, s’oppose à une enquête à son propos.
Dans les années 2000, les scandales surgissent dans de nombreux diocèses aux Etats-Unis, c’est le cas à Boston, en Oregon, à New-York. En décembre 2002, l’archevêque de Boston démissionne. Un véritable cataclysme. Un rapport (John Jay) dénombre près de 4.500 prêtres accusés d’abus sexuels à l’égard de mineurs durant les cinquante dernières années, soit 4% de l’ensemble du clergé. Le nombre de victimes est évalué à 11.000. On parle habituellement de pédophilie, mais il s’est souvent avéré que les prêtres abuseurs se sont pris à des jeunes garçons de 14 à 17 ans (c’est le cas aux Etats-Unis), cas relevant plus de l’éphébophilie que de la pédophilie.
Les indemnités se montent à 2 milliards de dollars, une réelle hémorragie financière pour l’Eglise catholique.
Récemment encore, en 2011, l’archidiocèse de Philadelphie a annoncé dans un communiqué avoir suspendu 21 prêtres soupçonnés d’actes pédophiles

« For a lady Pope », continue >>> 


Pédophilie : l’Eglise catholique néerlandaise visée à son tour

Une commission d’enquête indépendante a dénoncé la culture du silence des autorités religieuses vendredi 17 décembre, après avoir révélé que plusieurs milliers d’enfants avaient été victimes d’abus sexuels au sein de l’Eglise catholique aux Pays-Bas depuis 1945.
Les responsables de l’Eglise ont aussitôt fait part de leurs regrets et de leur honte et présenté leurs “sincères excuses” aux victimes. Selon la commission d’enquête, entre 10 000 et 20 000 mineurs ont été abusés sexuellement dans des orphelinats catholiques, des écoles et de séminaires entre 1945 et 1981.”Plusieurs dizaines de milliers de mineurs ont été soumis à des formes de comportements sexuels inapropriés plus ou moins graves, entre 1945 et 2010, allant de légers contacts au viol”, selon le rapport de la commission. Les abus commis par des prêtres ont été systématiquement dissimulés par l’Eglise, a ajouté la commission.
“L’Eglise catholique n’a pas l’habitude de laver son linge sale en famille”, a dit Wim Deetman, ex-ministre de l’éducation et ancien maire de La Haye, qui présidait la commission. “L’Eglise a commis des crimes contre l’humanité”, a dénoncé pour sa part Bert Smeets, militante de Mea Culpa, une organisation d’aide aux victimes.

« Le Monde », continue >>> 


Pour plus sur ce « sujet » Googler « scandales pédophilie de l’eglise catholique »

Sean Brijbasi: {god 23 (she)}

bikefrom the 

god 23 (she) I remember remembering—as I stood on the train platform, waiting for the train that would take me to Prague and my new life as fifth violin for the Czech Symphony Orchestra—of an advertisement I placed in Le Monde, looking for a woman (of rare beauty) who, unfortunately, had but one arm. I remember remembering that I had never seen such a woman but that I was searching, curious to know that if in all of Paris, in that great and teeming metropolis, such a woman existed.

I don’t remember remembering Anna but I would like to, so that next time I remember remembering, she is placed in that memory as if she were always there. Of how I looked down to the tracks and thought of her irrational death and of how it related to my search for a woman with one arm (of rare beauty), whose name I wished ‘with all my heart’ to be Helen.

So that next time, perhaps on my return to Paris, I shall say to the person sitting beside me:

In the belly of Les Halles I stood, waiting for the train to Prague, remembering the advertisement I placed in Le Monde, looking for a woman (of rare beauty), who, unfortunately, had but one arm, when the image of Anna standing where I stood came to me. I imagined watching her as I descended the stairs and of how she looked to the right and then to the left and as the train moved into the station, she plopped down in front of it without a fuss and died violently. 

Irrational because of its apparent discontext in the grandeur of an escaping universe—a capitulation to the disjecta membra of trace concepts regarding false notions of Helen, Anna, and that famous matador, Nathan. The woman with one arm, comprised of a combination of two odes. The first, a blacksmith’s tale. The second, a lament on the death of the—a, fore, mentioned—matador who turned his back and lowered his head (as if the woman he loved danced too intimately with another man) and was lifted to the sun. A slow and sagging parapluie as the audience spied from beneath their hats, raised their arms, and made circles with their fingers (in that moist air my friends) to tell the bull comenzar.

The matador fell (silently) and blossoms thrown but not this blossom that was so unaffected by the wind and that, in turn, turned into a blossoom, unplucked until plucked by me, a gift for my Helen should I ever find her. One lonely blossoom growing atop the coliseum, from where I searched the city while all manner of cape undulated behind me.

Oh Helen, I shall find you. I shall find you and give you this blossom. But he who sat beside me on my trip to Prague stumbled in his understanding of my remembrance and, in the convention of all that is modern, I explained the symbolism behind my remembrance and that in lieu of vocabulaic understanding he should, in all earnestness (tapping my eyelid—pop pop pop), extricate his cornea.

You see, I snapped, my pink-you erect, Anna and Helen drank tea in front of a fire and prepared the great cape of the matador as a gift for the daughter of God two (he) and God eighteen (she). God six (he), the death in man’s eye god, and God seven (he), the minor philosophical texts god, recalled the life of God one (she). God one (she), the suffering of lesser beings god, met her end by the doings of God three (she), the god of collective beneficence and God two (he), the god of tamable animals. God three (she) and God nine (she), dry places beneath a tree when it rains god, conceived but miscarried. God eighteen (she), god of unremembered faces, and God two (he), god of water poured from a vessel, were banished and had a child, God twenty-three (she), god of rare beauty. 

I concluded by unfurling my arms but he was crisp with me and punctuated his curiosity with the stunting of his wrist, though bouncy and slightly to the left. Moving about the train, I endeavored to convince others of my dilemma. Sad, sweet Helen, prisoner of God twenty-three (she). My melancholy made its way into her seams and curled beneath her dress into the shape of a spiral that once descended gave no hope of return. I thought if I were to play my loin for them, so sweetly and in such fine tune…the freight cars…the wheels…the smoke.

Oh! Le train! 

Christmas last I related it thus: standing in the train station I waited for the b,l,a,n,k to Prague. A woman, whose name I wished [hello] to be Helen. Yes? I found her arm and Anna strewn—nay, frolicking with the Gods. I remember remembering how they frolicked when a few days after I placed my advertisement in Le Monde, I received a phone call.

“Hello, I’m answering your advertisement,” the woman said.

“You have one arm?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And you are of a rare beauty?” I asked.

“I have tried,” she said. “My mother was beautiful, but my father–“

“–and your name?” I asked. “What is your name?”

Before she answered, I thought what if her name was Anna? Would that be okay? I remember remembering Anna. Poor disillusioned Anna whom I wished ‘with all my heart’—no that was Helen. I thought no, her name had to be Helen.

“Your name,” I said impatiently.

“Nadine,” she said.

“Oh that’s lovely,” I said. “I am going to Prague but we must meet when I return.”

I remember remembering that I was eager but composed, and that I ratified our future union with a pop of the wink-wink aluminum. After my stint in Prague, I would return a recaptured man. Oh the memory. It was all there. It came over me in a wave of something I had no idea about. I had so many questions for her. Which arm? How? I could hold her closer I thought. By my side, she would feel a part of me. And oh, how my shoulder would tickle as I felt her nerve endings through her skin.

I stood proudly.

Dear passengers, I orated, pick up your feet and run in happiness with me. I have lived many a life of experience and know this to be a good and measured response. Do not show (I paused to find the right word) conjecture. Run with me.

I ran through the train, away from its destination and toward happiness, reflecting on the matador’s lover who danced so intimately with another man that the pain the matador felt at seeing their intimacy was like the horn of the bull, stuck between his ribs and puncturing his heart. Oh, I felt it myself. But if I were to dance with this beautiful woman, I would pull her very close as well and holding her from behind, probe the soft, sweet nape of her neck with my very sensitive nose.

I returned to my seat and rested my head against the window.

(Are we not weary men Caesar?)

I sighed. Such a long string to fiddle I thought, and me out of practice. Will it be Smetana or Dvorak? Now, they were pretty girls with big lips and long eyelashes. The train stopped to pick up more passengers. Through the window, I saw the small brick building with a sign that read ‘waiting room’.

(Not so weary that we cannot find our rest in chaos.)

colors, shapes, and everyness


Copyright©Sean Brijbasi 



Discarded moments. Unfinished gestures. Lived [not lived] in London. Resident of Sweden [no more]. Lives in Washington DC [near]. In East Berlin before the wall fell. In Russia before glasnost. Jazz in Copenhagen. Switchblade in Paris. Lost in Helsinki. Bar fight in Auckland. Awake for 3 straight days in Reykjavik. Bored in Brussels. Green light in Amsterdam. Red light in Hamburg. And more…

The Christopher Hitchens delight -3


The Christopher Hitchens delight -2


The Christopher Hitchens delight -1


Eric Hobsbawm brought to life lost voices…

…and placed reality centre stage

© Getty Images

Hobsbawm was not only one of Marxism’s finest scholars, he was an Enlightenment giant whose passing leaves us all poorer

By, Monday 1 October 2012

In the foothills of Hampstead Heath, where Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels used to take their afternoon strolls, stands the home of Eric and Marlene Hobsbawm. To enter the Nassington Road drawing room for a conversation with Hobsbawm was to be transported back to the great ideological struggles of the extreme 20th century. Here was where ideas mattered, history had a purpose, and politics was important. And one could have no more generous, humane, rigorous, and involved a guide than the late Eric Hobsbawm.

The breadth of his work and the reach of his intellect was always startling. Right to the end of his days, he stayed up to date with scholarship, never failed to flay an opponent, and continued to write. Afternoon tea with Hobsbawm could range from the achievements of President Lula of Brazil to the limitations of Isaiah Berlin as an historian, the unfortunate collapse of the Communist party in West Bengal to what Ralph Miliband would have made of his boys, David and Ed.

But his lifetime’s achievement was to transform the study of history in Britain. He was part of a postwar generation that rescued the subject from parochialism and dry-as-dust empiricism to shed new light on the past – from the history of social protest to the invention of tradition and the impact of jazz.

For Hobsbawm, history had to be part of the conversation of the present. He fitted well into the English historical tradition of writing popular history books for an educated public. He was part of the practice of historical writing stretching back to Thomas Babington Macaulay and GM Trevelyan, alongside his peers AJP Taylor and Hugh Trevor-Roper. His 19th-century series on industry and empire and his bestselling account of the 20th-century provided the kind of global history for a broad readership few scholars have been able to match.

His most important contribution was to open up the study of class and economy within the British academy. His membership of the Communist party historians group and his involvement with the French Annales school of historians led him to emphasise the role of social history and structure in any comprehensive account of the past. Social history, for Hobsbawm, had to be part of the broader political project of the left – bringing to life lost voices and placing the lived reality of the people centre stage. But Hobsbawm was never a crass materialist – he always believed in the importance of the history of ideas. None more so than Marxism.

Hobsbawm was one of Marxism’s finest scholars. On day one, week one of any course I teach on Marxism, I give the students Hobsbawm to read. He explained its intellectual origins, historical function and 20th-century failings like few others. Of course, he was a believer – writing at the end of his life that “the supersession of capitalism still sounds plausible to me”. And the recent crisis of capitalism only gave his ideological commitment more fervency. As he told me in one of his final interviews, “a different combination, a different mix of state action and control and freedom would have to be worked out … It may well no longer be capitalism, certainly not in the sense in which we have known it in this country and the United States”.

When it came to his own continued membership of the Communist party after the 1956 Soviet invasion of Hungary, Hobsbawm refused to play the apologist game. As a historian, he demanded to be understood in his own context – someone whose political identity was forged in the 1930s when the struggle against fascism took place on the streets of Vienna and the Communists were on the right side of history. He never sought, as he put it, “agreement, approval or sympathy”. It was part of who he was and that was that.

If all of this makes him sound a dour, Marxist professor then it could not be further from the truth. He loved to talk politics and academic wrangling over a vodka and tonic; he enjoyed a good book launch; he was an adept performer at history festivals (after a nip of whisky); and revelled in his large and adoring family.

I last saw Hobsbawm at a lunch organised for himself and Hugh Thomas, the great scholar of Spain, at the House of Commons. There he expressed his great affection for Britain for adopting him in the 1930s, reflected with brio on the general correctness of his lifetime’s historical work, and affirmed his conviction in a “proper” understanding of the past. Over coffee, Ed Miliband came to pay his regards and in the mix of history and politics, an appreciation of the past in the actions of the present, there was an affirmation of Hobsbawm’s work.

But, Hobsbawm being Hobsbawm, he immediately complained that Ed wasn’t being nearly radical enough. There was always more work to be done, more criticism needed, more understanding shared. Hobsbawm was an Enlightenment giant whose passing marks a sad pulling away from the 20th century and all it entailed.


Tristram Hunt is the Labour MP for Stoke-on-Trent Central. He teaches and lectures on modern British history at Queen Mary, University of London

[The Guardian]

L’historien britannique Eric Hobsbawm

est mort…

L’œuvre la plus connue de cet historien à la renommée internationale est «l’Age des extrêmes», parue en 1994.


L’historien marxiste britannique Eric Hobsbawm, auteur notamment du célèbre Age des extrêmes, est décédé lundi à Londres à l’âge de 95 ans, a annoncé sa fille. «Il a succombé à une pneumonie aux premières heures de la matinée», a précisé Julia Hobsbawm. «C’est une immense perte pour son épouse, Marlene, qui était sa femme depuis 50 ans, ses trois enfants, ses sept petits-enfants et arrière-petits enfants, mais aussi des milliers de lecteurs et d’étudiants dans le monde entier», a-t-elle souligné.

Né le 9 juin 1917 à Alexandrie en Egypte, Eric Hobsbawm avait d’abord vécu à Vienne pendant l’entre-deux-guerres, avant de partir pour Berlin en 1931, puis pour Londres deux ans après l’arrivée des Nazis au pouvoir. Il a participé à la dernière manifestation contre Hitler, le 25 janvier 1933.

Après des études d’histoire à Cambridge, il avait commencé à enseigner en 1947 au Birkbeck College à Londres. Il a travaillé aussi avec l’université de Stanford et le Massachusetts Institute of Technology aux Etats-Unis, ainsi que des facultés réputées en France et au Mexique. Membre à partir de 1936 du Parti communiste de Grande-Bretagne, il collabora jusqu’en 1991 à la revue Marxism Today, il quitte le parti en 1989.

En 1962, Hobsbawn publie L’Ere des révolutions – étude comparative de la révolution industrielle anglaise et de la révolution politique française – qui deviendra le premier volet du triptyque sur «le long XIXe siècle (1789-1914)» comprenant «L’Ere du capital» (1975) et «L’Ere des empires» (1987).

L’œuvre la plus connue de cet historien à la renommée internationale, dont la vie a été marquée par son engagement marxiste, est L’Age des extrêmes, parue en 1994. Cet ouvrage consacré au XXe siècle, le«court XXe siècle», selon son expression, a reçu de nombreux prix internationaux et a été traduit en 40 langues, dont l’hébreu, l’arabe et le mandarin.

En 2005, l’auteur britannique, alors âgé de 85 ans, avait publié Franc-tireur (titre originale: Interesting Times, 2002), son autobiographie. L’intellectuel et historien n’en était pas moins un grand amateur de jazz et un fervent admirateur de Duke Ellington, Hobsbawn a écrit sur le genre, dans la revue New Statesman, sous le pseudonyme de Francis Newton. Il a également publié une histoire du jazz, toujours sous son surnom.

[La Liberation]