“You differ from a great man in only one respect: the great man was once a very little man, but he developed one important quality: he recognized the smallness and narrowness of his thoughts and actions. Under the pressure of some task that meant a great deal to him, he learned to see how his smallness, his pettiness endangered his happiness. In other words, a great man knows when and in what way he is a little man. A little man does not know he is little and is afraid to know. He hides his pettiness and narrowness behind illusions of strength and greatness, someone else’s strength and greatness. He’s proud of his great generals but not of himself. He admires an idea he has not had, not one he has had. The less he understands something, the more firmly he believes in it. And the better he understands an idea, the less he believes in it.”
― Wilhelm Reich, Listen, Little Man!
“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.”
–John Berger, “And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos”
I think that consumerism manipulates and violates bodies neither more nor less than Nazism.
-Pier Paolo Pasolini
Ghosts by George Grosz
“My Drawings expressed my despair, hate and disillusionment, I drew drunkards; puking men; men with clenched fists cursing at the moon. … I drew a man, face filled with fright, washing blood from his hands … I drew lonely little men fleeing madly through empty streets. I drew a cross-section of tenement house: through one window could be seen a man attacking his wife; through another, two people making love; from a third hung a suicide with body covered by swarming flies. I drew soldiers without noses; war cripples with crustacean-like steel arms; two medical soldiers putting a violent infantryman into a strait-jacket made of a horse blanket … I drew a skeleton dressed as a recruit being examined for military duty. I also wrote poetry. ”
An die Lanterne by Max Pechstein
“….the ideologically invested narrative of the present victors, who step over the bodies of the vanquished left unceremoniously unburied…”
“The American miracle, even today, is that they have swallowed their own radiant, expansive image and spat it out in the form of dejecta, and that they continue blithely along their chosen path even as it is tending towards a catastrophically extreme situation. The miracle is that they have succeeded in collapsing fiction and reality into each other on a life-size scale, allowing themselves to be invaded by their own future (which is quite a different matter from living in real time); that they have managed to maintain a gravitation of centrifugal elements, of all these eccentric populations, minorities and exogenous cultures (paradoxically, they are today the country with the least risk of ethnic, linguistic and religious dislocation). Perhaps this is gravity’s rainbow.”
“The strategic adversary is fascism… the fascism in us all, in our heads and in our everyday behavior, the fascism that causes us to love power, to desire the very thing that dominates and exploits us.”