Exiled to the rooftops, he sat contemplating the late afternoon settling on the skyline of Paris. His shoulders sore from hauling clothes up seven flights of stairs. He’d only been there two days but the ashtray already teemed with tiny butts.
The winter clouds resisted the vernal sun, but evaporated into the eager sky. The bustle of the city echoed below on the streets just above the Grand Boulevards in a neighborhood that he didn’t recognize. In another situation he would have been happy, soaking in the sense of possibility the Parisian spring always promises. As it was, he only felt abandoned.
This wasn’t the first time he had started over. When Sarah had left him years ago he’d ended up living in a van. What a long winter that had been. If nothing else he had a room now, though not much bigger than that damn Dodge. Solitude’s sudden silence hollowed his bones. » Read more «
Io di fumetti ne so ben poco. La mia esperienza in materia è limitata ad un’ormai polverosa collezione di svariati numeri di X-Men degli anni Ottanta che avevo accumulato tra l’età di sei e sedici anni. All’epoca passavo ore infinite a sfogliare quei numeri, seguendo i protagonisti nelle loro vicende eroiche e personali. Sapevo tutto del passato tormentato di Wolverine e della sua vendetta personale contro il potere arrogante dello Stato. Ma poi sono cresciuto: ho lasciato quel mondo di fantasia giovanile per occuparmi di cose serie come la filosofia e la politica. Ora, leggendo il Dossier TAV, una questione democratica di Claudio Calia, mi rendo conto che, appunto, di fumetti ne so pochissimo. Dunque, da profano che si occupa di cose serie, vorrei qui condividere qualche riflessione riguardo la fantasia giovanile di questo libro. » Read more «
Brooke turned on the porch and went in without saying a word. Her long black ponytail slapped her back as the screen door snapped shut. Samuel shuffled his tired legs in his seat. Nothing moved in the harvested fields, golden and brown. Silence surrounded the rickety house. The last drops of condensation trickled down his empty whiskey glass. She came back through the door with a jug in hand.
– Might as well keep it out here, ain’t no more ice anyways. Her country drawl scratched out from her prominent lips.
He held up his glass and she filled it half-empty.
– Is that all you plan to give me ? he said, hand suspended.
– Ya can’t handle this homebrew, Sam.
Samuel slammed the moonshine trying his best not to cringe. She laughed.
– A’right, pour it fer yerself then. She set the jug down beside his chair and fell back into her lawnchair in one unbroken movement. As she leaned over, he saw down her braless shirt but was met by her pale blue stare when she sat.
– Thank you, by the way, he said reaching for the jug, – I appreciate you taking me out.
She looked at him hard then turned her gaze out over the field.
– You did okay I guess, fer a city boy. » Read more «
0. The crisis deepens, accelerates, clutters the horizon and, at the same time, continually changes any frame of reference. It is now clear to all that, despite desperate attempts to reassure us by various actors of governance, exit strategies are nowhere to be found. The new element of the modern crisis is that it has lost its cyclical form and become permanent: in this transformation – as we have said many times before against the illusions of a political left unable to rethink its own reformist function – there are no linear Keynesian solutions. Permanent crisis certainly does not mean that the “fall” of capitalism is near: these are hypotheses better left to theologians of history. However, this doesn’t take away the fact that the crisis demonstrates capital’s clear incapacity to make the common, a common produced by the labor of the multitude, function. » Read more «