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Ismail
cadre
project
July 2, 2024 – 10:47
Location: Edison Ipee
Hell fell left, right, forward, backward, up, down, diagonally, horizontally, round and round. I left without seeing it. I left no corner without feeling it. He left no trick without taking it out. I left no secret without revealing it. He left no torture without suffering it.
He had not slandered him, and he had been a fool.
He would not have remained illiterate if he had not pointed out errors in style and content.
Without learning how a perfectionist of the text should write, he will not remain mediocre.
He was not threatened for ideological errors by not continuing to serve as a party bureaucrat, nor was he shown iron bars, shackles and prisons.
He is not always ignorant and does not criticize him. Then for vigilance, ideology, absence. Today I went to the mountains along the coast.
It doesn’t belong to you at all, or to them, or to these people, or to anyone else.
They seized him, dressed him, soiled him, tore him, bit him, and there were the howling of dogs and hounds. He did not leave the trench.
Illiterate people who had never read any books offered him the most absurd and unreal criticisms and suggestions. He was not shaken by our persistence.
From collaborators, tractor drivers, proletarians, Starkanovists, contest winners, star holders, flag wavers, mat-spreaders, kissers, shoe-lickers, soldiers, sailors, landmen, pilots, the living, the dead, to the endless stream of stubborn scholars they denounced him for lack of vigilance, for not waging class war, for water in the enemy’s mill, etc. He did not even blink an eye.
The roots and plots woven by jealous people cannot be compared with those in the Middle Ages. Nor did he fart. It reduced everything to dust and ashes.
He rightly sympathized with and condemned the most foul alliance between dodgy insurance companies and foolish victims, but he remained silent.
They hit him with clay balls in a group meeting. They soiled his clothes. He cleaned them by shaking them off.
The whole meeting hall was bombarded with bullets and bombs. Their ridiculous artillery had no effect on this huge work. He laughed and despised the scum and the gunmen of the plenary session.
There is absolutely no self-reference in Ocean’s work. Millions of words written. And, the third word the gossips say, I – he never wrote it. Never alone.
To insult him is to take credit for having the temerity to do so.
Praising him is a risk you have to take.
Even the stinkiest, the most abominable, the most dangerous things can never find something credible, something factual, something objective, something convincing to attack, no matter how small, how tiny, how far away.
We cannot build a church or a temple as big and high as it should be, because we stole it without beginning.
We cannot set up a golden statue to him, for we need gold for rings on our fingers and necklaces around our necks.
He relaxed a little from this meaningless noise, with no relaxing commas, no fearful question marks, only endless exclamation points.
Clarification: All opinions in this column reflect solely the opinions of the author and not necessarily those of NGB “Zeri” LLC
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