HENRI MICHAUX , Tranche de savoir (Slice of wisdom, Spicchi di sapere)


En observant des séminaristes, bientôt docteurs en théologie, jouer à taper du pied sur un ballon de football, on est amené à remarquer qu’il est apparemment plus facil au tigre d’être totalement, dignement tigre, qu’il ne l’est pour l’homme, d’être homme.

By observing the seminarians, soon doctors in theology, play soccer, one is led to point out that it is apparently more easy to a tiger to be totally, worthily a tiger, that it is for the man, be man.





Osservando dei seminaristi, ben presto dottori in teologia, divertirsi a dare pedate a un pallone da foot-ball, si è indotti a notare che è visibilmente più facile per la tigre essere totalmente, degnamente tigre, di quanto non lo sia, per l’uomo, essere uomo.






Henri Michaux
pages choisies (1927-1959)
Nouvelle édition revue et corrigée
1966 nrf Gallimard, Paris

tradotto in italiano da Ivos Margoni
translated in english by rinaldo rasa


esperienzadelpensiero experienceofthought expériencedepensée


TEDDY WIESENGRUND ADORNO , Minima Moralia : 25. Nicht gedacht soll ihrer werden , ” Damnatio memoriae ” (1944)



After been banished from your country you have a canceled past. A sort of canceled life is your fate. In the past times it was the warrant of arrest that impeded your active life but now with the exile it is also a loss of your spiritual life. You left there your roots hence you bring with you only some material things, some measurable things. These things are the only things that the immigration office is asking you, they represent yourself by your wealth, big or small, but measurable. This is all that matters.

Inside the survey there are a lot of items like your sex, your job, your age etc. Your life is offended and described in some answers on the immigration request. The statistics won over your personal past, the memory of the past is lost.

Nobody has found a special item to your passed as spiritual life. So the immigration office has put a last item, an empty space with the caption “background”.





Theodor W. Adorno,

Gesammelte Schriften.

Herausgegenben von Rolf Tiedemann
unter Mitwirkung von
Gretel Adorno, Susan Buck-Morss
und Klaus Schultz

Band 4

1951, 2003 Suhrkamp Verlag,
Frankfurt am Main.

aphorism translated by rinaldo rasa,
tuesday september 27, 2016

esperienzadelpensiero experienceofthought expériencedepensée


René Descartes and Christina in Stockholm : UNE RENCONTRE FATALE

Monday July 1, 1996


A fatal event was the voyage to Stockholm for René Descartes, the french philosopher and founder of modern philosophy. The outcome is reported by the scholars after a lot of research. At the time the very young Christina of Sweden, sit on the throne on 1644, wanted to make his court a sort of Platonic Republic of the Letters. During October 1649 René Descartes sees the young Queen engaged to learning the ancient greek language but he thought it was a temporary craze , ‘Peute etre que cela changera’. Wrong assumption. The Queen of Sweden started writing letters asking to the philosopher, ‘What’s the meaning of Love?’. She wants him in Stockholm. Many companions of René have thought that the caprice of a woman was fatal to the philosophy.


The death of Descartes was both pathetic and a bit giddy. He was invited in Sweden by the Queen Christina. The Queen wishes to learn the philosophy by the original voice of Descartes in person. She needs feeding for her mind with the Cartesian ideas and she thinks that the best period of time is early on the morning. During the rest of the day she is engaged by his office of queen, of course. Furthermore she thinks early morning her mind is fresh and at her best for the philosophy. For René early on the morning is a terrifying hour because his habit is on the contrary a sleeping in bed during the morning while he is thinking and doing daydreams
But René is a gentleman, he cannot disappoint a lady and this is a request by the Queen. He wake up at 5 a.m., in the dawn, left the warmth of the bed and he walks along the aisles of the royal palazzo to the chamber of the queen. Regrettably the walk is surrounded by the very coldness hence after a little the philosopher falls ill and die. The kindness towards a woman has killed the philosopher and the whole world became orphan of his thoughts.




text and translation curated

by rinaldo rasa

the original article at




GOFFREDO PARISE , ” Freud in China ” (Dear China, 1966)


Shangai is not a Chinese city but a sort of european meteorite fallen down in this land of Asia, in this eastern foggy of the Asian coast. A complex of buildings with a trade center like Wall Street but more oldish in the good old twentieth century style. Here it seems not being businesses and the look is like art nouveau, Ziegfeld folies, New deal, Frank Capra movies and ’29 financial crack all in one landascape of clouds over there, dark look as in the Europe during the nazi times. Old skyscrapers as old gigolos of that snobby time covered with long banners written with extremist slogans in favor of Mao Zedong and the politicy of the Communist Party. A bell tower like Big Ben rings the halves hours within the deserted night. It’s here the “Peace Hotel” a former nest of spies, a building full of aisles and of blackout curtains whre the killer is waiting you. It is a mournful building like the english factories and his proletariat in the nineteenth century. The whole city of Shangai is crowded with millions of families living in small rooms in a extreme mood of exploiting. Somebody told me Shangai was the most corrupted city in the Extreme Eastern of Asia.

Nowadays on the contrary Shangai is a beautiful city.

Shangai is now an European city like one city in Normandy, for example, but China is a nation that is not similar to Europe. The new Shangai is very distant from the old corrupted city. Now it is inhabited only by Chinese citizens. Hard working people is living in Shangai and it is a good thing. Well done!

Suh Tsung-hwa, a famous Chinese neurologist, is speaking to me. He is a tall, elegant, old fashioned chines man. He manages an important psychiatric hospital and he speaks fluent English. During the past years he was a student of Freud and Adler in Vienna and Paris. Of course the obvious topic of my interview is the psychoanalysis. The psychologist welcomes me with a bow.

‘I have to inform you that neurosis is almost unknown in China. Neurosis is a disease for the bourgeois not for a people of illiterates. . Anyway if you like speaking about psychoanalysis I agree but I think psychoanalysis is a literary political theory borned with the crisis of the bourgeois; in any case it is not a scientific theory. Freud believes that sex, or better the sexual aggressiveness, is the basis of the human soul. He calls it libido. Obviuosly in the middle of the capitalistic crisis happened that psychoanalysis had big success. First resason: in the Europe it was really big contradictions. Second reason: Europe gave birth twice the world wars, War is the worst form of neurosis. Freud’s theory matches the transition into the imperialistic phase of the dying capitalism. My opinion, in brief, is that Freud founded the psicological basis for the imperialism

‘I explain to you that Freud is borned in a revolutionary era. In 1871 it happened the Commune in Paris while Marx-Engels was about the need of an overthrow of the bourgeois made by the proletariat. I explain to you that Freud is borned in a revolutionary era. In 1871 it happened the Commune in Paris while Marx-Engels was about the need of an overthrow of the bourgeois made by the proletariat. At the time Freud was still as student but the political climate was ready for a theory against the marxism hence the bourgeoisie acclaimed the psychoanalysis because this theory hides the true reason of the conflicts between the classes. During the twenties of the XX century the psychoanalysis became popular in America during the big crack of ’29 until 1940 it was only one idea in the field of psicology: the freudian theory of the instincts. Specifically the basis of Freudian theory is money and sex in the same way it happens that in America capitalism earns his power on the people. All this against the righteous theoric thought that explains the prevalence of the economics as engine of history.’, this is what Suh Tsung-hwa said to me.

‘You told me that you do not use the psychoanalysis in the therapy, so I ask you what kind of alternative therapy do you use?, I asked him.

‘As I told you before, in China there is not neurosis neither psychosis, its are bourgeois diseases growing from the egotism like in the competitive society.’, Suh Tsung-hwa said.

‘Yes, I see. You are telling me that in China the egotism is eradicated. It isn’t it?’, I said.

‘Well. It is true that egotism is also here in the socialist society but, and it is a big but, in China it was a small number of capitalists, only twenty percent. The fact means that the masses was not involved in the neurosis. In traditional China, mainly peasant country, the families had a good control over his members hence, following the teachings of Confucius, a single component of the family cannot have a neurosis or paranoia. The struggle for life is cancelled in china, everybody lives in a society without classes. My conclusion is egotism=neurosis=struggle of class.’, Suh Tsung-hwa said.

‘What are the most common mental disorders in China?’, I asked to the doctor.

‘It’s schizophrenia, epilepsy and a lot of hereditary diseases.’, the reply of doctor.

‘And what type of therapy do you use?’, I asked.

‘We are for the usual therapy in the West, I mean drugs for psychiatric therapy and, some serious mental problems need also the use of the electroshock. In the countryside we use the traditional acupuncture. Sometime the therapy includes conversation, sport and slogans like ‘Do not think to yourself!’, said the professor.

Then the professor wants that I visit the department of mental diseases. There are nice rooms and clean. Nurses are walking thru the corridors, the steps are faintly noisy but the feelings are good. The whole sensation at first sight is very similar to a kindergarden. I do not see aggressive behaviors. In some way they are usual in a madhouse but not here in China.

I return to the conversation with the neurologist.
‘What about the depression?’, I ask.
‘Yes. It is a depression called depression caused by remorse’, he said.
‘What?’, I reply.
‘Many workers, students or peasants experiment a sort of remorse because they do not give enough enthusiasm for the construction of the Socialism in China. They think, ‘The Communist Party does everything for us but what am I doing for the Party?’ This thought might be obsessive in order bringing the person towards a depression. Anyway not a neurosis. It’s clear?’, said the professor.

The conversation is at the end but I have in my mind a question for the professor.

‘Dear professor I need to be sincere : I can’t believe in what you said me.’, I said.
‘I see. I had had a western culture as you, I lived for years in Europe and America, but I am mainly a Chinese citizen. In China the family is the core of our society. The collectivism has in this fact its origin. During the Italian Renaissance the Man was on the spotlight while in China, in the same time, there was the Chinese Empire as the culmination of collectivism. I think the European culture is more young than our. We are an ancient, very ancient culture. I am embarassed doing for you such a discourse. The Chinese heart is very complicated.’

And with this sentence the converstion is over.



text curated by rinaldo rasa
the original article at




MAX HORKHEIMER , ” Il dualismo dell’Ego / The dualism of ego – a lecture in critical Sociology “

The Institute for Social Research, New York City, 1936

The warfare among men in war and in peace is the key to the insatiability of the species and to its ensuing practical attitudes, as well as to the categories and methods of scientific intelligence in which nature appears increasingly under the aspect of its most effective exploitation.



This form of perception has also determined the way in which human beings visualize each other in their economic and political relationships. The patterns of humanity’s way of looking at nature finally reflect on and determine the imaging of humans in the human mind and eliminate the last objective goal that might momotivate the process. The repression of desires that society achieves through the ego becomes even more unreasonable not only for the population as a whole but for each individual.


The more loudly the idea of rationality is proclaimed and acknowledged, the stronger is the growth in the minds of people of conscious or unconscious resentment against civilization and its agency within the individual, the ego. How does nature, in all the phases of its oppression, inside and outside the human being, react to this antagonism? What are the psychological, political, and philosophical manifestations of its revolt? Is it possible to void the conflict by a ‘return to nature,’ by a revival of old doctrines, or by the creation of new myths? Each human being experiences the domineering aspect of civilization from his birth. To the child, the father’s power seems overwhelming, supernatural in the literal sense of the word.


The father’s command is reason exempt from nature, an inexorable spiritual force. The child suffers in submitting to this force. It is almost impossible for an adult to remember all the pangs he experienced as a child in heeding innumerable parental admonitions not to stick his tongue out, not to mimic others, not to be untidy or forget to wash behind his ears. In these demands, the child is confronted by the fundamental postulates of civilization. He is forced to resist the immediate pressure of his urges, to differentiate between himself and the environment, to be efficient—in short, to borrow Freud’s terminology, to adopt a superego embodying all the so-called principles that his father and other father-like figures hold up to him.


The child does not recognize the motive for all these demands. He obeys lest he be scolded or punished, lest he forfeit the love of his parents which he deeply craves. But the displeasure attached to submission persists, and he develops a deep hostility to his father, which is eventually translated into resentment against civilization itself.


The process may be particularly drastic if obedience is enforced less by an individual than by groups—by other children on the playground and in school. They do not argue, they hit As industrialist society passes into a stage in which the child is directly confronted with collective forces, the part played in his psychological household by discourse, and consequently by thought, decreases.


Thus conscience, or the superego, disintegrates.




La lotta continua dell’uomo contro l’uomo, regnino nel mondo la pace o la guerra, spiega l’insaziabilità della specie, gli atteggiamenti pratici che ne sono conseguenza e anche le categorie e i metodi dell’intelligenza scientifica in cui la natura è guardata in misura sempre maggiore dal punto di vista del suo piú efficiente sfruttamento.


Questa forma di percezione ha anche determinato il modo in cui gli esseri umani si vedono l’un l’altro nei loro rapporti economici e politici. Gli schemi cui obbedisce la visione che l’uomo ha della natura si riflettono infine sull’immagine dell’uomo nella mente umana, la determinano ed eliminano cosí l’unico scopo oggettivo che potrebbe giustificare il processo. La espressione dei desideri cui la società giunge attraverso l’ego diventa ancor piú irragionevole non solo per l’umanità nel suo complesso ma anche per l’individuo singolo.


Quanto piú clamorosamente l’idea di razionalità è proclamata e applaudita giusta, tanto piú cresce negli uomini il rancore piú o meno consapevole contro la civiltà e contro il suo agente nell’individuo, cioè l’ego. Come reagisce a questo antagonismo la natura in tutte le fasi della sua repressione dentro e fuori l’individuo? Quali sono le manifestazioni psicologiche, politiche, filosofiche della sua rivolta? È possibile porre termine al conflitto con un «ritorno alla natura», con un revival di antiche dottrine, o con la creazione di nuovi miti? Ogni essere umano viene in contatto fin dalla nascita con questo aspetto imperioso, autoritario della civiltà.


Al bambino il potere del padre appare schiacciante, soprannaturale nel senso letterale della parola. Il comando del padre è la voce stessa della ragione, esente da ogni elemento di natura, inesorabile forza spirituale. Il bambino soffre nel sottomettersi a questa forza; per un adulto è quasi impossibile ricordare tutte le sofferenze che gli è costato da bambino l’obbedire alle innumerevoli esortazioni paterne: non tirar fuori la lingua, non fare il verso alle persone, non sporcarsi, lavarsi dietro le orecchie. Questi ordini mettono il bambino di fronte ai postulati fondamentali della società.


Egli è costretto a resistere alla pressione immediata dei suoi bisogni, a stabilire una distinzione fra se stesso e ciò che lo circonda, ad essere efficiente; in breve, se vogliamo prendere a prestito la terminologia freudiana, ad adottare un superego in cui prendono corpo tutti i principî inculcatigli dal padre e da altre figure paterne. Il bambino non sa quale motivo stia dietro a tutte queste esigenze; egli obbedisce solo per non essere sgridato o punito o per paura di perdere l’affetto dei genitori di cui ha un profondo bisogno.


Ma la sofferenza inseparabile dalla sottomissione persiste e nel bambino si sviluppa una profonda ostilità per il padre che infine si traduce in risentimento contro la civiltà stessa. Il processo può essere particolarmente drastico se l’obbedienza è imposta non da un individuo ma da un gruppo, per esempio dagli altri bambini con cui il piccolo gioca o va a scuola.


Quelli non discutono, picchiano. Quando la società industriale entra nella fase in cui il bambino viene costretto ad affrontare direttamente forze collettive, la funzione svolta nella sua economia psichica dal discorso e quindi dal pensiero diminuisce.


Cosí la coscienza o superego si disintegra.



Max Horkheimer, Eclipse of Reason, 1947
the book is written in english during
his exile caused by the victory of 
nazis in germany in the early thirty
of the twentieth century


Max Horkheimer, Eclisse della ragione, 1970 Einaudi.
traduzione italiana di Elena Vaccari Spagnol



SLAWOMIR MROZEK , ” Che peccato! / It is a pity you can’t see! “


È una giornata particolarmente serena, il sole fa miracoli, l’intera sfilata si tuffa nello splendore che emana dal cielo incredibilmente azzurro. Ci sono uccelli sui rami degli alberi. Si stenta a credere che abbiamo tanti uccelli. Continuiamo a lagnarci e ci vuole una giornata solenne come questa, che spunta dopo anni di deviazioni e di errori, il perché si riesca a valutare quanti uccelli abitano il nostro paese. E cantano, cantano in modo meraviglioso, tanto che vien voglia di chiedersi se non siano cavalli.


Ecco gli sportivi. Passano davanti alla tribuna. tendono i loro muscoli lisci e striati. Petto e natiche in fuori! Ma noi siamo ormai produttori di alluminio e la nostra produzione crescerà costantemente. Ecco i nostri giovani. Ispirano fiducia. Fanno cenni verso la tribuna, gridano qualcosa, ma non si riesce a sentire niente, tanto incredibilmente forte è il canto degli uccelli.


Ecco un altro gruppo. sono i vecchi degli ospizi e i bambini degli asili; fraternizzano, sfilano portando lunghi striscioni con la scritta: “I vecchi con i bambini – i bambini con i vecchi!” Ecco quelli che finora erano ingiustamente dimenticati. Che peccato che non possiate vedere! Queste testoline bionde accanto alle vestaglie a righe o grige, ai pigiami e alle giacche da camera dei vecchi! Le rughe dei loro volti splendono alla luce del sole. Alcuni bambini sono tanto piccoli che ancora non sanno camminare. Sono stati raccolti a mazzi di cinque e legati alle spalle dei vegliardi. I vecchi miopi per orientarsi meglio seguono il vocio dei bambini. Ecco i nostri meravigliosi trovatelli moderni. Echeggia il comando: “Volt-a-dest! Dest!” Tutti coloro che sono stati colpiti da paralisi del lato destro, tutti quelli che hanno un tic nervoso al braccio destro da anni attendevano il momento in cui avrebbero potuto presentarsi alle autorità. Ora sfilano davanti alla tribuna. Avanzano oltre. Un vecchio comincia ad applaudire, ma gli si stacca il braccio. Glielo raccoglie il soldato di servizio che saluta sull’attenti, mentre il vecchio lo ringrazia.


Sono passati. Ma la sfilata continua. Eh, sì! Si ode uno strano rumore, come di legno, come di tante scarpe sfasciate. Eccoli! Ora sfilano i nostri magnifici mutilati riabilitati! Il gruppo che porta gli occhiali neri e si serve di bastoni bianchi per camminare avrebbe sbagliato strada ed infilato una traversa, se non ci fosse stato l’intervento dei mutilati privi di gambe, i quali con somma abilità adoperano le grucce. Ecco tutto il reparto sotto la tribuna. Il sole fa luccicare le loro protesi. Si vedono scene commoventi: due mutilati, ciascuno con un braccio solo, si mettono insieme per applaudire; un muto vorrebbe gridare “evviva!” ma non può.


Poi di gran corsa e con eccezionale perizia di guida arriva un reparto di mutilati in carrozzella. Il sole risplende sui raggi cromati delle ruote. Comunque la nostra industria ormai produce il nichel e ne produrrà sempre più. Che peccato che non possiate vedere!


Sono passati. La strada è sgombra. Ma non pensate che la sfilata sia finita. tutt’altro!


Ora vengono coloro che sarebbero visibili se non fossero morti. Eh, sì. Il sole splende. Eccole, le vittime degli errori giudiziari. La tribuna saluta, gli uccelli cantano. Le vittime sfilano come fossero vive. Ecco un atteggiamento costruttivo. Portano allegramente le loro bare di quercia, le presentano alla tribuna, è tutto un luccichio che fa male agli occhi. Non c’è alcun dubbio: sfilano anche loro. Siamo una nazione esportatrice di legno di quercia e lo saremo sempre di più. Sfilano orgogliosi: finalmente è venuto il loro giorno! Gli uccelli cantano.


Che peccato che non possiate vedere!



It is a beautiful day. The sun makes miracles while the parade goes ahead under a blue sky and the chirping of the birds on the twigs is loud. Somebody can’t believe so many birds living in our country. Our political opponents accused us of a wrong calculation but now it is evident that we were righteous in the exact calculation of the number of birds in our country. The birds are singing so a beautiful sound that we can confused a singing of bird with a sound of horses.


Here are the sportsmen walking under the podium. Their muscles are strong, chest and butt. Here are our young men, our youth ready for the production of metal. They are trusting in the future of socialism and they are yelling something but the incredible loud chirping of the birds is covering their words.


Now are coming a new group. It is the group of the elders with the kindergardens boys, they have a banner written ‘Elders and boys together”. It is a pity you can’t see! The wrinkles of the elders are shining under the sun while the kindergardens boys are walking with their young legs and the voices of the youth shows the way to the elders with the myopic.
An order is transmitted, ‘Turn to right side!’, in a hurry all the elders with a paralisys on the right arm are now gratified because they are just healed for obeying to the order. To an elder lift up the arm is a pain maybe the arm falling down on the ground but, don’t worry, immediately a soldier is here for you, his duty is helping the handicapped elders. The old man expresses his thanks to the assistant.



Parade is going on. Now we heard a sound of wood on the ground as wooden feet: they are our mutilated by war. Here they are! Now they are rehabilitated. The followed are the blind men all with white walking stick. Then the cripples of legs with their crutch. Sun is shining on the prothesis of the mutilated. A dumb man wishes to yell, ‘Long live Socialism!’ but, sadly, he can’t do it. It’s indeed a touching scene. The parade shows now the group of mutilated on wheelchair, rays of sun is shining on the metallic radius of the wheels. Loud applause for our metallurgical industry, and especially for our nickel production. It is a pity you can’t see!



At the end of the parade they are marching the invisible people, of course, they should be visible but they are dead. Pity you can’t see this! The sun shines, the birds are singing. Victims of the travesty of justice are marching under the platform of the autorities. Here you can see a constructive feeling they are bringing their oak coffins. No doubt: the dead marching with their pride! We are a great nation that produces oak wood of its best quality. Again the birds are singing in this beautiful day.



It is a pity you can’t see!



Slawomir Mrozek, 
1958 Wydawnictwo Literackie, Krakow. 
1963, 1988 Giulio Einaudi editore s.p.a., Torino. 
Traduzione italiana di Riccardo Landau

Slawomir Mrozek translated in English by Rinaldo Rasa 
Slawomir is a great writer, a socialist writer

Great respect for him.

esperienzadelpensiero experienceofthought expériencedepensée


GUY DEBORD : La Planète malade : ” The racial riots in America “ (Internationale situationniste en mars 1966)


Julliet 1965.

Jasqu’ici, les manifestation des Noirs pour le ” droits civiques ” avaient été maintenues par leurs chefs dans une légalité qui tolérait les pires violences de forces de l’ordre et des racistes, comme au mois de mars précédent en Alabama, lors de la marche sur Montgommery ; et même après ce scandale, une entente discrète du gouvernement fédéral, du governeur Wallace et du pasteur King avait conduit la marche de Selma, le 10 mars, à reculer devant la première sommation, dans la dignité et la prière. L’affrontement attendu alors par la foule des manifestants n’avait été que le spectacle d’un affrontement possible. En même temps la non-violence avait atteint la limite riudicule de son courage : s’exposer aux coups de l’ennemi, et pousser ensuite la grandeur morale jusq’à lui épargner la nécessité d’user à nouveau de sa force. Mais la donnée de base est que le mouvement de droites civiques ne posait, par des moyens légaux, que des problèmes légaux. Il est logique d’en appeler légalement à la loi. Ce qui est irrationnel, c’est de quémander légalement devant l’illégalité patente, comme si elle était un non-sens qui se dissoudra en étant montré du doight. Il est manifeste que l’illégalité superficielle, outrageusement visible, encore appliquée aux Noirs dans beaucoup d’Etas américains, a ses racines dans une contradiction économico-sociale qui n’est pas du ressort des lois existantes ; et qu’aucune loi juridique future ne peut même défaire, contre les lois plus fondamentales de la société où les Noirs américains finalement osent demander de vivre. Les Noirs américains, en vérité, veulent la subversion totale de cette société, ou rien. …. Ce n’est plus la crise du statut des Noirs en Amérique ; c’est la crise du statut de l’Amérique, posé d’abord parmi les Noirs. Il n’y pas eu ici de conflit racial. …. Luther King lui-même a dû  admettre que les limites de sa spécialité étaient franchies, en déclarant, à Paris en octobre, que ” ce n’étaient pas des émeutes de races, mais de classe “.


La révolte de Los Angeles est une révolte contre la marchandise, contre le monde de la marchandise et du travailleur-consommateur hiérarchiquement soumis aux mesures de la merchandise.



Supermarket à Los Angeles, août 1965.



July 1965.

Until today the Movement for the Civil rights for Black people was in lawful and peaceful despite the innumerable violences of the racists and of the policemen in Alabama called the ‘Blood Sunday in Montgomery’ on march 7.
The reverend King and governor Wallace agreed that the demonstration of march 10 was a day of prayer not a day for fighting. So it was the demonstration of Selma. Also the Federal Government asked a spectacle of non-violence but at the same time it becomes almost a loss of courage for the Black people. It was clear that the victims of violence had the great moral force but he is hit by the brutal force of racism. Is it still possible a lawful action? The Blacks are asking at the American way of life only the rights for an ordinary life without discrimination. This is not an illegal request but I think the Law is sadly a problem.
The problem isn’t only the racial question, it is a problem for the status quo for America. The racial discrimination is no more justified, it wasn’t justified also in the past anyway. Black people attacked only when the white policemen acted against the black community but this fight isn’t against the Whites. In an interview done in Paris, the reverend Luther King highlights the fact that the racial conflict is conflict of classes.



The riot in Los Angeles is against the power of the merchandise. Black people, mainly young blacks, take seriously the affluent society in the modern capitalism hence they want now integration. Now not in a future. The abundance of merchandise for a single class is an offense to the society in itself, it’s not necessary.


Guy Debord
2006 Alice Debord et les Éditions Gallimard

Text in English curated by Rinaldo Rasa

esperienzadelpensiero experienceofthought expériencedepensée


ΠΛΑΤΩΝ : ΦΑΙΔΩΝ , ” Morte di un filosofo / Death of a philosopher “


Socrate, il filosofo/Socrates, the philosopher

Uno studente/A student

Entrati gli amici nella cella la mattina dell’ultima sua giornata di vita, ben presto si inizia una conversazione sull’atteggiamento del filosofo nei riguardi della morte. Il filosofo spende la sua vita nel rifiutarne i piaceri e nel prepararsi a lasciarla. Poi viene per Socrate il momento di morire: si congeda dai familiari, beve serenamente la cicuta che gli porge l’incaricato, fra le lacrime dei discepoli, poi, steso sul giaciglio, lo raggiunge la fine.

SOCRATE, “Onde è chiaro, ch’io non posso fare accoglienza a un che dica, o che sia io o altri, l’anima è armonia.

“E che? di tutte le parti le quali sono nell’uomo, dirai tu che signoreggia un’altra, e non l’anima, specialmente se ella è savia?”

STUDENTE, “Io no certo.”

SOCRATE, “E signoreggia perciò ch’ella condiscende alle bramosie del corpo, o anche perciò che le rintuzza? Voglio dire: ha il corpo caldo o sete? e l’anima per forza lo tira sì che non beva; ha fame? e lo tira sì che non mangi; e non vediamo noi simigliantemente in infinite altre cose riluttare l’anima al corpo, o no?”


SOCRATE, “E non si convenne, egli è poco, che se è armonia l’anima, non risonerà ella in contraria maniera di come si tirano, si allentano, tremano e, in genere, di come si muovono le corde dalle quali vien fuori; ma sibbene sarà seguace di quelle, e non le regolerà mai?”

STUDENTE, “Si convenne, come no?”

SOCRATE, “E che? non ci si mostra ella ora operando tutto il contrario, cioè governando quel corpo medesimo del quale si direbbe ch’ella è fatta, e contrastandogli quasi tutto il tempo della vita, donneggiando in ogni maniera; ora castigandolo più aspramente facendogli dolore con la ginnastica e con la medicina, ora più benignamente, ora minacciando, ora ammonendo; e così conversando con i desiderii e con le ire e le paure, come un fa con un altro, proprio: siccome poetò Omero nell’Odissea, dove dice che percotendosi Ulisse il petto, rivolse al cuore suo simiglianti parole: “Soffri, o cuore, che bene tu hai sofferto di peggio.” E tu credi che Omero abbia così fatto, immaginando che l’anima fosse un’armonia, e che ella fosse regolata dalle affezioni del corpo, non già che le regolasse e signoreggiasse, essendo molto più divina cosa che l’armonia?”

STUDENTE, “Per Giove, mi par bene così, o Socrate.”

SOCRATE, “Dunque, o bonissimo uomo, non istà bene che noi diciamo che l’anima è un’armonia; imperocché si vede che dicendo noi così né ci concorderemmo con Omero, divino poeta, e manco con noi medesimi.”

STUDENTE, “Così è.”




E, cotali parole dicendo, appressò il calice alla sua bocca e bevve securamente e d’un fiato. E noi, che i più insino allora ci eravamo fatti forza di non piangere, come lo vedemmo bere e che avea già bevuto, non potemmo più; e a me subito dagli occhi sgorgarono forte le lacrime, e mi copersi la faccia col pallio: piangeva me, non già lui; piangeva la mia disgrazia; rimanendo io abbandonato da tale amico. E di nuovo gli premette le gambe, e scorrendo in su con la mano, mostravaci com’egli già raffreddava ed intirizziva. E di nuovo lo toccò, e disse: – Quando gli prende il cuore, allora se ne anderà.

Questa fu la fine dell’amico nostro, il più buono uomo, oh lo possiamo dire! di quanti furon conosciuti da noi in quel tempo; proprio il più sapiente e il più giusto.




Socrates was condamned to drinking venom. He acepted the sentence of the judges of Athens but his students are now almost weeping hence he talks about the soul. In this manner he mitigates for a while the sorrow of them. In the discussion somebody says that soul is a harmony like that from a musical instrument. Socrates says ‘I do not think so’, why the philosopher opposed such so a nice point of view?



SOCRATES, ‘We know that a good man has a part in which the soul is the most important. Expecially if the soul is wise. Isn’t it?’
STUDENT, ‘I agree.’
SOCRATES,’Our soul is our main force. The soul does not like to be controlled by the body. When you are intoxicated the soul wants you do not drink no more, or when you eat too much the soul wants we do not eat no more. In a lot of facts we believe that soul likes to command of the body not viceversa.’
STUDENT, ‘It’s right.’
SOCRATES, ‘I think the cords of a musical instrument are similar to our nerves. When the nerves and muscles are in movement they produces a nice sound. We said it before.’
STUDENT, ‘Yes. I remember it.’

SOCRATES, ‘What? The soul works in a different manner. For the lifetime of our life the soul is fighting with the excesses of the body. The soul wants the body for the health and she has a conversation with our fears and passions. A good soul can control our feelings or our sufferings. Homer, the poet, in the Odyssey said,’ My heart is suffering but now it is not so hard as in the past.’ The words of our poet are against the idea that our soul is dependent of our body. Our soul is a better than the harmony because the soul is capable to remove our stupidity.’

STUDENT, ‘By Jove. You are a genius, dear Socrates!’
SOCRATES, ‘Yes good man. The theory of the harmony of soul is opposed to our great poet Homer. Our divine poet agrees with us.’
STUDENT, ‘Of course!’





Socrates drinks the venom. The students weep the death of the philosopher while the venom takes effect. Socrates now is dead and a student closes his mouth and eyes.




1970 Einaudi, Torino.

Traduzione italiana di Francesco Acri (1899)


Text and translation curated by Rinaldo Rasa

esperienzadelpensiero experienceofthought expériencedepensée


Frères humains après vivez,

N’ayez les cuers contre nous endurcis,

Car, se pitié de nous povres avez,

Dieu en aura plus tost de vous mercis.


Ballade des pendus


Before reading this article I think necessary a notice: I consider the death penalty is a macabre revenge and an inhuman action. I know that all around in this fucking world there’s a lot of countries with a law in favor of the death penalty. Anyway i don’t want followers to the agenda19892010 or people in favor of death penality. Fucking murderers and fascists are not accepted here. I hope to be clear once and for all. (Rinaldo Rasa)


NEW YORK, Tuesday April 21, 1992

California is one of thirtysix american states that includes the death penalty and one of six that opted during 1930 for gas chamber. In the prison of San Quentin in Frisco Bay the gas chamber is denominated with the nickname “Green chamber”. The death chamber is like a small submarine, a watertight room once the room is locked by reason of prevent gas leak. This chamber has eight walls, in every wall there is a small rectangular window that permits to view the death of the condemned. This chamber has eight walls, in every wall there is a small rectangular window that permits to view the death of the condemned for a small crowd of fifty witnesses. It is comprised by the relatives of the condamned, by the relatives of the victims and a number of journalists chosen at random. In the center of the chamber are bolted two chairs, chair A and chair B both of them made by white metal where the condemned is bonded. At zero hour the executioner pushes a button so a pill of cyanide falls down in an acid sulphuric solution. From this fact happens a lethal gas that acts immediately. The first minutes are terrible: the condemned experiences a sense of suffocation and he tries to free from the straps, suddenly he lost the control of the whole corporal functions while the visage is deformed in horrible grimaces. Then the venomous substance locks the cerebral functions. After fifteen minutes the chamber is freed of the gas by a ventilator. The jailer enters the chamber escorted by the physicians, the notice of death is written and the corpse is brought away. In the Aushwitz of San Quentin two hundreds of condemned was smothered. The last death condamned was executed in 1967 when Ronald Reagan was governor of California. Reagan had no mercy for Aaron Mitchell culpable of killing a policeman.
Robert Alton Harris in San Quentin just before the execution of the sentence to death
Shortly after the execution of the death sentence. On the left the sister of one of the two boys killed by Harris. She is exulting with a friend. On the right side there is the brother of the other boy killed. He seems gloomy and unhappy.



for those of you interested
here it's the original article at :



text curated by rinaldo rasa,
friday september 23, 2016


CARMELO BENE , ” Fuori del manicomio / Out of it waiting for a better world “

Buchi neri. Assolutamente. Tic. Amen. “Ah sì?”. Spropositi. Atti assurdi. S’inchinavano. Schiaffeggiavano il nulla. L’ora d’aria in cortile. Da bravi ergastolani giocavano a pallone, finché io non prendevo a recitare Marco Antonio o Cyrano de Bergerac. Smettevano di calciare. Sedevano in terra tutta l’ora, dimentichi del pallone. Mi tributavano trionfi veri e propri. So per certo di aver lasciato un gran vuoto là dentro.

Accadevano anche strani incidenti anche con loro. Quello decisivo fu una sera. Trasmettevano Madama Butterfly. “Mi raccomando, volume basso”, mi ammonivano. Erano calate le ombre. Sento bussare alla porta. Piovigginava. “Sono Agostino, dottore”. Era l’infermiere. Aveva il doppio della mia età, una quarantina d’anni. Una specie d’orango facile ai rossori. “Lei che è una persona di cultura, scrive e sente la radio, non mi può far uscire da questo dilemma?”. “Coraggio, Agostino, si esprima a modo suo, mi dica”, lo confortavo. “Le monache dicono che sarò punito e andrò all’inferno perché bestemmio… Se vado all’inferno è perché sono amico del diavolo, giusto?”. “Non ci piove”. “E perché allora nessuno mi sa spiegare come mai il diavolo dovrebbe trattar male i suoi amici, farli soffrire? Sono nemico di nostro Signore ma con Lucifero sono amico, o no?”. “Ha ragione Agostino”.

“Si nasce pazzi, poi qualcuno ci resta”, diceva Beckett. Contagiati da tanto straordinario materiale umanoide, gli infermieri finivano per delirare peggio delle loro vittime. Anche se poi i discorsi dei cosiddetti pazzi non fanno mai una piega. Hanno un rigore straordinario, basta scapolare il linguaggio. Imparai ad accogliere i miei, di buchi neri. Fu questa una grande lezione, altro che Lacan, studiato solo quindici anni dopo!

Dicevamo di Agostino. Veniva spesso a propormi questo indovinello teologico e altri analoghi. Non ci dormiva la notte. Nemmeno il prete sapeva spiegarlo. Non c’erano risposte plausibili. E lui, questo gorilla timido, armadio a quattro ante, non si capacitava.


Agostino esce dunque confortato dal mio confessionale. Riaccendo questa Butterfly. Sento picchiettare di nuovo alla porta. Carponi carponi, era l’avvocato. “Sono trent’anni che non sento Puccini”, mugolava. “Venga avvocato, piano… Si segga”. Lo faccio accomodare, seduto con la sua giacca di cammello, i ginocchi tra le mani conserte.

Piano piano ne arriva un altro, poi un altro ancora, alla fine la stanza si riempie, una piccola folla, una trentina di matti in ascolto religioso di un’opera poi non così eccelsa come la Butterfly. Non volava una mosca. E, in Un bel dì vedremo, si scatena all’esterno un effetto larsen di sirene, una bolgia di allarmi. Un pandemonio. Era il sistema di sicurezza che scattava in caso di evasione. Profittando dell’adunata operistica, tre o quattro avevano scavalcato il muro di cinta e ora li stavano braccando. Sembrava una sequenza da Alcatraz.


Allo stesso tempo, altri energumeni travestiti da infermieri fecero irruzione nella mia camera impacchettando brutalmente i devoti, calmissimi ascoltatori della Butterfly. “A noi fatecio continuare!”, protestai a nome dei melomani. “Dottore, lei non si immischi per favore, questi li sistemiamo noi, pane, acqua e camica di forza, in catene devono stare per tre giorni!”… Era così allora. Non si stava troppo a sottilizzare. D’altra parte entravano come malati mentali e dopo qualche anno diventavano psicopatici senza speranza. Uno stava lì da quarant’anni, s’era ridotto a mordere le reti arrugginite. Li lasciavano mezzi ignudi, quando non li vestivano con la camicia di forza.


Era una macchina trita-linguagio. In quella esplosione permanente, ti rendevi subito conto d’essere capitato dalla parte giusta, dove il parlante era parlato. C’era una comunicativa fatta di non-comunicazione, di significati che si alleavano secondo criteri arcani. Ininfluente che tu parlassi il turco o l’aramaico. Si spalancava l’abisso del vanus flati. Rivolgersi al prossimo per qualunque motivo: quella era la vera insensatezza. La precarietà del dialogo. L’illusione del linguaggio. La non specularità del piano d’ascolto.

Ognuno si credeva qualcos’altro, ma non perché si immedisimasse in altro, attenzione, come fanno gli attori di rappresentazione a teatro o nel cinema. No, quelli erano proprio smedesimati. Non c’era tempo, non c’era storia. Non c’era patria. Non c’era l’Io e non c’eri Tu. Due settimane, un salto di cent’anni. Per prima cosa cestinai i versi che stavo scribacchiando, subito via.


Il primario aveva capito: “Questa sera lei esce”. Diluviava. Più di uno tra i cosiddetti pazzi mi scongiurava: “Ma è vero che ci lascia? Proprio stasera?”. Piangevano. Mi persuadevano. “Non lo vede come piove? Dove va con questo acquazzone? E poi domani è domenica… Perché proprio oggi?”. “Ci laacia per sempre? Ci abbandona?”. In effetti non stavo abbandonando loro. Uscendo abbandonavo me stesso. Nel senso che mi sarei “ritrovato”. Fuori, sotto il diluvio universale, c’era una carrozza nera che mi aspettava, dalle ruote verniciate di rosso e una lanterna accesa. Al finestrino, Giuliana. Mangiammo una cosa in un’osteria e poi in albergo. Nel grande letto. Giuliana. Quella con cui mi sposai, anzi “divorziai”.


Star fuori due minuti m’era bastato per capire che era più interessante stare dentro.


Più che capire, ero stato capito da tutto. Anche il sesso, l’attrazione nei confronti di questa donna, non significava più nulla. bisognava tornare a parlare, spiegarsi, queste cose molto tristi, a sconquassare il corpo.




During the recreation time it was a hullaballoo of nervous tics, black holes a collection of absurd actions. Waving hands towards the nothingness, walking back and forth in the courtyard. The older madmen playing soccer but when I began reciting as Mark Anthony or Cyrano de Bergerac they stopped the game for looking at me. Sitting on the pavement they forgotten the soccer they cheering to me. Great good people these madmen!


The time I was in the madhouse was really a good time for my companions until the evening when on the radio was aired the opera Madama Butterfly by Giacomo Puccini. For me a permission to get on the radio but ‘Plaese no loud sound’, said to me Augustine, the male nurse.

Augustine was in his forty, a big guy, ‘You are a gentleman, isn’t it?’. I replied,’ Sure, Augustine, do not worry’. I comprehended he was in trouble with something he thought to be a delicate stuff. ‘Go on, Augustine. Tell me the problem’, I said.
‘I am in heavy doubt’, said Augustine. ‘The nuns told that I have go to hell. The Devil shall punish me because I am a blasphemous.’
‘Ok,’ I said ‘I see.’
Augustine subsequently said, ‘I do not know this matter but I think the Devil doesn’t make evil to his friends. For I am a blasphemous I am a friend to the Devil hence the Devil can’t hurt his friends, isn’t it?’
I said,’ You are right, man!’


Samuel Beckett one said, ‘Everyone born in madness, but somebody is stuck in it forever.’
The nurse in the psychiatric facility becomes mad as the madmen themselves, a kind of human contamination that compels the nurse expressing his own delirium in a type of language very formal and, of course, strictly logical. Black holes in its pure form. Trust me just forget Lacan the madmen are better than the psychiatric doctors. In the vanguard of almost 15 years compared to psychiatric researchers. Great lesson! Back to Augustine, the male nurse. He doesn’t have sleep in the night because his theological doubt is inexplicable. There is no answers, even the priest can answer to his question. This timid gorilla was in trouble with the problem of the supernatural world


Done this conversation with Augustine I turn on the radio for Madama Butterfly. I heard a knocking at my door. It was the old lawyer that said,’It’s since thirty years that I wish listen the music but I am have not the permission. Can I stay with you?’
‘Come on in, you are a friend’, I said.
I welcome him in the room and he stays here with his coat in silent. After a brief time my room was full of madmen which wish listen Puccini. A small crowd, almost thirty persons in silence are listen to an opera by Puccini, not the best of his works but everybody was very quiet.
At the aria “un bel dì vedremo” it happend a true mess: the security alarms started ringing. It was that three or four patients taking advantage of the opera were tempted to escape from the madhouse. It seemed a movie about the escape from Alcatraz.
The situation was straight down. A lot of male nurses come into the room shouting, ‘Enuf is enuf, men! Bagging all of you fucking!’ ‘We are doing nothing, we listen Puccini!’, I said.
‘Shut up!’, said the enraged male nurse.
This was a madhouse before of the Basaglia’s and the reform of psychiatry. Straitjacket and batting on the heads of the patients. A person who comes in this type of facility becomes after some years a madman even if he was not so. The only cloth permitted was the straitjacket.

It was a world where people doesn’t communicate in the usual manner of the world. In an instant you know that the language has limits in itself. Everybody belief being something else but not in the meaning of actors in the theatre or in the movie characters. It was a time without history, it was there neither an “Ego” or an “Us”. Two weeks in the madhouse and I became a different type of man. I burned my poems that I had written during this period.

In an istant I got hundred years old. It was impossible to make poetry with it.

The chief of psychiatry understood my situation hence he said, ‘Out of here now!’
‘Why now, it’s evening and bad weather’, I said. ‘Right now!’, he said.
While I was out some of the madmen were weeping. Outside there were a black car. Inside the car there was Giuliana. We went to a hotel. We made love. But my marriage was at the same time a divorce.
I was out of the facility but I thought the world was less interesting.



(Cfr. Carmelo Bene,
Vita di Carmelo Bene.
1998/2005 RCS Libri. Bompiani. Milano.
In collaborazione con la  


Text in English curated by Rinaldo Rasa

esperienzadelpensiero experienceofthought expériencedepensée