quina d'aqueixes sóc?

quina d'aqueixes sóc?

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“Roure Vilòbit – biografia.”
















Un altre text antic al prim guaitajorns: “Roure Vilòbit – biografia.”








El nasqueren i tot rutllava fins que es va esquerdar el crani, just a l’alçada del lòbul esquerre. Fou l’any (just quan n’havia fets tres) on li nasqueren un germanet i se li desvetllà l’enveja que mai més no l’abandonaria. “Envejós, envejós” – sempre el mateix retret.



Havia fets sis anys i visitaren casa seua els oncles i la padrina. S’havia endutes les seues dues cosinetes a una cambra buida; era l’estiu i del balcó n’entrava una bona brisa; va fer despullar les dues cosinetes i es despullava alhora ell mateix, i tot seguit, a la més gran (sis mesos més que no ell), estesa a terra, li obrí les cuixes i li endinyà el moixó cuca endins.



En aquell instant s’obrí la porta, i ah els escarafalls! Padrines, tietes, mares, l’enrenou. I el tractaven d’indecent, i d’obscè i de pocavergonya, i de malparit, i de fer dolenteries, rai. I es va ficar els pantalons de pressa i malament, i ja empegueïdament i tort, dejús la pluja de clatellots, s’escapolia cap a baix, tret que en aquell instant va relliscar al primer replà i rodolà damunt-davall pels alts esglaons; va caure daltabaix, i, al terra de baix de tot, el seu caparró s’estavellava a la vora metàl·lica de la bàscula – ara el trep al lòbul dretà fou sensacional. Perdent el coneixement, encara va sentir una seua padrina dient que “déu l’havia castigat” i que “massa poc”.



Allí se li acabà de moment la vida sexual compartida. Va haver d’esperar (després de pelar-se-la en diferents, sovint divertides, avinenteses que inclogueren mant de “vici”) fins tot just fets els vint-i-tres anys, amb una bandarra bandejada dels bons bars per vella i claupassada, la qual ell gosà abordar una nit on feia sojorn a Barcelona per qüestions literàries, en sortir d’un hotelet de vora l’estació de França, en un carreró fosc i molt estret. La dona se l’endugué a un hotel encara més rònec que no el seu i li encomanà una dosi de cabres que més tard li va caldre raure’s tot pèl al cos (menys del cap) i untar-se’l amb DDT.



La seua escolarització anà per escarits viaranys molt allunyats de l’oficialitat. Mai no assistí a cap institut franquista. Sempre va anar amb mestres catalans qui, si bé ho havien de fer tot en la llengua (per tots viltinguda i ridiculitzada) de l’invasor (tret de la classe de francès, és clar), tot allò altre entre classes era dit i instruït i bramat (car els mastegots hi rajaven) en ferm català. Anant per lliure, i els mestres “marcats” de no pas prou addictes al règim, el bombaven o penjaven sovint. Els dos darrers anys, tanmateix, per fortunes familiars, fou enviat a internats de “frares”. Se n’adonà que això dels frares era un cau de marietes. Marietes i religió sempre interendollat. Hom es feia frare o capellà només, o essencialment, per a tocar culets de noiet. Tant se val, així i tot, gràcies a la connivència frares-franquistes, fou immediatament aprovat en tot.



Als disset anys entrà a la facultat de medicina. Aquell fou l’any on se n’adonà que tot el que havia cregut (o cregut que tothom creia) era falòrnia. Que ningú no es creia de debò les bestiades sobre inferns i cels i purgatoris, i déus i sants i verges, i misses, i ànimes... No pas que s’hagués mai aturat a pensar si era o no veritat. Assumia fins aleshores que hi havia gent qui sabia de què parlaven quan s’empatollaven en qüestions d’aqueixes. Tingué una caiguda en picat d’embranzida vital, d’aquelles que en deien “crisi existencial”, em sembla, angoixa de viure. I només, doncs, es volia morir. Allò de l’avortament hauria d’ésser practicat com qui es moca. Potser no fórem tants a patir crisis que t’engraellen el viu de l’esperit en lents cruels cruanys o corrosius calius. Si tens un fill, la teua obligació és mai no enverinar’l amb cap – absolutament amb cap! – falòrnia.



[Per a il·lustrar aquest punt potser afegim-ne aquest episodi tingut per autèntic per qualcuns qui hi foren si fa no fa. En Roure és a la sala on el casament tindrà lloc més endavant, tantost comenci el capaltard. Hi ha el seu fillet de sis anys, en Marc-Antoni. La cosina d’en Marc-Antoni és la qui es casa més tard – fent-se ara ella pentinar per un barber efeminat, la cosina seu a una cadira vora la llarga taula on hi ha ja parats coberts i atuells i àdhuc una grossa plàtera amb fideus empastifats amb salsa de tomàquet. També hi són la mare i l’àvia de la núvia, monejant entre els estris i decoracions de la taula i voltants. En Vilòbit menja d’un plat petit o d’un bol safranòria gratada a tiretes; en Marc-Antoni, dins un altre petit bol, hi té uns quants dels fideus... Ara el xiquet té l’idea d’agafar la seua càmera i fotografiar la cosina mentre la pentinen. La cosina xarona i ridícula, amb els cabells tots esgarrifats al suc, al capdamunt del meló, en una cresta encarcarada, i el barber marieta fent-hi ganyotes de marieta datpelcul qui ho vol fer tan bé i rebé. I llavors, de sobte, com un huracà maleït, la cridòria estrident de les tres dones, les quatre si hom hi inclou el barber fastigós, i els insults. I les quatre tractant de robar-li a l’esfereït xiquet la càmera! En Vilòbit llença el bol de safranòria a les escombraries, hi llença el bol del xiquet, hi llença la grossa plàtera de fideus, i s’esgargamella part damunt la baralla. “Una barber merdeta i tot manant al meu fill què pot o no fotografiar! Ningú no diu a un xiquet què pot o no veure amb els seus ulls. Un xiquet té ulls per a veure-hi, sense mai cap impediment ni tap! Ningú no diu a cap infant, sobretot a cap infant, què pot veure o no, ni què pot fotografiar o no! Ningú, datspelcul de merda, ho capireu d’una puta vegada, ningú!” I amb el fill i la càmera va fotre el camp, lluny per sempre pus d’aquells inútils ximplets.]



Ara, als disset anys, amb la seua crisi rosegadora, es veia víctima. Víctima sense redempció. Com tot humà, cuquet indefens. Llençat a l’efímer, al transitori, al fugaç, al ventís. Un buf, i mort. Joguina malèfica, instrument de la mort maligna – que l’anihilaria d’empertostemps. I damunt, mentrestant, encara el feia patir. Per què? Per què patir si el resultat fóra l’anihilament? Per què no fer drecera? Amb què s’enduu hom a l’altra banda? A la banda de l’oblit absolut, de la total absència? Es llença hom davant el metro? Quina vergonya! Tothom mirant, tanta de brutícia que hom amaga dins el cos, el paltruu esbarriat arreu...



S’aprimà perillosament. No trobava raó d’ésser a cap cosa. No l’enllepolia ni la literatura, delitós refugi d’ençà de ben marrec. Ara, també la literatura, encomanada amb la mateixa malaltia; sota la capa sinistra de la mort. La mort ubiqua, pertot arreu – arrelada, sedega, famolenca, amb urpes, ullals, ulls de terror...



Tot moria. Morien els familiars, morien els famosos, morien els germanívols animals, moria la natura. S’hauria volgut doncs suïcidar potser heroicament, mes ni esme per a això no tenia. Se suïcidava lentament, per inanició i desesperació.



Hi havia al seu poble un metge psicòleg qui havia oberta una clínica i l’anà a veure. El metge li va dir que el podia internar a la clínica i que qui pagaria fóra el sindicat únic d’universitaris feixistes. El metge mateix va fer fer els papers. En Roure entrà a la clínica uns dies abans de fer els divuit anys. S’hi estigué tot l’estiu. Hi fou sotmès a comes insulínics i a comes causats per electroxocs. Els causats per electroxocs li foren massa destructius i aviat l’en dispensaren. Els insulínics, s’hi adaptà, n’endurà tot el procés. Les cabòries li foren esborrades. Almenys superficialment. Perdé el neguit – el massa neguitós neguit – li’n romangueren part de dins parracs que de tant en tant (davant les falòrnies patriòtiques, marcials, religioses, burocràtiques, amollades per qualque pobre desgraciat qui se li fiqués si fa no fa part la vora) se li encenien en bullidora sang; part de fora, féu un posat paradet, amb ulls penetrants, rictus no gens comès a cap passió; el cap lleugerament esbiaixat, d’ocell, d’esfinx millor, sospesant-ho tot d’un llambrec, amb ànim aparentment equilibrat, de disposició equànime... Prou d’eriçar’s, saps? per poca cosa. I tot és al capdavall tan poca cosa!



Sortí de la clínica quan començava la tardor. Tot hi era nou: el paisatge, els arbres, els animalons... I tots tenien llur pròpia immediata vàlua, tots tenien el mateix dret a existir durant l’amplada de llur curta, passatgera vida.



Despullat de tota ridícula vanitat de posseir al seu fur intern cap mena d’ànima especial, cap mena de llumet diferent al llumet de cap cosa natural – de l’arbre, del llangardaix, o de l’insecte – en Roure havia esdevingut ateu i comunista. D’ençà d’aleshores li feren un fàstic immens els venedors de falòrnies: capellans, bisbes, tota aquella jerarquia de pallassos malignes, representants de déus malèfics, traïdors, monstruosos, en qui en Roure es cagava (i s’hi cagaria sense recança durant cada instant de la seua vida) i qui, si mai hagués pogut, hauria trepitjat com el més verinós dels virus. Ei, i els agnòstics i escèptics encara li feien més fàstic: per covards. Agnòstics, escèptics, de què? No tenen ulls ni enteniment? [No hi ha déu que valgui. Només una entitat qui fos creada per la matèria i tingués un grau de malícia i dolenteria i brutícia mai atès per cap altra cosa podria ésser anomenat déu. Maleït botxí, inventor dels pitjors mals i dolors, i de la mort. Pels seus fruits de merda el coneixeríem. Ah, i tots aquells pobrets fets malbé, torturats i assassinats per la màquina religiosa!]



Només l’ateu, doncs, li semblava persona prou digna. Per això s’atansava al comunisme – sistema que teòricament feia justícia a les injustícies creades per una societat i una natura que privilegiaven els uns per a desposseir els altres. El comunisme – on l’únic progrés que s’hi valia (com s’esqueia!) era el de la ciència, el de la ciència que duria l’humà cap a l’espai. Amb la benentès, llas, que, com tot altre sistema polític, també el comunista era ocupat al capdamunt pels mateixos polítics de sempre – la gent estigmatitzada amb aquella característica repel·lent sobre totes: la de voler manar altri. I per això, el que damunt el paper era bo, es tornava, manegat i empastifat pels autoritaris i marcials de sempre, en la mateixa injustícia de sempre, on uns penquen i els altres manen. Tret que és clar, si més no, el comunisme tenia l’avantatge part damunt tots els altres sistemes que tothom hi era ateu, tothom era doncs digne d’ésser persona.



Car no va poder comprendre mai en Roure com hi pot haver gent de cervell tan corsecat qui es poden pensar que són en res diferent a qualsevol altre animal amb ulls a la cara, amb budells al ventre, i amb orificis per a cagar i cardar. Cal ésser més ruc que una capçana, cal ésser un miserable foll de magnitud extrema, per a creure que en res hom és superior a cap altre animal – altre, és clar, que en la capacitat cerebral, i doncs en el deure d’aplicar la ciència per a conquerir l’espai.



Ah, quin fàstic els qui creuen en llibres escrits per marietes fanàtics – totes les merdes a les bíblies, els alcorans, els llibres “sagrats”: totes les merdes i merdetes assassines dels marietes repressors! Són llibres que haurien d’haver servit per a torcar els culs al bon començament, tantost els antics màgics ignorants els recitaren o escrigueren... són texts malignes i infectes que s’haurien d’haver perdut ben dejorn entre latrines. Totes les crisis mentals llavors que ens estalviàvem, i tants i tants, i tants de crims!



Li costa anar pel món a en Roure. Comunista, ateu, exiliat. I, damunt, que no troba que hi hagi res que valgui la pena d’ésser posseït. La coneixença, sí, és quelcom que t’ajuda a viure. Però el contacte amb els humans ja enverinats per les escoles i ja amb idees tan enzes com creure en déus i ànimes, i pàtries i banderes – tot aquell vòmit creat pels marietes fanàtics qui escriuen religions i escriuen constitucions nacionals i lleis de control dels costums, i tot ho fan sota premisses buides i entecades per la ruquesa dels antics més ignorants – allò sempre el separa; sempre hi pispa, davall les màsqueres, sempre en veu a través, sempre hi clissa l’esquelet immediat, sempre en veu, davall la merda quotidianament cagada pel cos, la cendra d’un cos esvaït en el no-re infinit. Per això es bandeja, solitari, saturní, taciturn, esquerp.



S’aprèn els topants, això també. I corr i camina ràpid, sovint sense haver de prendre cap tren ni vehicle. Totes les màquines, altres que les del progrés cap a l’espai, li fan basarda, les troba innecessàries, en fuig fums i sorolls. Quina terror li causen sobretot les màquines de la productivitat! Productivitat és burocràcia, amanida amb nombres letals; és comerç, ecs; és doncs contagi de falòrnia, és massatge de vanitats.



A la merda, doncs, els vehicles. No. Amb cames llambresques, travessa els ponts sobtats que fan drecera. I no s’atura pas, passant-hi isnell i de gairell, a cap platja on els indolents es torren. Ni mai s’atansa als aldarulls que són les grans festes i ciutats. [Ara, cal dir que tantost havia estalviat prou, tot fent diverses feines “baixes” (car tornant de la clínica, en Roure Vilòbit abandonava la facultat de medicina – el cos humà malalt és cosa massa avorrible, angoixant, premonitòria), tantost va estalviar prou, dic, se’n va anar a París. Ah, llibertat! Llibertat en l’exili. París, Londres, Hamburg, Nova York. Mai més no tornà a la seua contrada devastada per l’invasor.] [Ni tornà a l’estimada gran ciutat envaïda (on durant curta ominosa durada va pertànyer als pocs qui eren l’avantguarda alliberadora). Per què els invasors hi criden com més anem més i més fort, i els mormols dels locals esdevenen menys i menys sovintejats i se senten més i més fluixets? Per què? Sí ves, tot es marceix i mor.]



Melangiós, gaudeix tanmateix amb la literatura. D’ençà de ben marrec, ja ho he dit. (Amb els traumes patits de veure la seua biblioteca cremada dos cops – una vegada, als dotze anys, per son pare; una altra vegada, vint-i-cinc anys més tard, per la seua dona.) Ah, el consol de la literatura; quan durant l’instant estable que hi ets, el cervell és en ordre; fragments de vida intel·ligibles! Havia après alemany i rus; “tothom” sabia francès i anglès per a traduir; i ell, amb els idiomes menys de moda llavors, va poder entrar a una editorial: a traduir-hi, doncs. Ara que ja era dins, també li donaven texts a traduir de l’anglès... Les portes obertes. I sabia llengües, doncs; res més essencial que saber’n! – mai no era a la mercè de les merdegades eclesiàstiques, feixistes (tot el mateix), dels castellans. Descobria de ben jovenet els bons, desvetllats, autors dels llibres destinats a la rambla per als sortosos turistes. [Posseí doncs sempre (en greu excepció) una certa quantitat de llibres, mes era això “posseir”? Li feia l’efecte que posseir llibres, aliment més essencial que no cap altre, i, com tot, fugaç i ventís, i cremable, ustori, fungible, era menys possessió (en el sentit comercial) que cap altra cosa. I tanmateix això i tot va perdre també qualque vegada. I li féu mal. No pas que fos lliure de pecat, hà! – apuntà, rient-se’n.]



A part, com deia, no troba que hi hagi gaire res altre que valgui la pena d’ésser posseït. I menys les dones, és clar! Per què cap mort provocada per deler de possessió exclusiva de dona? Incomprensible. Les passions són manifestacions de peguesa, de cervell trastocat, de curtedat de gambals massa palesa. Les dones són ens lliures i llur sexes són insectes (cuques) qui es plauen d’anar de xil·la en xil·la – se n’enamoren d’una i llavors d’una altra – com cuca que en flor libés. La qüestió cabdal amb les dones és guardar’n l’amistat. Car el volàtil és imposseïble. Qui voldria empresonar allò que vola lliurement. Crim inútil fóra. Ai, i al capdavall, tard o d’hora la mort tot ho pren.



L’amistat, efectivament, és el secret. Amistat amb dona amada – amada, mes lliure, i doncs ja saps que anirà a libar on vol, això rai. Amistat amb els pocs ateus i comunistes de debò (ni autoritaris ni marcials), et siguin consanguinis o no. Amistat amb els arbres i germanívols animals. Amistat amb els paisatges – n’hi ha de tota mena, i tants d’impecables! Amistat amb els satèl·lits i planetes i galàxies. Amistat amb els meteorits i pedres qui serven tota història i tot secret. Amistat doncs amb l’univers. Una amistat no gens carrinclona, és clar. Una amistat d’ara mateix. Car, al capdavall, com dic, seràs pres tard o d’hora per la mort. I ells, animals, arbres, paisatges, pedres, dones, ateus, comunistes, galàxies, universos, continuaran morint; sense tu continuaran morint – o vivint (és el mateix).



Ah, i aquells desgraciats paràsits, els marietes fanàtics qui segueixen bíblies, alcorans, constitucions, banderes, pàtries, aquells qui es creuen fonamentals, vanitosament únics, amb ànima supervivent... aquella pugó fètida, fungoide, de passa, de flagell...?



Aquells...? Aquells no re; més val ni pensar-hi; massa nàquissos, massa passatgers, una lleugera repugnància a la pell. El vent dels anys ens la netejarà i desapareixeran sense jaquir enlloc traça. Tota llur falòrnia cendres disperses d’anònima mòmia.



Ara ja, doncs, acabant la seua biografia, en Roure Vilòbit es va morir, o s’ha mort, o es morirà... somrient. Tot passava tan ràpidament! Isnell i de gairell, sense fer gaire cas d’allò ja après, ensumant cap a nous topants, fins que el topant esdevenia mur fosc on s’acabava la gràcia. Se li fonia el somriure. Amarg. Esperança cap al capdarrer...? Cap. Belleu de bona mort. Es morfongué amb els anys, malalties de sang... Efímer, transitori cos... Text antic que es mig esborra, es disgrega, es fon... I bona nit, saps?





























Old text on crumbling paper – Roure Vilòbit’s biography









They brought him to earth and everything went smoothly until he banged his head and notched his skull and his left lobe got mauled. That happened more or less at the same time when he was three and a little brother was suddenly also there, and envy raised its head and bit him with a bite that would endure forever.



At six, some in his immediate family came to visit, and he took his two girl cousins into an empty room and he made them strip as he stripped also, and then the older of the girls (she was six months older than him...) he started fucking her on the floor. In the middle of the proceedings, the door flew open and ah, the shouts of horror and so on. Grannies, aunts, mothers, all the crazy screaming, “the obscenity, the viciousness, the boy’s the devil, such indecency, no fear of almighty god!” and he snatched his trousers and, under a rain of blows, ran out the main door of the house and down the stairs. He tripped and fell, and at the end of the run of the steep gradient, he banged his head (the right lobe this time) on the metallic edge of a bascule that happened to stand at the bottom, near the door to the street. Before losing consciousness in a pool of blood, he heard his grandmother saying: “Ah, how fitting always is god’s punishment!” and “Indeed, and how well deserved!



That unfortunate happening marked the end of his shared sexual life for a while. He masturbated like a monkey, though, and using many types of “filthy, abnormal” subterfuges, until when, at just 23, he managed to ask an old banished whore that loitered in a narrow dark alley near the France Railway Station in Barcelona, where he went to stay for a few days for literary reasons, for a session in bed. Where the acquiescing whore got him, in a worse hotel still than the one nearby where he was staying, he mainly acquired a dose of crabs which later obliged him to shave all his hairs (minus those on his head) and continually rub (for a couple of weeks) the extent of his skin with DDT.



As he was sent to school, he managed to avoid the official fascist institutions where almost everyone else who was allowed to study (thanks to their parents’ monies) went. The teachers he had, happened to be unapproved Catalonians who, though they taught all their classes (save French) in the commonly abhorred and ridiculed lingo of the invaders, talked in-between classes, and shouted and beat the crap out of the few children they had under their ferule, in healthy Catalonian. Going to take examination in a “free” condition, he passed his grades very irregularly, often having to repeat over, now a whole grade, now a particular matter. The last two years before University, thanks to an improvement in his parents’ fortunes, he was sent to a boarding school handled by religious “brothers”. He saw immediately (and wasn’t too bothered by the fact) that this “brother” business, like most of the religion shit, is just a cover for pedophiles. No problem – though the obvious connection of homosexuality and religion was already intriguing. Now, in this semi-official state, church and fascism interlocking so disgustingly that at the time could hardly be distinguished which was which, he passed all his grades with little or no trouble.



He was seventeen when he was accepted into pre-med. That was the year, a little after his entrance into the University, when he realized once and for all that what he had been fed all those years (pertaining to matters religious and so on) was garbage. That what on the surface seemed that everyone believed, was in fact, deep down, only pretense, an ugly façade; that actually nobody believed in any of all that shit about hell, heaven, virgins, sacred offices, gods, souls... that the whole fucking cesspool of sanctity, and reward and punishment in an afterlife, the whole fairytale caboodle, was just a cruel despicable charade. He wasn’t sure up till now; he thought maybe all those faggotty church fathers and beards and sages and whatnot, with their ruffles and skirts, and hats and crosses and miters and shits, with their airs of laughable severity, their ponderous enunciation, their damned phoniness... perhaps... it could be... they could really be unto something. No! He saw that it was all garbage, that nobody really could swallow such loutish criminal filth. He got the shock of his life. An “existential crisis”, so-called at the time, the anguish of living without other purpose at the end that having to die and disappear into oblivion for eternity. He wished he had been never brought into that malignant cage, the earth. Ah, for abortion! To be born into death, what a luxury! Nobody should be brought here who is going to be told all that amount of swill, as if injected or vaccinated with juice of turds from the word go, and then have the truth hidden and forbidden, and being condemned for even thinking about the truth – talk about torture, shit! All the sanctimonious ignoramuses who are allowed to produce litters and litters of little sanctimonious pricks! How nice for a massive suicide at birth! Maybe there would be less of us burning in anxiety. Such cruelty: to poison a child with all that slop.



[By way of illustration here’s this little episode that “they” claim to have once taken place. Vilòbit is in the hall where the marriage must be celebrated later in the evening. There’s his son Marc-Antoni. There’s Marc-Antoni’s cousin, the girl that’s getting married later on – she sits on a chair near the table where the plates and cups and glasses and napkins and whatnot are already laid, she’s being combed by a faggotty barber. There’s her mother, there’s her grandmother, both fussing about the table – Vilòbit is eating some scraped carrots from a small bowl, Marc-Antoni is having in another small bowl a few spaghetti daubed with tomato sauce. Now Marc-Antoni, who is only six, takes out his camera and attempts to photograph the bride – ugly and in fact ludicrous with her hair all in a crested bunch. Ah, what is he doing! The screeches of the mother, and the grandmother, and the girl, and the barber – the fucking faggotty barber! They are all trying to snatch the camera from Marc-Antoni. Vilòbit tosses his bowl of shredded carrot into the garbage bin; he tosses also, with Marc-Antoni’s small bowl, the big bowl with the nauseating spaghettis stained with the tomato sauce, and he rescues the camera, and he shouts boldly above the fray. “A faggotty barber telling my son what to photograph or not! Nobody tells a child what to see with his eyes or not. His eyes are for seeing, unimpeded! Nobody tells a child, less than to anybody else to a child, what to see or not, what to photograph or not! No fucking body, okay, no!” And with the child and the telling camera he storms forever out of those stupid peoples’ lives.]



Now, with the raking crisis on, he wanted to die. He was a victim, he thought, and no possibility of redemption whatsoever. A defenseless worm: like any other thing alive. Thrown into a passing maelstrom. A blow, and gone. A toy in malefic paws, a discordant instrument blown by vicious death. Soon to be annihilated forever and ever. And, to top it all, suffering. Suffering no end. Why? Why the suffering, only stopped by annihilation? Who wouldn’t choose the shortcut? A fast goodbye to it all... but how? How does one cross over, to total oblivion, to absolute absence? Lurking underground in reeking galleries... do you fall in front of an arriving engine? The shame afterwards. Your body, the bowels, beshitted, all spread; the obscenity, the people gagging, retching...



He lost weight. He got dangerously thin and frail. There was no reason he could find that would justify going on living. Nothing whetted his appetite, not even literature, that from very early on had become such a delightful refuge. Also literature now under the sinister pall of death, of transient worthlessness...



Everything dying all around. Family, famous people, the animals continually sacrificed, eaten, destroyed. What’s the point? There was no point. There is no point. There will never be any point. That’s it. He would have wanted to be daring enough – commit suicide in a heroic enough way; but that was dreaming; in his sickness not even strength to do away with himself could he muster. He was committing suicide in a slow painstaking way, through inanition, with despair eating him inside out.



There was in his town a psychologist who had recently opened a clinic. Roure Vilòbit went to see him; the psychologist told Vilòbit that he could make room for him and that the single student union, the fascist union, the only allowed, would nonetheless surely pay. The physician filled all the forms, readied all the paperwork. Roure went inside the clinic a few days before he was eighteen. He stayed there during the whole summer. He underwent coma after coma, nightly; first through a few ineffective, too abusive, electroshocks; afterward through the insulinic treatment, much more successful. Slowly, all his pressing anguishes got erased. Superficially, but the relief was noticeable. Not so nervous now – just the remnants of unquiet underneath – ready to inflame the blood now and then (as soon as some creep thereabouts spouted the patriotic shit, the martial shit, the religious shit, the bureaucratic shit; as soon as some drops of the creep’s sanctimonious, revolting, pap rotted, by salivous contact, the integument of his renewed spirit). On the outside he donned his slightly amenable mask; his piercing eyes, though, vigilant under a serious, rather unmoving, countenance. Birdlike, taking it all in with a fast twist of the neck. Better like a sphinx. No reason to fluster, to ruffle one’s feathers for such piddly stuff. And, after all, isn’t everything just as trivial?



As autumn started he came out of the clinic. Everything looked new – the landscape, the trees, the little brotherly animals... And each of them had its own immediate value; all had their right to exist during the short passing span of life to them allotted by the cruel circumstances...



Tossing away as molted useless skin the immense vanity of pretending to have a special soul, some type or other of little light different from the little life light belonging per se to each natural thing – a tree, a newt, a bug – Roure Vilòbit had become a full-fledged atheist, and a convinced communist to boot. From then on, he hated and loathed with all his strength the vile sellers of barefaced lies – the priests, bishops, all the damned hierarchy of malignant clowns turned exclusive representatives of evil gods, treacherous, monstrous gods, on top of whom Vilòbit now defecated (and would continue defecating for the remainder of his life) without any kind of letdown or afterthought, and whom, if ever he’d been given the chance, would have squashed underfoot as the worst most poisonous virus must be squashed on sight. Still worse, still more worthy of rebuke and revulsion he found to be the cowardly so-called skeptics and agnostics. [What is there to be skeptic or agnostic about? There is no fucking god, there is only malice made thing. If there would ever be a god, it would have to be the most evil thing ever by matter devised. Inventor of all sorts of excruciating pains, and of death. Damn the butcher. Know him by the rotten fruits he yields! And pity the poor crushed nobodies tortured and murdered by the religious machine.]



Only the atheist is a dignified enough person. That’s why he came to approach the communist idea; as a system, at least theoretically, it sought to right and level the field against the injustices created both by society and nature, where some gained privilege by depriving the rest of a chance at enjoyment, albeit mild, of a life without lies. Communism postulated the only praiseworthy progress: the scientific one, of course – the scientific progress whose target was the conquest of space. With the caveat, alas, in the last analysis, that as with any other political system, it also allowed the usual scum to rise to the top – the unavoidable bullies keen on ordering about the lives of others. So, what on paper looked so fair, once in the paws of the authoritarian and the martially-minded, became soiled, and the injustices didn’t get quite mended, with the bottom-dwellers ending still working as hard as ever, and the top-brass, as it were, ruling and imposing their cankered will. At least, however, communism had the advantage over all other systems that everyone in it was an atheist, and, at least from scratch, could be considered a whole person.



For that’s something Vilòbit never quite got. The fact that there apparently could be so many people whose brains were so degenerated as to imagine themselves to be in any thing different from any other animal with eyes on their faces, and bowels in their bellies, and holes to shit and fuck. It was beyond him that anybody could be so foolishly conceited and also so extremely dim-witted as to think himself in any way superior, in any basic trait, to any other animal – saving the fact that humans, due to evolution’s whim, could have a cerebral capacity that could exceed the one had by practically the rest of all known animals – a feature that, properly used, had to be put into function in the scientific discovery of space, and never, of course, in stupid religious ideas in the final analysis only valid for creating new recipes for murdering others – the so-called unfaithful, the unbelievers, the infidels, etc... Ah, unmentionable, the amount of worthless shit!



Ah, yes. The horror and the loathing that inspired in him the assholes that believe in books written by a few faggotty fanatics – all the garbage in bibles and qurans and “sacred” writings, all the murderous injunctions big and small produced by the repressing shitty queers! These are books for whom a much better plight would had been if used as bumpf to wipe first thing the asses of the ancients to whom they were recited or for whom they were written – murderous fairy tales; malignant, infectious texts better wasted in the latrines – the lots and lots of mental crises that humans would have been spared to suffer; and the crimes, the piles and piles of crimes avoided!



He has it tough, Vilòbit – an atheist, a core communist, an exile. He’s got no place in this world of deceptions – deceptions and what else...? Practically nothing else. And, on top of it all, he’s of the opinion that there’s nothing that deserves to be own. Knowledge, okay – knowledge helps you to get it, is a great help to get by as you go along. But real contact with those humans alienated, already irretrievably poisoned at primary school, steeped in ideas so crazy and asinine as the belief in gods and souls, and fatherlands and flags – in all that vomiting produced by a bunch of fanatical queers that wrote religions and wrote and write national constitutions and laws to bully and control the habits and behavior of the rest of the deluded people, and all based on lies and empty concepts polluted by the incredible stupidity of old farts of old – all this takes him elsewhere, out of reach; he sees behind the masks, he’s already gazing across, discovering the rotting skeleton, deducing from all the shitted shit that pours from all the assholes the ashes of bodies that melt together in infinite nothingness. That’s why he’s got to be apart – a solitary, taciturn, saturnine, awkward estranger.



He learns the ways of access, though, also that. He runs and walks, and often without having to take any train or vehicle whatsoever. All machines he hates, he fears them, he flees their smoke, their noise, he thinks they are useless, only invented to annoy, bloody thought-interrupting, lung-polluting machines – all except those that point toward the proper progress – the progress toward space. The worse machines, those used for productivity – “productivity,” what a dirty word, bringing to mind all those appalling obscenities: bureaucracy, lethal numbers, repulsive commerce – spreading the sickness, fostering the deadly vanity.



To the shit piles with all the vehicles, then. Instead, with nimble strong legs, let’s cross the sudden bridges that sprout here and there and have become handy shortcuts. And he doesn’t stop, on the contrary he increases his pace, sidewinding, like a supple nice snake, he has no patience, no, passing without looking once, he can’t stomach any of those beeches where the indolent roast themselves. And never goes near the hurly-burly of big feasts and big cities. [And yet, it must be said that as soon as he had saved enough, so that he could emigrate; as soon as, after performing a row of “base” jobs (for, medicine, he had abandoned after his stay in the clinic – the sick human body too horrible and anguishing and premonitory to behold), he had gathered enough money, he went to Paris. Ah, liberty at last! In exile, but free. Paris, London, Hamburg, New York. He never returned to the country of his birth, devastated then, as is still now, by the insufferably loathsome invader.] [Never returned to the invaded great city neither (where he had belonged for a while to the few that were the liberating vanguard). Why are the invaders shouting louder and louder, and the mumbles of the locals are getting sparser and sparser, and also fainter and fainter? Why? Well, everything must go to pot.]



Literature he enjoys, even from the earliest years, no longer melancholic when he reads. I’ve already stated the fact. (Include here the traumas suffered when seeing his library burn, and that twice – first time, he’s only twelve, his angered father burns his books; twenty-five years later is his wife’s turn to burn, too piffed, his books. Ah well!) The consolation of literature always there, almost up till the very end – reading, the instant stabilizes itself, the brain becomes properly synchronized, the world acquires meaning. He had taught himself German and Russian. He had figured that with “everyone” knowing French or English, some other translations would come his way – thus he manages to set a foot in a publishing house. Translations indeed come his way, also from the English now. Wide opened side doors to literature. And the knowing of tongues – what a blessing! – not to be ever at the mercy of the ecclesiastical and fascist (same thing) garbage the invading castilians have as sole pseudocultural serving! From quite early on, he discovers the fine, enlightened, authors and writers of books sold in the Rambla for the lucky tourists. [Something always did he then possess (for him a grave ethical infringement), a certain quantity of books. But was that “possess”? He thought maybe books counted rather as essential nourishment, and anyway as easily burnable, fungible, as other evanescent staples. And yet it is true that losing them hurt a lot. His sin, no doubt, he jokes.]



Besides, as I was saying, there’s nary a thing he considers worth possessing. And less still women, of course. Volatile stuff! You can’t own what flies freely. Ununderstandable any death provoked because somebody sought the exclusive possession of some female! Passions are manifestations of extreme silliness, of a touched brain, of simply unfathomable foolishness. Women are free entities, their cunts are hairy insects that love going from cock to cock, as bees, drinking now from that flesh flower, now from that other lovely flesh flower. You can’t possess such ethereality. And anyway dreary mister death is there loitering with his sticky damned net – he will bag the bug sooner or later. Why the fucking trouble, he wonders.



Instead, friendship is the answer. Friendship with loved woman – loved, and free – let’s never forget the “free” item – that’s the secret – let the bug drink wherever the kind wind takes her – the point is to wait for her return. In friendship. And don’t forget to befriend also the sparse atheist and the good communist (never authoritarian, never martial), no matter if he’s to be counted among your kin or not. And keep your friendship with trees and the brotherly animals – they are your own kind also. And be friends with the landscapes – extend your loving gaze over the impeccable wasteland. Never forget your friendship with satellites and planets and galaxies. And that meteorites (and the sundry stones whose history and secrets are all-important) are your friends. That the whole universe itself you hold faithfully in friendship – no silly friendship yours, of course. A friendship renewed with every passing instant – for it won’t last, as you know – death’s loitering, okay? Death’s about to take you away – and they, the animals, the trees, the landscapes, the stones, the women, the atheists, the communists, the galaxies, the universes, all your friends... will continue dying, living (is all the same thing), after you are gone – minus your friendship, them, but still going strong, the memory of you perhaps a fast disappearing indentation and no more.



Ah, and all those disgraceful parasites, the fanatical crazy queers that follow the bibles, qurans, constitutions, flags, fatherlands... all those foolish miasmatic specks of tainted dust that delude themselves into believing themselves to be so fundamentally, vainly, unique, with a soul that shall survive no less...?! All that sad ugly spread on the surface... pestiferous, fetid, fungous...?



Those...? Nothing; I won’t waste a second more thinking about them – too minimal, too fleeting, an easily wiped repugnance stuck on the remotest bit of skin of a dear old planet. The wind of the years shall wash it away; they shall vanish without a trace – all their lies turned into the flying paltry ashes of an anonymous mummy.



Well, and thus ends Roure Vilòbit’s biography – he died, or had died, or will die... smiling. Everything elapsed so fast... everything elapses so fast. Sidewiping, like a nimble snake, never too taken up with the stuff already learned; sniffing new landmarks... until the landmark became a dark wall where the joke ended, his smile suddenly gone. Bitter now. At the very end, holding some hope, you think...? No, none. Perhaps wishing to die well. He was decaying fast... sicknesses in the blood... Ephemeral, transitory... An old text already half illegible, and crumbling, melting... And then...? Good night.





carallot:

La meva foto
Under the speckled canopy / Where, along the autumnal whisper / Of fair weather, I walked, / The enkindled persimmon, / And then the flaming chestnut, / The imploded acorn, fell… /.../.../ My eyes, and nose, and ears, / And tongue, and skin, in joy / Praised such fragile perfection. .../.../

tot llegint-lo llença un crit i cau mig estabornit

tot llegint-lo llença un crit i cau mig estabornit

fet: