One Hundred Years of Solitude

“Actually, in spite of the fact that everyone considered him mad, José Arcadio Sugundo was at that time the most lucid inhabitant of the house. He taught little Aureliano how to read and write, initiated him in the study of the parchments, and he inculcated him with such a personal interpretation of what the banana company had meant to Macondo that many years later, when Aurelian became part of the world, one would have thought that he was telling a hallucinated version, because it was radically opposed to the false one that the historians had created and consecrated in the schoolbooks. In the small isolated room where the arid air never penetrated, nor the dust, nor the heat, both had the atavistic vision of an old man, his back to the window, wearing a hat with a brim like the wings of a crow who spoke about the world many years before they had been born. Both described at the same time how it was always March there and always Monday, and then they understood that José Arcadio Buendia was not as crazy as the family said, but that he was the only one who had enough lucidity to sense the truth of the fact that time also stumbled and had accidents and could therefore splinter and leave an eternalized fragment in a room.” Garbriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude, p.355.

This is my second favourite passage from the whole book (the first one involves a two page long description of some rather animated and purposive blood trails and their passage throughout a town, across roads, under tables, skirting objects, etc. Blood is fairly magical in this book. Heck everything is magical, its fair to say.)

Chthulucene

Donna Haraway, “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Chthulucene: Staying with the Trouble”, 5/9/14 from AURA on Vimeo.

And a quick quote from David Collings’ Stolen Future, Broken Present:

“What happens to our orientation to the future when its livability is cast into doubt and begins to dissolve? ….What if we realize that the life we wanted to lead is ecologically outrageous, that the children we’ve been raising have no chance to live as well as we have, and that the political causes for which we’ve been fighting may never succeed?

The answer, I think, is clear: all our practical activities, our human relationships, our professions and goals, are harmed in their very substance. The value of our ordinary activities begins to fray, and the entire framework of our lives becomes suspect. Climate change does not just melt the ice caps and glaciers; it melts the narrative in which we still participate, the purpose of the present day. In this sense, too, we are already living in the ruins of the future.” (p.116)