Fuck 'em
Mucho blinked sympathetically, a little sadly. "I guess it's over. We're on into a new world now, it's Nixon Years, then it'll be Reagan Years - "
"Ol' Raygun? No way he'll ever make president."
"Just please go carefull, Zoyd. 'Cause soon they're gonna be coming after everything, not just drugs, but beer, cigarettes, sugar, salt, fat, you name it, anything that could remotely please any of your senses, because they need to control all that. And they will."
"Fat Police?"
"Perfume Police. Tube Police. Music Police. Good Healthy Shit Police. Best to renounce everything now, get a head start."
"Well I still wish it was back then, when you were the Count. Remember how the acid was? Remember that windowpane, down in Laguna that time? God, I knew then, I knew..."
They had a look. "Uh-huh, me too. That you were never going to die. Ha! No wonder the State panicked. How are they supposed to control a population that knows it'll never die? When that was always their last big chip, when they thought they had the power of life and death. But acid gave us the X-ray vision to see through that one, so of course they had to take it away from us."
"Yeah, but they can't take what happened, what we found out."
"Easy. They just let us forget. Give us to much to process, fill up every minute, keep us distracted, it's what the Tube is for, and though it kills me to say it, it's what rock and roll is becoming - just another way to claim our attention, so that beautiful certainy we had starts to fade, and after a while they have us convinced all over again that we really are going to die. And they've got us again." It was the way people used to talk.
"I'm not gonna forget," Zoyd vowed, "fuck 'em. While we had it, we really had some fun."
"And they never forgave us." Mucho went to the stereo and put on The Best of Sam Cooke, volumes 1 and 2, and then they sat together and listened, both of them this time, to the sermon, one they knew and felt their hearts comforted by, though outside spread the lampless wastes, the unseen paybacks, the heartless power of the scabland garrison state the green free America of their childhoods even then was turning into."
in Vineland, Thomas Pynchon, Random House
A partir daqui, faltam 70 páginas, mas o livro já terminou. Não tem que ver com drogas, tem que ver com liberdade. Que ganhe o Obama, há coisas perigosa e demasiadamente instaladas que impedem uma "mudança". E depois de uns anos de Obama a coisa muda outra vez, está claro. Não é só lá claro, há sítios piores: ainda tendo em conta a actualidade, por exemplo, Angola. Não tão mal, mas rapidamente a caminho, está Portugal, dizendo o seu primeiro-ministro estar "profundamente satisfeito" com as eleições em Angola. Carjacking? Assaltos a bancos? A criminalidade mais grave é outra. Em Angola não há cinema, em Portugal a falta que nos faz João César Monteiro, nos Estados Unidos a dificuldade de John Carpenter ou John Milius filmarem.
"Ol' Raygun? No way he'll ever make president."
"Just please go carefull, Zoyd. 'Cause soon they're gonna be coming after everything, not just drugs, but beer, cigarettes, sugar, salt, fat, you name it, anything that could remotely please any of your senses, because they need to control all that. And they will."
"Fat Police?"
"Perfume Police. Tube Police. Music Police. Good Healthy Shit Police. Best to renounce everything now, get a head start."
"Well I still wish it was back then, when you were the Count. Remember how the acid was? Remember that windowpane, down in Laguna that time? God, I knew then, I knew..."
They had a look. "Uh-huh, me too. That you were never going to die. Ha! No wonder the State panicked. How are they supposed to control a population that knows it'll never die? When that was always their last big chip, when they thought they had the power of life and death. But acid gave us the X-ray vision to see through that one, so of course they had to take it away from us."
"Yeah, but they can't take what happened, what we found out."
"Easy. They just let us forget. Give us to much to process, fill up every minute, keep us distracted, it's what the Tube is for, and though it kills me to say it, it's what rock and roll is becoming - just another way to claim our attention, so that beautiful certainy we had starts to fade, and after a while they have us convinced all over again that we really are going to die. And they've got us again." It was the way people used to talk.
"I'm not gonna forget," Zoyd vowed, "fuck 'em. While we had it, we really had some fun."
"And they never forgave us." Mucho went to the stereo and put on The Best of Sam Cooke, volumes 1 and 2, and then they sat together and listened, both of them this time, to the sermon, one they knew and felt their hearts comforted by, though outside spread the lampless wastes, the unseen paybacks, the heartless power of the scabland garrison state the green free America of their childhoods even then was turning into."
in Vineland, Thomas Pynchon, Random House
A partir daqui, faltam 70 páginas, mas o livro já terminou. Não tem que ver com drogas, tem que ver com liberdade. Que ganhe o Obama, há coisas perigosa e demasiadamente instaladas que impedem uma "mudança". E depois de uns anos de Obama a coisa muda outra vez, está claro. Não é só lá claro, há sítios piores: ainda tendo em conta a actualidade, por exemplo, Angola. Não tão mal, mas rapidamente a caminho, está Portugal, dizendo o seu primeiro-ministro estar "profundamente satisfeito" com as eleições em Angola. Carjacking? Assaltos a bancos? A criminalidade mais grave é outra. Em Angola não há cinema, em Portugal a falta que nos faz João César Monteiro, nos Estados Unidos a dificuldade de John Carpenter ou John Milius filmarem.
posted by Daniel Pereira at 6:52 AM
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