Cred Doamne! Ajuta necredintei mele.- N. Steinhardt

Finis Exoptatus

Boot and saddle, see, the slanting
Rays begin to fall,
Flinging lights and colours flaunting
Through the shadows tall.
Onward ! onward ! must we travel ?
When will come the goal ?
Riddle I may not unravel,
Cease to vex my soul.

Harshly break those peals of laughter
From the jays aloft,
Can we guess what they cry after ?
We have heard them oft ;
Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving
Mingles in their song,
Are they glad that they are living ?
Are they right or wrong ?
Right, ‘tis joy that makes them call so,
Why should they be sad ?
Certes ! we are living also,
Shall not we be glad ?
Onward ! onward ! must we travel ?
Is the goal more near ?
Riddle we may not unravel,
Why so dark and drear ?

Yon small bird his hymn outpouring,
On the branch close by,
Recks not for the kestrel soaring
In the nether sky,
Though the hawk with wings extended
Poises over head,
Motionless as though suspended
By a viewless thread.
See, he stoops, nay, shooting forward
With the arrow’s flight,
Swift and straight away to nor’ward
Sails he out of sight.
Onward ! onward ! thus we travel,
Comes the goal more nigh ?
Riddle we may not unravel,
Who shall make reply ?

Ha ! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner,
Tell me if you can—
Tho’ we may not judge the inner
By the outer man,
Yet by girth of broadcloth ample,
And by cheeks that shine,
Surely you set no example
In the fasting line—

Could you, like yon bird, discov’ring,
Fate as close at hand,
As the kestrel o’er him hov’ring,
Still, as he did, stand ?
Trusting grandly, singing gaily,
Confident and calm,
Not one false note in your daily
Hymn or weekly psalm ?

Oft your oily tones are heard in
Chapel, where you preach,
This the everlasting burden
Of the tale you teach :
We are d———d, our sins are deadly,
You alone are heal’d—
‘Twas not thus their gospel redly
Saints and martyrs seal’d.
You had seem’d more like a martyr,
Than you seem to us,
To the beasts that caught a Tartar,
Once at Ephesus !
Rather than the stout apostle
Of the Gentiles, who,
Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle,
They’d have chosen you.

Yet, I ween, on such occasion,
Your dissenting voice
Would have been, in mild persuasion,
Raised against their choice ;
Man of peace, and man of merit,
Pompous, wise, and grave,
Ephraim ! is it flesh or spirit
You strive most to save ?
Vain is half this care and caution
O’er the earthly shell,
We can neither baffle nor shun
Dark-plumed Azrael.
Onward ! onward ! still we wander,
Nearer draws the goal ;
Half the riddle’s read, we ponder
Vainly on the whole.

Eastward ! in the pink horizon,
Fleecy hillocks shame
This dim range dull earth that lies on,
Tinged with rosy flame.
Westward ! as a stricken giant
Stoops his bloody crest,
And tho’ vanquished, frowns defiant,
Sinks the sun to rest.
Distant, yet approaching quickly,
From the shades that lurk,
Like a black pall gathers thickly,
Night, when none may work.
Soon our restless occupation
Shall have ceas’d to be ;
Units ! in God’s vast creation,
Ciphers ! what are we ?
Onward ! onward ! oh ! faint-hearted ;
Nearer and more near
Has the goal drawn since we started,
Be of better cheer.

Preacher ! all forbearance ask, for
All are worthless found,
Man must ay take man to task for
Faults while earth goes round.
On this dank soil thistles muster,
Thorns are broadcast sown ;
Seek not figs where thistles cluster,
Grapes where thorns have grown.

Sun and rain and dew from heaven,
Light and shade and air,
Heat and moisture freely given,
Thorns and thistles share.
Vegetation rank and rotten
Feels the cheering ray ;
Not uncared for, unforgotten,
We, too, have our day.
Unforgotten ! though we cumber
Earth, we work His will.
Shall we sleep through night’s long slumber
Unforgotten still ?
Onward ! onward ! toiling ever,
Weary steps and slow,
Doubting oft, despairing never,
To the goal we go !

Hark ! the bells on distant cattle
Waft across the range,
Through the golden-tufted wattle,
Music low and strange ;
Like the marriage peal of fairies
Comes the tinkling sound,
Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary’s
On far English ground.
How my courser champs the snaffle,
And with nostril spread,
Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle
Fern leaves with his tread ;
Cool and pleasant on his haunches
Blows the evening breeze,
Through the overhanging branches
Of the wattle trees :
Onward ! to the Southern Ocean,
Glides the breath of Spring.
Onward, with a dreary motion,
I, too, glide and sing—
Forward ! forward ! still we wander—
Tinted hills that lie
In the red horizon yonder—
Is the goal so nigh ?

Whisper, spring-wind, softly singing,
Whisper in my ear ;
Respite and nepenthe bringing,
Can the goal be near ?
Laden with the dew of vespers,
From the fragrant sky,
In my ear the wind that whispers
Seems to make reply—

‘Question not, but live and labour
Till yon goal be won,
Helping every feeble neighbour,
Seeking help from none ;
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone :
Kindness in another’s trouble.
Courage in your own.’

Courage, comrades, this is certain,
All is for the best—
There are lights behind the curtain—
Gentiles let us rest.
As the smoke-rack veers to seaward
From ‘the ancient clay’,
With its moral drifting leeward,
Ends the wanderer’s lay.

Adam Lindsay Gordon


Nu mai pot sa tac! De cand s-a intamplat nenorocirea cu Adrian Nastase parca s-au dezlantuit bestiile turbate. Nu mi-am imaginat niciodata ca neamul asta are atata potential de ura.

Depasind aspectul juridic – pentru orice om intreg la cap – verdictul asta este o nedreptate care urla, lipsa de omenie si de mila – pentru un popor dealtfel profund crestin – este incredibila. Mai ieri va imbranceati sa ajungeti la moaste?!! Acum imbranciti un om nevinovat, nu in puscarie, ci in dementa.

Mi-am adus aminte de Steinhardt zilel astea. Mai ales pentru ca povestea lui seamana izbitor cu al lui Adrian Nastase – sigur pastrand proportiile. Povestea N. Steinhardt – care a facut parte din lotul Noica –  cat de mult a suferit Noica la proces – nu pentru sine, ci pentru baietii tineri pe care i-a tras dupa el…si cum pe intreg parcursul procesului nu a ridicat ochii din pamant…

Am reciti azi fragmentul cu mascarda kafkiana de proces comunist impotriva lui C. Noica, si seamana izbitor de mult cu ceea ce azi i se intampla lui Adrian Nastase – cu o singura exceptie pana si avocatii apararii acuzau inculpatii.. e incredibil ce traim azi.  Imi pare a  fi aceiasi desfasurare de forte.

Neamul asta cretin de cate ori a avut oameni mari i-a osandit: ca vorbim de Noica sau de Voiculescu, ca ne referim la  maresalul Antonescu, la Regele Mihai, iar acum mai nou la premierul care a imbunatatit starea noastra economica…toti dar absolut toti sunt linsati…sustinem insa in continuare jigodiile si necrescutii.. ne meritam soarta.

Multumita doamnei Macovei – astazi Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung – publica cum ca Nastase si-a inscenta sinuciderea si ca are parte la spitalul Floreasca de tratament preferential. Imi vine sa strig si sa urlu, madam Macovei – incalcati drepturile omului – dreptul la viata; dreptul pana si al prizonierilor de razboi la tratament medical… ce ati fi vrut? sa-l terminati de tot? Sa-l condamnati la moarte? Este oribil si josnic…nu mi-as fi imaginat nicodata ca putem fi asa??

Nu e fularul plin de sange …. nu are hemoragie….vroiati sa-l vedeti umilit ?? Comunistii mai faceau asa!

Aduceti -va aminte…sau daca nu citit ce replica i s-a dat lui Noica cand inainte de proces a cerut o tigara:

Cand, rupand vraja calmului ce se lasase din toate partile, de sus, Dinu Nc ( Constantin Noica n.a.) inalata si el glas, solicita o tigara, ofiterul se scutura, iese de sub puterea literaturii romane si a traditiei petrecarete, paseste acru si darz pe taramul filosofiei contemporane ostile si sfasie brusc valul: „Dumneata sa nu ne crezi atata de prosti, domnule Noica.” Dinu, de o slabiciune ascetica, se incovoaie calugareste, supus – cu priviri ingandurate, impovarate, insingurate. Sfruntare, gandeste ofiterul, si ne aprofuneaza in bloc, rece si solemn, nu fara o ultima nuanta de consideratie : Stim noi ce reprezentati si nu ne duceti cu gesturi bune pentru gainari.” ( Jurnalul fericirii – N. Steinhardt p. 138)

Eu nu vad nici o diferenta intre ce i se intampla lui Nastase si ce am descris mai sus.

Imi veti raspunde a furat. Si eu intreb ce? A furat tara. Vine prompt raspunsul. Intreb: Aveti dovada? Imi spuneti: Nu! Dar stie toata lumea!

Oameni buni, justita se face pe dovezi concludente! Nu pe presupuneri, nu pe vorbe la colt de strada …de ordinarii.

Bun, vin si intreb: daca a furat, a furat numai Nastase?

Imi spuneti: Nu au furat toti? Sa mearga toti la puscarie! Intreb: Aveti dovada?? Raspuns: Nu dar stie toata lumea. La puscarie cu toti!!

Nu realizati nebunia care este in spatele acestor vorbe. Pai daca  toti fura cine sa judece drept? Daca toti mint – conform imaginii colective – cine imparte dreptatea??? Ca nu mai inteleg?? Cine ??

Toti fura! Toti sunt corupti! Totul e nedrept! Toti mint!! Oameni buni opriti-va! Asta este anarhie!! Nu se poate !!! Ne trebuie dovezi..

Cine a furat sa plateasca pentru furt…dar cu dovezi.

Cine a muncit si are!  Jos palaria!!!  Sa fie lasat in pace!!!

Asa este normal! Si trebuie sa fim normali.

Si iata ca de-acum te voi osandii sa strigi: „Eu, eu, eu in gol, si la asta nu incape raspuns.” Saint- Exupery

Asta este pacatul prostiei! Si pe asta nu-l iarta Dumnezeu!!

Povesteste Kipling despre  educatia din liceele engelzesti:

„dormitoare neincalzite, bai reci, batai de dimineata pana seara,  suferinte, umilinte nedreptate. Mai ales nedreptate. Ca sa-i pregateasca pentru viata? Desigur. Dar si pentru Dumnezeu. Sa invete ca Duhul sufla unde si cand vrea, ca suntem pe acest pamant in surghiun si printre scarbe, si printre oameni care nu ne iubesc, pe care nu-i interesam si care nu sunt dispusi sa ne asculte, sa ne laude , sa ne alinte…”

Chiar in asa lume vrem sa traim???


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