jo jo rabbit

Remember pearl harbor

White rose

Does the Past Exist? from 1984

O'Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More than ever he had the air of a teacher taking pains with a wayward but promising child.

‘There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the past,’ he said. ‘Repeat it, if you please.’

‘“Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past,”’ repeated Winston obediently.

“‘Who controls the present controls the past,”’ said O'Brien, nodding his head with slow approval. ‘Is it your opinion, Winston, that the past has real existence?’

Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Winston. His eyes flitted towards the dial. He not only did not know whether ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was the answer that would save him from pain; he did not even know which answer he believed to be the true one.
O'Brien smiled faintly. ‘You are no metaphysician, Winston,’ he said. ‘Until this moment you had never considered what is meant by existence. I will put it more precisely. Does the past exist concretely, in space? Is there somewhere or other a place, a world of solid objects, where the past is still happening?’

‘No.’

‘Then where does the past exist, if at all?’

‘In records. It is written down.’

‘In records. And—?’

‘In the mind. In human memories.’

‘In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all records, and we control all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?’

‘But how can you stop people remembering things?’ cried Winston again momentarily forgetting the dial. ‘It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!’

O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial.

‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘you have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.’

He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in.

‘Do you remember,’ he went on, ‘writing in your diary, “Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four”?’

‘Yes,’ said Winston.

O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.

‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’

‘Four.’

‘And if the party says that it is not four but five — then how many?’

‘Four.’

The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four.’

The needle went up to sixty.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!’

The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!’

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Five! Five! Five!’

‘No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four. How many fingers, please?’

‘Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!’

I wonder why

I wonder why. I wonder why.

I wonder why I wonder.

I wonder why I wonder why

I wonder why I wonder!

Atoms With Consciousness, Matter With Curiosity by Richard Feynman

There are the rushing waves
mountains of molecules
each stupidly minding its own business
trillions apart
yet forming white surf in unison
Ages on ages
before any eyes could see
year after year
thunderously pounding the shore as now.
For whom, for what?
On a dead planet
with no life to entertain.
Never at rest
tortured by energy
wasted prodigiously by the Sun
poured into space.
A mite makes the sea roar.
Deep in the sea
all molecules repeat
the patterns of one another
till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves
and a new dance starts.
Growing in size and complexity
living things
masses of atoms
DNA, protein
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.
Out of the cradle
onto dry land
here it is
standing:
atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering: I
a universe of atoms
an atom in the Universe.

round, round Hitler's grave

Now I wished I had a bushel
Wished I had a peck
Wished I had old Hitler
With a rope around his neck.

Hey, round, round Hitler's grave
Round, round we go
Gonna lay that poor boy down
He won't get up no more.

Mussolini won't last long
Tell you the reason why
We're a-gonna salt his beef
And hang it up to dry.

The German army general staff
I guess they missed connection
Went a hundred miles a day
But in the wrong direction.

I'm a-goin' to Berlin
To Mister Hitler's town
I'm gonna take my forty-four
And blow his playhouse down.

How Hitler went to Russia
In search of Russian oil
But the only oil he'll find there
Is a pot in which he'll boil.

Now Mister Hitler's traveling mighty fast
But he's on a one-way track
Started down that Moscow road
But now he's coming back.

Gift to the Darkness

“You are a silly little boy,” said the Lord of the Flies,
“just an ignorant, silly little boy.”

Simon moved his swollen tongue but said nothing.

“Don’t you agree?” said the Lord of the Flies. “Aren’t
you just a silly little boy?”

Simon answered him in the same silent voice.

“Well then,” said the Lord of the Flies, “you’d better
run off and play with the others. They think you’re batty.
You don’t want Ralph to think you’re batty, do you? You
like Ralph a lot, don’t you? And Piggy, and Jack?”

Simon’s head was tilted slightly up. His eyes could not
break away and the Lord of the Flies hung in space before
him.

“What are you doing out here all alone? Aren’t you
afraid of me?”

Simon shook.

“There isn’t anyone to help you. Only me. And I’m the
Beast.”

Simon’s mouth laboured, brought forth audible words.

“Pig’s head on a stick.”

“Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt
and kill!” said the head. For a moment or two the forest
and all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the
parody of laughter. “You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of
you? Close, close, close! I’m the reason why it’s no go?
Why things are what they are?”

The laughter shivered again.

l TJ



Gift for the Darkness

“Come now,” said the Lord of the Flies. “Get back to
the others and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

Simon’s head wobbled. His eyes were half-closed as
though he were imitating the obscene thing on the stick.
He knew that one of his times was coming on. The Lord
of the Flies was expanding like a balloon.

“This is ridiculous. You know perfectly well you’ll only
meet me down there — so don’t try to escape!”

Simon’s body was arched and stiff. The Lord of the Flies
spoke in the voice of a schoolmaster.

“This has gone quite far enough. My poor, misguided
child, do you think you know better than I do?”

There was a pause.

“I’m warning you. I’m going to get waxy. D’you see?
You’re not wanted. Understand? We are going to have fun
on this island. Understand? We are going to have fun on
this islandl So don’t try it on, my poor misguided boy, or
else ”

Simon found he was looking into a vast mouth. There
was blackness within, a blackness that spread.

“ — Or else,” said the Lord of the Flies, “we shall do
you. See? Jack and Roger and Maurice and Robert and
Bill and Piggy and Ralph. Do you. See?”

Simon was inside the mouth. He fell down and lost
consciousness.