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Woland: Efectul fluturelui este o iluzie: in realitate, procesul este invers, ca proba la impartire. In realitate – succesiunea evenimentelor este guvernata de aceeasi lege care guverneaza si evenimentele in sine, instantanee – legea energiei minime: „care este cel mai neinsemnat lucru care trebuie sa se intample pentru ca evenimentul X sa aiba loc?”
Intrebarea ta urmatoare, cu siguranta, este cine decide ce evenimente „X” trebuie sa aiba loc. Ei bine, nimeni nu decide. Este pur si simplu o evolutie naturala, asemeni caderii libere. Asemeni curgerii apei. Sinuozitatile pe care le percepi tu sunt de fapt caile cele mai firesti, ce corespund energiei minime.
Deroude: Si e normal si corect, presupun ca vrei sa argumentezi, sa numim aceste cai destin. Singura slabiciune a argumentatiei tale este ca apa urmeaza o cale sapata in stanca, sau erodata in pamant – urmeaza o albie. Problema nu este cum anume alege apa variatiunile printre limitele albiei, problema este cine creeaza albia. Iar legea energiei minime, in acest caz, este mult prea generica si abstracta pentru a se aplica unui context atat de sensibil si subiectiv.

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My good Nel Jia,

I am well and happy to write to you again after so long. It’s raining hard in Moscow, and it’s windy and cold. But I am home. It warmed my heart to see the cherry trees in the University Park still standing, untouched by the war. Nel Jia, my greatest wish now is that we can push them back and take Moscow before the next May, so I can walk with you among the blooming cherry trees! If I were a great painter, an impressionist, I would spend my life on a single painting – you, lying on the grass filled with petals, under the cherry trees of the University Park, in May. Oh, could life itself ever stay still, like that painting?
We are holed up in an old bunker on the „Zhukov” defense line that was supposed to hold off the invaders when they came, eight months ago. They don’t know we’re here, but I’m running each day to an abandoned telegraph station on Zemlinskaya Street and I wire reports to the command unit. The idiots didn’t bother to cut the lines.
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Light.
Immense light, shimmering through my closing eye lids.
Smell of grass
Then the sound of your bare feet running, close to me –
A flower in your hair,

Your warm hand on my face.
Fade to black.

Music, generous, feverish, played ever for richer, endless seconds
Senselessly blooming for poorer souls than ours,
Making us dream, making us wish –
Bending the paths of the waves, so we can finally meet.
Our breaths playing in the orchestra, our hearts beating to the grand finale.
Fades, again.

Water, salted, playful
Caught in a moment of stillness,
On a painting – running down the Harlequin’s face.

Burying the sand and the air in sickness, in madness,
Seeking fear in happiness and in health seeking pain.

Faith, forgiveness –
That if I loved you more, then the Angels would’ve helped my voice sing
That if I fought longer, then the Titans would’ve helped my weary arms
That if I held you tighter, then my Life would’ve left me –
My Life would have hidden in you, to have and to hold, at last, a place of its own.

I live!
What glorious sensations –
Morning, perfume, tree bark, fingers, rain, time,
Beauty
Heart beat
Air, wonderful air, filling my chest.

Who are you, oh, tender, loving presence,
To trouble my soul
To take all that I have away and make it yours?

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The old man cried
By the wall where old men cry –

Cold tears dropping on the grass
Hungry for light and warmth.

The old man cried
With anger and spite
Like a madman, like a cripple.
He cried to himself and to the wall and to the earth –
„May all be damned if I can’t have them”, he uttered.

The old man leaned broken against the wall
And for one second he heard his heart again
He had courage
He had will and faith –
That he can break that wall and reach the other side.

And the trees nodded, filled with hope
And the sun heated the air with anticipation
And the shadows vanished, fearful
And everything whispered: „This is right. Now is your time!”

But then the old man felt that second passing,
Flowing irreversibly, like blood through a wound,

Like all seconds pass, precious and rapid, cold as mountain creeks.

The wall still stood, high and strong
With gentle grass and pretty flowers near
Growing, ever softer, ever more alluring,
From tears.

And so –
The old man cried
By the wall where old men cry.

You are the wonderful, passing time around my life
Changing, as the daylight;
Restless as the autumn wind;
Wavering with fear and excitement.

And for all your changes, I love you more –
Because I know that if you run from me today
You will hold me tomorrow.

And for all your restless struggles, I pray each night
That you will find happiness, in that far away place
That you call soul.

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Woland: Pacatul este totusi un lucru subiectiv. Nu incape indoiala asupra acestui fapt. Un calau de meserie, care se considera un simplu functionar si ucide procedurat, formal, este de fapt mai putin pacatos decat un barbat care fura o bucata de paine, pentru a supravietui, insa calcandu-si pe suflet si luptandu-se cu sine insusi. E mult mai importanta constiinta pacatului, voluntariatul, decat fapta in sine. Faptul ca stii ca ceea ce faci e gresit si totusi duci actiunea pana la capat, in virtutea unor ratiuni superioare, este in sine substanta pacatului.
In egala masura, binefacerea este subiectiva. A arunca o suma infima unui cersetor nu este un lucru altruist. Vazandu-l cum se ploconeste si se umileste in fata ta, te simti superior, puternic, castigi respect in fata ochilor tai. Daca faci gestul suficient de public, castigi si admiratia fatarnica a celorlalti. Practic, nu daruiesti ceva, ci cumperi ceva. Totusi, nici daca faci un bine in sila, impotriva vointei tale, doar pentru ca asa e crestin, sau corect social – acela nu iti poate castiga vreun favor divin. Binefacerea adevarata este cea disimulata. Fa-i un bine celuilalt fara ca acela sa aiba ocazia sa-ti multumeasca si de fapt, daca se poate, fara sa afle vreodata ca tu i-ai facut binele. Sau, ceva mai subtil si mai elegant, fa-i binele ca o parte a unui subiect comun, general acceptat; fa ca binele tau sa para normal, pur si simplu l-ai ajutat ca asa s-a nimerit, oricine ar fi facut la fel, asa se face. In felul acesta, doar un observator foarte atent poate sa remarce ca in realitate tu cauti in mod voit ocaziile banale de a face bine si le inlantui pe cat poti, pentru a maximiza efectul. Acelasi observator ar intelege ca, facandu-ti din asta un mod de viata, ii faci si pe ceilalti mai buni, pentru ca le impui binele ca o stare de normalitate, de banal cotidian.
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Hornul rasufla cald, dupa sunetul focului de lemn si zapada,
Gerului din lume povestindu-i intamplarile vietii lui –
Cantand si veselindu-se in cosmosul neinsufletit.

Roi de scantei izbucnesc fierbinti –
Efemeride, sfidand stelele inghetate.

Iarba argintie tremura, ca inainte de tropotul calului
Razboiul pandindu-l, mai aproape, tot mai aproape,
Arcurile si sulitele celor cazuti
Vibreaza cu pamantul si stancile impreuna.

Briza ascutita de frig si otel gol, sclipind
Varsa parfumul imbatator al florilor de acasa –
Abur de dragoste, navalind in suflet
Pragul indepartat aducandu-l aproape.

Betia si setea de flacari pe inimi pun stapanire
Arta cea mandra a mortii, senina si zvelta
Prinde fiinta si steagul victoriei poarta:
Rosu de suflul dorintei, negru de-un crunt intuneric,
Falnic, intins, sfasiat de durere,
Farmecul existentei prinzandu-l intr-o clipa de strigat.

Har si divina rasplata te-asteapta, o, tanar erou!
Fierul ce pieptu-ti strapunge, un brat de fecioara va fi.
Noaptea ce-ti stinge privirea, curand va fi rau de lumina!
Foamea de viata sa-ti piara, gloria fie-ti eterna,
Glasul tau stins peste cer si pamant sa rasune!

Estul se-aprinde, iarba incet se dezgheata
Harnice clipe se scurg pe suvoiul de sange
Zilelor tale ferice slujindu-le pana la capat.

Cand sabiile sclipesc, nu-ti mai indrepta gandul la iubire, credinta, nici macar la chipurile parintilor tai! Julius Caesar

Deroude: Bine, profesore, JOS MANUSILE!! Tu ai vrut-o! DA, sunt un animal de prada! Foamea, dorinta, pofta ma fac agil si imi ascut simturile si coltii. Sunt „Homo homini lupus” al lui Plaut, dar asemeni lupului, ucid eficient, sigur, cu usurinta si precizie, fara sa am in ochi victima, ci trofeul. Asta nu ma face pacatos, ma elibereaza. Eu sunt natura, tu esti tentatia, eu sunt frumusetea nealterata, tu esti iluzia, eu sunt singur, tu esti nemarginit si oricat de fragmentat!
Woland: Calmeaza-te prietene, esti victima unei circumstante nefericite, a unei neintelegeri. Eu nu compar libertatea cu salbaticia pentru a o denigra, dimpotriva. Mereu am simtit ca un strop de salbaticie, de pasiune, ajuta fenomenul estetic. Pur si simplu am vrut sa-ti atrag atentia ca dai dovada de nesinceritate si falsa modestie comparandu-te cu un lup. A ucide cu precizie si usurinta este mai degraba de natura unui om educat si inteligent – sclipitor chiar. Un profesor Moriarty sau o Lucrezia Borgia.
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My gentle, beautiful Nel Jia,

I hope you are well and not too upset about me, the war and this whole mess of a world. I know it must sound quite absurd, but sometimes I wish you were here, with me, in the front line, dodging shells and running wild and dropping to the ground when things explode all over. And laughing out loud, and roaring like a savage animal, and unleashing that unstoppable feeling, the assault, the wonderful strength that fills our veins and makes us human. Godly human.
You see, I realized something the other day. I am carrying a final letter for you in my backpack. So, if I don’t make it, you will receive my confession, the account of my life, my love for you and the things that made me worthy of your love. But by that time there will be nothing left for me – and in my selfishness and vanity, I am longing for a piece of you near me, to have and to hold, to look at before my fleeting life ends.
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Tu, fiinta, emotie, miracol, enigma, inefabila eroare –

Te iubesc –
Cu certitudinea cerului, de care ma tem, si a luminii, de care ma bucur.
Si de intreaga mea existenta ma indoiesc mai mult decat de acest simplu fapt.

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My love,

I miss you. I haven’t missed you so hard before, because I was so concentrated to stay alive, to do my job… To kill…
It has been a month now since I have been parachuted near Saynshand. We haven’t seen any fighting for the last week, since the bomb was dropped on the city. The remaining forces of the enemy have been cut off by our third army.
Yuri died yesterday, of the chest wound he got during the fights at the city limits. Our improvised medic couldn’t to anything for him, except soak his veins with morphine. Yuri was the youngest in our unit, 19 years old.
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