Author Topic: A Question for Herr Hauser and Senor Raul  (Read 162561 times)

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Post Mortem - Albert Caraco
« Reply #90 on: September 05, 2020, 06:46:30 am »


Here are some paragraphs by Albert Caraco from Post Mortem:

My hatred for this world is the most estimable thing in me, I hate the world as a sick person and as a Jew, here are two most respectable titles, I love death and I do well, most of the sick people do not love it enough and their rage to live makes them unworthy, on their side the Jews do not love it at all and their attachment to existence is the reason for the disgust they inspire in others. These two races of men lack perspective, reserve and modesty, neither the sick nor the Jews will ever have style, they are poor in the worst sense of the word, who when they need them, they arm themselves with their misery. 

Mother loved life, not excessively, but a little more than usual, she condemned d suicide and rejected the idea of death, even dared to say that one had to live everything as if one would never die, so we saw her quite unarmed and lacking greatness, she believed in her doctors who lied to her with impertinence and the proximity of nothingness did not arouse her suspicions. My esteem for her was reduced to half, she was only a poor woman, her beautiful qualities were denied, I suffer for that, her will to live and her hope to be cured made her fail her demise. 

Mother had been ill for years, she did not know for sure what she had, she complained about her throat, apparently she suffered from laryngitis and often her voice was a little hoarse, those kinds of symptoms are usually considered alarming, but she did not consider herself in danger. Only one doctor scared her in that respect, but he treated her so roughly that she got sick of the character, anyway he would not have been able to save her, lung cancer is incurable. So the poor woman carried her death in her like a child that should be born, making her, in turn, perish.

Mother improved a lot with old age and I believe I had a lot to do with it; her taste was right, although sometimes she lacked discernment, in her what she had acquired was not up to the natural, but her mistakes were of the most scarce kind, and she even stopped committing them in the last times. I rarely saw her looking better than in the summer of the Sixties, the expression "healthy air" was not inappropriate, the disease was already incubating, that rather new shade of melancholy gave her charm and a certain style, for me it was a pleasure to walk next to a person who fixed his gaze without any desire in between.
We spent the summer of the Sixties in Vichy, where Mother was cured of her throat, the shrewd doctors she had consulted spoke of laryngitis, nobody suspected that death was lurking in that noble woman. A month later, in Biarritz, she felt as a first alteration and her face sank imperceptibly, in winter she hoarsened and coughed more than usual.

The following year she had a last moment of beauty in that beautiful cathedral of Aix, one would have thought of the color of the place or the reflection of its decorations. I had just witnessed its sunset; it was the last flash of light. 

It seems to me that this is a rather unusual love language in a man who pretends not to love his mother, these contradictions are natural, I am full of meanders, in short I write and that says it all, I get lost in my own path. Love or lack of love? Let's put them together or one after the other, the truth is, I ignore it. While Father sheds a few tears, my eyes remain as dry as ever, it is true that I never cry, I should not be labeled as indifferent, my ideas forbid me the pathos, my style forbids me even to contemplate it. 
« Last Edit: September 05, 2020, 06:52:07 am by raul »