Andrea Dworkin - Mercy
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- Название:Mercy
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Mercy: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация
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how He wanted it, He gloried in blood. We were His perfect
children; we made our hearts as bare and hard and empty as the
rock itself; good students, emblematic Jew s; pride was
prophecy. N early two thousand years later w e’d take Palestine
back, our hearts burned bare, a collective heart chastened by
the fire o f the crematoria; empty, hard. Pride, the euphemism
for the emotions that drove us to kill ourselves in a mass
suicide at Massada, the nationalist euphemism, was simple
obedience. We knew the meaning o f the H oly Books, the
stories o f His love, the narrative details o f His omnipresent
embrace; His wrath, orgasmic, a graphic, calculating
treachery. Freedom meant escape from Him; bolting into
death; a desperate, determined run from His tormenting love;
the Romans were His surrogates, the agents o f slavery and
rape, puppets on the divine string. It was the play within the
play; they too suffered; He loved them too; they too were
children o f God; He toyed with them too; but we were
D addy’s favorite girl. We had the holy scrolls; and a
synagogue that faced towards Jerusalem, His city, cruel as is
befitting; perpetual murder, as is befitting. The suicide at
Massada was us, His best children, formed by His perfect
love, surrendering: to Him. Annihilation is how I will love
them; He loved loving; the freedom for us was the end o f the
affair, finally dead. Yeah, we defied the Romans, a righteous
suicide it seemed; but that was barely the point; we weren’t
prepared to have them on top, we belonged to Him.
Everything was hidden under the floor o f a cell that we had
sealed off; to protect the holy scrolls from Roman desecration;
to protect the synagogue from Roman desecration; we kept
His artifacts pure and hidden, the signs and symbols o f His
love; we died, staying faithful; only Daddy gets to hurt us bad;
only Daddy gets to put His thing there. First we burned
everything we had, food, clothes, everything; we gathered it
all and we burned it. Then ten men were picked by lot and they
slit the throats o f everyone else. Then one man was chosen by
lot and he slit the throats o f the other nine, then his own. I have
no doubt that he did. There were nearly a thousand o f us; nine
hundred and sixty; men, women, children; proud; obedient to
God. There was discipline and calm, a sadness, a quiet
patience, a tense but quiet waiting for slaughter, like at night,
how a child stays awake, waiting, there is a stunning courage,
she does not run, she does not die o f fear. Some were afraid
and they were held down and forced, o f course; it had to be. It
was by family, mostly. A husband lay with his wife and
children, restrained them, their throats were slit first, then his,
he held them down, tenderly or not, and then he bared his
throat, deluded, thinking it was manly, and there was blood,
the w ay God likes it. There were some w idow s, some
orphans, some lone folks you didn’t especially notice on a
regular day; but that night they stood out; the men with the
swords did them first. It took a long time, it’s hard to kill nearly
a thousand people one by one, by hand, and they had to hurry
because it had to be done before dawn, you can do anything in
the dark but dawn comes and it’s hard to look at love in the
light. We loved God and we loved freedom, we were all G o d ’s
girls you might say and freedom, then as now, was in getting
sliced; a perfect penetration, then death; a voluptuous compliance, blood, death. I f yo u ’re G o d ’s girl you do it the w ay He likes it and H e’s got special tastes; the naked throat and the
thing that tears it open, He likes one clean cut, a sharp, clean
blade; you lay yourself down and the blade cuts into you and
there’s blood and pain; and the eyes, there’s a naked terror in
the eyes and death freezes it there, yo u ’ve seen the eyes. The
blood is warm and it spreads down over you and you feel its
heat, you feel the heat spreading. Freedom isn’t abstract, an
idea, it’s concrete, in life, a sliced throat, a clean blade,
freedom now. G o d ’s girl surrenders and finds freedom where
the men always bragged it was; in blood and death; only they
didn’t expect it to be this w ay, them on their backs too, supine,
girlish; G o d ’s the man here. There’s an esthetic to it too, o f
course: the bodies in voluntary repose, waiting; the big knife,
slicing; the rich, textured beauty o f the anguish against the
amorphous simplicity o f the blood; the emotions disciplined
to submission as murder comes nearer, the blood o f someone
covers your arm or your shoulder or your hand and the glint o f
the blade passes in front o f your eyes and you push your head
back to bare your throat, slow ly so that you will live longer
but it looks sensual and lewd and filled with longing, and he
cuts and you feel the heat spreading, your body cools fast,
before you die, and you feel the heat o f your own blood
spreading. Was Sade God? M aybe I was just seventy; I was
born on the rock but the adults who raised me were new to it
and awkward, not native to the rock, still with roots down
below, on softer ground; I died there, a tough one, old, tough
skin from the awful sun, thick and leathery, with deep furrow s
like dried up streams going up my legs and up my arms and
creasing m y face, scarified you might say from the sun eating
up m y skin, cutting into it with white hot light, ritual scars or a
surgeon’s knife, terrible, deep rivers in my skin, dried out
rivers; and maybe I’d had all the men, religion notwithstanding, men are always the same, filled with God and Law but still
sticking it in so long as it’s dark and fast; no place on earth
darker than Massada at night; no boys on earth faster than the
Jew s; nice boys they were, too, scholars with the hearts o f
assassins. Beware o f religious scholars who learn to fight.
T h ey’ve been studying the morals o f a genocidal God. Shrewd
and ruthless, smart and cruel, they will win; tell me, did
Massada ever die and where are the Romans now; profiles on
coins in museums. A scholar who kills considers the long
view; will the dead survive in every tear the living shed? A
scholar knows how it will look in writing; beyond the death
count o f the moment. Regular soldiers who fight to kill don’t
stand a chance. The corpses o f all sides get maggots and turn to
dust; but some stories live forever, pristine, in the hidden
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