A voice called, and I went. I went, for a voice called.
If the ongoing vanishing is a form of death, history is a corpse growing non-stop; all those constrained choices, laughter and sneer, wandering, emotions, silence, and gleams are swept up and vanish into the breathing air, or contract and aggregate on their own will till there is no way back.
What did the Jewish guerrillas feel when they arrived at Naliboki Forest and looked into the sky through the branches in 1941? What roars did the secret Jewish paratroopers hear when they landed slowly from the Yugoslavian sky in 1945? What emotions did the sight of „Arbeit macht frei“ (Work will set you free) on the concentration camp gate evoke in Auschwitz folks when they pass it by in the ultimate chaos of 1945? All these trivialities, accumulating behind the back of history, form into the chaotic, empty and inconstant flesh—what is outside the organs of the corpse. …
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Image caption: Alexander Basile, Cologne