The Vengeance of Rome - Couverture souple

Moorcock, Michael

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 160486494X ISBN 13 : 9781604864946

Editeur : PM Press, 2013

A propos du livre

Extrait :

ONE
My achievements are a matter of history. A record. I am the voice and the conscience of civilised Europe. I am one of the great inventors of my age. I am a child of the century and as old as the century. Unlike Göring and Goebbels and those lickspittles of the SA and SS, I was never afraid to be judged by my actions. No court in the civilised world would countenance such allegations. They are absolutely insubstantial.Yet still that Turk, whose filthy fried-meat shop remains a nightmare for those of us forced to live in its ambience, insists I am a Jew he knew in Pera! I would have been five years old! What could he remember? I suspect a familiar hand in this but am allowed to say nothing.These days, even a casual mention of Comrade Brodmann means Mrs Cornelius will mock me until we have a row. My heart is not strong enough. I console myself.At my age I fear only God's disapproval and there can be precious little of that in store for one who has devoted so much of his life to the service of Christ!

I was always of an evangelical disposition and had meditated a great deal on matters of religion while in service to El Glaoui, so my conversation more readily turned to spiritual matters which was why Mr Mix sometimes likened me to an Old Testament prophet. We had discovered that our cattle truck was not going directly to Casablanca and my normally genial darkie had grown disconsolate. I reassured him that at least our train was bearing us away from the medieval dangers of Marrakech and the sinister whimsicality of her Caïd, and to pass the time I attempted to instil a sense of our Greek faith into my loyal companion.At length the usually easygoing black insisted that Baptist was good enough for him; he always felt uneasy around incense and chanting.'That voodoo stuff gives me the willies.' Had I seen Ben-Hur? Or was he thinking of Intolerance? Confining my answer to the murmured remark that the early Church was scarcely the same as Babylonian paganism, I was content to avoid controversy while we travelled in intimate discomfort and as a result fell into the pleasant habit we had developed in the USA of discussing favourite films.We were both great 'buffs'.

TWO

Oh, the boy. That boy. Her boy. How I loved him. He was going to be my son. I was teaching him everything. At first he listened. Then he became restless. The most important information is that which you don't wish to hear. He lied to me. He lied to me. He was the first one, that erstwhile son of hers! What was I? Some Abraham? Fear thou not Jacob, my servant. Though thou make a nest as high as the eagle and though thou set it among the stars, I will bring thee down from hence. He lied to me. Elijah lied to me. I know.You do not believe it. Nobody can believe it. He lied. He lied.There was no precedent for this.This was the worst of all captivities and it had not been predicted. It taught us that not every lesson is, after all, a big lesson. Big lessons are made up of many small lessons, said the Jew in Arcadia. He wanted me to escape with something. I forget what.

THREE

The Jew in Arcadia predicted I would lose what I most valued in the ruins of what I least knew I valued. He called me meshumad. They said he was a tsaddik, eyn maskil. He thought I was slow. He thought he confused me with his riddles. I was not slow and I was not confused by him. I followed his arguments but I could not agree with them, that was all. He was the slow one. I was too quick for his old-fashioned parlour games. Mutti! Mutti! Wer ist das? They believe they are so sophisticated in their provincial professionalism. But it would be rude to challenge them. It would be stupid to make enemies. I can smell the yellow blossoms, the green and yellow stalks in the red mud turned up by the ploughman's skill. The fog rolls across the fields. The smoke drifts through the market. I can smell the market, the plotki, the cooking zrazy, the tubs of lokshen; brass and copper wink among the iron, the enamelled trays, the glittering bowls of dumpling soup. I can smell the golden stones of my old Kiev, the Hero City of the Russ. Oh, Russia, my homeland. Oh, Ukraine, my home. Golden grass blooms in Babi Yar. Golden grass still blooms in my Babi Yar. Mia madre! O, Esmé, how we rose towards the stars that day over the old gorge. And what if only these memories remain? Is there any crime forgetting pain? Is a meek man of any more or less worth than a proud man? We are rarely given the example. Our prophet celebrated the meek. Our society continues to celebrate the violent. I know all this. I followed it through the 1950s. They were saying it on the radio and TV. But gradually we forgot. The meek hero disappeared.

City of sleeping cats. City of goats. City of Greeks.We lived in that world, the Jew and I.We lived in the deep history of it, so deep that no enemy could find us. Our only fear was that a friend should betray us. It was the life of a very fortunate intellectual rat but it was life. That's show business, says Brady, the child-killer. Is there some primitive sense they have that by killing us they empower themselves? They eat our brains. There are more terrible ideas than this, I suppose. But they behave like film stars, these secret service interrogators, these prison guards. I read what I could in the camps. For a while they let me use the library, but first all you were allowed was Mein Kampf or Völkischer Beobachter. They were not exactly designed to stimulate the mind but rather to reduce it. There are teachers who take great joy in passing on wisdom. But we must not forget the other kind of teacher who loves to repress knowledge and leave us more ignorant and brutal than themselves. Believe me, I am not complaining. I had it easy compared to most. But, of course,my imprisonment was completely unjust. I had done nothing to deserve those camps.There were a number of others, like myself. Guilty or not, few deserved to be props for the showmanship of illiterates or sadists. In the camps my old friends turned into terrifying enemies. Jude, mach Mores! Jude, verrecke! Hep! Hep! Even in Dachau they had their Judengasse. Zionismus ist ein überwundener Standpunkt!

I came out of Egypt. I came out of Libya and Abyssinia. I came out of the land of the Moors and the land of Sefarad, Zarefat and all the lands of Edom or Ishmael. I came out of Zarefat and Rome and Carthage. I came out of Troy and Athens, Constantinople and London. Out of New York and Los Angeles. Captive and conqueror both. I came out of Atlanta and Memphis and Cairo. I will come out of the world. My cities shall fly.

Revue de presse :

"The Vengeance of Rome comes along to remind us of what we have been missing: the dynamism of a 19th-century master operating with all the darts and shuffles of our electronic, amnesiac, fast-twitch culture" (Iain Sinclair Spectator)

"A final, breath-stopping moment of deeply ironic self-delusion at the end of a grandiose, beautifully modulated quartet" (Scotland on Sunday)

"A wonderfully vivid evocation of Europe in its darkest hour" (Mail on Sunday)

"Historical picaresque on the grand scale, a vast...chronicle of tall tales, brief encounters and expert twitches on the thread of destiny" (DJ Taylor Guardian)

"The particular journey into hell that Moorcock gives us in the Pyat Quartet is as terrifying and argumentative as that taken by Dante in The Divine Comedy. And in spite of the fact that 'comedy' means 'story with a happy ending', it is also like Dante in being brilliantly, horribly funny" (Time Out)

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: PM Press
• Date d'édition: 2013
• ISBN 10: 160486494X
• ISBN 13: 9781604864946
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 588