Stanislaw Jerzy Lec
Pensieri spettinati

I have seen cages that flew, there were eagles inside.

Acclaimed by big names – see Umberto Eco himself – Stanislaw J. Lec has been trampled upon by the public to the point of being forgotten. An observer out of time, he belongs to the past. Meanwhile, suffocating, a new humanity is born: colorful, terribly gray.

A ritual often arises when leafing through these Unkempt Thoughts, entering his humors, moving the eyes along the blank spaces that separate one aphorism from another. That white portion is a flash: it contains the time necessary to be struck by Lec's sentences, become aware of them, and discover oneself even smaller. Coming from beyond the iron curtain, the sacrificial victim of this author is very clear: not bureaucracy, not real socialism nor capitalism, but rather humanity. Humanity with its multiple wretched petals, whether part of the masses or a narrow circle of rulers. All these, following the steel walls of existence, will fall into the same inescapable abyss. Man is like a mouse to Lec: he can struggle, speak, or take flight; his home – beloved, albeit with unconscious contempt – will always be underground, in the filth. The blindfold is ready on the table – which table am I talking about? – the one every man will pass towards, crossing paths with his future loves and those he has erased.

If you tear down monuments, spare the pedestals. They might always come in handy.