Spiegel:

Es sind Augenblicke, in denen deutlich wird: Hier stehen sich zwei Konzepte, zwei politische Ansätze gegenüber.

Then the one walking at the head openly took a black Mauser from under his coat, and another beside him took out the skeleton keys. Generally, those going to apartment no. 50 were properly equipped. Two of them had fine, easily unfolded silk nets in their pockets. Another of them had a lasso, another had gauze masks and ampoules of chloroform.

—Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, (Penguin Books, Ltd., 1997), 342.

Moscow’s finest prepare to arrest Woland.

‚Did he try to preach anything in the soldiers‘ presence?‘

‚No, Hegemon, he was not loquacious this time. The only thing he said was that among human vices he considered cowardice one of the first.‘

—Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, (Penguin Books, Ltd., 1997), 305.

‚What is this novel about?‘

‚It is a novel about Pontius Pilate.‘

Here again the tongues of the candles swayed and leaped, the dishes on the table clattered, Woland burst into thunderous laughter, but neither frightened nor surprised anyone. Behemoth applauded for some reason.

‚About what? About what? About whom?‘ said Woland, ceasing to laugh. ‚And that — now? It’s stupendous! Couldn’t you have found some other subject? Let me see it.‘ Woland held out his hand, palm up.

‚Unfortunately, I cannot do that,‘ replied the master, ‚because I burned it in the stove.‘

‚Forgive me, but I don’t believe you,‘ Woland replied, ‚that cannot be: manuscripts don’t burn.‘

—Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, (Penguin Books, Ltd., 1997), 286-287.

It’s taken years, but I finally read the line.

Between Gulf Wars I and II I clearly remember hearing Harris read from his book Our War on calling Vietnam “a mistake”:

While it may be an accurate conclusion, calling the war a mistake is the functional equivalent of calling water wet or dirt dirty. … In this particular “mistake,” at least 3 million people died, only 58,000 of whom were Americans. These 3 million people died crushed in the mud, riddled with shrapnel, hurled out of helicopters, impaled on sharpened bamboo, obliterated in carpets of explosives dropped from bombers flying so high they could only be heard and never seen (talk about cowards!) they died reduced to chunks by one or more land mines, finished off by a round through the temple or a bayonet in the throat, consumed by sizzling phosphorous, burned alive with jellied gasoline, strung up by their thumbs, starved in cages, executed after watching their babies die, trapped on the barbed wire calling for their mothers. They died while trying to kill, they died while trying to kill no one, they died heroes, they died villains, they died at random, they died most often when someone who had no idea who they were killed them under the orders of someone who had even less idea than that. … All 3 million died in pain, often so intense that death was a relief. This war was about us. We made it happen. It was ours. And, even at this late date, any genuine reckoning on our part must include assuming the full responsibility of that ownership. Nothing less will do.

То ли новостей перебрал,
то ли вина в обед,
только ночью к Сергею пришёл его воевавший дед.
Сел на икеевскую табуретку, спиной заслоняя двор
за окном. У меня, говорит, к тебе,
Сереженька, разговор.
Не мог бы ты, дорогой мой, любимый внук,
никогда, ничего не писать обо мне в фейсбук?
Ни в каком контексте, ни с буквой зэт, ни без буквы зэт,
просто возьми и не делай этого, просит дед.
Никаких побед моим именем,
Вообще никаких побед.
Так же, он продолжает, я был бы рад,
если бы ты не носил меня на парад,
Я прошу тебя очень, (и делает так рукой),
Мне не нужен полк,
Ни бессмертный, ни смертный, Сереженька, никакой.
Отпусти меня на покой, Серёжа,
Я заслужил покой.
Да, я знаю, что ты трудяга, умница, либерал,
Ты все это не выбирал,
Но ведь я-то тоже не выбирал!
Мы прожили жизнь,
Тяжелую и одну.
Можно мы больше не будем
Иллюстрировать вам войну?
Мы уже все, ребята,
Нас забрала земля.
Можно вы как-то сами.
Как-то уже с нуля.
Не нужна нам ни ваша гордость,
Ни ваш потаённый стыд.
Я прошу тебя, сделай так,
Чтоб я был наконец забыт.

Но ведь я забуду, как в русском музее
Мы искали девятый вал,
Как я проснулся мокрый,
А ты меня одевал,
Как читали Пришвина,
Как искали в атласе полюса,
Как ты мне объяснял, почему на небе
Такая белая полоса
За любым самолетом,
Как подарил мне
Увеличительное стекло…
Ничего, отвечает дед,
Исчезая.
Тебе ведь и это не помогло

I watched Ein Nobody gegen Putin today, and was struck by a line of Pavel Talankin: „Ich kann der Welt zeigen, in welchen Abgrund wir alle stürzen.“ This reminded me of this Евгения Беркович poem, guys hitting the sand at Omaha Beach, Belarusians on the Seelow Heights.

Guardian:

Any such attack will not be designed to weaken Iran’s already shattered nuclear programme, the chief target of the 12-day war in June, but to target Iran’s political leadership and bring the protesters angered by falling living standards back into the streets.

This article is striking in that in discussing US/Israel bombing Iran there is not the slightest pretense of a US attack being pre-emptive destruction of an Iranian nuclear program, or any nonsense about drugs – it’s just right up front about overthrowing the government. Destruction of the Iranian government is justified because. Because the US and Israel want to do it. There’s no hint of justification under any sort of international law.