I was thinking about the somewhat hysterical happiness with which the left and some liberals ma non troppo accompanied the inauguration of Alexandre de Moraes, El Grande Xerife de la Democracia, in the Superior Court Electoral (TSE). He even dripped a tear. Of anger, but still. On account of the Coronation, there were those who lent themselves to the role of sommelier of applause, analyzing the duration, the tone, the rhythm, the enthusiasm of those who had their hands red from bowing so much
Coincidentally, at the same time that a journalist extolled the genialiade of Alexandre de Moraes and someone else said with renewed democratic hopes (whatever that means), there appeared in my timeline a phrase attributed to Simone Weil: “the future is made of the same stuff as the present”. I immediately thought that, by logic, the present must be made of the same stuff as the past. That is, of divine love, but also of flawed men, of suffering and pride that always accompanies fools. From there starting to feel the imaginary chill of that October Moscow 1917 it was a leap.
And don’t say (yet!) that it’s overkill. Maybe it’s laziness, but I’m not exaggerating. After all, I could have tried a little harder, put more fuel in the time machine and gone to Paris in 1789. But it happened to be Moscow, and honestly, I’m raising my hands to the sky. Imagine if the neurons decide to mutiny and throw me in Beijing 1959 or Havana 1959! So much the better that it was in a place where, if I let my goatee grow, I could even be confused with Lenin.
Speaking of Lenin, look at him over there on the crate, speaking to his comrades . He talks about transforming the world, protecting the poor, making Russia a prosperous and peaceful place. It’s all a lie, but who cares? History has not recorded it, because after so long everything turns into a lightning-image recorded in absolute black and white and without nuances, but also at that time there were elite people who, seduced by revolutionary fumes, applauded the prophet-murderers. of this heresy of exaltation of man called communism.
Какое преувеличение!
He applauded and flattered and called him “genius” no only Lenin, but also Trotsky, Stalin and several other leaders of the second and third echelon, all with bloodstained hands. Anonymous rebels, bureaucrats with knives in their teeth, whose biographies marked by the unspectacular everyday perversity have fortunately not reached us. Also in the глобус and Лист of St. Paul of the time there were defenders of freedom and psychotic anti-tsarists who were sure that they were “on the right side of history”. And here is perhaps a good time to explain to the reader that the right side and the winning side of history do not always coincide.
What happened to this elite in a first moment in love with “the purest humanism ”From the revolution we know. Those who realized the mistake in time found a way to escape. Those who insisted on the “just to see what happens” error today lie along the Trans-Siberian railway or in mass graves dug in places like Nazino. And, before anyone comes again to accuse me of exaggeration, I say: those who foresaw the carnage of the next seven decades also heard from their tovariches that it was all an exaggeration.
Cinema and television have eaten and pasteurized our imagination, so many people can only conceive of absolute villains or revolutions commanded by stone madmen giving that blatant laugh to the camera. The reality, unfortunately, is quite different from that. It is not uncommon for villains to speak of democracy and even Christian love to justify their vilest acts. And the craziest person at the head of the Revolution always waits for the day after victory to get rid of whatever moral ties he may have left.
What I saw in the inauguration of Alexandre de Moraes at the TSE was a man with a purpose, surrounded by fans whose eyes shine with that macabre faith. Few things in this life scare me more. But I hope that you and you and you (yes, you, deep down!) are right and that everything is just one (another) exaggeration of a chronicler without shame in assuming himself as hyperbolic, hyperbolic.
