(no subject)
i had to read this story by cynthia ozick called the shawl. it was about these three people in a concentration camp during the jewish holocaust of world war II, although that really is a bit of an insignificant detail and could probably even be argued on several accounts...but like i said, it is an insignificant detail of the story.
the story was so. depressing. the holocaust...any holocaust, in that sort of context, is just absolutely horrible. i can't believe any of it, i feel like i'm suffocating in that sort of cruelty, this...animosity.
i can't even deal with it, it makes me want to cry and scream.
(magda is the baby. rosa is the mother.)
All at once Magda was swimming through the air. The whole of Magda traveled through loftiness. She looked like a butterfly touching a silver vine. And the moment Magda's feathered round head and her pencil legs and baloonish belly and zigzag arms splashed against hte fence, the steel voices went mad in their growling, urging Rosa to run and run to the spot where Magda had fallen from her flight against the electrified fence; but of course Rosa did not obey them. She only stood, because if she ran they would shoot, and if she tried to pick up the sticks of Magda's body they would shoot, and if she let the wolf's screech ascending now through the ladder of her skeleton break out, they would shoot; so she took Magda's shawl and filled her own mouth with it, stuffed it in and stuffed it in, until she was swallowing up the wolf's screech and tasting the cinnamon and almond depth of Magda's saliva; and Rosa drank Magda's shawl until it dried.
it is just. unbearable. i am full of. ardor.
the story was so. depressing. the holocaust...any holocaust, in that sort of context, is just absolutely horrible. i can't believe any of it, i feel like i'm suffocating in that sort of cruelty, this...animosity.
i can't even deal with it, it makes me want to cry and scream.
(magda is the baby. rosa is the mother.)
All at once Magda was swimming through the air. The whole of Magda traveled through loftiness. She looked like a butterfly touching a silver vine. And the moment Magda's feathered round head and her pencil legs and baloonish belly and zigzag arms splashed against hte fence, the steel voices went mad in their growling, urging Rosa to run and run to the spot where Magda had fallen from her flight against the electrified fence; but of course Rosa did not obey them. She only stood, because if she ran they would shoot, and if she tried to pick up the sticks of Magda's body they would shoot, and if she let the wolf's screech ascending now through the ladder of her skeleton break out, they would shoot; so she took Magda's shawl and filled her own mouth with it, stuffed it in and stuffed it in, until she was swallowing up the wolf's screech and tasting the cinnamon and almond depth of Magda's saliva; and Rosa drank Magda's shawl until it dried.
it is just. unbearable. i am full of. ardor.