The Kiss - Anton Checkov

At eight o'clock on the evening of the twentieth of May all the six batteries of the N---- Reserve Artillery Brigade halted for the night in the village of Myestetchki on their way to camp. When the general commotion was at its height, while some officers were busily occupied around the guns, while others, gathered together in the square near the church enclosure, were listening to the quartermasters, a man in civilian dress, riding a strange horse, came into sight round the church. The little dun-coloured horse with a good neck and a short tail came, moving not straight forward, but as it were sideways, with a sort of dance step, as though it were being lashed about the legs. When he reached the officers the man on the horse took off his hat and said:

"His Excellency Lieutenant-General von Rabbek invites the gentlemen to drink tea with him this minute. . . ."

The horse turned, danced, and retired sideways; the messenger raised his hat once more, and in an instant disappeared with his strange horse behind the church.

"What the devil does it mean?" grumbled some of the officers, dispersing to their quarters. "One is sleepy, and here this Von Rabbek with his tea! We know what tea means."

full story here

IN EXILE

by Anton Chekhov

OLD SEMYON, nicknamed Canny, and a young Tatar, whom no one knew by name, were sitting on the river-bank by the camp-fire; the other three ferrymen were in the hut. Semyon, an old man of sixty, lean and toothless, but broad shouldered and still healthy-looking, was drunk; he would have gone in to sleep long before, but he had a bottle in his pocket and he was afraid that the fellows in the hut would ask him for vodka. The Tatar was ill and weary, and wrapping himself up in his rags was describing how nice it was in the Simbirsk province, and what a beautiful and clever wife he had left behind at home. He was not more than twenty five, and now by the light of the camp-fire, with his pale and sick, mournful face, he looked like a boy.
"To be sure, it is not paradise here," said Canny. "You can see for yourself, the water, the bare banks, clay, and nothing else. . . . Easter has long passed and yet there is ice on the river, and this morning there was snow. . ."
"It's bad! it's bad!" said the Tatar, and looked round him in terror.
The dark, cold river was flowing ten paces away; it grumbled, lapped against the hollow clay banks and raced on swiftly towards the far-away sea. Close to the bank there was the dark blur of a big barge, which the ferrymen called a "karbos." Far away on the further bank, lights, dying down and flickering up again, zigzagged like little snakes; they were burning last year's grass. And beyond the little snakes there was darkness again. There little icicles could be heard knocking against the barge It was damp and cold. . . .
The Tatar glanced at the sky. There were as many stars as at home, and the same blackness all round, but something was lacking. At home in the Simbirsk province the stars were quite different, and so was the sky.
"It's bad! it's bad!" he repeated.
"You will get used to it," said Semyon, and he laughed. "Now you are young and foolish, the milk is hardly dry on your lips, and it seems to you in your foolishness that you are more wretched than anyone; but the time will come when you will say to yourself: 'I wish no one a better life than mine.' You look at me. Within a week the floods will be over and we shall set up the ferry; you will all go wandering off about Siberia while I shall stay and shall begin going from bank to bank. I've been going like that for twenty-two years, day and night. The pike and the salmon are under the water while I am on the water. And thank God for it, I want nothing; God give everyone such a life."

full story here

Shooting an Elephant  

George Orwell

In Moulmein, in Lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people — the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans.

full short story here

EUA somem na escuridão - America goes dark

America goes dark

EUA somem na escuridão

Por Paul Krugman

8 de agosto de 2010

The lights are going out all over America — literally. Colorado Springs has made headlines with its desperate attempt to save money by turning off a third of its streetlights, but similar things are either happening or being contemplated across the nation, from Philadelphia to Fresno.

As luzes se apagam em todo Estados Unidos. A cidade de Colorado Springs estampou nas manchetes dos jornais locais sua intenção desesperada de economizar dinheiro apagando um terço de seus semáforos, mas estão acontecendo coisas parecidas em todo o país, desde a Filadélfia até Fresno.

Meanwhile, a country that once amazed the world with its visionary investments in transportation, from the Erie Canal to the Interstate Highway System, is now in the process of unpaving itself: in a number of states, local governments are breaking up roads they can no longer afford to maintain, and returning them to gravel.

Contudo, um país que assombrou o mundo com seus visionários investimentos nos transportes, desde o canal de Erie até o sistema de autopistas interestatais, agora se encontra em um processo de despavimentação: em vários estados, os governos locais estão destruindo estradas que não já não podem mais manter e reduzindo-as a cascalho.

And a nation that once prized education — that was among the first to provide basic schooling to all its children — is now cutting back. Teachers are being laid off; programs are being canceled; in Hawaii, the school year itself is being drastically shortened. And all signs point to even more cuts ahead.

E uma nação que outrora valorizava a educação, que foi uma das primeiras a oferecer escolarização básica a todas as suas crianças, agora está fazendo cortes. Os professores estão sendo despedidos e os programas cancelados. No Havaí, até o curso escolar está acabando de maneira drástica. E tudo indica que no futuro mais ajustes serão feitos.

We’re told that we have no choice, that basic government functions — essential services that have been provided for generations — are no longer affordable. And it’s true that state and local governments, hit hard by the recession, are cash-strapped. But they wouldn’t be quite as cash-strapped if their politicians were willing to consider at least some tax increases.

Dizem-nos que não temos eleição, que as funções governamentais básicas – serviços essenciais proporcionados durante gerações – já não são viáveis. E é certo que os governos estaduais e locais, duramente açoitados pela recessão, estão sem recursos. Mas não estariam assim se seus políticos estivessem dispostos a considerar ao menos alguns aumentos de impostos.

And the federal government, which can sell inflation-protected long-term bonds at an interest rate of only 1.04 percent, isn’t cash-strapped at all. It could and should be offering aid to local governments, to protect the future of our infrastructure and our children.

E no governo federal, que pode vender bônus a longo prazo protegidos contra a inflação, com uma taxa de juros básica de 1,04%, não gasta o dinheiro. Poderia e deveria oferecer ajuda aos governos locais e proteger o futuro de nossas infraestruturas e de nossos filhos.

But Washington is providing only a trickle of help, and even that grudgingly. We must place priority on reducing the deficit, say Republicans and “centrist” Democrats. And then, virtually in the next breath, they declare that we must preserve tax cuts for the very affluent, at a budget cost of $700 billion over the next decade.

Mas Washington está prestando ajuda aos poucos, e até isso o faz a contragosto. Devemos dar prioridade à redução do déficit, dizem os republicanos e os democratas centristas. E logo, quase em seguida, afirmam que devemos manter as subvenções fiscais para os ricos, o que terá um custo previsto de 7 bilhões de dólares durante a próxima década.

In effect, a large part of our political class is showing its priorities: given the choice between asking the richest 2 percent or so of Americans to go back to paying the tax rates they paid during the Clinton-era boom, or allowing the nation’s foundations to crumble — literally in the case of roads, figuratively in the case of education — they’re choosing the latter.

Na prática, boa parte de nossa classe política está demonstrando quais são suas prioridades: quando podem escolher entre pedir que 2% dos estadounidenses mais abastados voltem a pagar os mesmos impostos que durante a expansão da Era Clinton ou permitir que derrubem a estrutura da nação – de maneira literal no caso das estradas e figurada no caso da educação -, preferem este último.

It’s a disastrous choice in both the short run and the long run. In the short run, those state and local cutbacks are a major drag on the economy, perpetuating devastatingly high unemployment.

É uma decisão desastrosa tanto a curto como a longo prazo. A curto prazo, esses cortes estatais e locais implicam um pesado empecilho para a economia e perpetuam o desemprego, que é devastadoramente elevado.

It’s crucial to keep state and local government in mind when you hear people ranting about runaway government spending under President Obama. Yes, the federal government is spending more, although not as much as you might think. But state and local governments are cutting back. And if you add them together, it turns out that the only big spending increases have been in safety-net programs like unemployment insurance, which have soared in cost thanks to the severity of the slump.

É crucial que os governos estaduais e locais tenham em mente as duras críticas da população a respeito do elevado o gasto público durante o governo Obama. Sim, o governo federal estadounidense gasta, ainda que não tanto como pensam. Mas os governos estatais e locais estão fazendo cortes. E, se somamos, o resultado é que os únicos incrementos relevantes no gasto público foram com programas de proteção social, como o seguro-desemprego, cujos custos dispararam por culpa da gravidade da crise econômica.

That is, for all the talk of a failed stimulus, if you look at government spending as a whole you see hardly any stimulus at all. And with federal spending now trailing off, while big state and local cutbacks continue, we’re going into reverse.

Isso quer dizer que, apesar do que dizem sobre o fracasso do estímulo, se observamos o gasto governamental em seu conjunto, não vemos estímulo algum. E agora que o gasto federal está reduzido, ao passo que os grandes recortes de gastos estatais e locais continuam, vamos para trás.

But isn’t keeping taxes for the affluent low also a form of stimulus? Not so you’d notice. When we save a schoolteacher’s job, that unambiguously aids employment; when we give millionaires more money instead, there’s a good chance that most of that money will just sit idle.

Mas não é também uma forma de estímulo manter os impostos baixos para os ricos? Não se percebe isso. Quando salvamos o posto de trabalho de um professor, isso ajuda o nível de emprego sem dúvida; quando, ao contrário, damos mais dinheiro aos multimilionários, é muito possível que a maior parte desse dinheiro fique imobilizada.

And what about the economy’s future? Everything we know about economic growth says that a well-educated population and high-quality infrastructure are crucial. Emerging nations are making huge efforts to upgrade their roads, their ports and their schools. Yet in America we’re going backward.

E sobre o futuro da economia? Tudo o que sabemos sobre o crescimento econômico diz que uma população culta e uma infraestrutura de alta qualidade são cruciais para o crescimento. As nações emergentes estão realizando enormes esforços para melhorar suas estradas, portos e colégios. Contudo, nos EUA estamos recuando.

How did we get to this point? It’s the logical consequence of three decades of antigovernment rhetoric, rhetoric that has convinced many voters that a dollar collected in taxes is always a dollar wasted, that the public sector can’t do anything right.

Como chegamos a esse ponto? É a consequência lógica de três décadas de retórica antigovernamental, uma retórica que convenceu numerosos eleitores de que um dólar arrecadado por impostos é sempre um dólar mal gasto, que o setor público é incapaz de fazer algo bem feito.

The antigovernment campaign has always been phrased in terms of opposition to waste and fraud — to checks sent to welfare queens driving Cadillacs, to vast armies of bureaucrats uselessly pushing paper around. But those were myths, of course; there was never remotely as much waste and fraud as the right claimed. And now that the campaign has reached fruition, we’re seeing what was actually in the firing line: services that everyone except the very rich need, services that government must provide or nobody will, like lighted streets, drivable roads and decent schooling for the public as a whole.

A campanha contra o governo sempre planteou como uma oposição à fraude, aos cheques enviados a rainhas da segurança social que conduzem luxuosos cadillacs e a grandes exércitos de burocratas que, de um lado a outro, movem documentos inutilmente. Mas isso são mitos; nunca houve tanta fraude como assegurava a direita. E agora que a campanha começa a dar frutos, vemos o que realmente havia na linha do fogo: serviços que todos, exceto os muito ricos, necessitam, serviços que devem ser proporcionados pelo governo, como reformas nas ruas, estradas transitáveis e escolarização decente para todos os cidadãos.

So the end result of the long campaign against government is that we’ve taken a disastrously wrong turn. America is now on the unlit, unpaved road to nowhere.

Portanto, o resultado final da prolongada campanha contra o governo é que demos um passo desastrosamente equivocado. Agora, os EUA transitam por uma estrada escura, sem luz, e sem asfalto, que não leva a lugar nenhum.

Tradução: André Rossi. Artigo traduzido de http://www.rebelion.org/noticia.php?id=111874. Fonte : http://www.attac.es/ee-uu-se-sume-en-la-oscuridad/.

Brazil’s election: all over bar the voting?

Leia sobre o texto em Português

Link original

August 24, 2010 8:35pmby Jonathan Wheatley

There are 40 days to go until Brazil’s general elections on October 3 and as everybody knows, that is a very long time in politics. But at present it is hard to imagine any other outcome than a resounding victory in the presidential race for Dilma Rousseff, chosen successor to Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva of the left-wing PT, in power for the last eight years as the most popular president in Brazilian history.

An opinion poll published today gives Dilma an 18 point lead over her nearest rival, José Serra of the centrist opposition PSDB. Serra led most opinion polls until last month, largely, it now seems, because he was simply better known. His hope was to maintain enough momentum to force Dilma into a two-way run-off on October 31. But the latest polls give Dilma more votes than all other candidates combined – enough to secure outright victory in the first round.

Dilma’s campaign has been quick to exploit her commanding lead.

Serra’s campaign is in disarray. He seems to be running on a single issue: his achievements as health minister a decade ago and his investments in health services as mayor of São Paulo city and governor of São Paulo state. He has taken up valuable column inches accusing Evo Morales of Bolivia of running cocaine into Brazil, accusing the PT of links to the FARC in Colombia and accusing the government of censoring Brazil’s press – surely one of the most uncensored in the world.

None of this has anything to do with his programme for government. Indeed, it is hard to see what his programme is. It should be to continue the overhaul of the Brazilian state begun in the 1990s by his party colleague Fernando Henrique Cardoso. Instead, Serra has allowed Dilma to position herself as the champion of orthodoxy and fiscal responsibility, floating the possibility of a “positive shock” like that delivered by Lula in 2003, his first year in office.

Then, Lula enacted a partial reform of the public pensions system and cut public spending, before allowing it to expand thereafter. Dilma’s aides are promising to lower the government’s inflation target and increase its primary budget surplus (before debt payments – including those, the government is running a deficit). Whether this will be a short-term bid to win over investors or the beginnings of root and branch reform, Brazilians look very likely to find out soon.

The Old Man At The Bridge

by Ernest Hemingway


An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.
It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.
"Where do you come from?" I asked him.
"From San Carlos," he said, and smiled.
That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
"I was taking care of animals," he explained. "Oh," I said, not quite understanding.
"Yes," he said, "I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos."
He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said, "What animals were they?"
"Various animals," he said, and shook his head. "I had to leave them."
I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.
"What animals were they?" I asked.
"There were three animals altogether," he explained. "There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons."
"And you had to leave them?" I asked.
"Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery."
"And you have no family?" I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank.
"No," he said, "only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others."
"What politics have you?" I asked.
"I am without politics," he said. "I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go no further." "This is not a good place to stop," I said. "If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa."
"I will wait a while," he said, "and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?"
"Towards Barcelona," I told him.
"I know no one in that direction," he said, "but thank you very much. Thank you again very much."
He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, then said, having to share his worry with some one, "The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?"
"Why they'll probably come through it all right." "You think so?"
"Why not," I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
"But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?"
"Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?" I asked. "Yes."
"Then they'll fly."
"Yes, certainly they'll fly. But the others. It's better not to think about the others," he said.
"If you are rested I would go," I urged. "Get up and try to walk now."
"Thank you," he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
"I was taking care of animals," he said dully, but no longer to me. "I was only taking care of animals."
There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.

The Farmer and the Money-lender - An Indian Fairy Tale

There was once a farmer who suffered much at the hands of a money-lender. Good harvests, or bad, the farmer was always poor, the money-lender rich. At the last, when he hadn't a farthing left, the farmer went to the money-lender's house, and said, "You can't squeeze water from a stone, and as you have nothing to get by me now, you might tell me the secret of becoming rich."My friend," returned the money-lender, piously, "riches come from Ram--ask him."

"Thank you, I will!" replied the simple farmer; so he prepared three girdle-cakes to last him on the journey, and set out to find Ram.

First he met a Brahman, and to him he gave a cake, asking him to point out the road to Ram; but the Brahman only took the cake and went on his way without a word. Next the fanner met a Jogi or devotee, and to him he gave a cake, without receiving any help in return. 

At last, he came upon a poor man sitting under a tree, and finding out he was hungry, the kindly farmer gave him the last cake, and sitting down to rest beside him, entered into conversation.

"And where are you going?" asked the poor man, at length.

"Oh I have a long journey before me, for I am going to find Ram!" replied the farmer. "I don't suppose you could tell me which way to go?"

"Perhaps I can," said the poor man, smiling, "for I am Ram! What do you want of me?"

Then the farmer told the whole story, and Ram, taking pity on him, gave him a conch shell, and showed him how to to blow it in a particular way, saying,
"Remember! whatever you wish for, you have only to blow the conch that way, and your wish will be fulfilled. Only have a care of that money-lender, for even magic is not proof against their wiles!"

The farmer went back to his village rejoicing. In fact the money-lender noticed his high spirits at once, and said to himself, "Some good fortune must have befallen the stupid fellow, to make him hold his head so jauntily." Therefore he went over to the simple farmer's house, and congratulated him on his good fortune, in such cunning words, pretending to have heard all about it, that before long the farmer found himself telling the whole story--all except the secret of blowing the conch, for, with all his simplicity, the farmer was not quite such a fool as to tell that.

Nevertheless the money-lender determined to have the conch by hook or by crook, and as he was villain enough not to stick at trifles, he waited for a favourable opportunity and stole the conch.

But, after nearly bursting himself with blowing the conch in every conceivable way, he was obliged to give up the secret as a bad job. However, being determined to succeed he went back to the farmer, and said, coolly, "Look here; I've got your conch, but I can't use it; you haven't got it, so it's dear you can't use it either. Business is at a standstill unless we make a bargain. Now, I promise to give you back your conch, and never to interfere with your using it, on one condition, which is this,--whatever you get from it, I am to get double."

"Never!" cried the farmer; "that would be the old business all over again!"

"Not at all!" replied the wily money-lender; "you will have your share! Now, don't he a dog in the manger, for if you get all you want, what can it matter to you if I am rich or poor?"

At last, though it went sorely against the grain to be of any benefit to a money-lender, the farmer was forced to yield, and from that time, no matter what he gained by the power of the conch, the money-lender gained double. And the knowledge that this was so preyed upon the farmer's mind day and night, so that he had no satisfaction out of anything.

At last, there came a very dry season,--so dry that the farmer's crops withered for want of rain. Then he blew his conch, and wished for a well to water them, and lo! there was the well, but the money-lender had two!--two beautiful new wells! This was too much for any farmer to stand; and our friend brooded over it, and brooded over it, till at last a bright idea came into his head. He seized the conch, blew it loudly, and cried out,

"Oh, Ram! I wish to be blind of one eye!" And so he was, in a twinkling, but the moneylender of course was blind of both, and in trying to steer his way between the two new wells, he fell into one, and was drowned.

Now this true story shows that a farmer once got the better of a money-lender--but only by losing one of his eyes.

"A Nincompoop" by Anton Chekhov

by Anton Chekhov

A few days ago I asked my children's governess, Julia Vassilyevna, to come into my study.

"Sit down, Julia Vassilyevna," I said. "Let's settle our accounts. Although you most likely need some money, you stand on ceremony and won't ask for it yourself. Now then, we agreed on thirty rubles a month..."

"Forty."

"No, thirty. I made a note of it. I always pay the governess thirty. Now then, you have been here two months, so ...."

"Two months and five days."

"Exactly two months. I made a specific note of it. That means you have sixty rubles coming to you. Subtract nine Sundays... you know you did not work with Kolya on Sundays, you only took walks. And three holidays..."

Julia Vassilyevna flushed a deep red and picked at the flounce of her dress, but - not a word.

"Three holidays, therefore take off twelve rubles. Four day Kolya was sick and there were no lesson, as you were occupied with Vanya. Three days you had a toothache and my wife gave you permission not to work after lunch. Twelve and seven - nineteen. Subtract... that leaves... hmm... forty-one rubles. Correct?"

Julia Vassilyevna's left eye reddened and filled with moisture. Her chin trembled; she coughed nervously and blew her nose, but - not a word.

"Around New Year's you broke a teacup and saucer: take off two rubles. The cup cost more, it was an heirloom, but - let it go. When did not I take a loss! Then, due to your neglect, Kolya climbed a tree and tore his jacket: take away ten. Also due to your heedlessness the maid stole Vanya's shoes. You ought to watch everything! You get paid for it. So, that means five more rubles off. The tenth of January I gave you ten rubles..."

"You did not", whispered Julia Vassilyevna.

"But I made a note of it."

"Well... all right."

"Take twenty-seven from forty-one - that leaves fourteen."

Both eyes willed with tears. Perspiration appeared on the thin, pretty little nose. Poor girl!

"Only once was I given any money," she said in a trembling voice, "and that was by your wife. Three rubles, nothing more."

"Really? You see now, and I did not make a note of it! Take three from fourteen... leaves eleven. Here is your money, my dear. Three, three, three, one and one. Her it is!

I handed her eleven rubles. She took them and with trembling fingers stuffed them into her pocket.

"Merci," she whispered.

I jumped up and started pacing the room. I was overcome with anger.

"For what, this - 'merci'?" I asked.

"For the money."

"But you know I have cheated you, for God's sake - robbed you! I have actually stolen from you! Why this 'merci'?"

"In my other places, they did not give me anything at all."

"They did not give you anything? No wonder! I played a little joke on you, a cruel lesson, just to teach you... I am going to give you the entire eighty rubles! Here they are in an envelope all ready for you... Is it really possible to be so spineless? Why don't you protest? Why be silent? Is it possible in this world to be without teeth and claws - to be such a nincompoop?"

She smiled crookedly and I read in her expression: "It is possible."

I asked her pardon for the cruel lesson and, to her great surprise, gave her eighty rubles. She murmured her little "merci" several times and went out. I looked after her and thought: "How easy it is to crush the weak in this world!"