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Showing posts with label Vung Tau. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vung Tau. Show all posts

Friday, June 5, 2020

America Burning, Plus Coronavirus Missives from Vietnam and Philly

As published at Unz Review and TruthSeeker, 6/5/20:







On June 4th, Common Dreams’ lead story is titled, “‘This Isn’t Going Away’: Defying Curfews and Police Brutality in Relentless Push for Justice, Uprising Over Killing of George Floyd Keeps Growing.”

The same day, I received a mass email from Jee Leong Koh, a Singaporean poet living in Harlem. In an 800-word statement about the ongoing protest, riot and looting, there’s this passage:

The destruction of property during this American uprising is not at all senseless. Born out of unheeded rage, it is actually very purposeful. If you are systematically excluded, exploited, or discriminated against in the economy, it is logical that you would smash shop windows in order to be heard and set police cars on fire in order to be seen.
If Koh or his family owned a store that had been looted, I doubt he would find such destruction so logical and purposeful.

On May 28th, ESPN’s Chris Martin Palmer quote tweeted a photo of a six-story building in flames, “Burn that shit down. Burn it all down.”

On May 31st, Palmer tweeted, “They just attacked our sister community down the street. It’s a gated community and they tried to climb the gates. They had to beat them back. Then destroyed a Starbucks and are now in front of my building. Get these animals TF out of my neighborhood. Go back to where you live.”

Checking the news from Philadelphia, my old city, I found out a Rite Aid was looted for 15 hours straight. The local ABC newscast aired a FaceBook rant by Rashan Howard, “I need somebody to please explain to me how this represents getting justice for George Floyd. And you want to know why they don’t put supermarkets in black neighborhoods! This is why.”

That sort of bluntness almost never makes it on air, and unsurprisingly, the online version of the story omits the bit about supermarkets in ghettos.

In Kensington, a tiny drug store was also targeted by looters. On ABC, owner Catherine Tiang said, “I haven’t cried yet, it’s been really stressful.”

Her employee, Donna Knowles, added, “I thought about our patients. Oh my God, what are they going to do to get their medication? They depend on us.”

Block captain Hank Meleski Jr. summed up, “We try to stay together. We want to keep it as nice as we can here ’cause we live here.”

I’ve written about Kensington repeatedly, and know it reasonably well. (When a Philadelphia Inquirer reporter wanted to profile a Kensington bar, she asked me to guide her.) With its factories in ruins, many houses boarded up and junkies nodding on sidewalks, Kensington is a neighborhood that scares even those from Camden, NJ.

People only live or do business in Kensington because they can’t afford anywhere else. They’re the downtrodden you’ve heard so much about, and yet, their takes on race, blacks and cops don’t conform to what you’ve learnt from your Marxist professors.

Most non-black urban poor love cops! And not from some weird sentimentality, ideology or perversion, but because these donut chompers protect them, daily, from criminals, of which way, way too many are black.

These poor live near or work with blacks, ride with them on buses, and, compared to the middle and upper classes, are much more likely to date, marry or have black relatives. They know blacks from direct experiences, so treat them like individuals.

By contrast, too many of the more affluent and refined see blacks as just helpless victims of white racism, so even their worst acts, murdering, raping or, just recently, pummeling old white men and women at a nursing home, can be explained away as natural consequences of this injustice, which isn’t just systemic, but likely eternal, for whites are naturally racist, you see. They’re born guilty.

Three of the last five Philly mayors were black, and over a third of Philly cops are black, including the one who broke up a mugging against me, near the corner of 11th and South in 1992. Dude had a hammer, but I stalled him long enough to not get brained. After the conviction, the cop thanked me, “We’ve had him in here seven or eight times, but this is his first conviction.”

The street violence across America has hardened attitudes on all sides, so there are no winners except for America’s rulers, and I mean the real ones, not their political puppets. No matter how many bricks are thrown, windows broken, stores looted and people injured or killed among protestors and cops, they and their stock portfolios are safe, or so they think.

The current mayhem is not just spontaneous, but elaborately planned out, with bricks delivered, hidden weapons placed at intervals, communication across conflict theater via walkies talkies, scouts and even supply lines.

While some of this sophistication may be grassroots, it’s sensible to suspect there are also deep pockets and professional organization behind it, and unless the state investigates this angle, I will speculate that it is the culprit.

Generating chaos and hatred, America’s rulers reinforce all the worst charges against their divided subjects, such as blacks are lawless, cops are racist psychopaths and disgruntled young people are Antifa terrorists. As for the destruction of the country, this too is consistent with their long-term plan.

I’ve said that Mexico needs the wall more than the US, to prevent panicking Americans from fleeing into it, so short of escaping, Americans should organize and prepare themselves to stake out liberated zones. Those who don’t think they’re in a war are dead meat.

The following coronavirus missives come from Vung Tau, where I’m still hoping to return, and Philly, which I might just see again.


Jim B., a 63-year-old American expat since 1982, working in oil and gas. Originally from Little Rock, Ark, he has lived and worked in the UK, Norway, Australia, Malaysia, Thailand and Vietnam.

I flew into Tan Son Nhat from Kuala Lumpur on the 16th March, not realizing the shit storm that was enveloping the world. I got through the medical check by the skin of teeth without being forced into quarantine in an Army barracks. Apparently that happened later in the day. I spent a nervous few days waiting to be hauled out of my apartment where I was self-quarantining, but they never came for me although I was on the CV19 database.

After that Vung Tau was pretty much like everywhere else with social distancing and the like. Still going out with masks and stocking up on booze which got me through the boring times. There were also a couple of times I was cursed as a Tây [Westerner] as at one point it was perceived that most of the new cases were from tourists coming in from other countries. That has all quieted down as it has been demonstrated that even repatriated Vietnamese are bringing it in as well.

Now, the situation is almost 100% normal since there are no new cases. I hear Malaysia is mulling the idea of relaxing somewhat starting on the 9th June. I would like to go back and see my family as I've been in VN for 11 weeks now, but the rub here is having to deal with a mandatory 2-week quarantine on both ends. A little depressing at times, but somehow we train our brains for a new normal.

My friends all exhorted me to get a Netflix account to while away the hours. But I rejected this notion and dusted off a very dusty copy of Umberto Eco's Foucault’s Pendulum. Reading this seriously with a notebook at my side and looking up every reference I was unfamiliar with on Wikipedia & Google translator—this took over a month and was a real educational experience. Strongly recommended. There is lots of other good free e-stuff on Project Gutenberg, maybe I'll have a go at some James Joyce in the future.

Regarding what worries me the most, I'm certain there will be a world-wide economic collapse. The current events in the USA seem to make sure of this happening sooner than later. The disease—seems to me you have to be really unlucky to be seriously ill with this unless you are unfit, fat, diabetic, etc. But let us face it—shit happens and hiding from it won't work in the long run.

As for how long this will last, it is like the common cold isn't it? No vaccine and everyone will get it eventually. But the PTB are coming for you, Bill Gates' vaccine and the rest.

A year from now, I hope Malaysia is back to normal just for personal reasons. But I do wonder how long Vietnam can carry on without tourism. Surely this must be a fatal blow to the economy sooner than later.


Felix Giordano, a 73-year-old retired American who used to own a grocery store and worked in a psychiatric hospital. He lives, paints and exhibits in South Philly.

The pandemic is a giant hoax, and the hidden agenda comes from Gates, Fauci, Chicoms, greed and world ownership by a few of the ruling classes with many names and many different idiotic reasons...

Since this started, I’ve become a prisoner of a Third World commie dictatorship run by idiots six blocks from Independence Hall. Hope they don't dig up Ben Franklin's grave?

Now that the rioting and looting have started, the locals in South Philly stopped the thugs by standing in front of the businesses big and especially small, and the Antifa thugs backed off, so Passyunk and 9th St and below stayed safe for now. Mayor Mac Barstool has called them vigilantes... for trying to save us from those fires, and lootings.

Cops are told to stand down… Pallets of bricks showed up in certain areas. Center City, Frankford, Kensington and West Philly got hit by the thugs. Fires were set, to distract. Since Trump sent in the national guard, it stopped, so now they're blowing up ATM's with dynamite to get cash, mostly in the burbs…

The ringleaders are almost all white out-of-towners (big surprise). The media blames the KKK. Anybody with brains can see it's the lefties owned by the elite rich. Do I have to name them? They're using our local corrupt-as-hell pols and media to blame everybody but themselves.

The cops won't come, like they ever did. In Philly it's always been cops and whores. They're never around when you need them. So we're on our own, and the idiots are still wearing facemasks when they jog or bike, but out-of-town and in public parks most folks don't wear them. All the looters and Antifa inciters wear them.

Most of the looters are from areas where junk is always the cheapest, but sugar in soda costs extra. Price gouging is what you'd expect.

If I hear one more white liberal cry out systemic white racism again, I may go postal on his ass. Before this shit started, I was sitting in the Friendly. A white hipster started to tell me how Rizzo burnt down Osage Ave. I had to tell him that his scapegoat was out of office for six years, and the mayor in 85 was the well-loved by the liberal elite, Wilson Goode, who was black and came from that area in West Philly that couldn't stand those MOVE crackpots.

MOVE was financed by the same rich white elites that helped the girlfriend killer [Ira Einhorn] get away to France for years, he recently died in jail. I went to his 1st Earth Day bullshit in 1970. Ira Einhorn was the local Epstein of his day in Philly.

Anyway, I blew up on that hipster on his real racism. Dom [owner of Friendly Lounge] put him at the other end of the bar. I’ve been social distancing for decades because of assholes like that. As I was leaving, the jerkoff wanted to buy me a drink and shake my hand. I impolitely told him to go fuck his mother in the ass.

Well, at least the pandemic is coming to an end. Now that they can shame a bunch of white liberals into crying and begging for forgiveness for something their ancestors might have done to some other guy's ancestors. I don't have that guilt trip. My grandparents were all Southern Italian serfs when they escaped to get here. That bugs some people who use that race card. I drank in a black bar the night they killed Martin Luther King. Sorry to tell you I was a homey, but I'm from a time when people laughed at all those race stereotypes.

This crap is really the ultra-rich using idiots, from the left and right, doesn't make a diff to me, they're just tools, to bring back feudalism. It always was Marx's real aim. Will we go thru another 1,500 years of minor kings and serfs with their knights keeping us barefoot and stupid? I don't think that will happen. What Gates, Soros, Rothschild, Rockefeller and all the other jackasses with too much money try to do, I don't think they'll succeed.

Will we come out of this a better world? No, we’re still humans, we always fuck up, but as pissed as I am, I still want to sing that stupid song from a stupid Broadway show in the 70s, “Tomorrow”!






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Friday, December 27, 2019

Peak Buffet for Ungrateful Insensates

As published at Smirking Chimp, Unz Review and TruthSeeker, 12/27/19:






It’s always good to get up at dawn to walk around, for you’ll see a less guarded, composed and worn out version of humanity. They’ll still have the rest of the day to blunder, lapse, commit a crime or jump off a bridge. Passing a Nha Trang park, I spot middle aged broads dancing the cha-cha-cha, and an old man clapping his hands loudly as he sternly strolls around its perimeter. Like everybody else, Vietnamese are more or less insane. Always grumbling about the Chinese, they pray daily to Chinese gods.

Ducking into a cafe, I promptly email my friend Niccolo Brachelente in Okinawa, “I’ve been in Nha Trang for a few days. It’s my first close look at this city. Tons of Russian and Chinese tourists, and lots of restaurants serving foreign food. I talked briefly to a guy from Puglia. He owns Da Fernando. You may want to find work in Nha Trang. I think you’d like it here.”

A sommelier then restaurant manager, Niccolo has been in Asia and away from his beloved Tuscany for 15 years. He’d rather go home and teach yoga, but the economy there is bad. Niccolo’s sister toils in Germany.

I always take care of my fellow Italians, capite? I have no idea why il mio padre gave me such a non-Italian sounding name?! Vafanculo to him and his spaghetti barge, if there’s such a thing! Next time I’m in Sicilia, I’ll get La Cosa Nostra to burn down la casa nostra, with him in it. That will teach il coglione to not fuck with a real Italian!

It’s not even 7AM, so I better calm down. Tranquillo, tranquillo! This day might not go well. Like I said, I met Fernando. As I scanned his persuasive menu on Nguyen Thien Thuat Street, the white-haired dude ran out.

“I lived two years in Italy,” I said to him in Italian.

“Me, many more.” Funny man. “I’m from Puglia.”

“I lived near Siena.”

“Siena.”

“In Certaldo. The birthplace of Boccaccio.”

“Very famous, Boccaccio. No one knows him.”

A natural comedian, this Fernando. Hardly anyone in the West knows his heritage anymore, and if he does, he’s deeply ashamed of it. For soiling us all with The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare should be expunged, at least, if not drawn, quartered, decapitated and dipped in chopped liver. Ban that cracker!

In Vietnam, heritage is always stressed, for nationalism is what holds this nation together. Military heroes from centuries past are revered, and key poets have streets named after them. On propaganda billboards, it’s patriotism, national unity and the need to protect the country that are stressed, with nothing ever said about international brotherhood or communist solidarity. That shit doesn’t fly here. Russia and China, too, have become unequivocally nationalistic, and that’s why they’re still confident and strong, unlike a certain bickering, confused and opioid-addled pseudo nation.

In the US, working class bars are festooned with flags, and politicians spout patriotic slogans and concerns for Main Street, but it’s all mindless symbolism and desperate or cynical posturing. There is no emphasis on knowledge of history or preservation of heritage.

In Nha Trang, there’s a street and high school named after Alexandre Yersin (1863-1943), and his house is a museum. There’s even an Association des Admirateurs de Yersin that does a lot of charity work. A great man, the famed bacteriologist is justly honored in his adopted homeland.

Russians and Chinese swarm all over downtown Nha Trang, but do they mingle? Of course not, for they can’t talk, or have anything in common culturally. They both eat dumplings, but one with a thin sour cream, and the other with satay and soy sauce. When I sat in the Russian-owned Killed Kenny Bar for several hours, I met people from England, Northern Ireland, Australia and the United States, but no Chinese or even Vietnamese.

The American was Nathan Mathabane, son of Mark, who wrote Kaffir Boy. Nathan is impressive enough. A geology major who also ran Division 1 tracks, he’s now an Assistant Dean of Admission at Princeton. Nathan’s in Vietnam to check out its diving scene. Happy to run into each other, we talked at length about Oregon, New Jersey, Philly and the sad state of an increasingly angry country. I hope to run into you again, Nathan.

At Grill Yard, there’s a mural of a Chinese and Russian toasting, with the first in a Manchurian outfit, complete with queue, while the second is a rotund tourist, with a camera dangling on his vodka-infused beer belly. The Grill Yard’s cook, though, is a Vietnamese in a New York Yankees cap. Though American culture is still dominant worldwide, Chinese and Russians are consolidating their hold on Eurasia. Fearing to be left out in the cold, Uncle Sam is doing his best to disrupt this.

Now, I must make some hushed confessions. Yesterday, I slipped into a Greek restaurant to regale myself with an indifferent, practically smirking moussaka, and two days ago, I stole into Haus Bremen, to inhale, in near record time, its honest-to-God pork schnitzel. At Swiss House La Casserole, I also stuffed my face with a chicken cordon bleu. A Vietnam-based Swiss who can no longer taste anything, thanks to tongue cancer, told me about this wonderful joint. On its wall, there’s a mural of a Saint Bernard, lounging next to an alphorn, with the Matterhorn behind him.

Twice this week, I planted myself at Red Café to pig on its delicacies, with salty fish and beer on the last occasion. Vobla and pivo, I craved. You see, once you’ve enjoyed something, no matter how briefly, you’ll miss it at some point, so the more you roam and splurge, the more you’re constantly deprived of just about everything. Even in Manhattan, London or Tokyo, life must be local.

So don’t travel, OK? Just stay home with your meatloaf, corn and mash, but I miss that too!

Missing so much, contemporary man makes do with a ruthless stream of colorful shadows. Since he can’t be everywhere, he must welcome the facsimile of everything into his insatiable skull, and that’s the logic of television, the internet, endless pornography and even multiculturalism.

In Haus Bremen, I met 60-year-old Dieter and 50-year-old Hằng. Before opening this restaurant 3 1/2 years ago, they had a beer garden in Siem Reap, Cambodia, for a decade.

Since neither speaks the other’s language, they communicate in a barebone English. It apparently works well enough to keep them together into old age.

Hằng has two daughters of her own. “But I’ve known them since they were this small,” Dieter said as he lowered his right hand to just above his knees. “I taught them how to swim.” He made a butterfly stroke through the air. “They are my children.”

The older is majoring in engineering in Saigon. Already fluent in English, she’s studying German and will go to Germany for her last two years of college.

Each year, Dieter and Hằng go to Germany for a month, primarily to see his mother. Hằng has been to Berlin, Hamburg and Bremen. When I asked if she had seen a German Christmas market, Hằng said no, since they had to be here for their business. “And it’s too cold for her!” Dieter added.

It was only yesterday, it seems, that I strolled the streets of Leipzig and could take a quick train to Dresden. You are everywhere you’ve been and, most organically and essentially, every dish you’ve eaten.

Mao doesn’t quite sell, so the Chinese Communists have settled on reactionary Confucius as their international brand, but they already have a much better weapon in the battle for global stomachs, hearts and minds, the ubiquitous Chinese restaurant. Each plate of pork fried rice bathes the Middle Kingdom in a warmer glow, though this can quickly backfire with acid reflux!

Displaced, Dieter has established roots in Southeast Asia, but he doesn’t pretend to be Cambodian or Vietnamese, and except for too frequent shakedowns from corrupt cops, no one bothers him here. Non integrating whites are welcomed in Vietnam, for there aren’t too many of them, and they don’t cause serious social problems. A case like Gary Glitter screwing 12-year-olds is extremely rare.

Whites in Vietnam don’t prey on local women, but are routinely targeted by cold blooded gold diggers. In touristy areas, pale ones are harassed by motorbike-riding pimps and touts, who offer “boom boom.”

In Vung Tau, there are actually thousands of Russians, there mostly to work for Vietsovpetro, an oil drilling company. They have their own walled compound. A Russian couple own possibly the worst donut shop on earth, for the glaze often drips right off. She’s bald, and he has just one hand, supposedly lost in Afghanistan. They never smile. In Nha Trang, Russians own or work in restaurants, or are employed by tour operators.

There are also hundreds of Aussies in Vung Tau. Thanks to their boozing habits, they’re much more conspicuous than Russians.

Two weeks ago, I met 75-year-old Warren at Ned Kelly. Before coming to Vietnam in 1967, he had fought Communist insurgents in Malaysia, “I got here after Long Tan, so I missed that, but then Tet came. My tour was over, but after the fighting started, they said, ‘You’re not going anywhere!’” The white bearded, glassy eyed man chuckled.

After the army, Warren ended up in Holland and the UK for nearly five years. Illegal in Europe, he mostly worked on an oil rig off Scotland.

“It took me more than four decades to return here,” Warren said of Vung Tau. On his tenth day, he met a woman at a bar, and they’re now married, with two kids, 6-years-old and 11-months-old. She also has a 16-year-old daughter.

Warren rents a three-bedroom house in a choice neighborhood for just $216 monthly. Here, he lives with his wife, their two kids, her 16-year-old daughter, her parents and brother, though this man chips in $43 a month. Warren’s not sure what his brother-in-law does for a living, only that he often leaves the house in a green uniform.

“Is he in the army? Post office? Electrical company?”

“I have no idea.”

Though his wife wants to go to Australia, Warren tells her they can’t afford it. When he dies, she’ll get a handsome war widow’s pension of $2,500 a month. Is she counting the days? Warren doesn’t care. He has no illusions. He’s just grateful for the daily sunshine, sea breeze, endless 86-cent beers and even burgers with beetroot, just like down under.

“The one thing I worry about is getting sick. If I’m too sick, they won’t allow me on a plane, you know what I mean?” Warren won’t be able to go home for free treatment.

When I met Warren that day, he already had six Tigers by noon, so it was nearly time to hobble home for a nap, hopefully not dirt. He had on a bone-colored, embroidered shirt with knotted Chinese buttons, something you’d more likely see on a small boy. “See ya later!” Maybe I will.

With this article, I close my Nha Trang chapter. In two hours, I’ll board an all-night bus for Hoi An, a town that has retained more of its history than anywhere else in Vietnam. Every other place has been well razed, bombed, bulldozed or simply improved. Man doesn’t just befoul, but make much that’s worth preserving, at least until recently. Progress is the heroin of the masses.

There is still time for dinner. I think I’ll pass on the “Lady Beef Pizza.” It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. That bus will rock me to fitful sleep. In the dark, I’ll snake up the coast.

In Hoi An, I’ll meet poet Phan Ba Tho, whom I’ve translated. Twenty years ago, I cleaned his vomit after a drinking bout in Saigon. He’d have done the same for me.

Suddenly, I think of Vallejo’s fortifying yet heartbreaking lines:
I like life enormously
but, of course,
with my beloved death and my café
and looking at the leafy chestnut trees in Paris
and saying:
This is an eye, and that one too; this a forehead, that one too… And repeating:
So much life and the tune never fails me!

[…]

I would like to live always, even flat on my belly,
because, as I was saying and I say it again,
so much life and never! And so many years,
and always, much always, always, always!

Much gratitude to Clayton Eshleman for this magnificent translation. One can’t say thank you often enough. May your inner tune never fail you, always, always and always!





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Saturday, December 21, 2019

That month I spent in Vung Tau,

I talked to poet Nguyen Quoc Chanh quite a bit. Two days before I left, we talked about French poetry's influence on Vietnamese poets, and to my surprise and dismay, I found out Baudelaire's seminal "Au Lecteur" was only available in an absurdly bad and irresponsible translation. Wasting no time, I translated it anew and showed it to Chanh the next morning. Though hardly anyone here will be able to read it, I'll post it so it's out there, at least, before I drop dead.




Tặng người đọc

Sự ngu ngốc, sai lầm, dâm tà, tham lam
Làm bá chủ tâm hồn ta và hành hạ cơ thể
Để ta nuôi dưỡng những hối tiếc nhẹ nhàng,
Như bọn ăn mày bồi bổ chí rận.

Tội lỗi của ta bướng bỉnh, sám hối hời hợt;
Ta đòi hỏi quá nhiều trước khi nhận lỗi,
Rồi lại hớn hở trở về con đường nhơ nhuốc,
Vì tin rằng giọt lệ bẩn có thể tẩy vết dơ.

Trên chiếc gối tà có Satan Tam Đỉnh
Luôn lắc lư tâm hồn mê hoặc của ta
Và tất cả kim báu trong ý chí của ta
Phải bốc hơi bởi tên siêu hóa học này.

Con Quỷ giựt dây làm chúng ta múa rối:
Tất cả món ô uế đều thu hút chúng ta;
Hướng về địa ngục chúng ta mỗi ngày bước,
Xuyên bóng tối hôi tanh, mà không thấy ghê tởm.

Như tên đồi trụy bần cùng vừa hun vừa gặm
Cái vú đọa đày của một con đĩ tiều tụy,
Chúng ta lén vồ những thú vui trên đường,
Rồi ấn thật mạnh, như bóp trái cam già.

Đầy ắp, lúc nhúc, như một triệu con giun sán,
Trong óc chúng ta nhậu nhẹt một bầy tinh.
Với từng hơi thở, cái Chết luồn vào phổi,
Để chìm xuống giòng sông khuất, rên rỉ.

Nếu hiếp dâm, thuốc độc, dao găm, đám cháy
Không thêu dệt nổi những hình thù vui mắt
Trên bức tranh tẻ nhạt tả số phận chúng ta,
Đó là vì linh hồn ta, khổ thay! thiếu táo bạo.

Nhưng giữa đám chó rừng, báo đốm, rận,
Khỉ, bọ cạp, kền kền, rắn,
Giữa đám quái vật gào thét, gầm gừ, hú,
Trong cái sở thú tệ nạn khét tiếng này,

Có một thằng tồi bại, độc ác và tởm hơn tất cả!
Dù nó không làm chuyện lớn hay lớn tiếng,
Nó sẵn sàng biến trái đất này thành cát bụi,
Và nuốt chửng thế gian bằng một cái ngáp.

Nó là Chán Chường! Mắt tràn nước mắt vô tình,
Nó vừa kéo điếu cày vừa thẩn thơ mơ giàn giáo.
Mày biết nó quá, độc giả à, con quái vật mảnh khảnh,
--Độc giả đạo đức giả,--bản sao của tao,--anh em tao!




For your verification, here's the original:


Au Lecteur


La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.

Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.

C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.

Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.

Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.

Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.

Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,

II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;

C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!




The best English version is by Roy Campbell, by the way.




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Monday, December 16, 2019

Sunday, December 15, 2019

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Man sleeping on motorbike in Rach Dua--Vung Tau











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Man exercising at Front Beach at 5-39AM--Vung Tau









[5:39AM]



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Cafe Rocky--Vung Tau 2











Cafe Rocky--Vung Tau 2 (detail)











Cafe Rocky--Vung Tau 2 (detail 2)











Cafe Rocky--Vung Tau 2 (detail 3)








[Café Rocky]



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Cafe Rocky--Vung Tau









[Café Rocky in Rạch Dừa]



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Retro Steak--Vung Tau











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Jesus and Joseph--Vung Tau











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Merry Christmas banner at alley's entrance--Vung Tau











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Thuy Giang Church--Vung Tau











Thuy Giang Church--Vung Tau (detail)











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Hai Xuan Parish Church--Vung Tau









Some of these believers go to church on Sunday so they can sit on the steps outside and nod off through the boring parts. If they just stay home, however, they'll go to hell!



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Father Truong Buu Diep--Vung Tau









[Trương Bửu Diệp]



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Cafe Cay Bang--Vung Tau











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