Actual Size, Page Fit, Page Width, 50%, 75%, %, %, %, %. More Information Less Information. Close. Enter the password to open this PDF file. PDF | The paper analysed different types of manipulation of human identity and development, the so-called anthropotechnics. This manipulation is described. Pekic, Rabies - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read book in Serbian as "Besnilo", Sveuilina Naklada Liber, , Zagreb, Borislav Peki.
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Borislav Pekic Atlantida Pdf Download >>> DOWNLOAD c2ef32f23e Read and Download Borislav Pekic Free Ebooks in PDF format. DOWNLOAD LINK: Besnilo ebook epub electronic book Besnilo by Borislav Pekić for iphone, ipad txt format version, file with page numbers. Borislav Pekić (Serbian Cyrillic: Борислав Пекић, pronounced [bǒrislaʋ pěkitɕ]; 4 February .. Angela Richter, Biblical Myths in Borislav Pekić's Time of Miracles, "Serbian Studies" 15 (1), , ; (PDF). Olga Nedeljković, Do Supernatural .
In recording the episode of Lazarus, a figure occurring only in the Gospel according to St. Lazarus is arrested, interrogated by the Sanhedrin, and ostensibly released, only to be stoned by the populace. Lazarus from Bethany meets his death, but Christ raises him from the dead to demonstrate that the doctrine of the Sadducees, who reject the idea of the resurrection of the body, is untenable.
Accompanied by his disciples, Jesus raises Lazarus three times from the dead. The point is to prove the Sadducees wrong and expose their faith as erroneous. Reduced to the state of extreme exhaustion and fearful of Jesus skills, the sorely tried Lazarus asks his servant Hamrije to arrange for the cremation of his body after his next death and before the disciples Matthew the Tax-Collector and James the Less can inform their master that he has died again.
The narrator s commentary on Lazarus situation reads as follows: It was clear that the Sadducees would not allow him to live, but it was also clear that the Christians would not allow him to die. He became the lofty centre of the battle for the redemption of the world. His wretched, frail, and emaciated body, which had to endure both the pangs of death and the pangs of rebirth had become the latter-day valley of Ilion, a bone of contention once contested and crushed by the armies of the Israelites and the Philistines, now by those of the 4 28 ANGELA RICHTER Sadducees and the Christians, and tomorrow by who knows whose armies 8 Lazarus finds himself thrust into the centre of the battle for the redemption of the world and becomes a victim of this struggle or, more generally, a victim of opposing views or ideologies.
He is repeatedly taken prisoner and tormented. Brainwashed, he ultimately pleads guilty to all charges. Their philosophical potential becomes all the more apparent when seen in parallel to the closing tale from the part Vreme umiranja. In his account, the necessary requirements are not met. It is not Jesus who is nailed to the cross at Calvary, but Simon of Cyrene, who according to Luke 26 has just returned from the fields and is compelled by the soldiers to carry Jesus cross to Calvary.
Jesus exploits the general confusion and hubbub to escape unnoticed. Here we have the crowning highlight of the parody, projected directly into the myth of Christ. In other words, Calvary is the scene of a divine fraud. Jesus evades his predestined fate.
Suffering in his stead is someone who has not been chosen and whose words of despair are eloquent enough: O radiant sun Calvary is the scene of a tremendous misunderstanding between heaven and earth. Has it not been said that the world will be saved? But for the world to be saved it is indispensable that Joshua ben Josif rather than Simon, son of Eliazar, should be redeemed from his sins through martyrdom at the cross, it should be the Nazarene, not the Cyrene.
All has been in vain: the miracles, the prophets, the sacrifices, the hardships. The world has not been saved, the sin of our forebears has not been cleared. The captain orders a messenger to report that Jesus called Christ has just taken his last breath.
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Fearful that the procurator of Judaea might punish him, he covers up the fact that an innocent man has been put to death and that Jesus has disappeared. As a result, they establish their Church on the wrong foundations. This critical dimension, which implies a sound dose of sarcasm, is compounded by the unusual, polemical conception of the figure of Judas, which can be only briefly touched upon here Smrt na Hinomu Death in the Valley of Hinnom For this extensive story from the second part, the author chooses the perspective of Judas, this time as a first-person narrator.
He presents Judas as a conspirator, as a martyr, as a dogmatist and fanatic, and as a sceptic. Again and again, Judas contemplates passages from Scripture, later asking himself given the lack of solidarity shown by the other disciples what purpose his personal sacrifice has served and whether there is a way of escaping a predetermined fate. The answer on behalf of the disciples is given by Peter, who argues as follows: If His prophecy remains unfulfilled, if you do not kill yourself, no one will believe in the power and in the truth of the one you are following.
From until his immigration to London in , he lived in Belgrade. He was also one of the founding members of the Democratic Party in Serbia. There are a lot of those who know how to dig up a corps from the grave of the past, but only a very few who know how to summon up its spirit.
I should like to be amongst these latter. But for that one probably has to be a medium, not a creator. Borislav Pekic - Novi Jerusalem. Gde stupe, pod njima gori.
Create your website today. Knjige u PDF-u - majevica. This phase of 'Dioscuri' has no code name. No one knows about it. Not even Helen.
She thinks that it's our escape route and that Castor and his followers have theirs. There is no way out for them, Helen. Surely the myth is clear enough?
In order to become immortal, Castor must die in battle. To become a star in heaven, one must first bite deeply into the earth. Am I at all sorry about Castor? Subjectively a little. But since for us 'subjectively' has no sort of meaning, only 'objectively' means anything at all, I have no pity for him, none.
There'll always be plenty of Castors to be found. Castors are expendable. It's Pollux's we're short of. Have you noticed, I'm already speaking of him in the past tense? So we'll let that go, he'll put it right when he dies, it'll be his epitaph. For he is going to die, Helen. He owes it to himself and to his code name.
He won't risk losing his place in the heavens through a cowardly betrayal. As for me, I shan't go to heaven. I'll stay here on earth as long as I can.
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In a year or two I'll send some other Castor up the stairs. That one too will shine down on us with his eternal light. I shan't be jealous. I shan't be jealous of anybody. Somebody has to stay down here and clear up the mess' He closed his breviary. It might attract the attention of a member of the Airport Security, or of a passenger with a hysterical imagination.
But despite the danger, he had not given up his diary. It helped him to understand his aims better. He looked at his watch it was At one time he had smoked expensive, aromatic St. But since he had been with this present Castor, for he wasn't the first, nor would he be the last, he had been smoking 'Caporal' out of solidarity.
He hadn't gone as far as rolling his own. There were, after all, limits to solidarity, However much a man loves his dog, he doesn't chew the same bone out of solidarity with him. His nicotine-stained fingers were trembling as if charged with miniature electric shocks. His nerves had always played him up. They were evidently not strong enough for the imagination they had to sustain.
Fortunately, they only bothered him when he was collecting information, putting together his plan. When he had defined the 'plot' and chosen the means of carrying it out, his anxiety disappeared.
The morbid hesitation gave way to cold, clean-headed determination. Apparently it was like that with any talent, any skill. In the initial phase of 'Operation Dioscuri', the interconnecting links between the Terminals would be an undoubted help to Castor.
Afterwards, all the passages would be blocked. For ease of control the police would probably cordon off the Central Terminal Area into separate sections. To get through from one to another a special pass would be needed. But in the good old British way, preventive measures would only be taken after it was all over. While it was all happening panic would make any sensible organization impossible. Radio controlled explosives in the Entrance Hall of Terminal 2 would drive passengers out onto the plateau above ground or down into the Underground, where other bombs would await them.
In the ensuing chaos in which no one would be able to establish any order, Castor would get through to the Russians. The rest would be part of a myth. The yellow BAA brochure with its flight of doves on the cover had helpfully informed him that the walking distances along the three corridors were all different.
A passenger leaving from Terminal 1 had to walk yards along the subway from the upper level of the Underground; on arrival, however, he had only yards to cover. For Terminal 2 on arrival and departure there were yards; to the Departure Lounge of terminal 3 the passenger had to walk yards, but back from the Arrival Hall the route was yards long.
Fortunately the figures could not be verified. If there was some room for criticism of the veracity of the Authorities in more serious matters, their statistical accuracy concerning such trivialities was beyond reproach. But he had been obliged to work out the time to walk the distances for himself.
In any case, the time in the brochure was the time of flights, of business trips, of tourist excursions and of honeymoons, the time of life. His and Castor's time was the time of dying. So he had needed to calculate how long it would take someone running.
By then a frantic run would be the normal pace of movement at Heathrow Airport. The quiet walk, at the worst, civilized, carefully circumspect haste which had been normal up to just a little earlier, with the first second of 'Dioscuri' would become an unnatural risk which few would be prepared to have. Indeed, if everything went off as he had planned, quite a lot of things would not be exactly as they were shown in the picture which the Information Bulletin of the Public Relations Office of the BAA painted of everyday life at the 'world's greatest aerial crossroads'.
It's good, he thought, that the redecoration of the VIP Lounge has made it necessary for the Authorities to transfer the official leave-taking ceremony for the Russians to the Transit Lounge of Terminal 2.
The time needed to get from the Terminal 2 Lobby to the Underground or to the plateau in front of the Terminal building was the shortest possible.
There was the least likelihood of the police realizing what was going on before Castor had finished with the Russians.
Most of all, Terminal 2 was international.
A majority of foreigners always counted in learning English, if they needed to at all, once in London. The language problems would make it still more difficult to re-impose any kind of order, which would not have been the case if the Russians had been leaving from the Terminal for domestic flights. He walked across the marble entrance of the Station from where, like some aerodynamic intestine, the passage to Terminal 2 led off.
It's quite true, he thought.
Only it would be he who would take that care, at least for today, instead of BA. He stood on the walkway while the constantly changing silhouettes of a ceramic dove in flight slid noiselessly past his face. When he had stepped onto the walkway the dove had been 'taking off': it had 'flown' with wings spread wide while he moved along, to 'land' when he got off at the other end. Whenever he came to Terminal 2 he always looked at the bird's flight with indignation: whatever it meant in its free state, here, imprisoned in stone, it represented only dead and vanquished nature.
But this time it didn't happen.
He saw the dove 'take off' but then the bird suddenly disappeared in an evil phantasm which filled the tunnel with the images of a ghostly cataclysm. Then the same echo was lost in an eruption of phantom silhouettes which in a massive rush peopled the corridor with a mute stampede. In the distance where the sharp line of the subway was broken by the bend leading to the escalator, there was a dull rumbling and the flickering red glow of fire.
Everything was wreathed in a sulphorous mist, in same dreamlike water in which movements were slow and soundless. In a sleep-walker's nightmare from which there was no escape, the shadows rushed towards him, yet remained rooted to the spot, struggling against the moving pathway which carried them implacably back towards the Terminal and death.
He couldn't make out their faces; they still looked human but with something animal in the immeasurable, primordial fear in their expressions. His vision had made him draw back, almost knocking over the passenger behind him. He swore loudly, as he moved aside, dropping his breviary as he caught the handrail. The moving band crawled monotonously on towards the exit. He had the smothered-down blond hair of a model, his clean-shaven, rather horse-like face was lightly tanned and his eyes were a watery blue beneath glasses in fine gilt frame.
He had a square, black, overnight case in his hand. He was just about to continue his outburst but a glance at the clerical collar stopped him short.
In a heavy German accent he asked: "Are you all right? The fair-haired stranger was quicker. He picked up the breviary and without closing it handed it to him. He had ugly finger nails bitten down. He wondered if the bastard had seen its contents, and if so, what he would conclude from them.
He looked like a commercial traveler whose livelihood depended upon his appearance. He probably even cleaned the underside of his shoes, but he wouldn't get far unless he stopped disfiguring his nails like that. He looked with revulsion towards the exit which was slowly coming closer. Ordinary-looking passengers were gliding towards him now. Between the moving bands several Indians in turbans were pushing trolleys loaded with luggage. Everything was back in place routinely and recognizable.
It was At exactly the same moment, Enrico Marcone, the captain of Alitalia Boeing AZ on the route Rome London New York requested permission to make a high-priority landing 15 minutes before his scheduled arrival time because one of his passengers had suddenly taken ill. But of course Pollux had no inkling of this. The information belonged to the secret life of large international airports of which only a little becomes known occasionally from the newspapers while the dead are being counted and the cause of yet another airplane crash is being sought from the black box with its preserved voices of the dead crew.
And even if he had known of it, it would not have concerned him. He, Pollux, alias Daniel Leverquin, alias Patrick Cornell, had more important things on his mind today. He had to keep an appointment with a myth. He stopped as if he had little faith in the automatic doors; then disappeared in the bustle and throng before the BA's counter on the ground floor of Terminal 2. Where, according to the Airport advertisements, for everyone the future was just beginning, but where, according to his scenario, for many it would in fact end.
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He too knew nothing of the before-schedule arrival of the plane on the Rome London New York flight. The man disguised as a clergyman with the false breviary at least knew why he was at the Airport, whatever judgments might be made about his reasons for being there.
But the down-at-heel figure of indeterminate years with thinning gray hair, an unshaven, grayish face and a similarly gray, jumble-sale, tweed suit, who was leaning on the rail of the Roof Gardens above the Queen's Building, from where, for the price of 35 p. Although he himself found it strange, he simply had no idea why he was there or what it was he was looking for at Heathrow.
From a bird's eye view, the Central Terminal Area, bounded by its multiple bands of radial take- off and landing runways, was both impressive and frightening. Its dirty gray surface, criss- crossed by the arrow-like reinforced concrete tracks formed, at its outward perimeter where it merged with the metal caterpillars of hangars, warehouses and workshops, a hexagonal crystal, diamond-shaped, like a star of David with its sixth, northernmost point broken off.
Along the edges and axes of the aerodrome, as along the boulevards of some enchanted mega polis, there were shining steel insects that stood or crawled forwards, groaning, and then either fell silent or rose howling into the sky towards the sun and towards other hymenoptera which were buzzing down towards the ground from all sides.
From on high it looked like a giant mechanical wasp's nest whose organization, like that of a beehive, the uninitiated observer had no means of understanding, even though he knew it must exist. In response to its unseen commands and in predetermined patterns there moved through that noisy chaos the tiny ants of the service vehicles, and yet others, still smaller, inside the armor of those working overalls it was possible to discern men only by using binoculars.
The man with gray hair didn't have them. But he had no need of them to make out the objects which had attracted his attention.
Of all the aircraft taking off and landing, he had eyes only for the giant outline of the Concorde. Scheduled to take off for Washington at To some people it looked like a great bird with a predatory beak.
To some it looked like a silver shark. Its silhouette didn't remind him particularly of a fish, or a bird, but it did leave him with the unpleasant sensation of having seen it somewhere, or in some way, before, where or how he didn't know. Something in those nightmares of his, a dream image without a definite shape, whose amorphous and changing shadow gave promise of a future body only in a few vague features it was that mysterious, menacing, dangerous something which reminded him of the Concorde.
But what could it be, what for Christ's sake was it? Last night as usual, he had gone to bed without the slightest idea of how he was going to spend the day. His life had no need for any plans.
The everyday, routine things were waiting for him in the morning. He simply had to observe them. For most of the time he didn't find it difficult, even though he could frequently see no sense in them, as in much of the behavior of the people around him.
But whenever he had his own ideas about how to spend time, they conflicted with the fixed order by which one lived in the Home. When he carried them out it got him into difficulties. And that brought him back to the agonizing question of whether there was really something wrong with him, as they told him from time to time. Fortunately, he couldn't remember the last time that had happen, or even whether it had really happened at all. There was something not right with his memory.
He could remember things, which people said he couldn't possibly have experienced, and he completely forgot others which again they told him had really happened to him. His memory was really lousy. He had to admit that much. All the rest was hidden in darkness about which, evidently others knew more than he did. Lying in bed the night before while all around him the light bulbs were going out like distant stars growing cold, he didn't know what he was going to do today.
Least of all that he would be watching the Concorde take off at the Airport. The disturbing need to go somewhere, to do something, it wasn't clear where or what, had come to him months ago, but in the last few days he had suffered from severe headaches and the need had become an unconquerable longing which drove him to satisfy this wandering instinct as soon as possible.
From that first very vague vision, when one stormy April night he had woken covered in cold sweat with a hesitant memory of his dream, he had had the knowledge that he was summoned on a journey whose meaning he would find out only later.
Last night had been just like that night in April. The south-westerly gale had lifted off roofs along the Thames valley, overturned cars on the motorway to Cornwall and uprooted trees in London parks.
He had been wakened by the thunder. The extinguished sky in the frames of Victorian windows, like repeated copies of the Ascension, was flooded with a bright, purple glow. The reflections of the ghostly lightning flashes crushed against the empty walls of his room.
The air was full of electricity, the skin prickled, the hair crackled. He sat up in bed with his knees beneath his chin and his palms on his cheeks which were dripping with clammy moisture. Suddenly he knew where he had to go. Not yet why, but he was certain he would find out as soon as he got to the right place. Otherwise, the knowledge of where he had to go would make no sense. Single details scattered through all his earlier dreams came back to him.
Once again he was passing through a dark tunnel whose walls, rising in an arch, had the sharpness and cold of artic crystals. He was wading through a swamp, shallow at first, but later deeper, of a yellowish, oily color in which floated human faeces covered with a film of white hoar frost. It was getting colder. The source of the cold seemed to be at the bottom of the labyrinth, where a dark mass had formed, like a shadow which had lost all shape, but which was recovering it again with every step he took.
The shadow was waiting in an icy whirlwind to be given back its body. In every one of his dreams he was standing in the same spot, at the bottom of a mysterious lagoon, but never managing to guess at the shape or the name.
Even in the dream which had been shattered by last night's storm, it had been waiting for him. But now he knew where he could find it. The crossed outline of illuminated pathways in the form of a six-sided, pointed precious stone with the sixth point broken the X-ray photograph of his nighttime wanderings which in the daytime gave him no peace did not represent, as he had thought, some seascape or a picture of the star of David, but the ground plan of Heathrow, which, like a heraldic coat of arms, was to be found on the cover of the book 'Air Traffic Control, a man-machine system'.
It was a text book which was used in the technological studies of the Open University's Second Level course, and it had attracted his attention quite by chance. It had been lying open in front of young Charlie Rees, who was mad about aero planes. There was no possibility, of course, that Charlie would ever be a pilot, or even travel in one, not to mention to rule over the network of flights above some aerodrome from the Control Tower, but that fact, clear to everyone except him, in no way weakened his desire to find out everything he could about aeronautics from books.
Nor did it stop him, quite impervious to his surroundings where everyone else was equally passionately absorbed with his own world, from imagining himself seated at the controls of a Jumbo-Jet on a fatal collision-course, or before a crowded Air Traffic Control radar screen, setting in order, in the impersonal voice of an experienced controller, the aerial chaos above the Airport. Charlie's preoccupation with some such aeronautical crisis had given him the chance to look at the book rather more closely.
While the conscientious Charlie, sweating profusely, had been peering into his invisible screen, filled with the bright dots of aircraft positions, and sending out laconic instructions on their behalf, he had examined the picture on the cover of the book.
There was no doubt about it. In the ground plan of Heathrow, a hexagonal diamond, pointed, in a shape of a broken Star of David, was the mysterious route he had taken so many times in his dreams, to end up in each one in a windswept tunnel where, frozen in ice, a shapeless, faceless, nameless shadow awaited him.
He lived in South Ealing. Heathrow belonged to the Borough of Hillingdon. He knew more or less where it must be from the aero planes which flew over his head during the day. And so, a little before the mist-soaked dawn, with the storm rolling away towards the north-east, he found himself, wet and cold, at the entrance to the brightly-lit approach tunnel above which in clumsy neon letters was written: Immediately, he heard the sound of the first aircraft gathering speed on the unseen runway.He almost regretted having given way to his instinct.
He was particularly happy to know that in reward for their virtues the brothers were given immortality and the privilege of shining in the heavens as stars.
Everywhere, everyone was in a hurry. He presents Judas as a conspirator, as a martyr, as a dogmatist and fanatic, and as a sceptic. He, Pollux, alias Daniel Leverquin, alias Patrick Cornell, had more important things on his mind today. Castor and his companions will already be in position. It is not Jesus who is nailed to the cross at Calvary, but Simon of Cyrene, who according to Luke 26 has just returned from the fields and is compelled by the soldiers to carry Jesus cross to Calvary.
He had a square, black, overnight case in his hand. When he had found it and killed it and saved the town, he found his way back to the entrance by winding up the thread and following it.
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