Velvel

“Outside the wide windows soft snow is drifting. Nearby, on the Nevsky Prospekt, life is blossoming. Far away, in the Carpathian Mountains, blood is flowing.

C'est la vie.”
― Isaac Babel, The Complete Works of Isaac Babel

“Aunt Pesya!" Benya then said to the disheveled old woman rolling on the floor. "If you want my life, you can have it, but everyone makes mistakes, even God! This was a giant mistake, Aunt Pesya! But didn't God Himself make a mistake when he settled the Jews in Russia so they could be tormented as if they were in hell?”
― Isaac Babel, The Complete Works of Isaac Babel

“But turning your head away or remaining silent in the face of injustice and crime means collaborating with a politics whose program is death and destruction. And whether it is willing or unwilling collaboration doesn't really matter, because the result is the same.

More than a decade after the beginning of the war in the Balkans, it is essential that we understand that is it we, ordinary people and not some madmen, who made it possible. We were the ones who one day stopped greeting our neighbors of a different nationality, an act that the next day made possible the opening of concentration camps. We did it to one another. Maybe this is a good reason for considering whether it is too easy to put a hundred men on trial in The Hague. What about the others who embraced the ideology that led to the deaths of two hundred thousand people? Perhaps they did not believe in it, but they certainly did not protest against it. If it is true that there is no collective guilt, can there be collective innocence?”
― Slavenka Drakulić, They Would Never Hurt a Fly: War Criminals on Trial in The Hague

“Concentration camps, annihilation camps, emblems wherein the invisible has made itself visible forever. All the distinctive features of a civilization are revealed or laid bare (“Work liberates,” “rehabilitation through work”). Work, in societies where, indeed, it is highly valued as the materialist process whereby the worker takes power, becomes the ultimate punishment: no longer is it just a matter of exploitation or of surplus-value; labor becomes the point at which all value comes to pieces and the “producer,” far from reproducing at least his labor force, is no longer even the reproducer of his life. For work has ceased to be his way of living and has become his way of dying. Work, death: equivalents. And the workplace is everywhere; worktime is all the time. When oppression is absolute, there is no more leisure, no more “free time.” Sleep is supervised. The meaning of work is then the destruction of work in and through work. But what if, as it has happened in certain commandos, labor consists of carrying stones at top speed from one spot and piling them up in another, and then in bringing them back at the run to the starring point (Langbein at Auschwitz; the same episode in the Gulag; Solzhenitsyn)? Then, no act of sabotage can cancel work, for its annulment is work’s own very purpose. And yet labor remains a meaning: it tends not only to destroy the worker, but more immediately to occupy, to harness and control him and at the same time perhaps to give him an awareness that to produce and not to produce amount to the same – that the one and the other alike are work – yet thereby it also makes the worker, whom it reduces to naught, aware that the society expressed in the labor camp is what he must struggle against even as he dies, even as he survives (lives on despite everything, beneath everything, beyond everything). Such survival is (also) immediate death, immediate acceptance of death in the refusal to die (I will not kill myself, because that would please them; thus I kill myself opposing them, I remain alive despite them).”
― Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster