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Kris Franken

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“It is time for all of us to tell each other the truth about who and what have brought the Negro to the condition of deprivation against which he struggles today. In human relations the truth is hard to come by, because most groups are deceived about themselves. Rationalization and the incessant search for scapegoats are the psychological cataracts that blind us to our individual and collective sins. But the day has passed for bland euphemisms. He who lives with untruth lives in spiritual slavery. Freedom is still the bonus we receive for knowing the truth. “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.” It would be neither true nor honest to say that the Negro’s status is what it is because he is innately inferior or because he is basically lazy and listless or because he has not sought to lift himself by his own bootstraps. To find the origins of the Negro problem we must turn to the white man’s problem.”

“He reached for something at his side and tossed it to me. I had to fight to stay in the saddle as I fumbled for it- a jewelled hunting knife. 'I heard you scream,' he said as I examined the blade in my hands. I'd never held one so finely crafted, so perfectly balanced. 'And I hesitated. Not long, but I hesitated before I came running. Even though Tam got there in time, I still broke my word in those seconds I waited.' He jerked his chin at the knife. 'It's yours. Don't bury it in my back, please.”

“Well, if you really want to know, I’m basically in love with a boy who is totally wrong for me in every way but I just can’t forget about him or give him up even though I should because he did something that really hurt me and he may have even lied to me but I don’t even seem to care that he did so and now he’s just made it harder for me to dislike him because he said a really nice apology and told me everything that I wanted to hear and so I forgave him even though I still deep down harbour some resentment towards him but I’m sure he saw it in my eyes and heard it in my words that I’m still completely pathetically madly head over heels for him and would still love him even if he did it all over again and broke my heart into a thousand pieces.”

“The satyr, as the Dionysiac chorist, dwells in a reality sanctioned by myth and ritual. That tragedy should begin with him, that the Dionysiac wisdom of tragedy should speak through him, is as puzzling a phenomenon as, more generally, the origin of tragedy from the chorus. Perhaps we can gain a starting point for this inquiry by claiming that the satyr, that fictive nature sprite, stands to cultured man in the same relation as Dionysian music does to civilization. Richard Wagner has said of the latter that it is absorbed by music as lamplight by daylight. In the same manner, I believe, the cultured Greek felt himself absorbed into the satyr chorus, and in the next development of Greek tragedy state and society, in fact everything that separates man from man, gave way before an overwhelming sense of unity that led back into the heart of nature. This metaphysical solace (which, I wish to say at once, all true tragedy sends us away) that, despite every phenomenal change, life is at bottom indestructibly joyful and powerful, was expressed most concretely in the chorus of satyrs, nature beings who dwell behind all civilization and preserve their identity through every change of generations and historical movement. With this chorus the profound Greek, so uniquely susceptible to the subtlest and deepest suffering, who had penetrated the destructive agencies of both nature and history, solaced himself. Though he had been in danger of craving a Buddhistic denial of the will, he was saved through art, and through art life reclaimed him.”