That warm, muddy ground, full of fat, plush worms, within its soft stench had the capacity to offer what the many had been trained to appreciate as a blessing: the known. And that terrain, that territory was nothing other than the past, it was no other circumstance than the past, repeated in a thousand different ways, from the useless reproaches of the couple to the staging of the same Disney films over and over again, as if there were no imagination or possibility of a future without so much gregarious heat flooding the armpits.
Thus, all of them fat, all of them plush, and the more hardship they go through, the rougher the collection of Golgoths looks or seems that some of them might hang around their necks, The whole of the exhibition would have to end as part of a setting in which the intranscendence of the ensemble is exalted and maintained by that Archimedean balance by which the individual’s attempt to exalt his own suffering does no more than equate it with that of all the others, not by its concrete manifestations (a bankruptcy, an untimely death, a second place), but by its subjective foundations, in which all are learned.
However, in order for the intrinsic and intimate knowledge of this plot to be recognized, it is also necessary to adhere to it and assume one of the noblest roles that history confers: that of the avenging victim. To do this, it is necessary to assume reality as such and entirely as such, to pretend to be responsible for it and – the essential condiment – to be accused and found guilty of everything. Needless to say, the accusation must be accepted in a veiled manner; it must never be accepted with vehemence, or with a similar attitude. Only the convicted culprits have a chance to get out of the mud. That’s why it sucks.