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    Bald Truth by Raša Todosijević

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    RASA TODOSIJEVIC
    1) The document criticizes the idea that only those who have experienced hunger can understand it. It argues that hunger is subjective and emphasizes pain over providing an accurate picture of starvation. 2) It notes that hunger is typically portrayed in movies through extras or minor characters, and protagonists are rarely shown to be hungry for long. Successful figures in history were never permanently hungry. 3) The author describes a lavish meal they had and criticizes a TV figure who claimed they were starving, arguing their experience contradicts this claim. They question whether the meal was real or an illusion.

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    Bald Truth by Raša Todosijević

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    RASA TODOSIJEVIC
    114 views3 pages
    1) The document criticizes the idea that only those who have experienced hunger can understand it. It argues that hunger is subjective and emphasizes pain over providing an accurate picture of starvation. 2) It notes that hunger is typically portrayed in movies through extras or minor characters, and protagonists are rarely shown to be hungry for long. Successful figures in history were never permanently hungry. 3) The author describes a lavish meal they had and criticizes a TV figure who claimed they were starving, arguing their experience contradicts this claim. They question whether the meal was real or an illusion.

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    1) The document criticizes the idea that only those who have experienced hunger can understand it. It argues that hunger is subjective and emphasizes pain over providing an accurate picture of starvation. 2) It notes that hunger is typically portrayed in movies through extras or minor characters, and protagonists are rarely shown to be hungry for long. Successful figures in history were never permanently hungry. 3) The author describes a lavish meal they had and criticizes a TV figure who claimed they were starving, arguing their experience contradicts this claim. They question whether the meal was real or an illusion.

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as DOC, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as doc, pdf, or txt
    114 views3 pages

    Bald Truth by Raša Todosijević

    Uploaded by

    RASA TODOSIJEVIC
    1) The document criticizes the idea that only those who have experienced hunger can understand it. It argues that hunger is subjective and emphasizes pain over providing an accurate picture of starvation. 2) It notes that hunger is typically portrayed in movies through extras or minor characters, and protagonists are rarely shown to be hungry for long. Successful figures in history were never permanently hungry. 3) The author describes a lavish meal they had and criticizes a TV figure who claimed they were starving, arguing their experience contradicts this claim. They question whether the meal was real or an illusion.

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as DOC, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as doc, pdf, or txt
    of 3

    1

    Bald Truth
    Rasa Todosijevic

    Only a satiated man can write a good essay on hunger. Those who think that a
    satiated man cannot discuss depths he has not seen and touched with his own fingers –
    are wrong. The starved exaggerate. Out of hunger, that lean weasel, they make a
    monster, a Leviathan.
    Regardless of its enormous success and historically proven greatness, hunger
    is not a competent expert. It is an amateur and a bungler. It acts as the painter of Holy
    Heart, as a jack-of-all-trades who does not decide, does not choose, does not compare,
    does not connect on the basis of affinity and does not behave systematically. Hunger
    is more of an astrologer that an astronomer. This must be taken into account as the
    justification when demolishing the enrooted opinions on hunger. As any amateur,
    hunger is enigmatically subjective: holes in education, wide and disordered
    knowledge are the key to this pled manner – anything and everything. It is an eclectic
    who disregards time and space. Hunger emphasizes pain, bodily experience of its own
    presence. Expressionism, accident, bare fervor, unconstructive striving confuses the
    picture of real state of things.
    Spiritual hunger, the hunger for the knowledge of starvation is bullshit, sloppy
    eclogue. You push your nose into another’s broth and proclaim it the philosophical
    curiosity, and impetus of reflective gluttony, the primeval wonderment. I’d smack
    such types upon the head with a fist and let them then wonder in front of their plate,
    turn Logos around in their own mashed potatoes. Those are pudding existentialists,
    the drawing room scum. There is no professional starveling. No educated glutton.
    There is no chair for the advancement of hunger. Not to speak about immortal
    starveling, a member of the Academy, even a corresponding member. Where are
    veterans of hunger? Who has ever erected a monument to the unknown glutton? Who
    has ever met a man for whom hunger is a profession or a conviction? Who made a
    career out of his own hunger, made a fortune, acquired prestige, people’s trust, a pile
    of money or a Senate seat? Van Gogh? Modigliani? Who has ever heard of a hungry
    king, a queen emaciated form hunger, or at least a starving President of the Republic?
    No one. Naturally!
    2

    Take Wimpy as an example. He is a classical figure: An ancient problem. The


    glutton is an insignificant, marginal creature, an anti-hero.
    Movies are full of starving people. They are mostly extras, small change in
    mass scenes. Occasionally a bit player appears; a good supporting part – very rarely.
    The protagonist cannot be eternally hungry. At the beginning he is hungry, very
    hungry, but at the end he stuffs himself. Count Monte Cristo was starving, hunger
    tortured him like God tormented Job, but at the end he was amply repaid. Film is an
    invented thing, light, entertainment, popcorn, celluloid strip, a gesture, an illusion. It
    is sheer nonsense to make out of a film or a fat novel – a moral landmark, a
    lighthouse, the national program or a counseling center.
    Take for example my suffering, my case: yesterday I gorged myself on raw
    salmon. Exactly: I gorged myself! Color: bloody peach. The background: a silver tray,
    muted glimmer of casually maintained silverware. My principle is that silverware
    must not glisten, shine or glitter like fair-place tin. A bourgeois loves glitter, vulgar
    glamour, glow of the new. A noble man always prefers dark tones. Rubens.
    Caravaggio.
    With my tiny teeth I crunched toast, letting crumbs fall on the carpet, while
    soft flesh of noble fish was melting in my mouth. Toast pricks and fish cools. I was
    drinking wine from long-stemmed glasses: Real wine, not champagne. Champagne is
    for the French – foamy sweet plonk for the mob. And bottles: blue, green, brown.
    Like juicy girls. You’re overcome with desire to grab one of these imported beauties
    and dance ecstatically a passionate tango with her.
    I was feeding turkey drumsticks to the cats and, as usually, I loll about, sprawl,
    get bored and stare at TV. Time passes slowly, it does not hurry, it crawls like a snail,
    it snoozes. Around 8 pm, in twilight, when the heat has relented a bit, an idiot, a
    retarded person, began to persuade me from the screen, that all I am just telling you is
    an ordinary lie. I turn around, glance at the overflowing table, I touch my golden fork,
    I rub my eyes and think: a cretin, a real true cretin, a person suffering from cretinism.
    A morose sufferer from ulcer in a tie, gray jacket, sour-hot serious, an overblown
    potbelly. This guy with conspicuously luxuriant wig was persistently repeating I feed
    myself badly. He expertly prattled that I am starving, that my teeth are rotting and
    loose due to starvation, that my face is sallow because of malnutrition, that I collect
    stale bread and dirty waste from garbage cans, that I am a carrier of diseases, a rag, a
    contagion, a future sufferer from typhus, and hundred similar scurvy stupidities on
    3

    that subject. I gape at TV, I stare at that monkeyish bust, I hold my hand on the
    mouth, and I really do not know what to say. My God, who is this half-man? A
    nutritionist, a nationalist, a supporter of laissez-faire, a philosopher, a cosmopolite, an
    intellectual, a paid federalist, a political worm or an idle loudmouth? What will people
    say? Is this marvelous salmon a fruit of my imagination? Am I a naive victim of my
    own wayward imagination? Are these bottles, these green bottles full of first class
    wine, these glittering innocents – an illusion? A play of light and shadow? An
    invented tableau vivant! Where did I get all this wine? Where did I procure this noble
    grappa – the immaculate honor of Tuscan hills? I am neither a politician nor a
    smuggler. I am not a black marketer. I got no one to fawn, to stand at hind legs in
    from of me and to give me gifts of stolen goods. Are the tears of Jesus a lie? And the
    sauce? And quail pate? And Jordanian lamb? And Cato’s lobster? The sauce is a
    mirage? Fish – glue? A Space Odyssey? An illusion, a political frame-up, a Potemkin
    village, London Zoo? Newspaper and saw-dust spread with mayonnaise? And turkey?
    What about turkey? Is it also non-existent? It can’t be papier mache, Japanese plastic,
    Pop Art, Oldenburg, Gestalt. I reach with my hand to tear a roasted wing, and in the
    place of the turkey, my golden turkey on juicy baked sauerkraut, there stand an old,
    beaten pot full of yellowish sticky macaroni: Blue color, white polka dots, burnt
    bottom broken glaze. “Die Milch maht’s”, as famous late Schiller would say! Fiddle-
    sticks!
    No, it’s not true. I know well what is truth and what are political propaganda,
    deceit, lies, drivel and dirty Balkan tricks.
    According to him, it appears even my kitties remained hungry. I will never
    swallow that story.
    However, if all this be so, and it isn’t, why does he wear a wig? If he really
    cares for truth and not aesthetics, if he is such a truth-lover, why doesn’t he show his
    big bald head? Why does he hide it? Why doesn’t he show his – so to say – bald
    truth?

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