Tuesday, July 28, 2009


Alan Moore / Dave Gibbons, 1986

Rorschach’s journal. October 12th, 1985.

Dog carcass in the alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and politicians will look up and shout “save us!”… and I´ll look down and whisper “no.”


Paid last respects quietly, without Fuss. Edward Morgan Blake born 1924. forty-five years a comedian, died 1985, buried in the rain. Is what happens to us? A life of conflict with no time for friends… so that when it´s done, only our enemies leave roses. Violent lives, ending violently. Dollar bill, the Silhouette, Captain Metropolis… we never die in bed. Not allowed. Something in our personalities, perhaps? Some animal urge to fight and struggle, making us what we are? Unimportant. We do what we have to do. Others bury their heads between the swollen teats of indulgence and gratification, piglets squirming beneath a sow for shelter… but there is no shelter, and the future is bearing down like an express train. Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood. He saw the cracks in society, masks trying to hold it together… He saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. That´s why he was lonely.
Heard joke once: man goes to the doctor. Says he´s depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world. Where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says “treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up.” Man burst into tears. Says “ but doctor... I am Pagliacci.” Good yoke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains.

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