The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas
Ursula K. Le GuinThe Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas Gönderileri
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We can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of Joy.
The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violance is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy.
"Tüm yüce, etkileyici idealler devrimcidir. Kendilerini, geçmiş deneyimlerin etkileri olarak değil de gelecek deneyimlerin olası nedenleri, koşullarını çevre ve bunların şimdiye kadar bize verdiği dersleri ise, ayak uydurulması gereken etkenler olarak sunarlar."
ama nereye gittiklerini biliyor gibiler, omelas'ı bırakıp gidenler.
gençlerin gözyaşları, gerçekliğin korkunç adaletini algılamaya başladıklarında ve bunu kabul ettiklerinde acı adaletsizlikle kururdu.
hâlbuki umutsuzluğu yüceltmek sevinci ayıplamaktır, şiddeti kucaklamak ise onun haricindeki her şeyi yitirmektir.
You can only play a game -- chess, soccer, parable -- if you follow the rules. Games and stories are imitations of life, ways of playing at life, sometimes ways of learning how to live. Some of the rules may appear both cruel and arbitrary. But if you want to play the game, or live the life, you have to follow them.
Why do the people of Omelas accept it? Why don’t they rescue the child in the closet?
The answer to that question is in the story: Because all the wellbeing of everyone else depends on the suffering of the child.
Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there snivelling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer.
But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment.
I think we are all in the closet. Too stupid to understand what life we could have outside the walls around us.