I'm curious if anyone knows of any books that talk about this, maybe with some historical analysis of how fame and celebrities have evolved over time. Thanks!
]]>"The noble outlaw as highwayman was a widespread and popular character in the literature of the 18th century (colonial era) Southern United States and thenceforwards"
Where is my modern day folk hero, where are my stories of sexy anarchist outlaws chilling with their friends, helping out others, fighting cops and doing vandalism??
]]>In this ambitious work, first published in 1983, Cedric Robinson demonstrates that efforts to understand Black people's history of resistance solely through the prism of Marxist theory are incomplete and inaccurate. Marxist analyses tend to presuppose European models of history and experience that downplay the significance of Black people and Black communities as agents of change and resistance. Black radicalism, Robinson argues, must be linked to the traditions of Africa and the unique experiences of Blacks on Western continents, and any analyses of African American history need to acknowledge this.
To illustrate his argument, Robinson traces the emergence of Marxist ideology in Europe, the resistance by Blacks in historically oppressive environments, and the influence of both of these traditions on such important twentieth-century Black radical thinkers as W. E. B. Du Bois, C. L. R. James, and Richard Wright.
I remember it being a dense & rewarding read—possibly good news for any philosophy heads out there. It's been translated as well.
Once there was a man called Hate-to-Be-Contradicted, and, because of that, he built a small dwelling all by himself and lived in it alone. A creature called the duiker paid him a visit, and they walked along together for a while and then sat down at the foot of a palm tree. Some of the palm nuts fell down. The duiker said, “Father Hate-to-Be-Contradicted, your palm nuts are ripe.”
Hate-to-Be-Contradicted said, “That is the nature of the palm nut. When they ripen, three bunches are ready at once. I cut them down after they have ripened, and then I boil them to extract the oil. They make three water pots full of oil. Then I take the oil to Akase to buy an Akase old woman. The Akase old woman comes and gives birth to my grandmother who bears my mother, who in turn gives birth to me. When Mother bears me, I am already standing there.”
The duiker said, “As for all that, you are lying.”
Hate-to-Be-Contradicted took a stick, hit the duiker on the head, and killed him.
Then along came the little abedee. Hate-to-Be-Contradicted walked for a while with him, and the two sat down under a palm tree, and the same thing happened. And that’s how it went with all the animals. Finally, Kawku Ananse, the Spider, went and fetched his cloth and his bag, slung the bag over his shoulders, and went off to visit Hate-to-Be Contradicted’s kraal. He greeted him, “Good morning, Father.”
Hate-to-Be-Contradicted replied, “Y’aku, and where are you going?”
He replied, “I’m coming to visit you.”
And he took his stool and placed it under the palm tree.
Hate-to-Be-Contradicted gave orders, “Cook food for Spider to eat.”
While the food was cooking, Ananse and Hate-to-Be-Contradicted sat under the palm tree. Some of the palm nuts fell down, and Ananse took them and put them in his bag. He kept doing that until his bag was full. The food arrived, and Ananse ate. When he had finished eating, more of the ripe palm nuts fell down, and Ananse said, “Father Hate-to-Be-Contradicted, your palm nuts are ripe.”
Hate-to-Be-Contradicted said, “It is their nature to ripen like that. When they ripen, three bunches are ready at once. I cut them down after they have ripened, and then I boil them to extract the oil. They make three water pots full of oil. Then I take the oil to Akase to buy an Akase old woman. The Akase old woman comes and gives birth to my grandmother who bears my mother, who in turn gives birth to me. When Mother bears me, I am already standing there.”
Spider said, “You are not lying. What you say is true. As for me, I have some okras growing on my farm. When they are ripe, I join seventy-seven long hooked poles in order to reach them to pull them down, but even then I cannot reach them. So I lie on my back and use my penis to pluck them.”
Hate-to-Be-Contradicted said, “Oh, I understand. Tomorrow I will come and take a look.”
Spider said, “Sure!”
While Spider was on his way home, he chewed the palm nuts that he had gathered and spat them out on the path. The next morning, when you could see things again, Hate-to-Be-Contradicted set out for Spider’s village. When Spider had returned home the day before, he said to his children, “A man will come here, and he hates to be contradicted. When he arrives and inquires after me, you must tell him that yesterday I told you that I was going off somewhere. My penis broke in seven places, and I had to take it to the blacksmith for repairs. Since the blacksmith could not finish in time yesterday, I went back to have the work finished.”
Not much later, Hate-to-Be-Contradicted came along. He said, “Where is your father?”
The children replied, “Alas, Father went somewhere yesterday, since his penis was broken in seven different places. He took it to a blacksmith, but the man could not finish in time, and Father has left to have it finished. You, Father, didn’t you see the blood on the path?”
Hate-to-Be-Contradicted said, “Yes, I saw it.” Then he asked, “And where is your mother?”
Spider’s child replied, “Mother, too—yesterday she went down to the stream, and her water pot would have fallen and broken if she had not kept it from doing so by catching it at the last moment. But she didn’t quite succeed in saving it from falling and returned today to do so.” Hate-to-Be- Contradicted did not say a word.
Ananse returned. He said, “Cook some food for Hate-to-Be- Contradicted.” While the children were cooking the food, they used only one single little perch but a huge quantity of peppers. They made the stew very hot. When they finished cooking, they set it down before Hate-to-Be- Contradicted. Hate-to-Be-Contradicted ate it. The peppers pained him so much that he wanted to die. He said to one of Ananse’s sons, “Ntikuma, bring me some water.”
Ntikuma said, “There are three different kinds of water in our pot. The water at the top belongs to Father, the part in the middle belongs to my mother’s co-wife, and the water at the very bottom of the pot belongs to my mother. I can only draw for you what belongs to my mother, and if I’m not careful while drawing it, I might start a tribal dispute.”
Hate-to-Be-Contradicted said, “You little brat! You are lying.” Straightaway Ananse said, “Beat him until he is dead.” Hate-to-Be-Contradicted said, “Why should they beat me to death?” Spider said, “You say you hate to be contradicted, and yet you have contradicted someone. That is why I am telling them to beat you to death.”
So they beat Hate-to-Be-Contradicted to death. Then Ananse cut up his flesh in little pieces and scattered them everywhere.
That is why you can find many people in the tribe today who hate to be contradicted.
]]>In 1968, Safiya Bukhari witnessed an NYPD officer harassing a Black Panther for selling the organization’s newspaper on a Harlem street corner. The young pre-med student felt compelled to intervene in defense of the Panther’s First Amendment right; she ended up handcuffed and thrown into the back of a police car.
]]>writers such as Warsan Shire, Molara Wood, Mona Eltahawy, and Akwaeke Emezi are calling the situation as it is – a genocide due to the brutality of Israel’s response and the bombing of schools and hospitals in Gaza.
]]>Anarchist Fictions is a new print journal of original and reprinted short fiction and poems on themes about, or adjacent to, anarchy. Set to launch in early Winter 2025, the journal will be 150 pages of beautiful art and writing that captures and recreates the fiery will to destroy existing society. We need to raise $4200 by April 2024 to make this happen. The first 25 donors of $50 or more will get a journal mailed to them in Winter 2025. Proceeds will go to paying for the printing of the journal, and paying our writers and artists. Funds raised that exceed our goal will go to increasing honoraria for our writers and artists. Read on for details about the journal and how to send us your work.
Why This Journal?
The idea for a journal of anarchist fiction started in summer 2023, around the time that the sky above our city turned a greyish orange. We were reading about the domestic terrorism charges against Atlanta Forest defenders at the same time we were reading stories by Kelly Link, Margaret Killjoy, Alba De Cespedes, and Ted Chiang. Air tasting of burnt plastic scratched the inside of our lungs raw. In this city, the grownups kept the children indoors all day; in other places, grownups hurriedly bundled children into vehicles, evacuation underway. The kids watched hell through car windows, remembering stories of comfort or of ruin, and grafting them onto new stories of survival bubbling up inside their little brains.
Elsewhere still, the planet's watery muscle tore down roads and bridges. A question that could pop up in an innocent game of Would-You-Rather became absurdly real: Would you rather die by fire, or drowning?
Moose, deer, skunk, rabbit, coyote, squirrel. Cardinals, woodpeckers, thrush, crickets, worms. Sacred and insignificant at the same time, man-made disasters are choking out, starving, sweeping away these creatures and their land.
Sacred and insignificant ourselves, we scrawl tiny words on bus shelters, grow vegetables, steal and cook and share food, throw rocks, sometimes get bundled into prison cells. Too often we work like dogs. Other times we sign out books from the library, trade zines, carve linocuts, send free PDFs and hearts and flames, whisper stories. The setting of our lives is a nightmare and we, little gross creatures addicted to warmth and comfort and imagination, need these stories to get by. We too will be choked out, starved, and swept away. In the meantime, we want entertainment and the illusion that our words will last.
Every season brings fresh hell, but projects lend us continuity and a sense of rational order. Autumn is RICO charges and genocide in Gaza, and our, the editors', first talks about what characterizes the stories we love. Winter brings us a deep darkness in which we reflect on our powerlessness and imagine a future spring of power. In this dark nest we are writing this request that you send us your stories that we will read and consider in the spring.
We are making this journal for selfish, selfish reasons, but maybe you too have a selfish desire for reading and writing anarchist fictions. Let's help each other out.
About the Editors
Anarchist Fictions is the creation of two broke lazybones addicted to reading, writing, and anarchy. You can call us Vague and Ominous. We have degrees, but not in English Lit. One of us is a published writer and has sat on a couple of publishing collectives; the other could win a medal for the number of books they've signed out from the Toronto Public Library. We love wild and liminal spaces where the weeds grow through cracks. They will eventually turn to trees that break the city apart. We're here for the forest's revenge.
Anarchist Fictions' Volume 1 Guest Poetry Editor, Cid V Brunet
Cid V Brunet (they/them) will be guest editing poetry for the inaugural issue of Anarchist Fictions. Their memoir, This Is My Real Name, came out in 2021 and you can read their latest poem, "Blue", in the winter issue of Contemporary Verse 2.
Insta: @cidvbrunetwrites
Anarchist Fictions' Volume 1 Guest Artist, Bog
This issue's art (and this GoFundMe page's art) comes to us from Bog, a swamp monster drawing imaginaries for a new world from a small cave in Montreal.
]]>We compile and offer this information with the understanding that the erasure of Palestinian culture and history has long been an Israeli tactic of war and occupation, a means to further limit the self-determination of the Palestinian people. […]
Finally, we include information about the librarians and archivists who have been killed in the ongoing Israeli bombardment. We mourn the deaths of our colleagues and their families.
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