IL FAUT ETRE ABSOLUMENT POSTMORTEM

The attempt of writing a story without a precise idea was a situation that often occurred to me. I was searching for something innovating…I asked myself : “what should I write about? How should I start?” I wanted to create anew, but nothing came up to my mind.
I had a block. Discouragement and impuissance were binding me to the reality of my uselessness; they were straining my nerves and wearing out my energy.
Il faut etre absolument moderne. This was the rule I had to follow. This was the dogma that the word was imposing me.
The heavy task of stepping forward in the evolution of creation was smashing me to ground, and because of my poor talent, I had surrendered.
My weakness asked for mercy and I gave in.
The only thing left for me was to doze in a state of semi-unconsciousness, in which innocence comforted me, protected me. Until I floated in hallucination.
Emerging, in front of my eyes, was an incredible building.
It was an enormous white palace; defined, authoritative.
Step by step, I walked up to the palace’s portal. I looked around, but nothing was in site. Around the palace, just black.
In any moment, the black was going to devour the pale oasis, and it made me happy, almost peaceful. As a matter of fact, I was going to change my direction, but a voice stopped me: “Where are you going?”
I could not tell where that voice was coming from.
While I was searching with my eyes, I felt a tap on the back. I turned, and one foot from me was an elegant man. The elegant clothes he wore -a black suit with a tie- were not slightly as elegant as how he wore them: like an old man.
He starred at me for a moment, then spoke: “I hope you recognize me, rather than just starring without any fascination!”
“I don’t”. I answered.
“All the better! I am the doorman here,” he stated.
“Do I ruin everything by asking you if all this is more than just one of my dreams?”
“Not at all. This is, indeed, a dream, but you must be cautious when saying that it is your dream.”
While he was talking, what seemed to me nonsense, I studied his lean figure, and I noticed that his right eye was half closed. This reminded me of someone, but I forgot whom.
“ You will understand when you will look there.” He pointed out his finger toward the dark. I couldn’t see anything.
He repeated his command: “Look!”. But again, nothing. With patience he repeated: “Look at the fountain of Kubla Kahn.”
At once, an incredible fountain materialized opposite the building; it was glorious, mighty, holy!
Silence followed. Bewilderment on his face. His expression was suggesting me that I should have known.
As he didn’t receive any acknowledgment, he continued:
“You are in the highest state of mind; you are in the Parnassus. Here is where creation comes from. This is the source, the milk of Paradise.”
I look back once more, but the fountain was gone. It came, and disappeared like a meteorite.
But the name he pronounced brought me back to attention. The Parnassus. So this was where the muses lived, I asked.
“No one lives here, every one just is. You are here because you needed a book. Now, let us cross the portal that hides what you are looking for.”
“I am sorry to contradict you, but before reaching this place, I was looking for an idea to develop, a story to write, not a book.”
He gave me his back, and started to walk. Evidently, I had to follow him.
We went through the portal, and in the precise moment in which we were walking under the marble lintel, his right eye pierced my mind, and without his mouth moving, I heard his child-voice saying: “Development implies a change. Change alone is eternal, perpetual; immortal. Here is where the Book dwells. What you refer to is a declination of it.”
I doubted what he was saying. Moreover, I was surprise that in a dream I could feel irritated. Time was passing, and I was wasting it.
I was following him without enthusiasm; the overwhelming hall was drawing me away from the acute words of the doorman.
He was strange. He must have been as mythical as the place.
I decided to break the momentary silence. My practical duty helped me speak, while oppressing me at the same time. “I have decided to write a short story”.
I was too general. I had to add something: “I am thinking about a modern short story…a modern short story about a clochard.”
He stopped, smiled at me. Again I notice the elegance of an old man and the harmony of his movements, with which he took out of his jacket a booklet and passed his index finger through it. “Very well then. If that is what your wish, you shall find it in room 353. The room is on the second floor. To get there you must take the third stair case on the left wing of the palace.”
I thanked him, then moved toward the third stair case. Everything seemed puzzling to me, to the degree of ridiculousness. The formality of the man dressed in a suit and the holy “dome” were far from my reality, yet the realism of the dream, and my own sense of unreality, slid in improbability, and then to convincing surrealism.
After meandering with a mazy motion, I finally arrived in front of room 353. Franz was written on the door.
I knocked. Nobody answered. I opened the door. A small man was standing in the middle of the room.
I was silent. I had the impression that in this place I shouldn’t have opened my mouth if not asked to.
“Theoretically, you could be right now in one of my stories.”
“I beg you pardon?” I was taken aback.
“Don’t you see where you are?”
“Yes, in the Parnassus.”
“Who told you this?”
“The door man”.
“The door man has a very good sense of humor.”
“ Why is that?”
“ This is indeed the Parnassus,” he sounded confident, “but I guess that the door man didn’t tell you that it is more like a prison than a desirable place.”
I was confused. I knew who was in front of me. I could feel his aura of anguish. Finally his anguish peaked in despair: “There is hope, but not for us.”
He was a damned. And his sad face expressed the acceptance of desolation through its eyes.
“So this is the temple of the writers?”
“ Yes this is our hell, and you came to visit it. Therefore you could be one of my characters…you are here for no reason, hence you are already experiencing what this place is: bureaucracy.”
“I think that you are simply obsessed with the idea of bureaucracy and of imprisonment. I am here to write a story; that is enough of a reason to be here.
“If you think that this reason is good enough for you, suit yourself. But you still don’t know how this place works. Thus, you shouldn’t judge what I tell you before you have not seen it for yourself”.
This was going against all my principles. In my opinion, literature meant liberty, freedom. For this man it meant being in chains.
It happened often that I wanted to contradict a writer, so I took the occasion, and with arrogance, I said: “ I think you have a wrong image of writing. Writing makes a person free.”
What seemed to me a provocation didn’t have any effect on my interlocutor. Instead, he smiled, and continued:
“ I would argue many things you have said, but I’ll limit myself to what I am saying: You are still alive. We, who live in this place, are dead, but unfortunately, can’t rest in peace, because immortality (a state achieved by our words) has imprisoned us. Not even fire will be able to burn our words, and therefore it will not be able to set us free. And you would think that those words were conceived by us, but…”
“I am here to write my own words.” I interrupted him, because I was annoyed of the gargantuan ego of the former writers. Even when they are dead they had tt suffocate the up and coming! How unfair, how rude! I was really nauseated, and although what he was saying was fascinating, the story I wanted to write was my main concern.
Again he didn’t seem to accept my provocation. With a docile voice, as if he read in my mind, he told me that I shouldn’t worry, there would be always place in this prison: “It is infinite!”
Then he continued: “So you want to write a short story about a clochard. Is he going to be willingly alienated or is he a clochard because of destiny?”
Destiny. What an odd word pronounced by an odd man. Did I believe in destiny? I did not know how to answer my own question, so my answer to his was as simple as possible, something that could blend both ideas together:
“ He obviously is unsociable, hence it is difficult to determine whether he was born unsociable or he became unsociable. The importance is that unsociability drives him to exclusion. That is reason why I want to use a clochard -he is a heavy life-archetype, but that at the same time very light. He lives in the middle of a narrow border between life and death.”
The story is nothing new, he remarked.
“Well then it’s going to be a rich noble man, who will become a clochard. And the story is going to result a comedy!”
“I am still perplexed by your originality. Nonetheless, I want to help you. I don’t think I have a large amount of suggestion about the style you want to use. My stories are somewhat funny, although I can’t say they are comedies. Go to room 440; the person you will find there will be able to assist you.”
I asked where room 440 was.
“It is on the next floor, on the right wing of the building. You must first return to the ground floor, take the first staircase to the fourth floor. There you will find the room on your right.”
I didn’t understand why I was supposed to go somewhere else. The doorman told me that this was the place where I would find what I was looking for.
I decided to thank him anyway. While I was leaving the room, he told me: “ Now you will see what I was talking about. It has already started”.
I went down, then up. I made my way to the other room.
Room 440: Oscar.
“Come in, my dear friend. How are you?
I was surprised to find the room filled with candlelights. It was an absolute difference from the last room. In the middle of the room there was even a joyful table, with the most marvelous dishes and wines.
“Hello”.
“How may I help you?” He was tall with broad shoulders.
“A man called Franz, from room 353, told me to come here. We were discussing about my story. I told him that I fancied a comedy, so he sent me here, because he thought that you could help me better”.
“I love Frank’s hypocrisy. You were sent to see me for a problem that Franz might as well have solved himself. But no worry, we can see though it together.
“What do you mean? I thought that Kafka has not written comedies.”
“Kafka maybe has not. But he has to understand that, once he lives here, he isn’t anymore Kafka. We are all the same, we are all one…maybe with the exception of Shaw and his disliking friends.”
I was baffled. He noticed it, and he added: “You don’t have English humor, have you? It was a joke. Bernard and the rest of the Bolshevik-writers are also here. Obviously in the left wing.
You must grasp that our names represent, indeed, different ideas, and these ideas, when they clash together, create dissent and contradiction, but at the end, in this place, we flow into one wave, in which the ideas attached to our names are only symbolic.”
I tried to delve more into what Oscar had just revealed to me, but I had nothing to say except a stupid comment: “Franz told me that this is a sort of prison for writers. But I can see how a prison should have an authentic banquette in the middle of a room?!”
Oscar was in a very good mood. With his cheerful voice he said: “I always say ‘we are all in the gutter, and some of us-like me- are looking at the stars’. Anyway, don’t mind what he says. Franz is such a tragic person. Wasn’t it he, who said “There will be no proof that I was a writer”?! Well, there were many proofs, but now he has the occasion to hide. Every writer should long for concealment.”
“To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim”; I interrupted him smartly.
“Precisely! The writer is more an actor than the actor, but this doesn’t entitle him to the stage.”
“I always thought that you lived on a stage”.
“The artist is not entitled to the stage, but the genius is!”
I was quite satisfied with his answer. But still I had a story to write.
“Anyway, I wanted to ask you some suggestions, Mr. Wilde.”
“About the story of the tramp?”
“Yes.”
“So this is a noble man, who becomes a clochard, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“He was certainly drunk to do something like that!”
“Also”.
“So if he is an alcoholic, why are you asking me?”
“Because I would like to limn him with a comic language and style.”
“I don’t think it would be a great idea. It is better to give it a naturalistic style, a dry, an authentic, a fierce and vigorous style that unfortunately I can’t give you.”
I knew what he was going to say next. I felt like I was a checker in a sadistic game, played by these artists. I thought that everyone belonged to the same contradictory source, I told him.
“We do belong to the same source. But it’s like asking a brain cell to do the job of a heart cell. Then, there is also the exception of the staminal cells.”
I guess so, I replied. I thought that his hypocrisy was too much, and I was happy I was able to go somewhere else.
“Who is this person?”
“He is an admirable man. A man with a past.” While he was saying this, he had a lecherous expression that I tried to ignore.
“Where is he?”
“He is at the first floor. Room 100. Second staircase.”
“Thank you very much”.
“It was a delight. Don’t forget: ‘The importance of being Ernest’.”
And with a flourish gesture he showed his farewell.
I closed the door. That baroque room was truly giving to my head. Everything was light and frivolous. There was no border between seriousness and joke. Oscar seemed to take everything like a game, a ceaseless game in the spiral of existence.
I descended to the ground floor, in order to go to the next room.
I hadn’t yet metabolized what Oscar told me, therefore there wasn’t any reason to go to the next room. Actually due to that guile artist I was having a painful headache. It was as if I was going from one dinner to the next, stuffing myself with things that I doubted at the moment or I couldn’t simply understand.
I tried to stay on a realistic level. I tried to compare the things I saw and not the things I heard, but it seemed it didn’t bring me anywhere, even thought I thanked God that I was away from that rake.
I was moving through the hall until I got to the right room.
I knocked on the door. A voice told me to come in.
A plenitude of alcoholic smell came from the room. Not only alcohol was in the air but also cigarette smoke was flooding the place. It was like being in a fog, I couldn’t still see the person I was looking for, maybe he was hidden at the very end of the room.
“Oscar sent me to see you.”
Silence. I struggled through the room, without the help of my eyes. Suddenly, I fell, tripping over something. Again, I endeavored to walk, but it was impossible; things that were lying on the ground obstructed the way.
“I thought I heard some one at the door. Is anyone here?”
Then I remembered that I should have looked at the name on the door before entering the room, but it was too late, I couldn’t see the way back.
I felt quite lonely. The silence was terrible. It was pounding on my ears, giving me the sensation of being lost. My hearing was completely useless and also my vision. In an attempt to save my balance I decided to sit down.
“Do you feel it?” finally the voice spoke. “Do you feel the heft of oblivion?”
The voice itself was the symbol of the rumple room.
“Yes, I can feel it”.
“No. You can’t. You can understand the difference between oblivion and fame. You haven’t touched these two absolutes.”
He was correct, I hadn’t. But why did he decide to have such a gloomy room, I asked.
“If you interpret the word gloomy as in a state of depression, you are wrong. As a matter of fact, I have never been this placid.”
“May I ask, who you are?”
“If I would tell you my name you wouldn’t know me, you would simply know how they called me. What I am now is not what I was before, because what I am now is not being.”
I was skeptical about his cunning sophism, but I tried not to interrupt him. I only emitted a nodding sound.
“My name is Hemingway, if this pleases you.”
“Nice to meet you mister Hemingway.”
Even though I had good intentions, my voice sounded fabricated. Maybe it was because my voice was in contrast with his, more hoarse. I wanted to save myself from my heedlessness. I continued: “I see Mr. Hemingway. I understand. You are one of those artists who prefer being secluded in concealment. You put art to the highest level of importance; you leave the podium to art and not to your ego! You are the artist of artists!”
“Nonsense! You don’t understand a damn,” his husky voice arose. “I couldn’t care less about my books! My books aren’t mine anymore. Furthermore, I don’t belong to myself.”
“It is difficult for me to follow you, I am sorry.”
“You are really obtuse!...Now listen, I don’t recognize the image the public gave of my life. The image of my life was integrally filed for the use of the public curiosity! And not only after my death, but also during my life.”
“Have you killed yourself in order to escape this looking and judging eye, which ruins everything that it stares?”
“No, I killed myself because the suffering had overwhelmed me. If I had wanted to committed suicide to kill my image, I would have pointed to my face and not to my temples. I wanted to destroy my brain, my intellect. That was the only thing in my power. To cancel my image was impossible. As I told you before it didn’t belong to me anymore. My image was immortal. A writer is unable to escape immortality once he has written books. Hopefully, sometimes immortality fades away with time.”
At this point I was completely confused. I craved for an explanation to my uncertainty: “I thought you had always designated your work to create a myth around your life, around your image. But now you deny everything.”
“What I did, was not more than writing books!”, the man was furious, “then I was put in the eternal trial, in which the fucking maid and clerk judged me probably without having even read what I had written. Indeed, they ignored my books. The character they wanted was Ernest Hemingway, nobody else.”
“You loved to be the centre of this trial, even with the maid and the clerk presiding it!” I was getting also annoyed.
Then his voice seemed calm again: “It is true that at the beginning I loved it, but when I became old, I neglected immortality, because it was a ridiculous illusion, an empty word.” There was a long pause. Then he continued. “Don’t fret yourself. You will understand what I am saying once you will die. You are still thinking with an mortal mentality. You are still in the world of images; for you everything must be represented, shown, declared, explained. Above all the seamy and the sordid.”
An undertow of friendliness was revolving around our discussion, as if we were in the same boot, and he was trying to save me from a terrible doom. This atmosphere touched me to the state of self-awareness; I knew that he had no intentions of helping me.
“I suppose that you will not help me with my story.”
“You suppose right. I want to save you from your bad intentions. Because I know that you will be tempted by the Icon like I was. Therefore, I will not suggest you another room for your whereabouts. You should simply leave this place.” The Hemingway priest had talked, and what was left for me to do, was simply to leave, without saying anything else.
I turned around, and I saw that a passage had opened; the smoke had moved, as if it was scattered to fragments; in the midst of the debris I could see my way out. I hurried to the door, afraid of its imminent closing. As I almost reached it, I felt a vague shadow behind me touching my back benevolently.
I closed the door. I was sure that the smell of alcohol was probably gone, although I couldn’t tell, because I was inured to it.
I recalled one of Oscar’s quotes, and decided to change it for the occasion: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us like it there!”
I strolled in the hallway, adrift in my reverie of what I had just experienced. Was I thinking more about my unfinished, and actually not even began story, or rather the entities of this place, in particular the last one? I didn’t know.
The more I wander, the more I felt tense. I had the opportunity of having Knowledge, but it was escaping, as soon as I took a grip on it. As a matter of fact everything appeared fugacious; the palace itself was slippery, indefinable. Although the palace was made out of defined and solid material, and it was designed in a Doric style, it played sly optical illusions, leading me to think that it didn’t have an end: I could see the end of the hallways, but I couldn’t get there…also the rooms, in their finite, were endless. It was a finite in its infinite, which obviously didn’t make sense, but the palace seemed to be mother of itself, in the sense that, as a paradoxical matryoshka, the big palace had hallways, these always had rooms, and these rooms seemed to contain the entire palace. Therefore, even without having tried, I predicted that in every room there should have been another door, other than the one I always took, and that the other door would have brought me to the main entrance, the portal; or moreover, it would have brought me to another place tout court. It was just an impression that, however, touched probability to the extent of certainty, from there to the extent of insanity.
I drifted until I bumped into something. Abruptly, I was stolen from my absorption, making me quite unbalanced, between annoyance and complete disorientation.
“Are you the person, who saunters around this dump?”
My eyes moved from the floor gradually up, until they found the man’s face.
The hesitation I had, was due more to his straightforwardness, than to surprise.
“Yes. And who are you?” I decided to use the same direct tone.
“I am Thomas Eliot.”
It was curious to grasp his relaxed ways, as if we knew each other. He went on: “I noticed that you were, not long ago, in Hemingway’s den”.
That was right, I answered. Then I asked him whether he had followed me or he had just happened to see me coming out of the room.
“Both. But who cares for explanations. Let’s not be fussy. Instead, tell me what did you think about old Ernest. Although the general indifference, I might say that every body here is worried about him.”
“I still hadn’t had the time to think much about it at all. He is as strange as any other person here.”
“This is your personal opinion. Even so, I wanted to tell you that Hemingway was seduced by the singing of his own image, rather than by the languid voice of death.”
“This could be.” I feebly said.
“Not could, it is. He was eaten by his on food. Besides, with all his endeavor to produce great books he has done a great but meaningless job, because -it is time to say it loud and clear- reading about Hemingway is one thousand times more fun and enlightening, than reading Hemingway.”
I was ashamed of the truth of this sentence. Yet, I thought I needed to contradict him; I had the duty to defend Hemingway’s honor.
“It is true that the most important thing for Hemingway is to be Hemingway. Nevertheless, he has separated himself from his face. He had the courage to overcome his tragedy.” I said.
After my statement, Eliot should have been apologetic; he should have felt like an insensitive, a crass and coarse person. But no…he was more persistent!
“You see in his action something noble…you are naïve. When Hemingway arrived here, after his death, he decided to toss his physical aspect, in order to be more unique than what he was in life. He realized that the body is a motif, which doesn’t change among people. It is a motif that bonds us all together in fraternity. To have a face means also to have a name, which are both commonplace. Hemingway hates faces, because they remind him of the equality in insignificance! Did he actually see you?”
“No, I don’t think so”, I quickly answered.
“That is better. He would have regarded your face as muck”.
Despite his eloquence, I wasn’t convinced. I had more to argue against.
So I started by asking: “Why should he seek for uniqueness in the body, when he already has it in his mind, in his ideas?”
“You are more naïve than I thought. You think that the people are more unique than ideas, that is to say people can create their own ideas in order to be unique, or what?!”
“Yes!” I tenaciously confirmed.
“Ahahah. The people are many, and the ideas are few. Why do you think I have always proclaimed that a real artist robs ideas, and doesn’t just imitate them? The artist must take pure ideas, not the ones he tries to befoul by counterfeiting. All this means that ideas were before man. Ideas are a primary source at the disposal of every one!”
This time, his platonic view struck me. Did good literature originate directly from these pure ideas, these archetypes? Who was allowed to use them…every one he said. But would godly ideas give themselves to anyone or would they pick their favorite? I didn’t want to ask.
This postulation was recurrent among these artists, but it appeared that a part of the reflection was missing, thus I tried to complete what he had said:
“Who decides the uniqueness of the artist? We have not spoken about it. At any rate, this is an easy question, which, nonetheless, hides a diabolic mechanism.
We both know that the artist has a public, on which he depends. This public judges the artist, but more importantly, this public remembers the artist, the artist’s name and the artist’s concepts. This means that those concepts will always have that specific name, which is memorized in the literary story. Consequently, writers who robbed, were punished by the public and by the critics; D’Annunzio is one of the best examples.”
“Your flaunty syllogism is fallacious. It is clear that you see literature as a series of virtuosities, which were made to be judge by a seedy critic. But, unfortunately for you, literature is not an arabesque, it is not a sophisticated jeu, in which the mannerism is displayed! Literature has an aim, which is the creation of an independent universe parallel to the existing one, but with the only difference that this humanly created universe is absolute, and the tangible one is relative. Here you are in the universal truth. Once you go back to the everyday, the experienced you have achieved here will be worth as much as any other prosaic information.”
He looked at me gravely, like a pedagogue in front of a dimwit scholar. I was wrong, he was right. There wasn’t much to do about it. I nodded, showing him that I understood his lesson.
“Thank you for clearing these ambivalent arguments”.
“As long as you like to hear what I have to say. You see, we are here to guide you, but many times this place is no more than a chattering drone.”
“A very interesting chattering drone.” I answered.
“Drones are always interesting, if the person is able to pick up the core of what is said.”
Then, he looked around. “I must go now. I must see my fried Ezra. Oh, yes, for your story, I suggest you to go to room 603, sixth floor, right wing. I’m sorry to leave you all alone”
“No problem.”
He left, while I started toward the room.
Up, up, up to the top. The never-ending stairs were producing a crawling ache in my legs. Up, up, up to the top. The more I climbed the stairs, the more I was sure I was going to find Beatrice at the landing. Up, up, up to the top. The hyperventilation was transforming my body in an acid block, through the loss of the carbon dioxide in my blood. I was thinking nothing. My eyes were looking nowhere.
Finally, I arrived to the sixth floor. I had to turn right and walk a little, until I arrived to the right door. 603: Milan.
I had no idea that Eliot wanted to send me to a city. Despite that, I knocked on the door for politeness (you never know!).
“Come in, come in. You know that you are allowed. Don’t be always obsequious.”
His voice had a strong exotic accent. I went into the room.
“Hello” I said.
“Again these civilities?”
“I am sorry, I can not help it.”
“Ok. Let’s get to the point.”
He was solemn. The way he talked was like a beheading guillotine. The atmosphere made me rigid. I simply agree.
“Why are you her?” he continued.
“I am here for inspiration. I am where the muses dwell.”
“Stop it with this betise! You are not here to be inspired. You are here for affirmation!”
“How dare you! Who are you to say that I am here to affirm myself?”
“Milan Kundera: a creation of you perverted mind.”
It was too much… “What do you mean with this? My creation? At last, the craziest of all: Milan Kundera! Have you gone completely insane?”
He turned his back to me. “You want to say that you are a simple traveler in these idyllic estate?”
“Sure. I asked the doorman, if this was a dream of mine. He answered me that it was a dream, but not mine.”
“Oh, you put Borges at the door. I don’t want to imagine what your unconscious wants to symbolize with this, but apparently it doesn’t want to contradict itself, or more specifically, it doesn’t want to confuse you.”
“You want to say that this is the result of my unconscious? What rubbish!”
“Do you know my name? Have you read something written by me?”
“I have”.
“You should know also that I am a contemporary writer”. What disgusting grin he made!
“So you aren’t dead; is that what you want to tell me? You want to say that it is incongruous for you to be here, that here only the dead writers reside?”
“I am sorry to inform you, that this place is not the source of literature, but a place, a dream, originated from a presumptuous wannabe-writer. You thought that being in the Parnassus meant being qualified as a writer.”
I didn’t answer or contradict him. I wanted him to continue…
“You needed to put together a educational trip, from one writer to the other, to be accepted, to become one of them. Therefore, you put in their mouths words that you read from them, in order to elevate what you think, and to elevate what you are doing. But what you didn’t realize, is that everything that was said was a banality; plain dull!”
“This does not make sense. Why did my mind stage such a complicated dream, just to be ruined at the end?...and by such a disagreeable person?!”.
He enjoyed my insult, and continued to talk with more pleasure than before.
“It is simple. You know that writing means being forced to write. You are aware that the real writers wrote because they had to, because they were compelled by a mysterious energy. You, however, didn’t feel at all this imperative; hence, to call yourself “writer”, you had to force yourself to write. The result of your self-imposed dictate is this dream.”
“Well, if everything you said is true, is there a difference between the two impositions? I think that it is the same thing at the end.” I said smartly.
“Of course, it is different! You can’t create something great; you can’t touch the absolute. You are simply unauthentic.”
I hoped that he was wrong. I hoped that it was just a mistake. “You are wrong”.
“Am, I?”
“Yes, because if it’s true that this dream originates from my mind, then it would mean that I feel the flow of literature. For this dream is a postmodern dream, and postmodernism is a literary movement!”
“Oh my god. Are you so desperate to become a writer? Postmodern dream…what are you going to say next?! Don’t you realize that you dream is not postmodern, but postmortem?! Every writer in this story is dead, and I am 79 years old. I am one of the last ones able to still reach the true source. I am truly able to reach the Parnassus. I have the possibility to see Kubla Khan. For you, there is no hope, because literature is dead, and your dream demonstrates it. You are out of poetry’s border, literature’s border! That’s why you were so attracted by the black around this palace.”
I woke up violently.
I had slept with my head on the table. My table full of books.
I threw those books on the floor. I was disgusted by them.
I wanted to go for a walk. I put my jacket on. I opened the door, and went out in the cold night.
I wanted to saunter in the world, where thesis, antithesis and synthesis didn’t exist. I wanted to glide in the freedom of the confusing universe. I wanted to flow in the evanescent anonymity of the night, beyond the borders of poetry.
I was a useless ghoul in the estate of insignificance.

The eternal return

The street was empty a minute ago. Now a purple van is driving on it. The van’s motor is making an acute noise. The van honks. Again nothing.
Thomas opens his eyes instantly. His deep green eyes with brown outlines stare straight forward to the brown shelf full of books.
The sun is shining in Thomas’s room. From the ceiling the early cold light comes down on him, it warms his body; the deep sun does not illuminate his right cheek, it is covered by a shadow.
He turns and looks up. Near the skylight there is a mockingbird that blocks the rays. Thomas is peering at the animal with crazy eyes. A whisper is coming out from his mouth, it is saying “I am going to kill that bird” and in the instant he finishes the sentence soft-packed snow falls off the tree branch on the bird. The bird flies away.
He woke up suddenly, but he still has a turbid remembrance of what he dreamed.
It was a strange dog that had a woman’s face and it was walking in a green forest.
Like a sphinx it was telling him the secrets of his life, the secret to what he wanted. To thank the dog-woman, Thomas recited a poem in a clear manner, a fresh French poem, elegant, flagrant and significant. In that dream his mouth was like a fountain that poured fine wine. From his mouth beautiful words were flowing. The harmonic sound was stirring a sudden feeling of saudade in the dog’s soul and echoed an image of the place where she was born, an old port where the sea was gray all year around.
Mais, de toute façons, maitenant il oublie.
Thomas can’t get up, he feels numb, like if he is stuck in a hole he is not able to get out of. He decides just to fall out of the bed slamming his face on the floor. Oh!
He is drowsy. Standing up he feels a headache.
There are clothes all around the room, on the floor. Draws aren’t shut and dirty plates are leaning dangerously on the night table.
The door is ajar. He walks through the apartment to the bathroom. Light bulb burns. His sack is full. He releases his piss. The steam evaporates from the stool. The smell of ammoniac slams in his face. It is morning.
Another day is starting. In the kitchen he toasts his bread and prepares everything for breakfast. It is time to wake up Philip, he thinks. Then he decides to call Philip.
“God you sleep as much as a newborn. Get up!”
But wait. Shhh….Not late he realizes that outside there is an impossible noise. He hears trumpets, drums, flutes and violins playing. It is a mess. Contorting melodies are colliding with willing tones and together they are making Carnival. He can’t still believe that it is finally arrived. The preoccupation and the wrinkles were gone from his face.
He sits in front of Philip. He senses that his friend is grumpy, he didn’t sleep well at all and for this reason he is going to get mad.
He never likes Philip during the mornings because he is too naturalistic; he represents raw reality, uncivilized behavior, the clear showcase of emotions and therefore a dramatic insignificance. All this revolts him. But it is only in the first hour of the morning. Surprisingly he notices with pleasure that Philip is constraining himself to hide his crude soul.
To underline his effort, Philip smiles and starts talking.
“How did you sleep?”.
“Bad people always sleep perfectly”.
“I think you pretend that you are worse”
“We all have our vanities”.
“Just beautiful people or people that deal with beauty can afford vanity, because beauty is the only virtue for which one should be proud of. As a matter of fact if vanity is the daughter of pride and pride should be the daughter of beauty, I can’t understand why Jews and gays are so proud of being what they are. I don’t think that minorities are beautiful, on the contrary!” Philip storms.
“Well considering your biography, I reckon that if vanity isn’t for everyone than hypocrisy certainly is”.
Philip thinks a moment about it and then understands that it is better to change the subject: “Sacrebleu, thank god we aren’t drinking milk. I hate milk. Can you imagine putting in one’s mouth that liquid? Milk is like pee. I don’t understand people who drink it and don’t drink piss as well.”
“People drink so many things…if they don’t care of most of the things that happen in their life, do you think they care of what they put in their body?
Anyway that is why We eat toast and drink coffee!”
“People some time care of what they put in their body…”
Thomas still hears the music outside and then looks at Philip, wondering if he is also conscious about it: “Do you know what day is today? Guess…can’t you hear the uproar? The sound of happiness and of frenzy?
“Oh yeah, I forgot that today is carnival. Finally every body is normal for some days. I am so happy that I will have the chance to be respected today, together with my dyed hair. Now I can feel the carnival, it is coming to my head like Gin.”
While Philip is saying this he is approaching the fridge. He puts his hands and then his head in it and comes out with a bottle of liquor. He unscrews the tap and pores the alcohol in his coffee.
“I would like to see it this year. I mean, I would like to watch the parade with all the allegorical trucks, all the masks and all the people walking up and down the street trying desperately to get some candy from the caravans. People these days would do anything for absolutely nothing.”
Thomas listens and sighs “Haven’t they always. Just think of the men that would do anything for a woman”.
“Yes that is what I mean. And for a woman who is worth something, they ignore her because they think she isn’t respectable. Poor women, they have to be dull to be considered…the world was done for boredom and not for fun”, Philip bitterly giggles while saying this.
“Well because those kind of women are never jealous of their husbands, and a man feels like a loser if nobody is jealous about him. But at the end those are the women who love the most”.
“What can I say…love is never fair”.
“Speaking of love. I love the carnival, because during this period it is evident that when people are foolish they believe in something serious and important whereas when they are serious, that is almost always, they adore the obsolete. So please, won’t we go see it? I want to have fun.” Thomas is seriously almost on his knees, he means it, he wants to go eagerly.
Philip simply replies: “We will see!
The weather is not bad at all, it seems it’s going to be a nice day. We could dress up and for once be like the other.”
Thomas is so exited his voice is high pitched, “This is certain. I will at last satisfy my passion for dress up, for make up and most of all my passion for the artificial”.
Philip answers: “I thought that those passions were well gratified every day of the year!” and then walks towards his bedroom.
It is Thomas’s turn to clear the table and wash the dishes. He touches the glasses, he drinks what remains of the gin and then he puts everything in the dishwasher.
He is distracted for a moment by a thick empty glass, but to him that moment seems much longer than what objectively it is, to him it seems like a little eternity in which he doesn’t think of anything, he is just completely detached, almost in another world. Then when he turns back to his task wondering if he reached the nirvana in that moment of nothing.
He puts away the marmalade and the butter in the fridge. It is chilly in the apartment. We should have turned on the heaters, he thinks. He goes to the sofa and takes in his hand a sweater, puts it on.
He recollects that he is supposed to be preparing himself for the celebration. While strolling along the walls of the hall he reflects on where he put his costume, and all the gadgets that go with it. How delightful it was going to be to have once more the costume on, to blow once more the horn.
He reaches his room and slides in. Looks around. He gazes at the closet. The costume is on the left side of the first drawer.
Yes, it is exactly there, beautiful, radiant, the white still vivid, it looks like it’s as new as the first time he wore it, actually as if he never wore it. New.
With his fingers he caresses the fabric, after every touch he is more and more frolic. His shoulders are trying to escape the t-shirt sending his arms up pointing at the ceiling; now it is the turn of the pants, which button by button go loose on the floor.
He then zips the one-piece white outfit carefully, laces the large white collar, sticks on his head the little black hat and puts on his shoes.
He trots to Philip’s room to see if he is ready.
“Are you dressed up?”
“Well I am not certainly naked.”
“I mean are you prepared for the carnival?”
“No, not still. I was watching a movie.”
“A movie?! What movie?”
“It’s the biography of an artist.”
“I hate these stories. They never have anything to say. It is better to remember them for what we think they may have done, if they have done something. Artist are always good in the making believe and if they are not then they aren’t artists…it’s their only job.”
“Well I personally love to catch a glimpse of mediocrity.”
“If you like mediocrity than it is easy in your eyes to be a work of art.”
“Yes. Everybody strives to be improbable. And who is incredible tries to be normal. That’s why I like probable things. They are more original”.
“They try, but they can’t be normal. But anyway what none sense! I don’t agree with what you say, and what is worse, I am positive that you are sure of what you have just said”
“You wouldn’t want us to fight, Thomas, would you? You don’t want me to have fun at all. I love fights because they are always vulgar.”
“If you love vulgar things I shall buy you a mirror for Christmas”.
“That would be a change. It would be the first time you ever bought me something for the holidays!”
So they booth sit on the bed and Philip reassumes the movie.
It is late afternoon and the movie just finished. There is still the weak bright light outside, but the sun is reaching its nadir while the party is at its zenith.
Philip reminds that there is a party to go to.
Thomas irks listening to his friend’s words and then states with a snort: “I am already ready. It’s you! Look at you!”
“Ok, ok you are right, I’ll be ready in a jiff. In the meantime you can talk a little.”
“Well what should I talk about? “
“Just turn around that wheel I have beside my desk. Don’t you see all the topics it has? I usually use it when I am supposed to write something and I don’t have the slightest idea of what to write about.”
“Such a smart escamotage. At least your stories are really based of the fate and not on your taste.”
“Yes, lets say that I have a religious vision of writing.”
Thomas spins the wheel. The wheel stops on a blank space.
Thomas doesn’t understand. “What does this mean?”
“Oh, it’s suggesting to leave the story and starting another one.”
“Or maybe the wheel has a brain of its own and knows that they are so rubbish that you should give up entirely in the first place. Have you ever thought of that?”
“Yes I have, machines are always more intelligent than humans. We will probably be at their service one day.”
“So if you think it’s right why did you start writing in the first place, weren’t you conscious of your situation?”
“Nay, I always was convinced that since I didn’t like books I should have wrote some myself.”
“You should have thought from the beginning that what ever you would have achieved it surely wouldn’t be a book or anything of that sort.”
Philip is all set; he has his black masque on and his club. He towers over Thomas by two hands and his Harlequin costume makes him look even taller.
Before they could leave the house Thomas suggests to read loud a “Commedia dell’arte” so they would be in the mood. Philip nods.
The darkness tiptoeing in the apartment encourages the lateness of the two friends. But they don’t pay attention and after the comedy, they inform themselves about the weather. Another hour is passing and they are still in front of the TV.
Thomas isn’t in the mood. Philip says that they would go tomorrow.
“It’s going to be for at least three days anyway.”
“Yes, and it’s always fashionable to be late. It will teach those people to long for us with all their dedication”.
Philip wants to watch the news on the television. Thomas on the other hand advances to his bedroom. He wants to read, maybe, he thought, that would help him sleep.
He can never rest in peace, because his sleep is too light. He wants to stop thinking, he wants to fall asleep as fast as possible, but his mind is his enemy. He feels tired of not being able to satisfy his exhaustion.

On bikes they are riding around. The ground is wet, gray and brow. The sky is livid, high and presses them; it makes it impossible to ride because of its weight. The sun isn’t shining, it can’t be seen at all, there is a strange light, like between twilight and dawn, everything is tarnish.
As a matter of fact it is difficult to move and a boy falls into the gelid water of the artic sea. He stops. He gets of his bicycle and runs toward the spot where the boy has fallen. He digs his arm in the cold water, but he can’t reach for the boy. His arms are full of spikes. He looks down and notices that there is no boy anymore. Now there is a hedgehog that is drowning. Again he tries to rescue it and although he is once more pierced, he gets the animal out of the water.
The hedgehog is dying, closed into a ball. He tries to warm it putting against his chest, but nothing happens. Golgotha!
Philip awakens. He is not sure if he has yelled that word or the word was just banging against his mind; engraved.
A flivver passes fast in the street. Fast without a stop.
Philip looks out of the window and he sees an old purple Volkswagen rushing to get somewhere. How impudent he thinks.
The birds are singing outside, on the cherry branches that are full of new pink blossoms. As Philip lifts his window open, a fresh spring breeze comes in. The smell of it makes him feel dirty.
A part from the wind there is no other sound, just silence. A long deep loud silence. He can’t bear it. He is breathing once more. It’s a day like any other and as any other it starts.
He goes to the bathroom washes his face and neck. Today he didn’t hear Thomas yell. “Maybe I woke up before him”.
As usual the table is prepared for breakfast and as usual Thomas has waken up before Philip. They both sit down without saying a word.
Philip pores cereal in his bowel and then milk.
“I love cereal, it makes me feel like a kid again”.
“Yes, and the milk reminds you of a idealistic golden age in which milk and honey come from a fount”.
“Precisely!”
Thomas observes him with a sneer on his face. Philip doesn’t notice this and continues talking, while thinking of other things. His head is empty. He his thinking what he is supposed to do today. He feels like a colander, everything he studies comes away from him and nothing remains. He is left behind and thinks he has to do it again and again. Nothing will ever deposit itself in his mind, he is just fried air, he always feels as light as a feather. He isn’t like Thomas, Thomas is completely the opposite everything would deposit in his mind everything that he wants to learn but nothing would come out. It would just remain there in a hermetic manner. But still Philip prefers Thomas’s situation to his. His lightness is very very heavy. That’s why most of the time he feels like nothing and he has to do many things to compensate for what he doesn’t have, his mind is his enemy.
Then after a short silence Philip decides he has to say something, he has to stuff the time or it will pass with nothing in it. Time is like a container and he has to fill it up. It comes to him:
“Are we going to go to the carnival today?”
“You really want to go?”
“Yes”.
“Well then we have to dress up.”
“Will you be helpful? Could you help me with the make up today I want to make my face completely white.” Said Philip.
“I have to be useful?”
“Well for a change, yes.”
“Why don’t you help me with my bedroom?! I haven’t cleaned it since ages.”
“I am too much useless to give the good example.”
“Well I could confess to you anything, a part from may usefulness.”
“Than what are we going to do?!”
“I don’t know anyway…what ever, who cares!
“You couldn’t care less, huh?!”
“No, I am superficial”.
“Then you are a saint!”
They are laughing, but underneath it all Philip really believes what he just said, he is kind of superficial but not in a standard way, no.
First of all he always feels numb he never feels clearly emotions.
He is simply disgusted by the seriousness of everything, how can you be serious when everything doesn’t make sense? And Thomas is of the same opinion.
Thomas thinks that picturing oneself as superficial means much more than trying to be something else.
“Let’s just prepare ourselves and we will see.”
Totally baffled they start drifting to their respective rooms and after awhile they come out.
“Let’s look at each other in the big mirror.” Thomas suggests.
As they do the reflections of a Pirrot and of a Harlequin come back to them.
One looks sad, the other one looks cheeky, but you can’t really tell who is sad and who is cheeky even though the symbols of their masks are clear.
“Lets play musical chair.” Philip is hyper.
“How?”
“Wait and see…”
Thomas puts one chair in the middle of the room and he plays music, loud music. Wagner.
They are twirling around like idiots. And they do it another and another time.
They eat again.
It is night again. Another day has passed.
Thomas seems worried. He turns his contorted face toward Philip and he asks:
“It’s to late to go to the carnival today. It’s late. Do you think we will make it tomorrow?”
“I hope”.
“I don’t want to be a slave, I don’t want to hope”.
“Don’t be ridiculous”.
“I am always, but not when I say I don’t want to hope. Hope makes me more ridiculous than what I already am”.
In Philip’s mind a stone falls. “Don’t think about it. We will go tomorrow”.
“I think we don’t have any will”, with this Thomas closes the conversation.
They go to bed.
Philip is craving for sleep. He isn’t tired, but he needs oblivion and when he sleeps he achieves it. Every time he goes to bed it’s like dying a little. All his senses are dead.
Finally peace.


Her clock was ringing. It was six in the morning. She got up.
She made herself a coffee to start the day.
She took her daily shower.
She picked up her keys and she left the apartment.
Elevator to the garage. She walked slowly to her car, she wasn’t in a hurry. She opened the door of her car and hopped in.
Outside it was cloudy. Nobody was out. It was quite a warm day.
Her violet Volkswagen was making a terrible noise, maybe she should have went to repair it. The car drove passing all houses. It was going to be a big day today. It was the day of her party.
She wanted to arrive to her shop, open it, make business, close it early and return home to prepare the dinner for all her guests.
And that was what she did.
In here flower store many people came in that day. Some wanted roses for their loved ones some wanted chrysanthemums for the dead.
In the meanwhile, between clients, she would do flower compositions, very ascetic and stiff, without any passion.
The day was over, at least that day ended at four o clock in the afternoon.
She rushed home in her purple van. She wanted everything to be perfect.
She went upstairs. Her husband still wasn’t home, even though she warned him to come back earlier. She would start by herself.
She went to the kitchen and started her meals. Fresh ravioli with panna and with flakes of truffle. Veal stakes down on her little grill. Delicious. And her masterpiece the Schwarzwalder cake, directly from Bavaria.
She could hear a key turning. It was her husband.
He was supposed to be preparing the dining room for her party much earlier before, so she scolded him. Her birthday party. Her forty-second birthday party.
How wonderful it was all going to be, above all because she made an accurate list of the guests. Just 15 close friends, the ones she really liked. This year she wasn’t in the mood to play any part in her own house, therefore she wanted to be a comfortable as possible.
While she was moving through the apartment, she took a glimpse out of the window.
“Again!!”
Her husband, frightened, turned around and he saw her wife pointing out of the window.
“Look they are always there”!
“Who?”
“Those two crazy men that always wear the carnival costumes and stay all day in the their house. I don’t want that my guest sees them”.
The husband was perfectly calm and reasonable: “ Just close the drapes!”
“Yes, but its such a lovely night”
“Well what do you prefer: fright or night?”
“Why do you think they always do such strange things?”
“I don’t think there is much difference between what they do and what we do.”
“Yes there is.”
“Maybe you are right, they do it in a surreal manner.”
“None sense.”
“Yes, that is precisely what I mean.”
She was perplexed.
He was continuing: “Or maybe they just can get out of that house. They are in their own prison…like everybody else.”
They didn’t speak much more about those two.
The preparation was finished and the guests were already arriving.
It turned out to be a fabulous party.

Maybe she's born with it

Smack. The mirror reflects blood red lips. Slash. The eyelashes are decorated with mascara. Puff. The face becomes a vivid pink thanks to powder. Fever! The glossy little radio sings Ella.
She was carefully painting her visage; she was more perfect than a photograph, well blown up. Every body could have look at her for hours.
Indeed Sam was observing her with all the interest an eight year-old girl could have..
She was alive and gold and she should never grow old, Sam thought.
“It’s night, Sam you should go to bed. I have a cab coming to bring me to the disco scene. I’ don’t want to be late!”
Sam nodded without saying anything. Her mother was going dancing and that was sacred.
Now the little girl was alone in her dark room. But she wanted to start her own party, so she turned on the lights, switched on the music, her hectic small feet running in her mother’s bedroom and stopping in front of the maquillage mirror. She put on everything she could reach out for, all of her friends. She wasn’t alone anymore.
“Welcome home lip gloss and rouge, come to me!”
Sam knew she wasn’t allowed; the last time her mother found out she got slapped across the face.
However Sam was hearing the rhythm of “Le freak, so chic” in the air, she couldn’t resist. There was an atmosphere and her face changed to a freaky look; she was a comfortable comic figure.
Power, energy, glory these were the keywords when she was wearing make up. She was unstoppable; the momentum of the strokes of her eyeliner built the instant into insanity.
Smash. The mirror reflects a little girl suddenly fallen asleep on the floor. Uff. Mother comes back home, sees her, has a secret tantrum and leaves her on the carpet. Wow. Too much make up.
The next morning Sam’s cereal was getting sluggish, she was watching TV and was distracted by Grace Jones’s face on the Morning show.
“She was at Studio 54 too yesterday night, naked”.
“Louise darling, a woman is never naked”, Sam, blushing, answered back trying to imitate her mother’s agent.
Louise wasn’t of the same opinion, she thought it was a fun idea, but she just continued with her chat:
“I was travolting with Bianca, Margo and Liza, when Scavullo came up to me, asked if he could take a picture, then I instantly posed. I will finally have my break through.”
The little girl rolled her eyes. She understood the antiphon.
As expected her mother never made the cover of any magazine and for sure not with Scavullo’s photos. In the meantime anyway she met a man that made her fall in love.
Or that is what she said, but the reality was that she had many men and many proposed to her. She had at her feat at least seven man-prototypes a woman could dream of (Sam synthesized them into these categories); the Charming, the Handsome, the Rich, the Famous, the Smart, the Sensitive and the Real-Man, all of them on the palm of her hand, all of them would have done anything for her, she just had to choose who would do it. But she wasn’t much of a decider. She wanted that the whole group would be at her service, one for every emotional state.
Louise wanted to create her own little harem, she wanted to overturn the custom of the one presided by males. She was the new female. She was the alpha-female.
However this didn’t last long, because eventually her passionate emotional state took over the others.
She found herself knocked up, with only one guy being guilty (in her opinion it was a crime). That man was the Real-Man.
Real-Man in many senses, first of all because he responded to every stereotype a man carries and secondly because his testosterone was very high, to the point in which almost every time he had sex, with or without condom, he would score big time. Well this was evident. He was also very caring and these just made the situation unlivable.
Obviously Louise forced the man to marry her because she was scared she would remain completely alone. BAD CHOICE.
So the period started. A seven years long period. Those seven years in which the marriage, the fights, the A.A. meetings and the divorce took place one after the other.
After those seven years Louise, the beauty queen, was completely broken inside as well as in her bank account.
Her friends, all those crazy people, the fashion pack, the people you saw in the magazines, the ones that smiled always in their limousines, the ones that were going out only at night were a very far mirage.
Yes, Louise had changed. She let her self go, because over time she failed everything. She had fucked up her modest career as publicity star after presenting herself drunk and high and with “some” pounds too much. Her marriage and her money were out the window after she started hitting the former “Real-man” with vodka bottles. She had drunken everything, all her resources.
In other words she was everything a person would expect from a fallen “meteorite”, a person longing for fame and getting burned.
But why did this happened Sam couldn’t explain it. She guessed that probably the day, the everyday had won, had overwhelmed her mother. She was disgusted by her mother’s surrender. Surrender first of all to the great pleasure of civilization, which for Sam was a metaphor for life that meant everything.
By letting her beauty go, her mother let her life go with it. Her mother became slack with time repudiating her body and therefore her soul.
“I don’t understand why you care so much about your external appearance? Anyway it will fade soon. What you are living is fake, an illusion, listen to me, I had made the same mistake. But don’t worry, you will have my same destiny and you should be happy since I am your mother!”
Sam sighed to the idea. She didn’t answer what probably wasn’t even a provocation.
A very common scene in their life together: Louise would invite home her new friends, who she met at the dry cleaning she was working at. They would play strip poker, get naked and then tease Sam for her make up mania and her prudery.
Her mother arrived at the point to fart and not care about it, moreover she would laugh.
Sam viscerally hated them. She was embarrassed by her mother’s behavior and she thought that if she stayed there much longer she would become as vulgar as her mother&friends.
She didn’t stay long enough for that to happen, because in that period she was working as a make up artist on Broadway and she was then proposed to go to Hollywood for a good job. She went, with one big suitcase. She left. She finally had escaped.
Well fate was initially good to Sam: she became quickly known for her perfect skills and knowledge, she got a scholarship to study cosmetics and she landed a job as a counselor at a very big make up company. At one point she had enough money to open her own cosmetic industry. A small one.
Nevertheless she could still feel the phantom of her mother, of what her mother represented. Even a thousands miles away she could fell her mother’s deadly breath on her neck. She could still feel the fear of becoming like her. Of letting go. She was scared of the vertigo.
She dreamed more and more often of being in front of a precipice where the dark was calling her, was telling her to fall. Everything she had created was weighing so much on her shoulders. The only solution was to fall, to jump into the nothing, in a vortex of oblivion that would destroy one by one all her past beliefs.
It would inebriate her, she would experience the loss of senses, the loss of reason and judgment, she would be finally light in the stupor of obscurity.
She too could go around naked with her girlfriends touching each other’s tits to see who had the biggest ones. She wouldn’t be anymore unsure and ashamed of her body and all the things it stood for.
That call to the annulment, to the cancellation, to the denial was close. It was a cozy idea that followed her everywhere.
However fate played again a great role in her life, maybe a horrible one, or maybe the one of her savior depending from which prospective.
As any other day, Sam went down town to her offices. At the top of the pile of letters on her desk there was an envelope that struck her the first moment she entered the room. She opened it. Written on the back was a lawyer’s office address.
Her heart was pounding. She knew what the letter meant. She put it down, went toward the phone, picked up the receiver and dialed a number.
The trial against her company started. She was accused of producing cosmetics that contained lead that caused a group of angry women and one very angry man to have skin cancer.
Samantha Schonberg Vs. foaming at the mouth ex-costumers.
The case was fast and clean. It was like a guillotine on Sam’s head. She didn’t know how it happened; her head was just off her shoulders.
The “victims” of eyeliner and lip-pencil had won the case. Sam had to pay. She closed her little company. Destroyed.
Irony: Eventually she had to go to the doctor because she had problems of her own with skin.
“You have a Squamous cell carcinoma. It’s skin cancer.
“What can I do about it? Can I take some kind of medicine?”
“I am afraid not. We have to operate because the inner layers of skin are damaged and it won’t be long till your external skin will be attacked.”
“But how is it possible? I used all possible creams, I treat my skin like my only treasure”.
“You were probably born with it. What I suggest for now is that you stop wearing make up until we’ve resolved the problem, because the make up would help the cancer spread due to all the ingredients it is made out of.”
A gasp. She drew her breath in. A tear was forced to stay in the gland.
Samantha was in the boudoir. She was already wearing her nigh-gown.
Her face was horrible, her skin was indescribable. She simply couldn’t look at it. And the worst was that a month after her operation she still couldn’t satisfy her passion. But at the same time she couldn’t stare in the mirror.
Suddenly the whole flashback came to her. A clear image of her past. A photograph of her mother. In her mind she ripped it. She ripped the connection between the two of them.
She felt strong again. Samantha wouldn’t surrender. She didn’t give a shit if she was allowed or not. She knew it would be the medicine. She knew it was the permanent centre of gravity around which she gravitated and nobody would move her.
Smack. The mirror reflects blood red lips. Slash. The eyelashes are decorated with mascara. Puff. The face becomes a vivid pink thanks to powder.
When she was done she turned off the light and went under the silk bed covers.

The day of the dead

"The dog was barking non-stop".
"Well it is twelve o'clock at night, I think it is normal" I replied.
Still frustrated John reinforced his moaning "Is it possible that a dog has to bark at a wall, a supermarket, a swan swimming in the lake and a bicycle?"
I tried to calm him down by telling him that probably the dog was scared at night. "Everything is so silent, so still at night, there is nobody around, you know, Scotty is used to noise and crowds of people, we live in the centre it is normal that he feels a difference between night and day. For sure this is what troubles him. And besides, he did it already many times with me.
John thought about it looking himself into the mirror. It seemed that the dog's barking didn't bother him anymore; he actually looked like he was happy and serene. He then said jokingly "Maybe he saw a ghost. They say dogs can see them. Maybe he saw your father or my brother".
I automatically answered that it could be, without thinking too much about it. Supernatural subjects always upset me since I was a little girl.
We sat down in front of the TV. John put on the DVD he rented, it was a action movie, maybe the new James Bond movie, I can't recall anymore, for me all those movies are quite similar.
After the movie ended he asked me if I wanted a piece of cake with ice cream on it, for which I didn't have the will to refuse, even though I was on a diet.
"Hey John, do you think I gained weight this last weeks?" The same second I asked this rhetoric question, he returned with an "obviously not! On the other hand you look you have lost some pounds!” He knew that he was supposed to say this in order to make me eat that ice cream with the surplus of the cake. And on top of all he wanted me to give him a blowjob the same night, maybe in bed or directly on the couch. He had all these cheeky little ways to persuade me in doing things; he thought I didn’t like it…well he was wrong.
"The ice-cream is great, huh?" he said this with his deep manly voice.
By all means it was delicious. He zapped through the channel to find something that could entertain us before going to bed.
“Is today the second of November?”
He just nodded ignoring me. Then I pinch him “Well the fourth I have a big exam!”
Again he didn’t pay attention: "Nothing is on. I'm not still tired. Let's cuddle a little, come here. I love you." What John said was more like an order that a wish.
I sat up, put my hair back, kissed him and promptly knelt so my head would be in front of his crotch. I perfectly knew he was damn horny. I unbuttoned his pants and gave him pleasure.
He tilted his head back moaning in delight and enjoying his present.
Because I was doing my thing, in these moments I was in the position of asking him whatever I wanted, I told him that tomorrow we would go see my parents and he wouldn't be allowed to complain about it!
Afterwards the lights were on in our bedroom, we still weren't sleeping, we both wanted to read our respective books, because we both had to catch up with our studies; the week had passed without our books being opened not even once and we were going to have exams the next month, before Christmas break. Moreover my English classes weren't going so well and I was expected to write a couple of short stories by the end of the following week.
At last the lights went off. My thoughts didn't, I had a really bad feeling, but I couldn't understand what it was. I tried concentrating on sleeping. I was always flustered when I had problems sleeping, but tonight seemed different, I was particularly agitated. Every little noise bothered me. I could hear the elevator going up and down the apartment building and I started wondering who in the hell was going out at this time of the night. The dog was making strange noises; they weren't growls or barks, rather like very light mewls.
Then John put his arm around me. He notices that I couldn't sleep; it was happening more and more often; his wrap around me was the only way I could relax completely and fall asleep.
My dreams flowed like water, but I didn't feel comfortable in any of them. They were unpleasant.
I woke up. John's arm was still on my shoulder. "Good morning" I said. Nothing. There was a pale November light coming out of the window. John was cold. I was in a drowsy state.
A shriek broke the silence. A shriek of terror and of disgust. I shriek that I emitted. I fell to the floor. I couldn't move. I was paralyzed. An eternity seemed to have been passed from the moment of my shriek to the instant I decided to stand up again. An eternity that was not only of time but also of place. For one eternal second I was in another world. Everything was white.
I got on my feet, trying to resist gravity that was slamming me to the ground. I was up, still dizzy. I stared at the bed now with tears running down my face. The sheets were soaked with deep red blood. John was immobile; his eyes were wide open looking at the wall. His throat was ripped. I ran out of the room. Another shriek. Another blood bath. Another corpse. I couldn't even look at it now. It wasn't anymore Scotty. It was just flesh. I threw up on the floor. Again I felt sick. Again I threw up, this time trying to reach the bathroom.
I woke up in the bathroom, on the floor, in my puck after having passed out.
The telephone was ringing, I ran toward it, refused the call and instead I composed 911. A female operator answered, my voice was trembling. I told her to send someone right away at Emerald dr. 37010. Then, after I replaced the receiver.
The ambulance came, but obviously there was nothing to do. He was dead.
Then, after the ambulance, along came also the police. They wanted to know so many things. They made so many questions. And I couldn't answer one of them. They asked me if they could inspect the apartment, maybe they could find some clues. Then after that they brought me to the police station so the could have their official interrogation and I am still here.”
Isabelle was telling the entire story to her best friend Charlie. She was on the phone with her while with her eyes she was passing the desks full of papers and in front of them the secretaries trying to finish their duties.
Charlie prayed he with impatiens to continue.
“The police left me in a cold room without any furniture, I was tired, I felt I was going to faint. Then an officer came in, sat at the other end of the table I was standing beside. He told me he was sorry for what had happened and then added that they had already found something. They found a story about a murder, exact to the one that happened in my apartment. Every detail, every word, everything, do you understand?!” her voice seemed broken by sighs. Charlie could her that her friend was crying in disbelief and she was also bewildered.
“Well the story was found in my computer. They think I have written it. So they could come any minute here to interrupt this conversation.”
A gasp on the other line revealed the disgust. Charlie didn’t know what to think, but certainly it was a mistake she said. Actually any body could have been in Isabelle’s pc and transferred a file, it would have quite fast and easy, Isabelle just needed a lawyer with square balls so that all this would be forgotten a part from the grief for John she added.
Isabelle toke a big breath than answered: “They are coming now, I guess the conversation won’t be much longer. But before, I want to tell you something I didn’t confess to the police. When I was calling 911 I found on the telephone table a note and it was strange since the table was usually empty. I was still in shock, I didn’t have the power to read it, but something struck me: it was written with blood. So I reached for it, I read it. It said: “Happy day of the dead”. It was written with my handwriting.”
The line gave no signal.

Cinecittà

On the stove the water was boiling, the kettle was whistling. The typical sound of coffee when it is almost ready was dominating the silence of the apartment and the aroma was creeping in the rooms asleep, knocking into the dreaming minds to interrupt their vision.
As usual the mother had to wake up the kids by yelling, but it didn’t bother her, she always thought the more the kids slept the stronger they would get and the more energies they would have.
That day she prepared a lemon cake that was standing on the table waiting to be eaten. She cooked it especially for Maurizio, because she was sure it would be a lucky day, he was going to find a job. It was already a month and a half since he had finished his school and still he didn’t find anything. He was now a grown up and it was time for him to bring dough to the house. Again she started to yell, this time a bit exasperated, nobody still showed up. After a little while she saw the first face, it was Maria, her youngest daughter. “Go wash your face quickly or breakfast will get cold.” Then all the others came out from their dens, with faces swollen from the sleep and with their eyes not still completely open.
They all seated themselves around the table, three children, a young man and their mother. They were all silent looking first at each other and then down at their plates.
Their father wasn’t there, they didn’t hear from him since he went on a trip three weeks ago; after a while, when they sensed he wasn’t coming back at all, the subject never came up again due to their silent agreement. He was now dead as far as they were concerned.
The three younger kids were eating very fast because they risked to lose the only bus that would take them to school.
The mother started to speak to Maurizio about jobs. She hoped that he would get one in a bar or in a shop as a clerk. “Here in Rome it is easy to get tips thanks to all these tourists full of money. Usually their tips are even higher than the pay itself Maurizio.” She said. “Or what about working at an auto mechanic shop? You know that they always need help. Everybody has a car these days.” She smiled and hugged him.
He didn’t care. He wasn’t interested in getting a job at all. Even though his father wasn’t there and it would be more and more difficult for the family to continue paying bills and the help of their grandparents wasn’t going to last forever.
“Don’t worry mother, today I will go to the centre with Ettore and together we will ask around, alright? I am going to eat out so don’t prepare anything for me” he answered.
She nodded approving his idea of going from one place to the other simply asking everyone. But she reminded him that he should be careful not to get an offer mugged by his friend. He should stop being so nice to his friends!
“Yes, yes mother don’t worry”.
Very slowly he got up, he went to the bathroom to prepare himself. He put cologne on his face. Then he went back to his room to dress. It took him at least an hour to get out of the small apartment. But finally out he was. He went down the stairs and he heard the splash of the mops soaked in the buckets from the open doors of apartments. The women were now cleaning unanimously, with rhythmical strokes, now and then brushing back the hair that was in front of their foreheads. They were all dressed in dark clothes despite the heat outside. One after the other they raised their heads when Maurizio passed their apartments, they looked at him and said “Buon giorno”.
Everybody knew each other but above all everybody knew about each other.
Rome was a big city but it didn’t mean that nosy people didn’t exist; on the contrary in those blocks of buildings they were more curious then ever.
He was out of the house now and he went straight to the tabacchi to buy cigarettes, he knew that he would go to the centre in two hours or so, maybe when he was finished talking about soccer with his friends at the bar, with his small cup of coffee. Finally Attire arrived smiling and together they decided that it was time to go.
In the centre they just lazily asked around.
The owner of a bar suggested that it was dumb to disturb working people; they should rather buy a newspaper with all the jobs listed. Indeed they followed the suggestion, they bought a paper, but not a job listing paper, instead a tabloid so they could appreciate the pictures of famous female stars that were in Rome for that week. They were shooting Fellini’s new movie. Maurizio loved Fellini because he used good-looking actresses, the ones he thought about while being in bet.
It was a beautiful September day, with immense sky and with a deep sun.
The centre was a real concert thanks to the clicks of the tourist. They called Rome the eternal city probably because it was completely immortalized, Maurizio thought.
Then they went to villa Borghese looking for their other friends. They went up to via Gabriele D’Annunzio and then they were in front of one of Rome’s most beautiful panoramic views, the Cupola, piazza del Popolo and the entire white landscape of the monuments were in front of their eyes.
Their friends were waiting for them with their scooters running. The girls in the back seat were calling for Maurizio and Ettore.
One of them started to talk: “Hey Maurizio, I heard you father left you mother. I bet he is now fucking another woman, you know I would do the same thing keeping in mind your mother with those sagging breasts and her fat stomach”.
“Fuck you Stefano. Did you see your mother?! Actually you probably didn’t since you are in bed at night and when you get up in the morning she is sleeping because her job was hard. Actually not very hard for her considering her talent, hard was something else let’s hope. I bet that’s how your father met her!”
Everybody started to laugh. Then Stefano changed completely the subject while the girls were talking to Maurizio still giggling.
They wanted to go to that old lady in via Cavour who sold fruit and vegetables he said. It was Maurizio’s turn to rob the money, but he wasn’t in the mood to do it, he felt a little bit guilty thinking about his mother who was convinced that he was looking for a new job. But the pressure was greater.
Scooters rumbling with their acid shrill, after ten minutes they arrived at the shop. The group was waiting outside for him.
They looked inside the window where Maurizio was going to create a commotion. Ettore whispered in his friend’s hear that he shouldn’t do it if he was scared, but on the other hand this simply added to Maurizio’s will. They gave him a knife, Stefano then told him “to do it as fast as possible and don’t make a big mess.”
Maurizio started to walk toward the store with a whole in his stomach.
He went in, at the beginning just looking at the stuff the old lady had and then he yelled straight in her face: “Or your money or your life!”
He wasn’t thinking, his head was hot, his heart bumping fast the adrenalin through his whole body.
In an instant he heard laughter. He turned around and there was an old man with a big smile.
“ You little boys today play in a strange way. When I was young we would play with a ball and certainly not with old women like this one here. We thought that old women were boring. I guess you don’t think the same way. But if you aren’t playing and you are doing it seriously well then I think you are quite stupid. With a knife? Don’t you know that almost every store, even this old woman’s, has a gun in their cash register? Do you want to get killed or what?”
Then looking toward the old woman he asked her: “Iole leave him to me, ok? Don’t call the police please, do it as a favor to me”.
The old woman nodded she was an old friend of his.
In the meantime outside the boys saw this scene, then they heard: “We’ve got him, now we will call the police”. They left. They turned on their scooters and flew away.
Then the man turned back and he noticed Maurizio’s terrorized eyes. He started asking him with a grin: “How old are you?” He learned the boy was 18. “Oh then you are already able to vote. What were they thinking when they legalized the vote at 18 years old!? My god they should put into prison those fucking politicians.” Then he asked the boy if he wanted to take a ride with him. They would go where he was working, to Cinecittà. He assumed that he looked like a boy needing a job.
They were driving fast in the new flaming cinquecento, passing the policemen who were giving road orders to millions and millions of people who trying to get into the city in order to do something. All together they seemed an octopus to Maurizio, a never sleeping octopus, always with the same number of enormous tentacles that released a disturbing force. The octopus was nameless, was anonymous and it crystallized Rome since years and years, always with the same noise.
Now they were running along the Tevere; the sun was playing with the tree leaves, mixing its shining rays with the shadows of the leaves causing a fascinating late summer light. Yet Maurizio never noticed these vanities of the city, he just saw the dirt.
The man then opened his small window. A fresh breeze flowed in the car bringing about the salty gold scent of the Dolce vita. The perfume of Rome always gave a sensation of continual holiday.
Maurizio wondered where they were going, he was scared of the man, he knew that something was going to happen but at least he wanted to be paid for it, like so many other times it happened with men that were working in Cinecittà. “They promise gold and honey but the only thing they’ve got is a little bit of money and a lot of stink,” he thought.
Then he complained: “When are we going to do it? I have to be home at a certain hour and I want to do many other things in the meantime.”
The man understood and again he laughed. “Look I dint even ask your name. It doesn’t even matter actually, with this attitude you would give me a fake one. I know you people are scared to dishonor the name of your family, maybe I’ll ask you when you trust me more.”
“Anyway I don’t want sex,” he continued “I have a wife and even though she isn’t the best woman in bed...”
The man looked at the boy to see if he had loosened up a bit. On the contrary, the boy just thought the joke was dull and sad for a married man. Strangely enough Maurizio had some bourgeois values inculcated by his mother, other than that he didn’t have much.
“I work in Cinecittà” the man repeated “and I do movies”. “Do you like movies?”
Maurizio looked the other way, not being interested anymore in what the man had to say, since clearly he wasn’t going to receive any sort of money.
“Well I’ll get to the point, boy. I need an assistant and since I saw you were giving problems I thought you would be perfect on my set.”
The boy was surprised by his proposal, but ignored it and simply answered his question; “ I like the movies that have nice babes, but only those ones. I love to look at boobs that juggle, like in those American musicals where the women, and their breasts, dance, dance and dance. Alas the Americane! Here the women are just good to stay in the kitchen, cooking and churning out babies”
The man laughed and agreed and then said: “Not bad for a start, I like your taste!”
“But there is much more.
They say cinema is the seventh art, an art that include all the others. But people don’t realize that the result is completely different, different for example from the one of theater, even from the great tragedies of the ancient Greek. Cinema is not just an adding, it is real alchemy!
The Greeks wanted a universal euphoria among its people, they craved to become an only thing together, to get lost in the multitude. That is why the theater was compulsory to the entire population, from the free men to the slaves, from the poor to the rich. By all means the state paid who didn’t have the money to go there, so for three days, the Dionysus’s days, everybody had to assist at the plays after which they weren’t anymore able to distinguish reality from invention, because of the thin border between the two. The viewers were mesmerized. They were at the same time in the play, singing in the chorus, losing their reason, leaving all the logical means behind. Every one of them felt like a raindrop in the rain.
Cinema also speaks with a universal language to everyone, but the viewer is detached, he is in a dark room away from the world, silent, thinking. Cinema is also religious, but a silent religion, an own private one. All this is thanks to the syntax of cinema, the montage of the scenes, of the photos, therefore the juxtaposition of emotions. Every viewer senses something completely different from another, and that is the secret. It’s an art in which you cal be lyrical or epical, you just have to decide it yourself. It is you and the art. It is the art of the individual par exellance!
Cinema donates you a new condition for at least two hours, a new personal atmosphere thanks to which you can escape reality and be newly inspired”.
The man was fervent, intense and passionate when he said this, and created a whole thinking process in Maurizio’s mind.
The boy could just understand part of the speech, but at the same time he felt full, he felt energy. He, himself, was going to experience what cinema was, what something was if that is the case, since he never had passions in his life and this was the first time he caught it in another man. The man had opened an entire new universe in front of his eyes, not for cinema per se, rather for the vision of a new life.
Meanwhile the man was so immersed deeply in his speech that he didn’t realize he was going 100 miles per hour. He didn’t realize both that he was in the wrong lane and a car was coming at them. He regained consciousness, he tried to swerve, but it was late.
Not very far from the side of the road a farmer hear a terrible noise, a crash, he turned around and he saw two destroyed cars.
Maurizio looked at the director, his face completely red, then he stared outside with blank eyes and he saw the golden cupola of a church reflecting the sun.
At home the mother was preparing the dough for the fresh pasta. She looked down, pored some water in the flour and then decided to take off her wedding ring.

The charming writer

There was once a boy that didn't really know what he wanted to do when he grew up. He was a very energetic little boy. He always sparkled of an aura everybody loved. He always had a pleasant smile and knew how to laugh about anything, not because he was a dizzy kid, but because he was enthusiastic about everything, about life. Every year he grew older. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven...till he was eighteen. He was always charming, he was still cheerful, exuberant and high spirited. His classmates wanted to continuously stay around him. He was neither a good student nor a bad one, average, but the professors loved him the most. He had the power to make everybody in a good mood. Anything serious and boring people would talk about he would be able to transform in appealing and entertaining. He could speak about everything, from politics to cinema, from gossips to values, never falling in banal prejudges or pre-constructed ideas. Everything that came out of his gracious mouth was full of fascinating folds and interesting wit. His allure was irresistible.
The day came when he had to decide what to do. He was yes one of the most enchanting boys, but he had to do something in life. He didn't know what to do, so he started snooping around, trying to discover what more interested him. So he watched movies, read books, he got informed about news and law, he talked to doctors and engineers. Still he didn't know. He couldn't make up his mind.
There was a terminus, a time lap in which he should have decided. His age was the age in which young men usually go to university.
The time came to choose what school to attend, but still he wasn't sure. He knew he was not good, but neither bad in many things. It wasn't enough. He knew at the same time that the moment wasn't a big problem, he could decide another day, he could give a big rain check to everything. But one day or another he would have to make up his mind.
So he decided to study literature since it wasn't really a decision. He thought that that was a subject that wouldn't limit him. In college he would study philosophy, literature and much more.
The time came when he obtained his degree. This meant the time when he should have started working. He knew so much now and he was more captivating then before. He was an attractive man now.
He started writing. He thought that maybe that could be his path.
He started writing about what he could write.
He had so many projects. He thought about them at night, but he didn't know how to start them. He always talked about them with his friends, his girlfriends and his ex professors. To everybody his projects seemed to be very promising, full of good ideas.
He thought and thought. He talked and talked, and got the positive appreciation of many people, not only they respected him, but also respected his ideas.
Years past. Years past, but he still didn't write a novel or a poem or an essay, nothing of that sort, just projects started.
More years passed, but nothing was wrote, even though he was so enthusiastic about it every time he talked about it. He just thought about writing, but nothing was coming out, nothing that was in his mind was reproduced or represented.
One day, after more years had passed, he realized that he would never write anything. He couldn't.
Today many of his admirers visit him still.
His epitaph reads: "The most charming and delightful writer in literature". He became a legend. He is still now a beautiful myth.

Testamento Spirituale

Signore. Perdonami.
Quel che ho fatto è stato forse un errore, ma non credere che l’abbia fatto per procurarTi dispiacere, anzi è proprio per questo motivo che la decisione è stata enormemente straziante.
Creasti questo mondo in modo perfetto, addirittura dotandoci di una volontà. Eliminasti ogni confine che c’era tra Te e gli uomini. Finalmente noi potevamo sperare nel Tuo amore.
Non più Eros, demone nato dai nostri bisogni più reconditi, ma Carità, il simbolo del nostro debito nei Tuoi confronti direttamente annullato da Te. Rappresenta l’amore disinteressato, diretto e reciproco che tu nutri per noi uomini. Tu che ami gli uomini e lasci che questi ultimi prendano la decisione di fare altrettanto.
Mi donasti la vita, il più grande dono che potessi fare e insieme a questo il libero arbitrio. Allora potrebbe sembrare che io sia stato un ingrato, che Ti abbia voltato le spalle, beffeggiato, schiaffeggiato, tradito con la mia ingratitudine.
Non è così.
So che questo mondo terreno non è per noi uomini; Tu ci ha riservato ben altro. Sono consapevole del fatto che il corpo è soltanto un mezzo, uno strumento per vivere in questo mondo perché quello che conta è lo spirito, la nostra essenza.
So che l’uomo è comunque costretto a perseguire fino alla
fine il suo cammino una volta regalatogli, terminandolo soltanto quando la Provvidenza lo desideri.
So che l’uomo dovrebbe, e quindi anch’io avrei dovuto, apprezzare il mondo materiale, che Tu hai creato specificatamente per i Tuoi figli, senza però amarlo ed esserne attaccato in modo viscerale.
Signore chiedo misericordia.
Quel mio corpo, sudicio corpo, maledettissimo corpo, che tu creasti, avrebbe dovuto rappresentare l’immenso splendore della Tua creazione, ma non era affatto glorioso, splendido, vigoroso, come avrei voluto che fosse per osservare con compiacimento la grandezza di tutto il Tuo creato.
Quel mio corpo non mi aiutava ad avvicinarmi a Te. Mi impediva di fare qualunque cosa, mi bloccava, mi rendeva inetto.
È come se il corpo avesse fermato il tragitto che il mio amore doveva compiere per arrivare a Te. Sono convinto che Tu non riuscissi a sentirlo. Da quanto tempo?! Ormai troppo.
Quel mio corpo mi soffocava, mi imbavagliava, mi paralizzava, ma soprattutto mi imprigionava. Imprigionava la mia essenza, la mia anima, il mio Io.
Io non vivevo. Vivere in una prigione non è vita. Non poter vedere la luce non è aver il soffio della vita.
La mia libertà, tanto agognata, non esisteva. La mia volontà era stata liquidata, subordinata al mio corpo.
Anzi nemmeno subordinata al mio corpo, piuttosto a dei macchinari.
Ero un automa, non ero più uomo, non ero la tua creatura…Mi sentivo umiliato.
Plastica, metallo, elettricità fungevano per la solita magia. La Tecnica aveva rimpiazzato almeno parzialmente la Natura.
Certo, sono riusciti a superara la Provvidenza sulla carta, il mio cuore pulsava, ma dentro ero morto già da tempo…troppo tempo.
Ormai puoi fare ciò che vuoi di me. Sei Tu il supremo giudice. Vuoi mettermi tra i dannati? Tra i violenti contro se stessi? Accetto il Tuo volere senza suppliche. Sei Tu che mi collocherai dove più Ti sembra giusto. Credo nella Tua giustizia.
Quella è stata l’ultima e massima manifestazione della mia volontà in vita.
Per favore accettala.
Ormai l’unica cosa che mi rimane è la Speranza.
Signore pietà.