Elegy for melancholic desires I'm not sad, I'm tired
all I ever wanted. Dowson
myself I have the habit of reading to remember a story long before bedtime. Today I remember a story broken by the death of Italo Svevo where he describes a man of a certain age before going to bed wondering what would happen if the devil was present to propose the usual deal. Fatigue inclines him to surrender his soul, but do not know what to ask in return. Do not want to return to youth, land of folly and drives aimlessly, nor desires eternity because life is painful and tiring and monotonous. As others, afraid of death. The man smiles at the irony void that has led her life. At that time his wife wakes up and says, "Blessed are you you still want to laugh at this hour." The phrase seals the drama in a masterly: the smile of a man with no alternative means no insult or resignation, is the gesture of one who faces the big joke in the world, the point of no return where hope is now impossible. Svevo records the demise of desire.
The desire never reaches its true purpose: it leads to oblivion, to the decay and death. You may wish much and always will be too little. But what we want to always have too. I'm about to sleep and I have no desire. From a practical time now a daily ritual of survival: I think that all the past is reduced immediately when I just live and all the future focuses on the next hour I'll still enjoy. Eternity is two hours between two spaces where they drown failures and dreams. Thinking about these things is to me the devil himself, and, abruptly, I proposed a deal. I thought that just around the corner lurks not always what we see and here we are, in my room with my leg half raised for introducing me to the bed and this biblical flooding the room with the smell of sulfur. I propose if you want to be a great writer, be recognized now and for eternity. My friend, I say, the hardest part is finding a hole to get out of the work itself. The devil suddenly disappears. One of these entanglements is saved thanks to the high demand by most active writers who claim their service to sell their souls.
Every writer is born with a vocation to oblivion. In many cases, however, the plural forms of sin are twisting this vocation and adorned with the trappings of fame, glory and even immortality. Almost all writers become traitors to their vocation, which is nothing but to go languishing sleepless nights and early mornings between more or less useless.
Few writers know the goal, as Borges said, is forgotten, the creature that devours everything, that disease that makes us equal and reconciled with the dust from which we came. Who will come before the goal?
find that I have yet ridiculously leg raised with the Striped Pajamas uploaded to the knee.
