The feeling of being able to write endless pages, only transcribing the permanent psychological war and its endless chapters. Ruthless conflict, continuous affliction, tranquility that rarely comes… Words of the master opportunely recalled: “All my life I have spoken silently and lived in myself entire tragedies without uttering a word.”
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I look at my thirty-six poems. They came out, that is for sure. Months of hard work, but they came out. Then I notice the immense contrast between the gusts that I simply allowed to manifest. The moralism I dislike is an obligatory component in my lines—I will never silence it, I will never neutralize a dimension of myself… Then, the psychology of despair, the ruptures of the mind inserted in a body contrary to action, perplexed by existence. And finally, cynicism, mockery, the expression of someone incapable of not consciously shooting himself into ridicule. Let us follow with the ultimate…
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A very banal guy keeps, for fifteen years, the same cell phone number. He has thus built up an extensive network of personal and professional contacts. He is, above all, dependent on this number. Suddenly, he receives between 100 and 150 daily calls during business hours from companies trying to sell him some kind of financial product. Between 100 and 150 calls from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.: doing the bakery math, the number is equivalent to approximately one call every five minutes. The guy, or better, the young misanthrope is forced to answer them all since there is the possibility of finding a possible customer among the unknown numbers. The number is also a work number. Every five minutes, the phone rings. The young man attends with rudeness, dismisses the invasive company very irritated for being called to listen about products that he has no interest, without having ever granted opening in order such calls were made. So his routine becomes hell. He cannot concentrate on anything, the phone does not stop ringing. He has to answer, he becomes rude in the first word, mistreats professional contacts by mistake. “Mr. Luciano Duarte, please…”, “Kindly Mr. Luciano…”, “At this number I can talk to Mr. Luciano…”. Oh, Kafka, brother, help that your character!
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I smile imagining the judge E. T. A. Hoffmann: a judge, in the words of Carpeaux, “of the most honorable and — in difficult times of political reaction — of the most independent ever Prussia had.” I smile at this judge in our esteemed century. I mean: the judge, who was also a very skilled narrator, would be easily destroyed by the stupid and envious hordes who, in these times, have fun ruining lives and careers. Very funny would be, for example, the plot of Die Elixiere des Tenfels, an excellently crafted novel, adapted to our days: an evangelical pastor possessed by the devil is led to murder and incest, succeeding not only in camouflaging his crimes but also in gaining positions in the social pyramid. I ask: is it or is it not fun to imagine what would happen to the reputation of this judge if he had the novel released today? Would he be able, for example, to be appointed to the Supreme Court? The honorable judge in this century would learn what is to be democratically lynched.
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