I want to believe that there is, in free will, the glory coming from the war of known end. Through it, and only through it, it is possible to beat—even temporarily, even if only one battle…—the sinister fortune. Thinking in this way, I cannot do but summarizing the qualitative character of all complex and ambiguous human nature in a single element: the volition.
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I am faced with the problem, I understand it the same as always. I come back to myself. Two years ago, I launched the only TV series I ever produced. Two years ago, a character of mine said:
“Conviviality is a pact of falsehood. A minimum dose of sincerity throws coexistence into space. One can be an idiot or a cynic, there is no third option.”
And he heard the friend’s answer:
“Conviviality is putting on the clothes and leaving the money on the bed.”
Why always the same question?…
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“Becoming a better person” demands a merciless and continuous inner annihilation, a humility and a self-denial that borders on repugnance, a superhuman effort to silence the insistent and natural voice of vanity, which manifests itself as soon as the being recognizes his capacity to think. Since this is an almost unfeasible task, since it demands the confrontation of hard battles that never end, it is wise to say that, after adulthood, the human being does not change his essence, even if he wants to, even if he tries, even if he believes.
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I beat these notes, always, in a static environment, in complete solitude. Everything rigorously immobile, except my naughty fingers. Just now, I thought of Fernando Pessoa. To my amazement, he appeared alive at my side. How? That is what I would like to know. I had thought, just before, of writing the following: “Existence is only justifiable to me as an answer to the authors I read, as the continuity of what they began.” And I would conclude that, despite being dead, they did not die. Then Pessoa bursts into my room. It is curious: a century ago, he was, like me, locked in a room in any corner of Lisbon, reflecting in solitude. Did he know the power of his verses? that they would resist, vigorously, the tyranny of time? He knew… Pessoa knew… And, naturally, in the eyes of the world, locked in a room, the poet “was not living”. I ask: and now, and for the rest of eternity, who lives and will live more: the guy who “lived,” or the poet who “was not living”? A century later, Pessoa, breaking the barrier of time and space, finds himself in my room. And if I open his Ode Marítima, I will be taken by a real and strong euphoria, more alive than any other sensation that a contemporary person could give me. And that is obvious: live little—very, very little—precisely those who seem to live a lot, in the eyes of conventional myopia…
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