dilluns, 15 d’agost de 2016

May the new era be an era of liberty and respect for everyone--including writers! Only through liberty and respect for culture can Europe be saved from the cruel days of which Montesquieu spoke in the Esprit des lois: "Thus, in the days of fables, after the floods and deluges, there came forth from the soil armed men who exterminated each other." KAPPUT - TOday I live on an island, in a house that is sad, hard, severe, that I built for myself, solitary on a sheer rock over the sea: a house that is the spectre, the secret image of prison. The image of my nostalgia. Maybe I never desired, not even then, to escape from jail. Man is not meant to live freely in freedom, but to be free inside a prison.” ― Curzio Malaparte, Fughe in prigione

Un uomo? -risposi ridendo
- Un uomo è cosa ancor più triste e più
 orrenda di questo mucchio di carne sfatta. 
Un uomo è orgolgio, crudeltà, tradimento,
 viltà, violenza. La carne sfatta è tristezza,
 pudore, paura, rimorso, speranza. 

 Un uomo, un uomo vivo, è poca cosa,
 in confronto di un mucchio di carne marcia
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1 comentari:

  1. Malaparte, as a war correspondent, attends high command German parties and bluntly denigrates his German hosts, whilst they go on pontificating obliviously, presumably too punch drunk on the legends they are in their own minds, and I sighed with pleasure at this surrealistic overture. But then I found out Malaparte didn’t mean it. A consummate turn face, and ex Fascist he wrote the book initially under the supposition Germany would win the war: once the writing was on the wall, he went back and ‘fixed’ a few things here and there. Most of the ‘fixing’ of course he would have reserved for his own participation in these Le Grand Buffouet style, pan-Roman dinner do-s, where he emerges as an exalted Lone Ranger in defending the victimised populations of Europe against German Kultur. Bashful, Malaparte is not. And the German guests? Here the artist’s quilt falters: as it always does in these circumstances. I remember admiring Queen Hatshepsuts temple in Egypt where her furious nephew Thutmoses III sought to have her annihilated from public memory by altering her statues to look like him. The grotesque outcome only served to reinstate her, IMO. Similarly here, Malaparte revisits his montage of figures and starts painting by numbers. The end result: polyphemic Beryl Cook-esque caricatures of self delusional grandeur coupled with an odd, emphemeral dreaminess and sensitivity. Like bloated pigs who eat truffles rather than trough.15 d’agost de 2016 a les 5:37

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