03 May 2016


Fatalismbourgeois respectability.

Certain young women, incredibly delicate, eternally childish, with their too many sighs, resigned to obey a mute duty (to a stone guest so implicitly looming and supposed as impalpable and ghostly), perpetually shrouded in a subtle veil of gray sadness, in front of their men (men that, clearly, they do not love) seem to me "like the characters of the Italian Comedy of Art, Pantalone and Colombina, which repeated always their role and, in a certain way, they do not live but are lived, they do not think but are thinked, they do not act but are acted", in a mimesis without a becoming and solution of continuity.

A little 'as those actors who, rather than recognize to have chose the wrong job, they resign themselves to recite, throughout their life, an role a more humiliating than that of a background actor: the eternal role of an Mr. Stevens in "The remains of the day" and, ie, the character of the butler that, always and only, first knocking on the door, and, then, opens it to announce solemnly "...the lunch is served!".

These are the irreversible disasters produced by those fathers unconsciously narcissists, faithfully providers of repeated material cures, but emotionally manipulative, morally blackmailers, basically mediocre and chock full of frustrations that they project on daughters.

Joe Webb: "Daydream"

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