Mario has gone well, silently . Taking with him the kindness and courtesy that old goods now too rare today. He's gone to his will, a will and steely shiny, never really scratched by those 95 years. Nearly a century of beauty, humor, talent, fame rightly deserved. And more kindness, more courtesy, that they should not ever fail. He's gone right in the evening when someone pro-life wanted to talk to someone else, evidently pro death. As if there really someone - removed the serial killer on duty - can be. He left when the mind is too strong in spite of a physicist too fragile. A diatribe impossible to heal.
Our thoughts turn to him, Franco . Same bright decision, the same will, only a handful of years ago. On Christmas Eve this year was ninety years old. It was 2002 and I remember I had just bought an edition of Hound of the Baskervilles with his preface, written together with the faithful Carlo. And as he
First, it was the late eighties. Another bright decision. Another scale. Another diatribe incurable. Another silent cry of love too strong for life.
You flew away like that. You who have left the most precious gifts, the ones to watch, listen, read. Army brancaleone, If This Is a Man, The Sunday Woman . You are flown to a place where not exist any more pro-life or pro death. Where your choices will be respected by nature. Where will continue smiling watching us in this little world that sometimes turn a bit 'backward. We, who continue to fail. We do not stop reading, watching, listening. And live there.
My reading today will Fruttero & Lucentini, The Woman on the Sunday, 1972 . It will be dedicated to the three of you: Mario Monicelli, Franco Lucentini, Primo Levi.
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