05 October 2008


1. I did like going over my essay about Calvino, was was actually a poly- essay broken up into various pieces. It was the INNER, SUB-essay on Calvino's loved Alessandro Manzoni, saint of writers, which I called 'The Sacrament of Pity' , which I liked redoing the most. Manzoni, in pure unadulterated Italianism, showed in his eternal reworked Tuscan, that he was no left behind, crazy eyed , Lutheran windbag, he was not some phony artesian saint, collecting gold. He was a champion of the faith in its most extreme stoicness, the faith which was stolen heartily from Virgil and especially from Aurelius by Jerome, and other saints, always at first looking for that Roman audience which a later, discredited and hated Luther decided was somehow impure.

I liked writing , or organically enough in his style, writing as rewriting, the original manuscript there before me, as scratched up and faded as anything can be on a computer disk, and as a oligarch fool, a Yorick, a bumbling twit clown, named Bill Mahar, or May-har as the great Howard calls him, was out there smirking and giggling as some sort of cross between Julian and apostate and someone doing bad Carson. The latest jersey boy clown-poet warrior was everywhere, as he hates religion, as someone told him to possibly stop jacking off once. Such is the Summa Theologica, --which my father had much memorized--or this twerp. And, to be honest, what else could he be with that perpetually stupid look plastered across his possible Jew face, but someone who tried to come off as some sort of expert and 'Americans foremost authority'. Sort of like a guy named Irwin Corey when I was a kid, except Bill Maher isn't AS COHERENT. I say possible Jewish as he is a practitioner of the sect of the "I might be Jewish" faith, one whose Perpetua is Saint Beyhar. As this crap went on, and of course, as the assembly of queens got around the ideals of deficit hawks by bizzerro-landishly spending More money, I say, it was lovely to recall the almost Leopardian, no nonsense, virtues and qualities of a catholicism as practiced by the reciter of silent Rosaries. He was decent, this anti-novelist, this starter of the historical novel, uncredited, of course, not having written in English, or engfish. Decent being a word, so unlike the smiling , grinning, goofball jersey asshole who rails, like a giggling Caphius, at God--why I don't know--I cant imagine they made this illiterate chaser of crack whores actually recite and recall Aquinas as the Priests did to me, Roman boy---like, id quod visium placet, yall.

I liked recalling when I was at the summit of my own bad assedness, around 1999-2003. The lessons of Monica, our Ligurian Girl, much of which was spoken, or at least depressingly echoed, by the God hater, the Power-man felletrix from Jersey #2, were not much lost on me. Especially the 'Tie deposition' episode, I wont recall it here, but which made its way into both Calvino and Imperiumata, so was it beguiling compared to singing dicks being given voice by modern Livy's who previously made Showgirls. Maher was the vox of a body part of Clinton, well, with friends like you, as the hungarians said...But, he said Clinton was one of 'Us', or 'People like him'. I could almost hear my man Bill, lover of Aquinas, say, "You wish, ASSHOLE". I liked rewriting this essay and its more Italianate qualities, especially as opposed to the dimwit Christers and their enemy faggots who dream of suburban wedded bliss. It was nice to reread my essay about this monolith of Italian brilliance, essentially as the bloated Senate was being true it's Venetian banking creed. The story of poor poverty stricken Lorenzo and Lucia was not only a perfect representation of the past, or then Rome's future, but perhaps befits the future around these parts too. The sadness of the poor Italians is clear eyed, un-romanticized --is there any less romantic people than Italians, I ask, and say that as a compliment...? The saint writer is unable to gloss it with gallons of shalack that GiGi Marquez would for his later romanticized poor schnooks, and of course, unless one is illiterate as a Dowd, that spic shit, and even Carlo Levi, lacks the power of this Franciscan monk of lake Como, which now, sadly, is merely a Clooney star era retreat, and a place of fr rent palaces of long dead doges, where Bill Maher couldnt get into.

2. Calvino is a master essentially of the essay, like his student and adorer, Vidal. And in the essay on Manzoni and The Betrothed, he , like Pompey in the Roman lives by a Greek, finds a man so amerced in tragedy that it is only the agronomists scientific eye which can reveal its depth, for all else would be the sort of melodrama adored by tv critics, who hate their own papers jewish Cosell wannabes. In fact, shoring a strain of Italian disgust which would lose him a Stockholm prize, which Gigi would greedily wear around his neck, in fact, Italo speaks of the giantism of Alessandro by saying what was great because of what he didn't do. He didn't, Calvino shows, with his medieval material, turn the story of Renzo and Lucia into a 'GOTHIC NOVEL', as was so prevalent among the Englishmen he ,in later life, started to dismiss. No, MANZONI HAD THE BARE BONES OF A GOTHIC NOVEL, a vicious gangster, a corrupt rapist priest, a nun with a shadowy past, a pretty girl taken as prisoner, a handsome wop lead on the road, and could have made a type of groan inducing, middle brow adored, Siskle disliked, Masterpiece theatergoing Brideshead revised, or, a Kiera Nightly vehicle, a Queen and country bullshit romp. Not in the summa of this champion of the poor, and the weak and yet, not their hagiographer, either, despite the bodices and the duchesses and the Napoleonic wars, there are no Sofia Coppola's moments of preposterous desserts, and Napoleon, a hero of sorts in the dreaded Tolstoy, and his battlements are far removed from the wielders of local power, which are worse. [If I were the new Augustus I would make that Copolla brat make this film of this book, which I am sure she is unawares of in her own castello, as Augustus made Virgil write his bible to stoics, and I'd watch her as she was at her wits end, not being able, as it in her linage, to make things so fucking nakedly operatic, constantly.]

Calvino admirers the great Latin Teacher poet- writer for his inherent self censorship, and his not having made an --ohoh- Jane Austin quickie, he would imply, and instead , --dare I say as I have mimicked , --he tried everything but. This is an age when the gothic is all we have, as it was then, but Alessandro refused it all, and his book is no Anne Radcliff, Smith College, Dyke reacted from and to, Cliff Noted cheating bullshit. He could have made another Weathering Heights, another Jane Ehyr, another Nicholas Nickelby, complete with gruel, -- watch it, Italo, the Swedes and the lovers of Eng lit, such as it is, are listening, --but the great headmaster doesn't do that cheapness , ergo making literacy as near the act of piety. He could make a pot boiler, but, for Calvino says in a lovely turn of the phase, He had an allergy to this depiction of Evil. He took the story of Renzo and Lucia, and of the nun of monza and of the Unnamed tyrant--like those we now have on wall street--and made a masterpiece which Willie Shakespeare himself couldn't have created, with a thousnad angels filling his pen. Such would be similar to Willie abandoning the similar life of Pompey, and feeding his favorite scenes into Caesar, which make it two distinct plays, but and I rather amdire him for it, He doesnt seem to care, desperate to get that last scene of the life of Pompey, the last roman at the Cesarean triumph, in as the beginning of the play, no matter what. The Jane Eyers--how do you spell that, anyway,... of literature are ignored, made silly, but the simple country girl and her wish only to marry, becomes modern. And thus, there is no 'The Betrothed' film being made by any Milosh or Sofia, for just like their own saint, the circusy Frederico Fellini, when presented with a script for The Betrothed by Pasolini, NO LESS, SAID, I COULDNT NEVER EVEN ATTEMPT THAT. A bawdy script from the Decameron was done instead, emphasis of course on the bawdy, so, hava chianti, sooprize Speggetti, bueno sera Missus Cambell, and chow, chow everybudddy!!!!

3. I liked rereading and rewriting this, Manzonianly, and recalled when I wrote at full tilt, unaware or even much caring of the hooligans around me. That was when, like with Manzoni, and Leopardi, and a line unbroken of roman red and bright Tuscan green going back to Machiavelli, who gave both their credo, that human action must have meaning. Alas, being told you are an idiot by the Warren Ellissi of the world, so conferable, like barbarians, in their swamps of warm mud, one gets their back up, forgets Roman phonetics and starts tap dancing with sparkler's to make shitty ephemeral points. But, that program I downloaded to save erased material from a disk of script,s looking for something completely different and finding CALVINO RTF, made me recall when my own meager art had a lovely fresh scent of rain to it, and I am glad , though that first thing fell threw, don't they all, that I recovered this, Imperiumata, and some other things all in a horrendously unedited state, but worth more to me than anything presentable to magazines with Snoopy on the cover.

Manzoni has reestablished himself to me as a Godfather, dare I say, and he, like all great Italian giants, is again proven right. Our Inominatos, our supreme gangsters, our white haired balding , Saleri Dressed--dont wait for this scene from Milosh--tricornered hatted Dukes of Ferarra, they don't have moments of rosary induced falling to the ground in a Pentecosts of redemption, for such would make smirking Bill,-- though not my man Bill, God knows, who keeps waiting for it--laugh. Our Innominatos are not so moved, and instead, after a lifetime of supposed hatred of pork, sit silently and even vote for giant bloated packages to bankers, showing that Manzoni, mute to the book clubs who would hate it anyway, was right. There is a sacramental effect to Pity, as he said and intoned, and our Great Tyrants in ovo, both nigger and coot, stay in their Castellos, as their praetor waves and gets outta town, and both and all feel not a twinge of any of it, for anyone but their open and brazen demanding masters. The same week I reread this essay on an essay of Alessandro and his ideal of the pitilessness of God, on Drudge, nested near to our smiling, self congratulatory, Sister Gertrude, Pollozzi, there is a story of a ninety year old woman killing herself like Cato, --our senators now find things on the ground change, thus along with their so gracefully held and easily changed devotions--rather then lose her ancient home, and be thrown into the street. But what do you all care, and who really reads Manzoni or Ovid, or anything but that womanly shit anyway....go watch your Sopranos and ugly little Aesop hating comics, and dancing faggots. Empire, ahoy.

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