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Io credo che sono gli ingiusti quelli che dormono meglio, perché se ne fregano, mentre i giusti non possono chiudere occhio e si fanno il sangue marcio per tutto. Se no non sarebbero giusti.
“Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.”
― Complete Essays, Vol. II: 1926-1929
― Complete Essays, Vol. II: 1926-1929
“To overcome the need to be productive, as a lot of productivity is destructive.”
― San Mateo: Proof of The Divine
― San Mateo: Proof of The Divine
“L'uovo ha una forma perfetta benché sia fatto col culo.”
―
―
“Nature gives reproductive rights at puberty.
The same oppressors that make it hard to raise kids by
limiting resources, make it hard to make personal choices.”
― San Mateo: Proof of The Divine
The same oppressors that make it hard to raise kids by
limiting resources, make it hard to make personal choices.”
― San Mateo: Proof of The Divine
“In Memory of M. B.
Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end
your magnificent disdain.
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,
and suffocated inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in,
and stayed with her alone.
Now you’re gone, and nobody says a word
about your troubled and exalted life.
Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn
at your dumb funeral feast.
Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I,
I, sick with grief for the buried past,
I, smoldering on a slow fire,
having lost everything and forgotten all,
would be fated to commemorate a man
so full of strength and will and bright inventions,
who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me,
hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.”
―
Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end
your magnificent disdain.
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,
and suffocated inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in,
and stayed with her alone.
Now you’re gone, and nobody says a word
about your troubled and exalted life.
Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn
at your dumb funeral feast.
Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I,
I, sick with grief for the buried past,
I, smoldering on a slow fire,
having lost everything and forgotten all,
would be fated to commemorate a man
so full of strength and will and bright inventions,
who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me,
hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.”
―
Samnium’s 2025 Year in Books
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