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The Trembling Idiot

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What to do or not to do?
I’ll write this idea on my notebook. I’ll draw a sketch thinking:
-they will hate it.
-who?
-them

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Maybe I should grow up and become someone.

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It was 1993 when I realized they were both the same person, same understanding of the human condition, surrounded by the outcasts of society and the rural Italy, using them as their models. In the same year, I felt in love with both. Behind every trace, I hope they will guide my hand to a perfect line. They will show me the light on the darker side of humanity.

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This is one of my favorite monologues. It comforts me.
“One must try to come up with new, unrecognizable techniques that won’t resemble any previous ones, so as to avoid silly ridicule. One should build one’s own world that would allow no comparisons and for which there would be no previous measures of judgment, which must be new, like the technique. No one must realize that the author is worthless, that he’s an abnormal, inferior type that, like a worm, writhes and slithers to keep alive. No one must ever catch him being naive. Everything must appear perfect, based on rules that are unknown, and therefore, not judgeable. Like a crazy man, yes, like a crazy man. Glass on glass, because I’m unable to correct anything, and no one must realize this. A brush stroke on one pane corrects without spoiling the one painted before on another glass pane. But nobody must realize it is the expedience of an incapable, of an impotent. Not at all. It must seem like a firm decision, resolute, high, and almost domineering! No one must know that a stroke comes out well by chance, by chance and trembling. That as soon as a brush stroke comes out well, as if by miracle, it must be protected right away, and sheltered as in a shrine. But no one must notice that the artist is a poor, trembling idiot, a half-ass who lives by chance and risk, dishonored like a child, and has reduced his life to the silly melancholy of one who lives degraded by the impression of something lost forever.”
Teorema
P.P. Pasolini