If the chicken or the egg was first, it’s a trivial matter. In the beginning, way before the chicken and the egg, there was always sex; and, before sex, both in the present and in the originative moment when God spoke the Wor(l)d, desire.
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Woe to you, my Colin! Why didn't you heed my pleas for abstinence? Now your brilliant intellect has been reduced to bruises. While you regain the spirit of yesteryear, silence! The libertine has to know herself as such, before setting off. Silence! Your suffocation was to precipitate the death of the lycaon. He tied a knot over you himself, and compressed —marquisette, marquisette— your neck! In his cowardice, perhaps mediated by a gentle kiss of a golden fleece (or les Malheurs de la vertu), he homologated you to the Patriarch. I know I don't deserve you, my Colin!
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Yours was always black stone, Castel; anonymity, ridicule, contempt. The only transparency of your loneliness was the invention of light: the denial of your blindness. So the window was the key to your painting; that's why you rave with the blood of Maria, an implausible crimson juice from an immaculate crotch.
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Do we execute Adelaide on the fusillading wall for wanting to escape from that prison of iterative babbling and vexatious spasms, or do we condemn Red to be hanged for pretending back what rightfully belongs to her? Can Adelaide be judged selfish as she escaped from the underworld just as a child? Does Red's awareness “destined” her to lead a massive political project, which would allow the reactionary defense to be equalized and try to correct the structural inequalities of society? Are we still looking for good and bad, guilty and innocent? Let's evoke, again, its new immortal monologue: Once upon a time, there was a girl and the girl had a shadow...
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Dracul is not an earl, nor a dragon, nor the name of a Romanian royal house, but nothingness, the stormy breath of nonexistence. Drăculea, brother of Mehmed II. An imperceptible bat, a green cloud, the cosmic ether of all rebellion, a bunch of putrid rats shrieking everywhere.
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Would you let your beloved ones die for an idea that is not even yours? It's the deaths of others that mitigate the vivacity of any will. We are only unbreakable when we are already smashed to pieces. It is the threat of living their death, of wiping our conscience with the blood of loved ones without having participated in their execution. Whoever holds noble feelings for another, in a fascist and totalitarian world, exposes all vulnerabilities.
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Kauffman shows us the spectacle of a collapse. The psychic struggle that usually ends on the paradoxical crossroads of a defeat of the victorious faction.
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Do we sweat the blood of our victims due to guilt or rejoicing? Are their screams the ones that creep into our nightmares? Is the existential burden of those sacrificed added to the life of the murderer?
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The disintegration of Cleo's maternity is a redundancy of an ubiquitous certitude that assails everything that intends to be immutable: even the bosom of a well-off family (but whose wellness isn't on its own reach)… If all roads lead to Roma, it's not necessary to look anywhere else for the reasons of its name.
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Therefore, it is infertile to lecture on the intensity degrees of filial love, a fact that anguished Nobuyo deeply. Furthermore, it is a futility to aspire to quantify if the family that has been given to us, arbitrarily, is more loved than the one we choose, coming to it long after birth. For a child of Yuri’s or Shota’s age, anyone can be family if they receive from them an affective and respectful treatment... anyone. Even a thief.
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It’s been my intention, paying tribute to both the circular character of his conviction and the cruel instrument that he was forced using to fulfill it (and to not fulfill, at the same time), which has led me to reverse the order of the nominal factors that baptize the project. Please note then, the preponderance of those arrows that strive to become ideograms.
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