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Rating: I must be careful. Just as Busi can translate even what no one has ever written, by now I can ruthlessly write even about a book I haven't read, I must be careful...
In this case, I am aided by a title that is already a novel in itself, I am aided because I know what it means to sell something as a salesman that I am (and have been), I am aided because I know intimate apparel, having accompanied a friend of mine several times on his sales raids as an intimate apparel representative, I am aided by the transparency of the pantyhose, indeed.
And I am aided by the unwelcome nomadic fate that has befallen me, far from roots and family trees that have swelled an idiosyncrasy of normality understood as "carpe Diem". Thus, the psychic evolution that is acquired in the field of commercial sales tickles the pineal in seeking a mind-reading of the buyer. The beauty is that you always play away from home, and for survival, you must hone disappearing skills to avoid as much as possible getting devoured or, at worst, know how to steer the devouring, limiting the damage while at the same time placing the article.
There is a danger that through osmosis the symbiosis between the two parties does not become too dangerous. The "buy or die" emporium must be approached philosophically, subject to possession by the god of (s)ale. The amoral dichotomy of selling at any cost opposed to the human essence does not belong to me, therefore the ensuing drifts do not infect the upper layer of awareness that reveals itself clear-headed in persisting to change practicality into love.
And so love needs to be disillusioned not to create duality, hence the change of register of "selling oneself" with love.
And one smells miserable situations of personal gain, all regular if one lives under the aegis of the god money.
In short, Busi's vital force stands out beyond a facade autobiography and illuminates the will to intervene for a change of paradigms that brings us closer to truth, defying the conventions of the tedious economic world in which Aldo no longer wants to play, or at least, carve out a patch of land where one doesn't have to practice fellatio with swallowing.
Even the homosexual choice is not functional to sodomitic pleasures but contrasts the species' call for inseminations that craze in yearning for superior races of petty-bourgeois demigods, who in their boorishness also lack a ridiculousness that would partly cleanse them. It is true that the sins of the fathers fall upon the heads of the children. Only Busi has cut off the rotten part of the family tree. So the fart and the curse are the same playing field of a museum visit and an acculturation driven by the same vanities.
What remains is nothingness, a tabula rasa of on the road situations where gratuitous gestures shipwreck in being thought out, where antitheses of worldviews end up being the same: "What I have written about myself, in books, is, in terms of malice and defamation in the current sense, infinitely superior to what anyone else could ever dream of saying. Because I also tell of censored fantasies, the ballast of dreams, the wear of the psyche without an external object, I uncover what passes through the mind before it becomes an official word. And no one does this: because that is where hell is, and I wanted to trivialize it by overcoming its limits" (Aldo Busi).
Mecojoni...
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