Edoardo Bennato - Viva la Mamma My mother (90 years old) has never loved me.
Above all, she didn’t want anything to do with my father, who convinced her to marry him by wearing her down.
She is French, and a seamstress (she can’t see now) who worked at Cinecittà, and, among others, got to know especially Anna Magnani.
Then she was evacuated, as a child, from Mandeure—where she was born—to Nimis, which was burned down by the Germans, who shot anyone associated with the partisans, including her uncles.
Her father (that is, my grandfather) died in Buchenwald, obviously without me ever having the chance to know him.
So why doesn’t my mother love me?
Because I am a useless being: the son of her husband, who was a good man but, unfortunately, suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, a disease that at the time was undiagnosable.
But he had a tremendous self-irony: once, at the table, he tried to pick up an olive with his fork; his hands, completely deformed, made it fly off and it landed in his wine glass.
“You see,” he said to me, “I’d been aiming for it for half an hour.”
Dario.
A good but unlucky person, like all of us hominids. inutile: tremenda: fa:
