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Rating: In an increasingly modern world, increasingly universal, increasingly global, we end up getting lost, losing ourselves, losing identity, the conviction, and the certainty of being this and not another. The rush towards the individual, self-realization, glory, power, paradoxically perhaps, cripples the subject.
And what is ever a subject, deprived of its complements? How can it preach, act, affirm?
"Where do you come from? To whom do you belong? What are you looking for?"
If that’s the case, up with your legs, gentlemen! Let's go! Where to? But it's obvious! We leave to find belonging, identity!
Belonging to what? Identity of what? Valid observations! Valid observations!
We don’t know!
But that’s precisely why we go, isn’t it?
We must go back, without any fear, to the origin of everything! To the land! The land of the fathers!
We desperately need to recover the Siensi, the senses of intellect, the source of wisdom, that show how we are made and how the world is made.
We have to follow him, the narrator, down below, where Christ never arrived, further down than Eboli, so to speak!
It is from there that Vinicio comes, and it is there that he can recover, find himself again, and the Siensi that he has lost.
We thus enter, along with the wanderer, an ancient, archaic, peasant world, that still relies on myth, that approaches religion with a pagan demeanor, a world impoverished by modernity, by rampant industrialization, by Work..a world from which many have fled, for Work, for Glory, for self-realization..we instead, along with the wandering Vinicio, return to it.
"You go on groping blindly, among the simulacra of a purity you will never have, as it never has been. Go play. Have fun and then remain alone. Go.."
In search of ancient wisdom, in search of myth and its origins, one comes face to face with the sad reality: of that world, of those images, only a few fragments remain, faded, seemingly out of time but inevitably decaying, and on the verge of poof disappearing into nothing, and amen.
With the brutal awareness that, at the end of the day, when all the chips are down, even that world was a bit of a mess, and that, a phantom golden age, if it ever existed, to find it you must, perhaps, return to the time of the trees.
Nevertheless, what remains can fascinate, and help reconstruct a lost connection, or at least try to.
The language, beautiful bastard, can help in this: it can become earth, it can become blood, it can become mud.
A language can smell of Irpinia: dialectical, onomatopoeic, ancient. A language can become body, matter.
Such a language can be geography, in the mad - these days - rediscovery of place, places, particulars, essentials.
"Everything was matter. The spirit was fleeing"
And yet, it will have to be caught, this spirit, the matter by itself, you know, is not enough, especially for humans, for that animal that distinguishes itself by one thing above all: it raises its gaze and observes the sky.
The language, dear old bastard, takes care of that too, there’s no need to worry.
Place names and characters encountered along the way, contribute to fix them out of time, to elevate them into myth, into the eternal, into the spirit.
Coppolicchio the guardian of the Siensi, Cenzino a-catta-go, Compavicienzo, Testadiuccello, the Marescialla, Cazzariegghio, Pacchi Pacchi, Mandarino "shepherd of men", are legendary names and therefore safe from the voracious and relentless jaws of History.
Who knows, perhaps, the spirit can finally be caught, brought to earth and, why not, reunited with the matter, where it should reside.
Who knows, perhaps, one can face the moon without dying from it.
Who knows, perhaps, one can die and be reborn from one's ashes, in oneself, in the place, belonging..and doing so with less disgust.
"Regret assailed me like a flame, digging out the heart from my chest. Every flower thrown away, every drop of love lost, demanded its song.
Suddenly, the whistles of purity, of forgotten respect, pierced my ears. It was the cancer of life screaming. With them, I could go no further.
So, I had to return to where everything could be brought back to a cure, where we can get used to each loss."
TRAVELER WHO DOES NOT KNOW THE WAY, ALWAYS PAY ATTENTION TO THE CROSSROADS, INTERSECTION OF DESTINIES
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