I’ve never written a word about that kind of crushing sensitivity that seizes you at times, and you can’t say whether you’re happy or sad, but you positively flatter yourself that you’re the only one in the history of the whole, immense universe to have faced the same intensity.
Now that I think of it, I also didn’t write that fake candid satire planned to reflect my childhood impressions upon my first visit to the western world: The taste of a cheeseburger; people screaming on MTV; the size of peppers; anti-theft car systems.
There was also that nice story about what happens to you when somebody in your family kicks the bucket and leaves you something. For instance, you have to provide fresh death certificates every six months till the whole deal is over (“Yes, officer, she’s still dead today”).
And not even a word about the story of my mother. The part where my grandparents get divorced in the 50s and each of them tugs my mother’s arms, just out of the court-house. My grandmother eventually prevailed, after she had hit my grandfather with her purse (he was a very small guy).
I have once imagined turning into a reasoning machine that had to work hard to be entitled to receive love. I ended up paying cash. Of course, in the end I was supposed to die (or be cathartically dismantled), for the sake of the morale.
I also know a pretty series of edifying stories on addiction. My family is really useful for that. They would have been great in a technique based on the sublimation of excess – a bit in the Palahniuk or Welsh style, only that I’ve never written them.
On a more self indulgent level, it would have been lovely to represent myself as a lame neurotic with twitches, like over sweating, stammering or tripping over everything. But I didn’t write anything about it because it would have been too autobiographic.
And then I thought about my obsessive impossibility of writing something not in the first person singular. I imagined this painter who could only paint self portraits. The whole thing looked like a concentric circle. I guess I’ve been too much into Escher.
For something like a year, I kept seeing dead cats everywhere. I guess it’s just a matter of statistics: at the time, I used to work in the city centre. But anyway, I developed this sort of strange relationship with cats, made of pity and impossibility. I went on writing each chapter with a dead cat at the beginning and a near-death caused by the nearness of cats at the end. That was as far as I got to writing a novel. But then I suddenly stopped writing, so that project was aborted.
Earlier this year my mind was busy with the idea of the eternal recurrence of things. I thought of writing something more extensive about not learning from experience, but then I found out that I had actually read it in Kundera and that it was not my own idea.
I still think that an eulogy on recklessness is absolutely necessary. For the future of humanity. But I haven’t written it yet.
I’ve never written about the very current issue of telecommuting, so exalted by Italian standup comedians nowadays, and about all its absurdities.
And how about that story my grandfather told me last year, when he had gone hiking in the woods and met a bear? After a few seconds in which both my grandfather and the bear kept staring at each other, frozen with horror, the two of them started running in opposite directions and didn’t stop for hours.
I had started collecting material about strange professions of the 21st century. For example, a person I met once claimed he worked here. But I didn’t write anything.
A few other things I’ll probably never write about: human hands, their warmth, the pleasure they can give; the illusion of forming a single being with somebody else; and consequently what it takes to become whole again; the eternal hesitation related to the ending of things; the jail of jealousy.