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Geniuses and madmen

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In this house we are all a little crazy. I don't say it by complaining, I say it by celebrating it. There are five of us and I am afraid there is no room for anyone else: my wife, our daughter, the dog, the cat and me. It could hardly be said that I am the head of the house, the boss, the one in charge. In this house I do not rule: I am a subject of my family, a butler of my wife, a housekeeper without keys or apron, a servant of my daughter, a pet of my domestic animals: his will submits and subordinates me and me forces to obey them. I do it very happy. I was born to be a frog and not a toad, a tadpole and not a frog, a lizard and not a lizard. I was born to be an asterisk, a footnote, a minor, insignificant anecdote.

I happily fulfill that destiny.

I do not aspire to power, to glory, to fame. I do not aspire to command, to go down in history. I do not aspire to win prizes. That is to say: I do not aspire. I do not breathe: I breathe. I aspire to keep breathing. I aspire to continue snoring. I breathe snoring for ten hours every night, between three in the morning, when I turn off the lights, and one in the afternoon, when I get up without really knowing who I am. I aspire to continue sleeping until one in the afternoon. I aspire to preserve my freedom in that languid, lazy way. I hope that no alarm device interrupts my sleep in a noisy way. I aspire that mornings are just a foreign fiction.

I would be lying if I said that I work. I don't work, I have never worked. I only worked when my father was alive. Being my father's son was hard, hateful work. Since he died, I feel like I'm on vacation, I feel like I have retired prematurely, that every year is sabbatical. I have written books, but writing is not a job, it is a party, a joy, a quiet orgy, an imaginary dance with words that flutter like butterflies, a blissful return to childhood, an infinite game. I have talked about trifles, nonsense, nonsense and nonsense on television, on the televisions of several confused countries, but speaking in public with a face made up is not a job, it is a narcissistic peak, a manic outburst, a delusion of grandeur, a form of being a dictator, an enlightened tyranny, a self-centered gymnastics. In other words, I have never worked. I have pretended that I was working, I have indulged in that simulation, when, in reality, I was kidding those who paid me. No one, when he thinks of me, says: but what a hardworking man, so industrious, so industrious. When some clueless think of me, they say: how strange that this idle guy has been successful in life.

And I have had some discreet success Yes, I do not deny it, because my books have been published and some have even been translated and won minor awards, and because my programs have been aired and have sometimes caused parochial riots, cabaret lawsuits, but the naked truth is only one, inescapable: everything I have, what I possess, what I am, I owe to my mother, she has given me everything. This house in which we are all crazy was given to me by my mother, the car I use to go to the television station was bought by my mother, the universities of my older daughters have been paid for by my mother, my youngest daughter's school is paid for by me. mother, even my jogging shorts and jockstraps were bought by my mother. The only thing my mother has not bought are my erotic gadgets, my bedroom toys, but it would be too insolent of me to pass the bill to her for those trembling, slippery devices. Despite the fact that I am a kept, a trampled, a mother's son, I have not come out religious like her, although, when she asks me, we go to mass and pray together. But in reality, and even during the Christmas holidays, I have a hard time believing religious fictions, just as she has a hard time believing that the things that I, her agnostic son, write are fictions. However, all things considered, my mother and I are quite alike: she dedicates herself entirely to religious fictions, of whose veracity and verisimilitude she does not doubt for a second, and I dedicate myself to let's say artistic or literary fictions, trying to Let my readers also doubt that they happened in that minute way, or that they could have happened that way, that is to say that religious fictions, like literary ones, must be credible to sustain and endure.

In this house we are all crazy, we are quite abnormal, but, in general, we feel free, we do what we want, and perhaps that is why we are happy, or we are not unhappy. My wife does many things at the same time and she does them all quite well: in the mornings, when I sleep, she goes for a run, plays tennis, goes to the karate academy, takes a dip in the sea; then he has lunch with me in the usual cafe, the usual dishes; In the afternoons she writes about all the things that hurt her, about her traumas and her wounds, about her cross loves, about her worst and most poisonous enemies, whom she tramples on by writing as if they were vermin, because she cultivates resentment and says that from the tree of resentment the most exquisite flowers sprout, what a strange thing; and at night she drinks red wine, listens to music and dances alone, while I'm talking nonsense and goosebumps on television. Our daughter fulfills her academic obligations without complaint, uses her freedom judiciously, and once she has finished classes and obnoxious homework, she reads adventure books in English or laughs out loud watching funny things on her cell phone. She is a talkative, histrionic girl, with a marked humorous streak. He says he will be an actress, filmmaker, comedian. You intuitively know that a good story or funny anecdote is always better than talking about politics. He hates politics, he hates people who only talk about politics, they seem to him to be boring, sad people, condemned to misery. His is art, he knows at such an early age that politics passes like hearse and art survives and lasts, that beauty is in art and not in politics, that's why he yawns when someone from the family comes and he starts talking about politics as if everything else was irrelevant, as if politicians were admirable, better than us, when, all things considered, they are worse, much worse.

But the main source of wisdom in this house comes from the cat and not from us humans. The cat is Uruguayan, she belonged to the neighbors, now she spends more time with us, we don't know why she has chosen us for now. She is an elderly lady, very thin, who does not gain weight, who does not make noise, who does not bother, who looks at us with pity, with disdain, as if she knows that we are inferior to her, tiny, noisy, vulgar creatures, incapable of living self-absorbed like her, so alone and elegant in some dark corner of the house, without bothering anyone. Of course, the Uruguayan cat is not ours nor does it belong to anyone, it is not a pet, it is a lonely and superior lady, haughty and stealthy, free to the utmost degree. Looking at it, watching it, we learn. I know that he is smarter than me and that he also surpasses me in manners, in elegance, in going through life looking for the shade without causing scandals. The Uruguayan cat never makes a fool of herself: it comes naturally to me to make a fool of myself all the time, without realizing it. I should learn from her not to seek public display, to cultivate a low profile, but I'm afraid it's too late: I belong to the show business and she to the academy.

As for the dog that lives installed in the very heart of our family since he arrived four years ago, contrary to my wishes, because I thought he could not spend the afternoons writing with a dog in the house, it would be more accurate to say that it is not a dog, but a puppy, and that it is not a puppy, but is my son, my little boy, my only son. It pains me to say that he has come out to me: he is not distinguished by his illustrious intelligence, he is a bit of a fool. But he's nice, he has charisma, he lets himself be loved. And what is silly about him is handsome: he is very beautiful, very flirtatious, a great conqueror, and he knows it, and that is why he has many girlfriends at the dog academy that he attends from nine in the morning to five in the morning. the afternoon, an expensive, very expensive academy, more expensive than my daughter's school, whose bills my mother also pays, God bless her, God preserve her in canning.

The hours and days then pass slowly and happily in this madhouse, all mad, because each one exercises his freedom and does whatever he wants, even if that is wasting time: my wife write or try to write a book about her first love, a love that left her badly hurt; our daughter who is on vacation laughs out loud and the echo of her laughter spreads throughout the house like background music that evokes the lost paradise of childhood, when we were all immortal, as she is now; the Uruguayan cat, nobody knows where it is, but it is certain that it does not bother; The dog has not yet returned from his academy, which, I am afraid, is also a brothel or a prostitute, because there he mounts every bitch he can mount; and I, the dumbest of all, the pet, the fishfish, the tadpole, the lizard, I lock myself in my desk, trying to write another chapter of a novel about geniuses and madmen, about geniuses and madmen who one day I met and forever marked my destiny.

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