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Reading is a strange activity — it makes me want to speak with the dead. Literally. I exchange letters with authors that have long passed away; I write notes to characters that don't have an address. Why? Because I can. To play with reality, to dress up for a party and stay home — the joy of reading and writing.
This letter to the Italian-German writer, editor, and architect-of-sorts Curzio Malaparte was a long time in the making. Five years ago, (or maybe fifty) I read his lyrical essay DONNA COME ME, included in a slim volume of essays Malaparte published in 1952. DONNA COME ME / WOMAN LIKE ME. The text spoke to me; I wanted to respond. I wanted to write a letter, a letter with a title: Man Like Me. But I could not move past this title. For years Man like Me was all I had.
Not anymore.
Dear Curzio,
you want your woman to become a pretext for your dreams, hopes and deeds. a pretext, nothing more. that is a lot, you say, if it is true that nothing is more difficult or more dangerous than being the pretext for a noble existence — a man's existence. i'm not only man, you write, but woman, dog, stone, river. / that is ambitious! so you stay put, a prisoner in this lonely, unforgiving house you built for yourself: La Casa Malaparte on the isle of Capri. a red block, sitting on a dangerous cliff, like a reptile. beneath it the green and blue waters of the gulf of Salerno. Godard's Contempt was filmed here: the house as cruel companion to Bardot's inconsolable beauty. a rational, masculine building, where nothing is soft, where nothing gives to the touch. the contrast between the calculated rigidity of the house and the untamed beauty of its surroundings couldn't be more extreme. man, woman? good part, bad part? i know, i know… you're into splitting. Malaparte is your name of choice, an assumed name you are quite proud of, which makes me wonder: do women have it easier?
this, Curzio, is for you.
i want my man to play the male part, with melancholy. i want him to feel the loss i