Residua

MY MOCK COMPLAINT

admin — Sat, 18 Jul 2026 23:30:42 +0000

When tourists walk up Borgo toward the top of the Motovun hill, they often stop by my house. There is a house missing next to mine, and the view from its erstwhile ground floor is astonishing. Whenever I spot a bunch of tourists at this spot on my way home, I raise me arms in contrived amazement. “How horrible,” I start with a frown on my face, “no skyscrapers, no factories, no highways, no airports…” Surprised at first, the tourists start laughing quickly enough. The Mirna valley facing west is astonishing, indeed. Green even in mid-summer, it is breathtaking in its beauty. In spite of the winding canal that replaces the river and the narrow road parallel to it, there are few towns, villages, or hamlets in view. Almost pristine, the valley is breathtaking all year long. And all the tourists who stop by my house are my witnesses. Over the years, not one of them has responded with anything but laughter to my mock complaint. And a few of them would just shake their heads in barely hidden envy when I would reach for the door of my house and open it with a big smile on my face. I can imagine them giggling all the way to the lower square: “No skyscrapers…”

THE OLD MAN: A NOVEL

admin — Sun, 12 Jul 2026 23:30:19 +0000

All of a sudden, a novel starts taking shape in my mind. It lasts no more than one hour or so and it comes in three parts, each of which covers several hundred pages. And here it is from start to finish. An old man is lying in bed. He is alone in his house. There are strange pains in his chest, and he is adjusting his position to reduce the discomfort. Images of his life come forth one after another. The first part is all about his early years. He can see and feel his parent’s house in minute detail. Everything is sharp in front of his eyes—rooms, doors, curtains, and paintings on many a wall. Most of the time, he is doing his homework, and his mother is making sure that he is not fooling around. From time to time, he can smell the kitchen, where a maid is preparing a savory lunch. The sounds of the neighborhood are surprising him again and again. They are as real as real can be.

In the second part, the old man gets up and totters to the kitchen. He opens a drawer, pulls out one of the knives, sharpens it with due care, and slashes his left wrist. He does not go too deep, but there is a trace of blood leading back to his bed. He lies down and stretches out in the most comfortable position. Images of his middle age start coming up one after another. He can see and feel his wife. Her belly is quite large and she is close to giving birth to their first child. He can feel her fingers and toes, her nipples and her ears. Also, he can smell her crotch. Soon enough, the newborn child starts crying. He changes its diapers and calms down the exhausted baby before it falls asleep. Amazed by upcoming images, as well as all the sounds and smells that accompany them, the old man gets up and staggers to the bathroom. He finds a bandage and wraps up his left wrist. On his way back to his bed, he almost slips on the blood along the way.

The images multiply in the third part. The old man sees so many of his colleagues at work, and he can hear them bantering along the corridor next to his office. One more time, every single detail of the office building is with him—stairwells, elevators, corridors, and drowsy doormen next to the front door. Unexpectedly, one of his colleagues with whom he had a short loveaffair appears in sharp detail. She is naked in front of him in his office, the door of which is safely locked. It is late, and there is nobody around any longer. As she reaches her first orgasm in his lap, she screams at the top of her voice. Her large breasts and long legs are alive in front of the old man’s eyes. But many other images rush in one after another. They cover much of his adult life. His first stay in a hospital appears out of nowhere, as well. Patients in beds next to his are gurgling and panting all the while.

The old man gets up one more time and lurches to the kitchen. He pulls out the sharpened knife and slashes his right wrist. Walking back to his bedroom, he makes sure not to slip on the long trail of blood marked by his footprints. Lying in bed once again, he is assaulted by untold images of his long life. Many of them are as real as they could possibly be, and he relaxes in bed as the blood pours out of his right arm. His first lover appears in front of his face. Her skin is soft and her hair smells of her youth. As he is caressing her bum, she starts moaning. He reaches for her crotch, and his fingers dip into her abundant juices. Delighted, he makes another attempt to get up from his bed, but he realizes quickly enough that he is too weak already for another attempt to stop the bleeding. Images start faltering and fading. The pain in the chest intensifies. And the novel comes to its bloody end.

Pleased by my unexpected venture into the novel as a literary form, I shake my head in awe. Such a novel would make perfect sense, no doubt whatsoever. Rich images of someone’s life would take quite a few pages to describe in requisite detail. And the reader would be rather pleased by pages upon pages of this kind. More important, the very end of the novel would be clear from the very first page, which would only add to the thrill. All in all, a novel like this one would make sense even to me, no matter how annoyed I tend to be about this particular literary genre. Nonetheless, I would prefer if someone else would undertake such an endeavor, worthy as it undoubtedly would be. As far as I am concerned, these five paragraphs and close to nine-hundred words are perfectly sufficient. After all, I am not a writer! Perish the thought.

LEBEN IST TÖDLICH

admin — Thu, 09 Jul 2026 23:30:25 +0000

I keep my empty pipe tobacco boxes for possible future use. One of them attracts my attention from time to time. In huge lettering, it declares in the German language: Rauchen ist tödlich. Smoking is deadly, indeed. By and by, though, I realize that this warning is kind of superficial, if not also vague. Not only smoking is deadly, that is. So is also eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping, lovemaking, walking, bicycling, driving, and so forth. In fact, everything is deadly. Therefore, similar words should be added to every product available nowadays. Even more, there should be signs everywhere around us warning all and sundry that living is deadly. Returning to the German language: Leben ist tödlich. To my joy, I feel that I am onto something. Something real, as it were. When I search for these punchy words on the World Wide Web, I find plenty of websites on offer. To be sure, living is deadly. And this is well understood by many among my fellow humans already. Hooray!

To Arthur Schopenhauer

FIAT LUX

admin — Sun, 05 Jul 2026 23:30:22 +0000

I dreamt of a cylindrical device inserted into a vagina that ended with a socket into which a lightbulb could be screwed. After a few minutes of collecting the electricity from the body, a lightbulb would be screwed into the socket, and there would be light. Judging by the feet and legs of the woman whose vulva was in plain view, she was in her teens, but I could not see the rest of her body or her face. The dream came back to me three or four times during the night. It was a part of a research project that was supposed to show that there was a good amount of electricity in the human body, which could be used for many useful purposes. There were no sexual connotations in the repeated dream. Time and again, the sudden appearance of bright light was all there was to it.

BORN SUN WORSHIPPERS

admin — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 23:30:24 +0000

A week after this year’s summer solstice, I must admit that I am enchanted with the almighty sun. Several times a day, I feel grateful whenever I see or feel its rays that penetrate all the way to my bones. At my age, I do not worry about the ravages it brings to planet earth in connection with climate change. That is beyond me and my bungling fellow humans, anyway. All I care about is the sun’s light and warmth. By and by, I am becoming a worshiper of the star that has nourished life on the planet of my birth. Whenever I get a chance, I express my gratitude in no uncertain terms. As well as out loud. More often than not, this happens when the sun is setting. As I stare at its last rays, I raise my arms high, spread my fingers wide, and repeat my thanks over and over again. As its last rays are about to vanish, I wish it back as soon as possible. Often enough, tears come to my eyes at such precious moments. Yes, I am becoming a sun worshiper for true. Not surprisingly, many a creed devoted to the fabulous star has been around since times immemorial. Chances are that they precede all the others, as well. Coming from the heart of Africa, humans are born sun worshippers. In the fullness of time, they may well return to the creed of their ancestors. And in earnest.

LOVE OF LIFE

admin — Sat, 20 Jun 2026 23:30:56 +0000

The sun amazes me ever anew. When its rays unexpectedly reach me through the leaves of a tree above me, I am overwhelmed by strong emotions. From time to time, I am brought to tears, as well. I am far from a fan of sunbathing, but I understand the sunbathers well enough. To begin with, it brings back the skin color of our youth. The color of Africa, that is. On top of that, the joy of feeling sun’s rays on one’s skin is overwhelming for true. And I cannot but think of our closest primate relatives, chimpanzees and gorillas. I can well imagine that the sun’s rays would also entice strong emotions among them. Love of life, in short. And the sun is the source of life on this planet of ours, no doubt whatsoever. The glorious sun is life itself, no less. Even though I will forever remain innocent of the emotions of our primate relatives, all of whom are close to my heart but far from my reach, I am convinced beyond any doubt that we share the strongest of emotions about the nearest star. Love of life! Be that as it may, my heartfelt words bring me close to tears one more time.

BUT A SILLY DREAM

admin — Tue, 16 Jun 2026 23:30:08 +0000

Imagine a world just to your taste. A world without any glitches or nightmares. No sooner than you imagined it, you would realize that it was but a silly dream.

Addendum (June 18, 2026)

By the way, this is my brief response to the rise of socialism in Generation Z (1997-2012), which was recently advertised by no one else but The Economist (June 6, 2026). As an ardent Babyboomer (1946-1964), I know what I am talking about. A world without any glitches or nightmares is nothing if not a silly dream, to be sure. And it is high time to abandon all such dreams, no matter how mesmerizing. Humans are humans are humans. Primates from head to toe, that is. The only solution is the return to tribal life of yesteryear. Period.

ON SERVING AND DOMINEERING

admin — Mon, 08 Jun 2026 23:30:34 +0000

As of late, I am enjoying many of my books in Italian. And there are quite a few of them in my library, indeed. Among them is Herman Hesse’s Il pellegrinaggio in oriente.[1] Entirely by chance, I just opened it and came across this interchange between two characters in the book:

Chi vuol vivere a lungo deve servire. Chi invece vuol dominare non vive a lungo.

E allora perché tanti aspirano al dominio?

Perché non lo sanno. Pochi sono coloro che nascono per dominare e questi restano sani e sereni. Gli altri invece, quelli che si fanno padroni a furia di gomiti, finiscono tutti nel nulla.[2]

I was delighted by these words, for I am one of those who are dedicated to serving rather than domineering. But I wish to serve only a few and far between, who are just as myself. Luckily, I am not looking forward to living too long. Pace Hesse, I am not serving so as to live long. Quite the opposite, I am happy to admit.

Footnotes

1 Translated by Ervino Poscar, Milano: Adelphi, 1992 (first published in 1973).

2. Op. cit., pp. 33-34.

THE SOONER, THE BETTER

admin — Sun, 31 May 2026 23:30:25 +0000

Lately, one apparently simple question has been popping up in my mind every so often: “Will I die before or after the onset of World War III?” A good question this, I reckon. So far, no acceptable answer is on offer, but I hope that I will die before it comes forth. For living through the tumult cannot possibly be enjoyable. I could not care less about death itself, but the misery ahead of it is not to my taste. Hunger, thirst, discomfort, pain, worry, fear, panic… Actually, the real question is straightforward: “Would I like to die before or after the onset of World War III?” And the answer is obvious enough. Come to think of it, dying before rather than after the onset of the mother of all wars is nothing if not a godsend. The sooner, the better, too. And I am lucky to be in my dotage at the time when death is so welcome as it happens to be right now. Chances are that mortality rates will be skyrocketing around this time. Indeed, chances are that my thoughts will be unwittingly shared by many of my ample age. The sooner, the better. And no kidding. Three cheers for babyboomers of all ages!

To Donald Trump, the Global Peacemaker

Addendum (June 14, 2026)

This piece was written, as well as dedicated to Trump, a fortnight ago with his upcoming birthday in mind. Two months younger than me, he has turned eighty today. Congratulations! Just like me, he is one of the earliest babyboomers around. Congratulations once again! A great fan of the Nobel Peace Prize, he will do everything in his power to stop World War III in its tracks. After all, he was born just after World War II, when another global conflict of this abominable kind was simply unthinkable. Whence my heartfelt dedication, of course. Endowed with superb intelligence, he will also understand my convoluted humor. With a little bit of luck, both of us will live many more years, if not also decades. Hooray!

MY SINCERE APOLOGY TO MY SUCCESSORS

admin — Tue, 26 May 2026 23:30:30 +0000

Thinking of years way ahead, when the most ardent among my successors will be reading bits and pieces of my Residua that will miraculously survive all the upcoming horrors, I am perplexed by so many of my pieces of writing that mention technological miracles of the Nineteenth, Twentieth, and Twenty-First Century, albeit only in passing. What will my readers make of motorcycles, cars, trains, airplanes, rockets, telephones, radios, television sets, cameras, and so forth? The world Wide Web will be beyond them for sure. By comparison, I have no trouble of this kind when reading Murasaki Shikibu, Patanjali, Marcus Aurelius, Seneca, Montaigne, Pascal, Renard, Joubert, and many others. In their writings there are no such mysteries. One way or another, all the technologies known to them are within my reach. Besides, they rarely write about such petty things; instead, they focus on the crucial subjects uniting and dividing the human species since times immemorial. After some reflection, the only thing that crosses my mind in this connection is an apology of sorts. Whence this particular piece of writing, of course. Behold, my sincere apology to my successors, no matter how few! Technology is for the birds, anyway.