madre ho dato un pugno, A chi, Al mio compagno, non so perchè mi guardava con quegli così così, sembrava aver capito la mia colpa, Ma tu non hai colpa figlio mio, Eppure lo sento dentro dal cielo, questa tenaglia è qui dal momento della nascita. E da quel giorno non ho smesso di provare, Cosa figliolo, Di provare a liberarmi ma niente da fare, mi segue come il lupo bracca questo gregge, che vuoi che sia un gregge per un lupo, eppure è lì a dire, Eccomi o gregge è la mia natura condividere con te la mia fame e la mia rabbia, di essere creatura nata per il gusto di umiliarti, e riservarti una fine da pecora. E ti accompagna quel lupo solitario guardingo scaltro e perchè no costante, mentre rincasi tardi e tua madre è lì col magone, Figlio dove hai passato queste ore mentre io mi torturavo coi pensieri più nefasti. E ti accompagna ancora mentre cresci a pane e comunioni, ti costringe a confessarti, a mentire, a dire a preti professori famiglia, amici conoscenti simple and associates of sex (including your own hand): Excuse me, I could not do without.
So Christianity was born, a defense of guilt. That sense of guilt or perhaps colored dusk dawn, described so vividly by Saramago in shades of blue in Iceland, to hunt down the night. Born into a wasteland of a blue dry sense of guilt, a feeling that lives in the hearts of each character.
Maria, guilty of not understanding what she is carrying, but also unaware of how it can be done, maybe it's the fault of those angels too devastating to an innocent mind, limited as that of a carding wool Nazarene. He was born in Joseph, guilty of not believing the way down to the words Mary's, but especially guilty of having allowed the massacre of the innocents as he fled without his son. Jesus was born in
We want to psychologists. Jesus is the son of a night of blood, where dozens of children like him are cut off by order of Herod. And this sense of guilt comes the double face of Christianity: one is the son of the Socratic sense of guilt, which removes it and throws it in a world too small to understand it, the other the father justice and revenge. A revenge that Jesus is the will to save the world in exchange for those lives torn a time to blame.
And in all this the hand of Saramago sculpts poetic figures between the human and the divine, drawing legends, stories catechism every plausible stories of land and blood, body and soul. Love stories, that of Jesus to freedom from guilt embodied in the body of Mary Magdalene, a woman too true to have existed and potersene fall in love.
And the narrative of the time when Jesus, injured her foot and receives the love of a woman, gives the first ray of sun, warm and bright, the twilight sky in which to date has grown up and grow up with him after page page.
From this we come out dazed Gospel chapter by chapter, confronted with the harsh reality of a divine dark, fearful, confused, and never clear, visionary and transcendent, always in conflict with his other evil. Il vero vincitore sarà chi, come Gesù, comprenderà che non saranno le istituzioni a donarci una risposta, ma la pura fede nella verità inscritta in ognuno di noi al momento dell'incarnazione.
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