I hasten to advise the gentle reader that any association with Friedrich Dürrenmatt’s play of the same name as this post would be almost entirely spurious, except that the visitor due in Palermo tomorrow is as intelligent a lady as Frau Claire, the Swiss playwright’s heroine.
I’ve been reading about Charles Ponzi. What a man. In some vague way his story continues the argument of last week’s post about Donald Trump, but in this instance there’s no need to dot the i’s. This time round I invite the gentle reader to come up with his own farfetched interpretations and fanciful allusions.
A reader’s comment on last week’s post triggered an inchoate thought, and in its wake a lucid recollection. I remembered my erstwhile and now late father-in-law who, among his other dubious accomplishments, was a friend of Donald Trump, most closely so in the latter’s Ivana phase.
I return to last week’s night at the theater of the absurd as news comes that the royal couple, the Duke and the Dauphin – all right, Dauphine – of our times, have demanded that Buckingham Palace apologize to them for Lady Hussey’s impertinence. The impertinence, as the gentle reader may recall, lay in asking a woman in outlandish garb where she came from.
Certainly the gentle reader is by now quite tired of the marionettes in the theater of the absurd to which our editor recently alluded in his post “America – the Picture Show.” So am I, of course. To debate with a puppet, to point out the strings that hold it aloft, to rage at the big lie at the heart of the spectacle – all this was already tedious enough twenty or thirty years ago, when the show first opened, but today it’s just a waste of breath.
As the gentle reader seems to have appreciated the trope of Sunday night in Modena as an abandoned mining town in a spaghetti western, I keep pushing it. But first, a scene from Palermo.
Sunday, ten in the evening, Piazza Roma in Modena. Not a soul in sight. At lunchtime, this, one of the city’s main squares overlooking the Palazzo Ducale, was swarming with people in their Sunday best. A skating rink had been set up for the children, their unsteady shuffle on the ice choreographed to Tchaikovsky and Lehar.
In other news of the week, I note with a sour mien that the British expatriate formerly known as Prince and his spouse, a sometime television actress, have been awarded a prize called “Ripple of Hope” by the Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights foundation.
To Modena next week, where the Amici della Musica are hosting Olga with a program of Azeri composers, including the formidable Fikret Amirov whose centenary this is. Later on in the year the same program may take us to Turin.
I read somewhere that the famous “elements” of Aristotle had been lifted by him from a pre-Socratic sage, Empedocles, but anyway let us keep calling them Aristotelian.
