I find beautiful words so unstimulating. There are those who strut around, thanks to their undeserved gift of eloquence and wit, for having had a good idea without taking the trouble to convert that illuminating opinion into action. Certain modern interpretive keys, elevated to the status of clichés, for those who can still appreciate the concept of a cliché, have become indigestible to me over the years, misleading in an unbearable way, a digression from my path of intellectual growth that forces me to long wanderings, compromises, and contortions. I see that I’m not in the majority. I see that listeners like me, more or less, tend to trust, appreciate, and admire. Maybe I’ve heard too many good opinions… I’m old. I’ve also witnessed good actions that later turned into less exceptional conduct and even degenerated into shameful behavior over time… so now I’m bored with beautiful words, good actions thrown out without conviction, just to demonstrate something that ultimately demonstrates little or nothing, beyond the vain reason for my disillusionment. “So, who do you trust?” Somebody truly asked it, evidently mistaking my bitterness for intolerance. Not saints, definitely, who are sometimes celebrities even while still alive. Some martyrs, however, yes: I’d save those. Yes to posthumous medals for valor, and no to celebrations for survivors, to pharaohs embalmed in pyramids of eternity. Yes to monuments to the fallen, no to any honorary benefits. Anyone who hasn’t died, perhaps badly, while fighting for something just that couldn’t be defended without risking their life, shouldn’t tell me they’re brave and shouldn’t expect me to think they are. I always distrust, and rightly so, all the surviving sirens, grown fat, retired to the countryside to make wine, whom complacent societies shower with incense and honors, banquets and glories. Anyone, even the most saintly, would still have the opportunity to make me regret having admired them and, given enough time, which is always available, to ruin everything, even at the last minute. Whoever doesn’t want to risk disappointing expectations, not mine, which I wouldn’t have anyway, but those of everyone else, even the most prone to illusion, shouldn’t seek the approval of fans, admiration, or envy from the people, craving while still alive the proof of others’ gratitude. This is odious and seems like a clear resurgence of the never-extinguished search for maternal approval, which a saint who is truly saintly should have learned to tame while growing up, to dedicate themselves to other purposes. So, let only the martyrs come to me, the sacrificial lambs, the scapegoats, and those who don’t care about being in the spotlight if it means putting others in the shadows. All the unnamed ones should look elsewhere, because here they’re not just disappointed, they’ve really blown it.
