I'd lose the latter a part of that duet. Ah, yet what's it if it can't pierce, if it can't get lower than your dermis? I pay attention him whispering, “Such music’s emasculated. ” Quietus (campo santo, Casarsa, Italia) (Pier Paolo Pasolini 1922–75) Row upon row of headstones, there’s no eco-friendly, no grass, simply dirt and gravel paths round the graves. I stroll between them searching for him. images of the lifeless mark many of the graves — their faces, their presence absence. they appear to appear out with a bit of luck from the frames. now not forgotten, neither can they overlook. after which there are the graves falling into spoil, the images, light and cracked, the pictures now faint colours of sepia. Are these women and men greater than lifeless, now that even their names are approximately erased? Is the younger guy whose wreath continues to be clean from the funeral, the flora wet with dew or tears, nonetheless alive compared? i can't locate Pasolini. I try out back and retrace my steps, jogging again up and down the rows below a sunlight heading into noon’s excessive warmth. He, no no longer he, I don’t particularly think that, now not the fellow, however it, the grave, needs to be the following. needs to i'm going again to the resort with out discovering it? while i eventually hand over and begin to depart, it’s there at the correct as i'm approximately to go out the cemetery: graves part via part, two flat white marble and matching stones. A tree grows out of the gravel, too small to color them. His mom, Susanna, is buried beside him. She used to be now not informed of her liked son’s dying; she used to be advised that he had long gone on a protracted sea voyage. • The crimson residence, 2004 On the most highway best from the teach station to the piazza, the purple apartment. The stucco and paint have been clean; the development regarded new, pristine even though flanked by means of a vacant lot turning out to be weeds and muddle. the home were his mother’s domestic, now not Pasolini’s. As a boy Paolo got here right here in the course of the summers for lengthy visits, idyllic summers spent operating with different boys, the golden-skinned, the sun-kissed sons of peasant farmers he got here to like — all he could ever dream of hope. Later, throughout the warfare, while he was once a college pupil at Bologna engaged on his thesis, he got here right here to break out from the bombing. at the beginning he proposal he hated it: What a hell-hole this can be in spite of everything. There’s not anything the following. It’s dried-up, grotesque, peopled through oafish males and shrewish girls. The streets are grey dirt and naked stones. 8 homes huddled jointly and referred to as itself a city. and a few fascist authentic listened and gave them the borough they deserved. was once it rather like this all alongside? Does my reminiscence lie? the place are these eco-friendly fields I enjoyed as a boy? All 12 months i'd dream of returning right here to run within the thigh-high grass, to fall back deliciously panting one of the primroses, one other boy beside me and every thing unfastened simply because every thing was once hidden through the lengthy grass. yet now I see how shabby every little thing is, how small the sq., how decrepit the homes. How the fields are dank, how the air is rank with the scent of decaying vegetation and stagnant waters.