Tag Archives: Elena Ferrante

Post-nerasulfari

Am citit cartea asta foarte pe nerasuflate, aducandu-mi aminte ca obisnuiam sa spun, cand eram mic, ‘cafulmaj’ in loc de ‘camuflaj’. Rasulfari, deci.

‘‘…you don’t know who he really is, he doesn’t know himself. We are occasions. We consummate life and lose it because in some long-ago time someone, in the desire to unload his cock inside us, was nice, chose us among women. We take for some sort of kindness addressed to us alone the banal desire for sex. We love his desire to fuck, we are so dazzled by it we think it’s the desire to fuck only us, us alone. Oh yes, he who is so special and who has recognized us as special. We give it a name, that desire of the cock, we personalize it, we call it my love. To hell with all that, that dazzlement, that unfounded titillation. Once he fucked me, now he fucks someone else, what claim do I have?’’

– Elena Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment.