Leggera come come una corona di piume

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Scusate il ritardo.

Attenti al lupo è un blog che vuole dare voce a quelli che spesso vengono dimenticati. O che sono considerati meno di altri o che non si possono difendere. In un mondo veloce e troppo spesso effimero come il nostro noi rischiamo spesso di “dimenticare”. Ho scelto di scrivere un “post” atipico (come del resto ho già fatto altre volte) come mio personale contributo alla memoria.

Leggera come una corona di piume: La Letteratura Yiddish.

La letteratura Yiddish ci appare come vero e proprio simbolo dell’epica. E’, infatti, una letteratura che nasce in situazioni particolari e sicuramente irripetibili. Germinata da comunità granitiche e organiche che tuttavia esprimono tradizioni millenarie e valori universali.

Una delle caratteristiche più importanti della letteratura yiddish è che riesce a trasmettere questi valori e tradizioni in modo accessibile e immediato a tutti i suoi lettori, anche se questi non appartengono per nulla al mondo ebraico, ma anzi ne sono lontani per estrazione e cultura. La letteratura Yiddish riesce così come altre più conosciute (ma non per questo più importanti), a tramandare il retaggio del proprio passato e a fornire insegnamento sui valori che governano la società degli uomini e che muovono le loro anime. Questo, si badi bene, avviene in modo spontaneo, basandosi su valori comunitari e dunque lontani da formulazioni solipsistiche che escludono tutte le altre realtà. E’ da notare il fatto rilevante che la letteratura Yiddish proviene dalla matrice religiosa che fa capo alla Legge Talmudica e tratta quindi di valori universali e necessari che vanno dal rapporto Dio-uomo, a quello più terrestre e coniugale come quello tra marito e moglie per giungere a quello basilare del rapporto dell’uomo stesso nei confronti dei suoi simili.

La produzione letteraria in Yiddish prende a diffondersi soprattutto in Germania durante il medioevo. Il fatto di non poter usare la lingua sacra cioè l’ebraico per questioni non relative alla religione aiutò il normale sviluppo della lingua popolare degli Ebrei dell’Europa settentrionale e orientale, l’Yiddish. Questo linguaggio era usato per gli affari di tutti i giorni ed era dunque per forza di cose scevro da ogni sacralità. Quest’idioma popolare diventerà lingua, trasformandosi in sfondo perfetto su cui si proietteranno le domande e le necessità letterarie del popolo ebraico in quella zona dell’Europa che dalla Germania va verso l’Oriente.

Antichi poemi cavallereschi come il Dukus Horant, il Majnster Hiltibrant e il Ditrich fun Bern furono insieme a poemi epici biblici come il Padre Abramo e il Giusto Giuseppe le prime opere composte o riadattate secondo il gusto ebraico. Autori principali di questa trasformazione erano i cantastorie ebrei, i quali abilmente ricostruivano tali narrazioni per fa si che il popolo le potesse apprezzare. D’altronde come possiamo facilmente immaginare il mondo degli ebrei nel medioevo, era troppo lontano da quell’ideale epico e cavalleresco che invece si andava diffondendo nel resto dell’Europa cristiana. Ha, infatti argutamente detto M. Erik che i romanzi cavallereschi yiddish sono “romanzi senza cavalieri e senza cavalleria”. L’attenzione della gente più che alle scene di guerra e alle battaglie che erano opportunamente eliminate dai cantastorie, era incentrata invece sulle storie d’amore e sui fatti meravigliosi di cui tali poemi erano piene. E’ interessante notare come le stesse autorità religiose ebraiche erano contrarie a questi adattamenti che erano considerati dei veri libri folli e dunque veramente nocivi alla morale della gente.

Mentre i poemi cavallereschi traevano punto per forma e contenuto da quelli tedeschi e solo in seguito da quelli celtici e francesi, la poesia religiosa tradizionale, altro filone dell’antica letteratura Yiddish, attingeva le sue storie dalla Bibbia e dai midrasim. Bisogna porre l’accento che anche questi componimenti potevano avere la forma dei romanzi cavallereschi e spesso recavano echi della situazione sociale in cui vivevano gli ebrei come ad esempio nel poema epico Il Giusto Giuseppe, realtà la loro che era spesso veramente dura.

L’opera più indicativa di questa tipologia di letteratura è sicuramente il Libro di Samuele che descrive con aria ispirata la Storia d’Israele e fa della figura di Davide il centro di quella storia.

Durante il Rinascimento la letteratura Yiddish ha il suo esponente più importante in Elia Levita che fu anche il maestro a Roma del cardinale Egidio da Viterbo, e fu autore del Bovo-Buch e di Paris un Vien.

I secoli che seguirono furono molto difficili, addirittura drammatici per gli ebrei. Le persecuzioni e le distruzioni diventarono soprattutto nell’Europa Orientale sempre più cruente e incessanti. L’unico paese dove gli ebrei avevano stanziato le loro comunità, e che concedeva loro, una certa forma di tolleranza era l’Olanda. Ad Amsterdam fu data alle stampe la prima traduzione della Bibbia in yiddish seguendo il modello olandese dell’antico testamento, senza la traduzione in ebraico.

In seguito la letteratura Yiddish conobbe un lungo periodo di pietrificazione di eventi letterari. Le gravi difficoltà del tempo eressero la religione a unica fonte di vita e di speranza, alla quale tutto il popolo ebraico si strinse come un unico corpo per riceverne speranza e conforto.

Ma è impossibile tenere soggiogato per sempre lo spirito umano e la necessità antropologica degli uomini di raccontare e raccontarsi. Nel XIX secolo avvenne, infatti, una vera e propria esplosione di talenti e di significati che arricchirono in modo definitivo la letteratura Yiddish. Nello sviluppo contemporaneistico di questa possiamo distinguere due momenti fondamentali: il primo che va dal 1863 circa al 1917 e quello successivo dalla fine della Rivoluzione Russa fino agli anni 80-90 del XX secolo. I caratteri salienti del primo periodo (1863-1917) segnano l’evoluzione delle forme letterarie primitive e se vogliamo anche abbastanza semplici che abbiamo analizzato ad altre indubbiamente di struttura e contenuti più importanti ed elevati.. questa caratteristica strutturale della letteratura Yiddish di questo periodo va inserita in una tendenza che era tipica del movimento illuministico e che considerava la letteratura come un vero e proprio strumento per la diffusione culturale tra la gente e dunque capace di installare un maggior senso di libertà e una più forte coscienza dell’assoluta autonomia dell’arte.

Dopo il 1917 le istanze della letteratura Yiddish cambiano forma conseguentemente ai grandi eventi storici che caratterizzeranno la prima parte del secolo scorso. Gli ebrei, nonostante la grande illusione della Rivoluzione Russa avvertono una volta di più che il loro destino è di essere sempre e comunque diversi. E questa loro apparente diversità si esprimerà in termini sempre più marcati nei confronti del mondo che li circonda. Basti pensare allo sviluppo di quella che vorrei definire come letteratura d’emigrazione caratterizzata dalle storie su ebrei che sono emigrati. Soprattutto negli Stati Uniti con le loro tristi e sofferenti parabole di un continuo esilio e della loro fatica per un’affermazione nel Nuovo Mondo.

Anche gli ebrei come molte altre etnie emigrate negli Stati Uniti ricostruiranno nei limiti del possibile quello che era il loro vecchio ambiente cercando di riannodare insieme le loro tradizioni che pure l’ennesimo e forzato esilio non è riuscito a spezzare. Inevitabilmente però il nuovo si mischierà a queste memorie in modo direi deciso e ineluttabile. Con forza le pagine della letteratura, della nuova letteratura yiddish si riempiranno di una linfa nuova e diversificata, quella che riguarda cioè il mondo americano che presto diventerà tessuto fondamentale per gli scrittori ebrei americani.

Con l’Olocausto la letteratura Yiddish sparisce quasi completamente dalla faccia della terra. Di quell’eccezionale fioritura culturale che animava soprattutto l’Europa Orientale, non restano che poche e tristi vestigia. Che senso può avere lo scrivere dopo Auschwitz? E dello scrivere di un mondo che non esiste più?

Che cosa è restato dopo la guerra della Letteratura Yiddish e quale contributo questa può ancora dare all’umanità?

Invito però il lettore che abbia voglia di accostarsi o tornare a questa letteratura, essa offrirà un universo fantastico e pieno di una sensibilità che raramente si può trovare in altre storie letterarie. Si tenga sempre a mente che la letteratura Yiddish è basata sulle vicende e sulle storie della piccola gente. Di modeste creature che molto spesso trascinavano le loro vite difficili in un universo ostile e molto spesso crudele, vivendo comunque le loro storie con la passione e l’amore verso la vita che nonostante tutto solo chi soffre veramente può avere.

Credo che nel leggere i lavori di Mendele, Mocher Sforim, Shalom Aleichem, Shalom Asch, dei fratelli Singer, o di Bergelson, Markish, Kulbak,Opatoshu, Peretz, Pesach Marcus, Chaim Grade e altri noi potremmo onorare la memoria di quelli che erano descritti da questi nelle loro opere e far in modo che la memoria resti viva per chi, come i sei milioni furono annientati dalla barbarie dell’uomo.

Dzialoszyce-synagogue

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Art History Wednesday: The Nymph of the Spring

Reblogged from Keeping History Alive:

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This oil on panel painting is a prime example of a Late Northern Renaissance work of art. It was painted by German artist Lucas Cranach the Elder around 1537.

It portrays a classical nude, probably influenced by Italian Renaissance figures. It has no religious connection, but rather celebrates the joys of the flesh. A nymph, as the figure is identified as through the title, was a follower of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, beauty and sex.

Read more… 174 more words

A great choice, thank you!

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I Don’t Eat Priests For Breakfast

iStock_000023339588_SmallAs we speak the cardinals are gathering in Rome to elect the new pontiff,  head of the Catholic Church, trusted spiritual guide to more than a billion Catholic around the globe. There is great anticipation to discover who will ascend the Chair of Peter. It’s always good to remember that the pope is the spiritual guide to more than a billion people and his voice is heard worldwide.

I believe that today, like never before, the election of the new pontiff is of a fundamental importance to the Catholic Church. This must not be an “ad interim” pope. Simply because the Church of Rome cannot afford it.

I hope that a man in possession of the strength and spirit to reform emerges from the Sistine Chapel, where the college of cardinals will elect the new bishop of Rome. A man with the actual courage to look inside his Church with honesty and with openness to the world. A man that understand how to really analyze the wrongs of the temporal -not divine- institution that he has just been called to lead. A real pastor that understands that 21st century catholics are different from those of the middle ages. That the social reality of today is different from that of Idebrando of Soana and Matilde of Tuscany. People need more than just feeble and often unconvincing answers to the problems and challenges that they must face everyday.

The churches are half-empty in Italy just like they are in the rest of the world. Women almost never choose the religious life. After all  why should they? Despite what the bishops say, within the Catholic Church, women are still treated as second-class citizens.

Watch the cardinals, and you will notice that they are a bunch of all men that live in a reality detached from the rest of us. Despite what they allege, they live in a world of wealth and privilege, often in magnificent palaces, and above all, they live without ever having to attend to the everyday realities that are fundamental of the so called flock that they ought to administer spiritually.

So then how can these cardinals be effective overseers of the Christian message? Why does the Catholic Church have to be governed by octogenarians instead of men at the peak of their physical and spiritual strength? I believe because the Catholic Church is blinded by extreme conservatism. The affairs of the last ten years demonstrate that the Church is not really under attack by the secularism and materialism on which it is too easy to blame every sin as if it were Linus’ blanket. Instead, I hold that one of principal problems is the growing distance between the head of the Church (pope, cardinals, bishops) and its base: the faithful.

If Christ really did tell Peter to go to Rome to build His church, I hope that He did it for everyone, even for the poor, gays, divorcees, women and molested children. For those that want to be accepted by the Church instead of driven from it. I don’t want to speak for Christ (even I cannot do that!) but I am convinced that He did not intend His church to be an exclusive club where only old men and hypocrites (I believe call them Pharisees) have access and the right to be accepted.

To me John Paul II was a pope that did more harm than good to the Church. He took it back in time, negating the work of John XXIII and Paul VI (who ought to be given more credit). He created bishops, men most often silent and subservient and therefore rewarded, as long as they sympathized with his reactionary fury. He opened doors to ultraconservative religious orders, like Opus Dei, whose powerful funds may have financed Solidarnosc when John Paul II was the primate of Poland, guaranteeing his eternal gratitude in return. And he opened doors for the Legion of Christ, whose founder Maciel as it turns out was a criminal and a proven sexual deviant. He protected Cardinal Marcinkus the former President of the Vatican Bank, whose murky and mysterious affairs have been a consistent source of nothing short of profound doubt in Italian courts. He refused every opening to the modern world, an obstinate and stubborn defender of a Church that kept its distance from the people. The sex abuse were not new under his pontificate. His grand public relations gestures, like the visit to the Synagogue of Rome and his trip to Cuba, created, in our collective imagination, a distorted sense of what the church really was.

The future is already before us.

I hope that the Catholic Church finally finds the courage and the strength to reinvent itself to better serve the world. I hope that it is truly the Holy Spirit who will elect a pope in the Sistine Chapel, and not some old men with slow reflexes or reactionaries locked in an inexplicable conservatism.

I hope so, not because I am a Bolshevik antichrist that eats priests for breakfast.

I do it as a Catholic, because the Church of Rome is my church too.

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OBVIOUSLY, CHAOS

Chaos.

The last Italian elections  have proven, yet again, the fundamental impossibility for Italy to be a normal country. A country where people find work, pay fair and just taxes, and is represented by honest and experienced people.

A country where the sky is blue, and the yellow sun shines kindly over children playing on green grass, while a festive little paper boat drifts toward the horizon on cheerful waves. A normal country. Where miracles are the exception and not the rule that everyone expects every day. A normal country, where the candidates are not suspect billionaires mixed up in hundreds of controversial court cases that range from corruption to child prostitution. Exactly as Silvio Berlusconi is.

A normal country where there should not be characters like Beppe Grillo, who shouts his empty and rabid outrage, playing the card of boorish populism to which Italians, unfortunately, have been accustomed for centuries.

In a civilized country, in fact, Berlusconi would have already been in prison for a long while. But instead, making use of his inordinate wealth, he’s not only free, but even running (again) to lead the country.

More Chaos.

Beppe Grillo shouts. He destroys, yet, to build is something else. One needs to have real ideas and proven experience. A sense of moderation and respect for others. But too often those who shout possess neither the sense of moderation nor respect for others.

Even though I’ve written this post in English, I am Italian and I would like only to be a citizen of a normal country, where the young find work, the people pay their taxes and there is respect for others. I see instead a bad actor, a fraud, an old man with his face lifted by the scalpels of plastic surgeons, with the audacity to want to lead my country.

There is chaos in Italy. And Italy is our country.

 

 

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Art History Wednesday: Cornelia, Mother of the Gracchi Pointing to her Children as her Treasures

Reblogged from Keeping History Alive:

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Neoclassical painter Angelica Kauffman completed this large-scale painting in 1785. It has an ancient historical subject, which makes it a true history painting.

The subject of this painting is Cornelia Africana, the daughter of Roman general Scipio Africanus. She is remembered as a virtuous woman of modesty and honor.

In the painting, Cornelia, a wife of a Roman patrician was walking down the street with her children.

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Excellent blog....

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BERLUSCONI E’ LA PESTE NERA.

Per favore non votatelo. Tra oggi e domani fate quello che volete, meno una cosa: votare Berlusconi.

A quest’uomo non importa nulla di Voi, dell’Italia, dei Vostri Figli, delle Vostre Pensioni, di quei Quattro Soldi che faticosamente avete messo da parte. A quest’uomo non importa delle Donne, dell’Economia, dell’Europa, del Rispetto Internazionale, di una Ripresa economica seria.

Come potete votare un uomo di 78 anni che si comporta da buffone, che va in giro con ragazze che potrebbero essere sue bis-nipoti, che ha subito centinaia di processi e altri seri ne ha in corso. Che ha il volto sfatto e rifatto, che e’ volgare, che mente su tutto e tutti. Un magliaro che ha fatto la sua fortuna grazie a intrighi con banche sul finire degli anni sessanta, con la massoneria negli anni settanta, con la politica corrotta degli anni ottanta, con il delirio degli Italiani negli anni novanta e con l’assenza di cultura politica del duemila. Come potete votare un uomo che mente così’ spudoratamente su cose che se eletto, non riuscirà’ mai a fare; come cancellare le tasse, creare quattro milioni di posti lavoro, l’azzeramento del finanziamento pubblico ai partiti, tagli per sedici miliardi di Euro per le spese di Stato, niente patrimoniale e nessun aumento dell’Iva e via dicendo.

Aveva gia’ promesso queste cose negli anni passati: nel duemila promise di eliminare le tasse ai poveri. Mai fatto. Nel 2004 stessa promessa non mantenuta, e così’ nel 2005 e 2006 e financo nel 2010.

Berlusconi non e’ un caimano, e’ peggio, molto peggio. E’un cancro per l’Italia e per l’Europa. Vuole ( considerati i suoi guai giudiziari) e deve essere eletto. E’ l’unico motivo per cui continua a candidarsi, per continuare a stare a galla, per non affondare.

Odia tutto quello che non fa parte delle sue bugie e del suo delirio e che non riesce a comprare, a ricattare oppure a corrompere. Anche il mercato finanziario (che dovrebbe invece essergli alleato essendo lui un super-capitalista), lo disprezza. Da anni ormai appena corre voce che Berlusconi vuole candidarsi , si candida o addirittura vince le elezioni i mercati vanno a picco e non solo quelli Italiani.

Continua a non rendersi conto che il Comunismo e’ finito da un quarto di secolo. Che le donne non sono solo puttane da fottere. Che l’Economia e’ una cosa seria. Che la crisi mondiale del 2008 ha significato il fallimento di quelle allucinanti teorie economiche che lui cerca di scimmiottare e mi riferisco al super liberalismo finanziario degli economisti della Scuola dell’Università’ di Chicago.

Berlusconi e’ la Peste Nera della politica e della finanza europea e italiana.

Tra oggi e domani fate quello che volete. Bevete vino. Fatevi una canna, andate a Messa.

Ma non votatelo.

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THE MAN DOG

  (This is my first attempt to literary glory at age 16. I just translated in English. I hope you will enjoy it).

The Man Dog.

I

After his wife died Gipo was alone. But it wasn’t until after the funeral that he was able to embrace solitude. During those first unreal days he had, for the first time in his life, felt truly important. All his friends (few) and relatives (too many) were trying to outdo each other in the attention and consolation they gave him.

It was a few days before the gravesite would be ready so that the heavy mahogany casket was placed in its final waiting room at the cemetery that Gipo went through a liberating experience. In that surreal room, were tears flowed and took with them the pain of regret, of love, where his feelings traversed the entire rainbow of sentiments from hypocrisy to desperation, Gipo was sure that his life would change. But he had not idea how much.

During the burial everyone was mute. Gipo thought they must have run out of ideas and words to consol him. Good!

The eulogy was finally coming to an end. Soon the curtain would drop, the actors take their final bows and leave him in peace. He was glad.

The last few moments at his doorway were the worst. He couldn’t get rid of them. The last advice, phony entreaties to be called at any time, for any reasons…and finally the door closed on the people of his former life.

Gipo was about to start his new life. Alone. Free.

He leaned with his back against the door and gazed down the long corridor of his apartment. A few moments passed. Gipo stood quite still; he didn’t know what to do. Sure, everyone had promised to call on him, but he knew they wouldn’t. Even when his wife was alive they rarely received visitors or invitations, nor did they go visiting or extend invitations. This wouldn’t change. Not now.

Finally he moved away from the door. He walked down the long hallway into the kitchen. He decided to have an espresso. He fussed with the coffee pot for a bit, got the stove lit after two or three matches, sat down, stared fixedly at the apparatus and patiently waited.

The neon lighting (which his wife had had installed for reasons of economy) cast a disconcerting glow in the room. He hated that light, it was like if he was still at the morgue. Gipo gave a sudden start as the coffee pot began to rumble like a thunderstorm heard in a distance, signaling that it was ready. He inhaled deeply as he poured the ebony liquid into a small cup. The aroma and taste of coffee were two things he couldn’t resist.

Gipo noticed that strangely enough, he wasn’t thinking much about his wife and her loss didn’t cause him any grief at all. Instead he thought of how he wouldn’t have to suffer her reprimands, her sarcasm and her constant gossip on any and every subject anymore. He felt almost happy. It had been a long time since Gipo had felt anything like happy. And maybe best of all Gipo wouldn’t have to put up with the vast array of wheezing, rasping, rattling and other noises she made every night. It seemed that in whatever position she slept, indecent sounds were emitted through every orifice of her body.

Finishing his coffee, Gipo lit a cigarette. With joy he thought how he could now smoke what, when and how he wanted. And if the curtains stank of tobacco, well: he didn’t care. With the last puff on his smoke Gipo admitted that he was happy his wife was gone. He was a widower. “A happy one” he confessed to himself surprisingly without guilt.

He put on his cap and went out.

II

Of all months, November was somehow the saddest. It wasn’t cold but the damp air made him shiver just the same. He adjusted his scarf and then remembered it had been a gift from his wife. He tore it off and tossed into a trashcan.

He felt warmer.

He walked slowly, watching with childlike wonder the mist formed by the contact of his breath with the humid nocturnal air. The long boulevard was deserted. The naked trees stood like giant prisoners with their feet chained to the earth. The pavement was wet and sticky despite the lack of rain and the white light of the street lamps did not seem to penetrate and win against the dim evening. Occasionally a car raced down the street, came down to the corner going too fast and managed to stop only with a squealing of brakes and frantic downshifting.

Gipo looked at the piles of garbage overflowing from the too few containers on the roadside. He thought that even if his city was one of the most beautiful in the world, it certainly wasn’t one of the cleanest. A bunch of cats were intent on the feast in the pile of rubbish. When they heard Gipo’s steps they turned to look. Like two tiny green lights their eyes were focused on the walking man for an instant. Then they turned back to the business at hand.

At the end of the road Gipo saw a light. It was an all-night coffee bar. Going in, he asked for a coffee. Lazily, the man at the bar fiddled with the machine, slid a cup under the spout and waited. Gipo looked around. It was a dark and squalid place. He drank the coffee, which was horrible, asked for a glass of water to wash the taste from his mouth, paid and left.

A big dog was standing just outside the door. It seemed to have been waiting. It stared at him. Gipo always liked dogs very much. But his wife had never allowed one. “They are SOO dirty!” she would wine in her nervous and acidic voice. Well, now that she was gone, he was the master of the house and if he wanted a dog, who was going to stop him?

He stretched out his hand and caressed it on its head. The dog was docile and let him do it.

So Gipo’s solitude only lasted a short time. Now he had a friend. Didn’t they always say that a dog was man’s best friend? They became virtually inseparable, and Rey (the name Gipo gave him) was an exceptional dog; he never barked, never got in Gipo’s way. Didn’t make the apartment dirty. In short, he had all the qualities that a man could hope to find in a dog. At the same time Gipo had all the positive traits a dog could wish for in a man; he was a good man, never demanding, gave him plenty of food, was punctual in talking him for walks. You know how it is… certain beings seem to be made for each other. With the passage of time the man and the animal grew even closer. Gipo could speak for hours to Rey; Rey always listened.

But one day something extraordinary happened.

Gipo was in the armchair, watching TV. Rey lay at his feet, dozing placidly like only dogs can do it. Then, as he often did, Gipo began to talk to his dog.

“…You see Rey, if you could speak, you’d be perfect, not like my wife who could speak but had none of your good qualities. I sure was lucky to find you that night…”

“…I was lucky too, to find you, Gipo…”

For a moment Gipo felt he had followed his wife to the otherworld. Where did that voice come from? Dogs don’t talk!

“…don’t flip out old friend, it is really me, your dog Rey that’s speaking to you; you see, you humans have always thought that we dogs can’t talk, but you’ve always been wrong…”

“…But…but…dogs bark…” Gipo murmured in a trembling voice

“…It’s you humans that say we bark and you speak but from our point of view, we speak and you bark…”

Gipo couldn’t accept what he was hearing. “…I must have had too much to drink or I am going crazy…or maybe…I am just dreaming…Yes, that’s got too be it. It’s a nightmare…”

“…Nightmare or not dear Gipo, it’s true that I am talking to you and you are listening to me. You are not the only one. It happens from time to time…”

“…What happens?…” asked Gipo.

“…Well, have you ever seen a dog that remind you of someone you once knew?…”

“…Yeah…so?…”

“…You see…those aren’t actually dogs…they are mandogs…”

“…Mandogs! What does that mean?…” demanded Gipo, beginning to panic about what was happening.

“…it means that certain men, like you for example, that are particularly good to dogs can, in turn, become dogs, but can still talk to human if they want to help them become other mandogs too…”

“…You mean you were once a man…?”

“…Exactly…I was an accountant in a small village. I was alone. The society of men had cast me out, or at least I was never considered by other people but amongst the dogs I am an important fellow, and above all I am not judged…”

“…Oh, my God…”

“…Now Gipo do you want to become a mandog? You will never be alone. There’ll always be somebody to help you, either a dog or a man. We dogs always help each other and we sometimes find help from a human…”

Gipo made no response. He let out a whistle and fell back into the armchair.

Outside, the rain was gently knocking at the window. Sad, lonely drops, begging for help.

A long time passed and Gipo wasn’t seen. One day a niece of his wife’s was out for a stroll with her husband and she pointed out a stray dog to him.

“…Doesn’t that dog look like the husband of my dear departed aunt, God bless her?…”

“…What?…” he replied “…But yes, I guess it’s true. Funny, but out of all men he could look like it would be that half-wit uncle of yours…”

“…He’s not my uncle anymore! Who knows what has happened to him…living just like a dog…”

“…Just like a human…” thought the dog as he turned and trotted off down the street.

 

“…The only thing I miss is coffee and cigarettes…”

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