This evening I thought that I lingered long enough and that it is time to write, but, like a perfect procrastinator, I told myself that ten more minutes on the internet could not do any harm.
The good mood of a nice Friday afternoon was still blooming when a title caused me a sharp pain that I felt in every bit of my body. And it seemed so simple, one among many: ‘Truman Capote’s ashes to go up for auction, 32 years after his death’; one hour later the horror I felt is still alive.
When I was a child my grandparents, who all of their life lived in a small village, thought me that money is just a tool, and that ‘there are more things in heaven and earth’ money can’t buy. They are dead now and the world they lived in forever gone and the noise of the new world today tells me only one thing: everything is for sell, everything has a price. Until today I refused to believe it, but now I begin to doubt it. Even death has a price and your remains could one day be commonplace merchandise.
Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.
The ashes of the man who gave us Breakfast at Tiffany’s will soon bear a price tag. Someone tries to explain that ‘This is probably what he would have wanted done’ mocking our intellect and common sense.
But as Capote’s ashes were stolen on one Halloween to mysteriously be return, maybe in September they will sell only ash, regular ash…
Today’s world that we have to swim in…