Minima immoralia 4. Dear Mr Allen,
your movie „Love and Death” saved my life, saved one day to be exact, but since it was a really foggy day with a lot of men on the streets, who tried to prove to all these pricks that they had bigger dicks so they were not allowing tramways to pass making a whole set of troubles on my way home… well, one can say, your movie saved my life. And it was almost July, so everyone expected summer, not this soup of fog and rain on the street. To love meant to suffer, and altogether it definitely did not mean to be happy. It meant to be sad. Not in a sadistic way, not sad like Nero, for whom burning Rome was not enough. It meant to wish to seat on one of these banches which play Chopin’s Sonatas, but unfortunately noone thought of bringing one of them to Mokotów. It meant to mourn an ungrievable loss of humor at a really nice dinner, it meant spoiling a party and puting salt to your coffee instead of sugar. It meant reading a reviewer who has never read Freud, and even the battle won yesterday with a telephone company WITHOUT going to court with them did not help this time. It meant seeing leaves on trees and not seeing their perfection, it meant not finding the shoes one wanted (they will be back in fall, now there is summer, lady. SUMMER!) Thank you Woody Allen. Thank you again.
Yours sincerely
xxx
