"I want to go with the man I love I do not want to know how much I do not know if I do well or even if I'm hurting I just want to love what I love." It is the soul Shen Te-good singing love with this poem by Brecht and may seem strange to talk about his love borrows the words of a poet known for his cultural and political penalty for his epicit & # 224;. Just like when I put on a show that spoke entirely in love, the good soul of Sezuan, there is no triumphalism, no small stubbornness, no nostalgia for consistency, talk again in love, once again, through the words of Brecht. Instead, there is a finding clear, almost serene, that these words have regained - if anything they had lost - their needs, their tragic news, their shocking new formal , when they had at the time of writing. And that in a world like ours, where, I think, is really losing any measure, in which we go towards a destiny arid, perhaps to a nuclear catastrophe is dominated by the coldness and intolerance, unable now of looking at life as a "daily action" as "normal" and not as an exception in a world in which the problem of evil is only proof of the horror that has become a habit, almost with indifference when we set the violence around us, the corruption, the spread of a tangle of interest only to materials where even our entertainment has become a continuous, futuristic, massacre in color. In this world, a word like love can be frightening, if not pronounced with a side of heroism, is impossible, of schizophrenia, coded character, where even the advertising suggests words and behaviors that should come from the heart. It is a paradigm of the "schizophrenia society "in which we live, this spiral of dissociation seems to be no solution of continuity. I think the madness of the era "Atomic" - as he calls Fornari - atomic terror that makes us exorcise evil through the continued acceptance of violence. I think of men now forced to live in the twilight of the garden of the world where asylum is still in its pearly empty space, around an expanse of water and mud and waste, moons and suns rise and set, and so little love . And it was dissolved only in us. It is our business, to us precisely as Brecht says, "ephemeral of this planet, the last refuge that is like that. " So, even love, one of the few things "green" that remain in us, becomes a symptom, the way, the light for shelter lâeterno not dream, but to expand, live to the full these small areas of truth intimate, personal, often secret, that still remain. So insinuiamo in us the suspicion that sweet weakness. Brecht said: "... weaknesses, you or I had not had one, I loved".
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