Questa è una breve biografia di Elizabeth Jane Howard, morta novantenne lo scorso 2 gennaio.
Era una scrittrice, autrice di vari romanzi di successo, raccolte di racconti, articoli e sceneggiature, vincitrice di premi letterari.
Come riportare dunque la notizia? Ricordando il suo talento e i suoi successi? NO (se non di striscio nell’ultimo paragrafo), piuttosto intitolando “è morta l’ex moglie di” e facendo l’elenco degli scrittori con cui era andata a letto.
Io ho il sospetto che questo modo di riportare la notizia sia disgustosamente sessista, e che se fosse morto un autore maschio sarebbe stato trattato in modo diverso.
Non ci posso credere: oggi, per la prima volta da secoli, NON ho:
- i dolori alle ossa ex-rotte
- i dolori ai muscoli strapazzati dalle ossa ex-rotte
- la cervicale
- il virus gastroenterico
- la nausea
- la febbre
- la fretta, l’ansia, le paturnie, la tensione, lo spleen
insomma, STO BENE. Se adesso si scopre che chi sta bene a capodanno sta bene tutto l’anno, siamo a cavallo!
All’ATM va dato il merito di non avere mezze misure: o ti fa piangere, o ti fa pelare dal ridere.
Oggi in una stazione della metropolitana:
“PLIN PLON, prova, stiamo effettuando prova di diffusione sonora.
“You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly.
Due ragazze in metropolitana:
“(…) e allora gli ho detto che vado a Segrate a prendermi il biglietto e poi lo rivendo, perché con lui non ci voglio proprio andare!”
“Ma perché avete litigato?”
Perché abbiamo litigato, abbiamo litigato perché…… boh vabbe’, comunque con lui non ci vado.”
Questi sono i miei auguri di natale: enjoy!
E adesso corriamo a salvare Kyle.