The blood thing.
Macbeth’s language is the difference between Paris and Rome. Paris is elegant, it accommodates good taste. I can speak the language. Whereas my knowledge of Italian comes from the 2 great canons of opera and pizza. Music and appetite. Desire.
Paris suits me but Rome I want to go back to.
I hate it when I’m there: it’s bruta. It’s about hard bodies pushing up against me in steaming buses. Dripping lacerated Christs. A nun who makes hourly the story of Peter’s upside-down crucifixion. Body. Visceral. Headspin.
But it’s the city I remember.
Macbeth is my Rome. It’s the body play; the eating, sexing, the bloody, desiring, the operatic playscript.
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