‘Alas, what has happened to me is like nothing anyone has ever known: beyond understanding, beyond compassion, beyond comedy, though there are those, i know, who claim to be on the brink of some conclusive scientific explanation; and those, my faithful visitors, whose compassion is deeply felt, sorrowful and kind; and there are still others — there would have to be — out in the world who cannot help but laugh. And I, at times, am one with them: I understand, I have compassion, I see the joke.’
Mettiamola così: un giorno come un altro vi svegliate, vi alzate dal letto, andate in bagno, vi specchiate nella toilette del lavandino, e scoprite, con orrore, di esservi trasformate. Non vi è ancora chiaro in cosa, ma certamente in qualcosa di molle. E rosa. Una specie di fungo, a cappella stretta e chiusa.
Fate per portarvi le mani alla bocca, ma non avete braccia. Abbassate lo sguardo ai piedi, ma non avete piedi. Avete due sacche, al posto dei piedi. Due sacche gonfie e piene. E non avete gambe, siete un tutt’uno di carne moscia e grinze. Un pene, signore. Non agitatevi, potreste eiaculare
La domanda: Che fate? Voi, donne, che fareste se mai un giorno vi trasformaste in un pene? (Si, è ammesso importunare le vecchine del centro geriatrico locale, ma solo se le vecchine vi provano gusto. E si, sono ammessi blitz nei monasteri e alle poste. A rischio i Lesbian Clubs)
L’ho chiesto ad alcune amiche
‘Oh mio Dio ah ah ah’- Federica
‘you ok Laurjutka?’- Tatijana
‘E’chiaro, mollo tutto e parto alla ricerca della mia Vagina’- Lidia
‘Offro il mio seme alle donne single che vogliono avere un bambino’- mia sorella
‘Mi spaccio per leghista e infiltro a palazzo chigi come spia dei Vespri- Svesda
‘Me la godo’- io. Voglio sapere com’è, come ci si sente quando si è eccitati e si sta per venire. Dentro una donna. Dentro un uomo. Dentro una bocca, dentro l’acqua, in ascensore, in coda al traffico, davanti a un tramonto, mentre si sogna.
How does it feel like? Che pacchia
Il 18 Febbraio 1971 David Kepesh si trasforma in un seno e l’episodio in un romanzo breve di Philip Roth che a me non è piacito e ho rischiato più volte di abbandonare; il fatto viene rivelato a pag.12, senza phatos nè suspance. Il resto del romanzo è l’elucubrazione di un uomo in crisi, che desidera copulare ma non può e per questo si sente frustrato, quanto se non più di una donna che non riesce ad avere un orgasmo da penetrazione. (Benvenuto nel club, prof). David Kepesh ci prova in tutte le maniere, facendosi massaggiare il capezzolo e perfino strofinandolo agli orifizi genitali dell’amante e del corpo infermieristico che lo assiste nella clinica dov’è ricoverato sotto osservazione. Niente però sembra soddisfarlo abbastanza quanto il rimpianto di un’eiaculazione.
Nelle intenzioni di Roth questo romanzo doveva essere un omaggio alla metamorfosi di Kafka e forse un tentativo di emulazione all’ironia di Gogol, sebbene, a mio parere, l’inefficacia delle digressioni e le tante citazioni.
Questa una bella recensione
The Mookse and the Gripes » Philip Roth: The Breast.
I am a breast. A phenomenon that has been variously described to me as ‘a massive hormonal influx’,’an endocrinopathic catastrophe,’ and/or ‘a hermaphroditic explosion of chromosomes’ took place within my body between midnight and four A.M. on February 18, 1971, and converted me into a mammary gland disconnected from any human form, a mammary gland such as could only appear, one would have thought, in a dream or a Dali painting. They tell me that I am now an organism with the general shape of a football, or a dirigible: I am said to be of a spongy consistency, weighing in at one hundred and fifty-five pounds (formerly I was one hundred and sixty-two), and measuring, still, six feet in length. Though I continue to retain, in damaged and ‘irregular’ form, much of the cardiovascular and central nervous system, an excretory system described as ‘reduced and primitive’-tubes now help me to void- and a respiratory system that terminates just above my midsection in something resembling a navel with a flap, the basic architecture in which these human characteristics are disarranged and buried is that of the breast of the mammalian female.
The bulk of my weight is fatty tissue. At one of my ends I am rounded off like a watermelon; at the other I terminate in a nipple, cylindrical in shape, projecting five inches from my ‘body’, and perforated at the tip with seventeen openings, each about half the size of the male urethral orifice. I am told that these are the apertures of the lactiferous ducts. As I am able to understand it without the benefit of diagrams- I am sightless- the ducts branch back into lobules composed of cells of the sort that secrete the milk that is carried to the surface of the ordinary nipple when it is being suckled, or milked by mechanical means.
My flesh is smooth and ‘youthful’ and I am still a ‘Caucasian’, they say. My nipple is rosy pink in color. This last is thought to be unusual in that in my former incarnation I was an emphatic brunette. As I told the endocrinologist who made this observation, I myself find it less ‘unusual’ than certain other aspects of the transformation, but then I am not the endocrinologist around here. The wit was bitter, but it was wit at last, and it must have been observed and noted that I was making an ‘adjustment’ to my new situation.
My nipple is rosy pink in color- as was the stain I had discovered at the base of my penis upon stepping into the shower the night this all happened to me.
In that the apertures in the nipple provide me with something remotely like a mouth and ears- at least I am able to make myself understood through my nipple, and, faintly, to hear what is going on around me- I myself had assumed at first that it was my head that become my nipple. The doctors, however, hypothesize otherwise, at least as of this month.
With little more evidence, I would think, to support this conjecture over any other, they now maintain that the wrinkled, roughened skin of the nipple- which, admittedly, is exquisitely sensitive to touch like no tissue on the face, including the mucous membrane of the lips- was formed out of the glans penis. So too the puckered pinkish areola that encircles the nipple and contains the muscle system that stiffens the nipple when I am aroused, is said to have metamorphosed from the shaft of the penis under the assault (some say) of a volcanic secretion from the pituitary of ‘mammogenic’ fluid. Two fine long reddish hairs extend from one of the small elevations on the rim of the areola. ‘They must look strange. How long are they?’
‘Seven inches exactly’
‘My antennae.’ The bitterness. Then the disbelief.
‘Will you pull on one of them, please?’
‘If you like, David, I’ll pull gently.’
Dr.Gordon wasn’t lying. A hair on my body had been tugged. It was familiar sensation, and it made me want to be dead.
Of course it was days after the change had taken place before I even regained consciousness, and another week before they would tell me anything other than that I had been ‘very ill’ with ‘an endocrine imbalance,’and even then, I howled so wretchedly in rediscover each time I awoke that I could neither see, smell, taste, or move, that I had to be kept under heavy sedation. When my ‘body’ was touched I did not know what to make of. The sensation was, unexpectedly, soothing and pleasant, but of an undifferentiated kind, reminding me of water lapping over the skin more than anything else. One morning I awakened to feel something strange happening to one of my extremities. Nothing like pain, yet I screamed, ‘I’ve been burned! I was in a fire!’
Text entirely taken from The breast, by Philip Roth, 1972