Casanova’s first memory
Perhaps because of his nebulous nature in the border between reality and desire, waking and sleeping, life and death, history and legend, East and West, the solid and liquid, submerged and miraculously raised, Venice is essentially a city of ghosts and masks, and there the presence of the conventionally mater is as sensitive as the spectra of all the famous people who in life, books, dreams and art have walked its amphibious streets.

Few figures evoke more about the nature of theater masks as Giacomo Casanova (1725-1798) does; author of Histoire de ma vie, located in advantage among the most fabulous autobiographies of all time, one of whose lesser achievements may not be the creation a mask or an absolutely fascinating character whose life, with fidelity to the inability of his time to exalt feelings of resentment, self-indulgent melancholy, despair or nihilism typical of other less gallant times, stops being narrated when he gives the first signal of starting to become a byproduct that creates a painful and degrading old age.
We should speak here today of the beginning of the book, as in it there is that elusive essence of Venice that has so much to do with the fog within which certain siren songs seem fresh and startling call from other plans. Also because perhaps it would shed some light on another of the striking features of the book, its determined and joyful commitment, far from psychological games and terrifying depths of the logical mind that can be seen in other libertine writers like Sade or Laclos, by celebrating life mostly through all the women Casanova loves, not only physically but also emotionally and intellectually, though we fear that Fellini -author of an excellent and moving film about this character- would think infinitely the opposite here.
The story has to do with the first memory of Casanova, when was just eight years old. He was a very sick child whose life nobody would have bet for.
He continually suffered terrible nosebleeds. His parents, famous actors, were far away, perhaps in England. One day her grandmother got into a gondola and took him to Murano to see a witch, who after locking him in a coffin-like box, burning different drugs, reciting spells, and rubbing him with a fragrant ointment, ordered him to remain silent on the matter and announced the visit of a lovely lady on the following night from who his healing and also his happiness depended as long as he didn’t say anything to anyone about it.
Night came and the young Casanova saw, or thought he saw, the stunning lady down the chimney, who sat on her bed and gave a long speech that he did not understand. Before leaving, she kissed him. Needless to say that Casanova was cured.
Paul Oilzum
If you rent apartments in Venice you will realize that the air of this story is the same breathed in this dream city.
Translated by: salome antigone
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