Berlusconi’s additive life through rigid hostility and the memory of others

The Berlusconi in them turns out to be technically immortal. They didn’t leave him alone for the funeral, gossiping, they won’t do it for the will, gossiping again. Better the funeral of Flavia Franzoni, beautiful in fact, and a death that suggested to the indignant the comparability of pain, the contest of elegance transferred to mourning. Maradona’s murals are better, which are not attacked and scarred as happened to a smiling Cav. making horns. Better the privilege of dying poor, beautiful in the abstract, than the legacy to a friend imprisoned for a non-existent crime which he will investigate for eternity trying to get to the memory of the deceased. The tombstone of a Roman actor reads: “In my life I have died many times, but never like this”. To die like this, as is happening to Berlusconi, means assuming an infinite vitality as a mask in the sign of the ethical weakness of the indignados.