Every time they ask me to write about males, or if not every time, very often, it happens that coincidentally there is a horrible news story that concerns them (us); they don’t ask me to write for that news story, but then it happens that the things I want to write about are confronted with a chilling act. This time, in the story of Filippo Turetta and Giulia Cecchettin, there was, for many different reasons, a more visible, closer relationship with everyday life, with normality; I’m not sure whether because it was told almost immediately, or because it was a situation very similar to many others that happen around us (and our children); the fact is that we hoped that it would end well until the end, even when we had already understood that it would end badly.
Now, I don’t want to talk about brutality, but about the violence of men; which is not exactly the same thing — or rather, it is not just the extreme cases. Faced with all this, there are two paths: either the sense of extraneousness (I’m not like that), which very often the most terrible cases lead to supporting: I live a life in which what happened is inconceivable (and probably, it we know, it was inconceivable even for that boy); or taking charge; and that is: precisely because all I have felt in these days has been the recognition of a normal life (which is why we thought the worst might not happen), then there is a hook that unites our daily behaviors and extreme facts. And that hook is: how men are made, that is: how we are made. Since a man writes.