1
The birds sang in the dustin an elaborate weave, ambiguous, deafening, prey to existencepoor passions lost between the modestsummits of groves of mulberry and elder;and I, like them, in secluded placesreserved for the lost and pure, would wait for evening to fall, for the silent smells of fireand joyous misery to fill the air, for the Angelus bell to toll, veiledin the new peasant mysteryfulfilled in the ancient mystery.Pier Paolo Pasolini
2
I, too, head for the Baths of Caracalla, thinking–with my old, magnificentprivilege of thinking…( And let there still be a god in me that thinks, lost, weak, and childish, yet whose voice is so humanit is almost a song.) Oh, to leavethis prison of poverty! To be free of the yearningthat makes these ancient nights so splendid! He who knows yearning, and he who does not, have something in common: man’s desires are humble.Pier Paolo Pasolini
3
Behold those times re-created bythe brutal power of sunlit images, the light of life’s tragedy. The walls of the trial, the fieldof the firing squad; and the distantghost of Rome’s suburbs in a ring, gleaming white in naked light. Gunshots: our death, our survival.Pier Paolo Pasolini