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by Federico
Fellini
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"Satyricon," by Petronius wrote: |
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He was becoming very tiresome,
and Phileros cried out, "Let's think about the living! He has what
was coming to him, he lived respectably, and respectably he died.
What's he got to kick about'? He made his pile from an as, and
would pick a quadrans out of a dunghill with his teeth, any old
time. And he grew richer and richer, of course: just like a
honeycomb. I expect that he left all of a hundred thousand, by
Hercules, I do! All in cold cash, too; but I've eaten dog's tongue
and must speak the truth: he was foul-mouthed, had a ready tongue,
he was a trouble maker and no man. Now his brother was a good
fellow, a friend to his friend, free-handed, and he kept a liberal
table. He picked a loser at the start, but his first vintage set
him upon his legs, for he sold his wine at the figure he demanded,
and, what made him hold his head higher still, he came into a
legacy from which he stole more than had been left to him. Then
that fool friend of yours, in a fit of anger at his brother,
willed his property away to some son-of-a-bitch or other, who he
was, I don't know, but when a man runs away from his own kin, he
has a long way to go! And what's more, he had some slaves who were
ear- specialists at the keyhole, and they did him a lot of harm,
for a man won't prosper when he believes, on the spot, every tale
that he hears; a man in business, especially. Still, he had a good
time as long as he lived: for happy's the fellow who gets the
gift, not the one it was meant for. He sure was Fortune's son!
Lead turned to gold in his hands. It's easy enough when everything
squares up and runs on schedule. How old would you think he was?
Seventy and over, but he was as tough as horn, carried his age
well, and was as black as a crow. I knew the fellow for years and
years, and he was a lecher to the very last. I don't believe that
even the dog in his house escaped his attentions, by Hercules, I
don't; and what a boy-lover he was! Saw a virgin in every one he
met! Not that I blame him though, for it's all he could take with
him." |
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"Satyricon," by Federico Fellini wrote: |
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[Phileros] Lead turned to gold
in his hands, his hair blacker than a crow. He was over 70 and
still going at it. Even his dog wasn't safe around him! |
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