Great low, divine filth In the “Idiot” of Dostoevsky, there is an episode charming in its cynicism and naive, lackey shamelessness: at the St. Petersburg camellia Nastasya Filippovna gathers bored “their own” and begin to recall everyone from idleness – “the most shameful of the actions of their own life.” Ends this session of hypocritical moral exhibitionism Afanasy Ivanovich Totsky, molester and patron of camellia, his corruption is not burdened, but patronage bored. His graceful story is all about the life of the county beaumonde of the fifties. "About that time was in terrible fashion and just thundered in the highest light the lovely novel of Dumas-fis "La dame aux camelias"," - reports Anafanasy Ivanovich -" a poem, which, in my opinion, is destined neither to die nor to grow old. In the province, all the ladies were delighted, those who at least read. The charm of the story, the originality of the production of the main character, this enticing world, disassembled to the finest, and finally all these charming details scattered in the book (about, for example, the circumstances of the use of bouquets of white and pink camellias in turn), in a word, all these beautiful details, and all this together, produced almost a shock. For balls, all the ladies demanded camellias, everyone was looking for them.
Dostoevsky himself was very fond of this episode, considering it perhaps the most successful in the whole novel, and would undoubtedly be much offended by how mindlessly Totsky’s self-exposing is flipped through by the current screenwriters and stage tamers of the unbridled writer’s genius. For it alone is enough to penetrate through and through all the inexplicable, naive, ingratiating and insolent abomination of Russian Europe. Forcing the venerable, up to the bones of decent county ladies to hysterically imitate the grips of the salon of a vulgar public girl just because the salon was on Paris Boulevard de la Madeleine - in everything, up to the flower symbolism on the corsage, signals to the light about the physiological possibility or the boring monthly impossibility for their carrier to surrender immediately, behind the curtain of the box, behind the curtain of the ballroom, in turn to everyone who will pay. Giving an occasion and argumentative tools of sophisticated scum like Afanasy Ivanovich himself to drive into the darkness of inexhaustible shame by him and created Camellia, which, by the way, he picked up not on the panel, but, noble, pole, his own seduced, taking advantage of her youth and bent helplessness of her confused father.
The True Story of the Lady with the Camellia Bolognaini is also the true story of the “Lady with the Camellia”, an attempt to dissect the legend that raised – for the first time in recent history – a deadly and unattractively ill, ruined slut to the rank of muse, diva, imperishable, irresistibly charming aesthetic standard. The legend-fiction is as much a by-child of real literature as Dumas the younger was in relation to the illustrious father, with the same irresistible mixture of perfectly plebeian vitality in the veins and the most carefully observed secular Comilfo in the exterior. The story of Alfonsina Duplessy - a skinny garlic, slackened, planted on morphine, sold and repeatedly betrayed by an obviously insecure father, picked up from the grunts by a sentimental, but hunting for the common people, garlic and beer giving spiciness by Count Stackelberg, the patron of her unfaithful, greedy, greedy, wasteful, drug-dependent on material luxury and young, strong male bodies in her bed, but not dying in the cold, without a single word in Paris, in a cold, without a young man, who finally escapes from the cold, in the cold, in the cold, in the cold, without a young man, in a cold, in the cold, in the cold, without a cold, without a young man, who finally trying to fleeing from the cold, in the cold, in the cold, but in the cold, in the cold, without a young man, who does not to escape from the cold.
Life, no one needs, alive, pulsating, like a scavenging cat clinging to the clothes of a warm, tasty-smelling person - just pick it up! - is dyed in crinoline and kisei, cashmeres and muslins, hoods and a ton of consuming decomposition of the face voilet, hidden behind screens of capricious chatter, verbal blanks, falsely significant bonmo. Heart and chest pain is emphasized here as a pimple with a fly is emphasized, as a charming weakness, as a sweet ugliness. When dying, they care most about the picturesque nature of the drapery for the rest of their own cadaver, about the light falling on the bed, about the contrast of red hair with the wilt of red camellias. There is no pity here, they are not asked for it, they ask for a little life - in exchange for a payment that God sent, a mandatory payment. Truly, you would draw your whole world to bed, O woman, O creature, how bored you are with evil! Evil. But always ready to pay the bills, not hanging on anyone, standing while holding a whale whisker crinoline, on his own weak legs. He takes it.