Morbid Fascination

When I was younger I recalled having a set of murder case book magazines I used to collect with glee each week chronicling the life and gruesome murders of famous serial killers. There is no glory in their acts and really nor should the retelling of their acts be best sellers but they are. If I were related to one of the victims would I read with such relish? I doubt it very much but the truth is most disconnected people find the macabre engrossing.

I've started reading a short novel called "The Blind Owl" by Sadegh Hedayat. This is one of a number of books I bought years ago from Rebel Inc and never got around to reading- though I read a few. Some of these books have made their way from the loft down to the book case at various times and although I have 4 or 5 new books to read at the moment this one caught my eye.

There is a preamble in each book discuss its merits from various would be authors in various states and various places. In this one the discussion takes place in a Dublin pub between Scottish author of 'Morvern Callar' Alan Warner and someone named 'The Large'. Quite tedious actually but one paragraph stuck with me.

WARNER: "Have you heard of Francesco Borromini, he was a baroque sculptor, a rival of Bernini's?...This guy was something else. A not-quite-good-enough artist...he'd never created a work of art so he decided to commit suicide. The old Roman way, fall on the sword...but same we he botched up everything else in his life, he even fucked up the sword business: fell on it incorrectly and died after hours of agony. Thing was, he crawled over to his desk, as he bled to death, he wrote this incredible, blow by blow account of the thoughts and processes going through his mind. Complete work of art! Incredible!"

I had to have this account. Yes I had to read it. Seduced by this tale I had to read the dying words of this man that were regarded a work of art. Inadvertently this failure of the arts had created art accidentally by way of ending his own life. That had to be worth a read. If this fellow had decided rather than lying down to death to instead write for us then it would be ignorant not to read it.

So off I went with Google as my guide to take to the place I so desperately seeked only to find disappointment. The tale was not actually as recounted by the author. It was a different tale entirely and I was disappointed. How selfish of me.

Francesco Borromini was in fact a well respected architect in 17th century Roma. So much so that he was at one time sponsored by Pope Innocent X. But later his style became frowned upon and later in life he find all his commissions dry up. This led to a despair and worthlessness that manifested itself in melancholy- a general term used at the time and for centuries after to describe a mental illness. This was a severe case leading to him being unable to leave the house and suffering fits. It was in this state that Francesco Borromini one night committed suicide. He did, as Warner said, take time to die but in this time he did not write a great work of art but instead received his last rights and wrote out his will.

The promise of a tale of morbid fascination turns out to be just another sad anxious story. Not sure which one applies to this blog but have an inkling.