46	OBITUARIES TWO: CACCIARI

On the other hand, I wouldn’t know how to write an obituary of Massimo Cacciari. Nor of Umberto Eco, come to that. It won’t be necessary. I wish both of them a long life, and I hope to go before they do, even if I’m 120 years old. But I wouldn’t know what to write. I’ve never really understood what the devil it is Cacciari is saying or thinking.

Once—many years ago—Cacciari sent an article to the Rivista di estetica, which I edited with Pareyson. Pareyson comes in and says to me, “Try reading this, will you, to see if you can understand anything, because I can’t.” I read it diligently and couldn’t understand anything either. So I said to the master, “I understand nothing, but if you wish we can publish it anyway.” Finally, though, we decided to reject it.

When I saw him, I said, “Massimo, I’m very fond of you, but I don’t understand a word of what you write. Come on, enlighten me, speak up, explain.” And his answer was, “Your fondness is obviously making you blind.” That’s still a gag line between us.

But gags apart, what kind of philosophical position does Cacciari hold? Who knows? He writes as though Hegel had died yesterday. He always takes up where the idealists left off, he goes around and around.

Here’s a confession: when I wrote Credere di credere (To believe that one believes) in 1998, I wrote it against Cacciari. His name doesn’t appear in the book, but he’s the one who was always talking about angels while insisting he was not a believer. Then why the devil keep talking about angels? I don’t get it. Clue me in, will you?