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Updated: May 4, 2025
So the next day we went to see I Spettri, expecting some good, crude melodrama. The theatre is an old church. Since that triumph of the deaf and dumb, the cinematograph, has come to give us the nervous excitement of speed grimace agitation, and speed, as of flying atoms, chaos many an old church in Italy has taken a new lease of life. This cast-off church made a good theatre.
It is a profound desire to get away from women altogether, the terrible subjugation to sex, the phallic worship. The company of actors in the little theatre was from a small town away on the plain, beyond Brescia. The curtain rose, everybody was still, with that profound, naive attention which children give. And after a few minutes I realized that I Spettri was Ibsen's Ghosts.
'Ah, bellissimo, bellissimo! he said, in tones of intoxicated reverence, when he saw me. 'Better than I Spettri? I said. He half-raised his hands, as if to imply the fatuity of the question. 'Ah, but he said, 'it was D'Annunzio. The other.... 'That was Ibsen a great Norwegian, I said, 'famous all over the world.
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