Joan Didion He wrote in a double page of one of his diaries that “innocence ends when one is robbed of the illusion that one likes oneself.” She had been denied her entry into the Phi Beta Kappa sorority, a small “failure” that, as she herself wrote in the article about self love published in the magazine Vogue in 1961, it got on his nerves. The usual story: you think you’re better than you are, but then, alone in your room at night, maybe lying in bed, maybe staring at the ceiling because the heat is so intense you can barely close your eyes, the Self-deception has nowhere to hide. The article that garnered great criticism but behind which there was little effort, the compliment dedicated to a friend out of envy, the advice that is given for one’s own benefit, the heroic act that was a coincidence. The truth is usually revealed at night and alone. As true as the most secret diaries contain the biggest lies, the ones we tell ourselves.
Behind each and every one of the articles that have been written about the divorce of Emily Ratajkowski and the alleged infidelity of her husband there is a person, a journalist; a man or a woman who has gotten up early, has had a coffee standing in the kitchen, has taken the subway at rush hour – quite a challenge for anyone’s nerves – and has sat down at their work desk. And there she has been asked to write something, whatever. At this point, it should be mentioned that it is August, August of the year 2022, and there is little to tell. Even the Kennedys took a break from their constant public exposure during the eighth month of the year. But one is obliged to write something, whatever, because people are under an umbrella on a beach in the south or in the Balearic Islands and they need to slide their index finger up and down, and read headlines that they will later comment on with their companions. towel. “I think it’s a lie,” they will say convinced, they will say believing themselves better than what they have just read.