Cellini's Salt Cellar

Just about finished reading Cellini's, "Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini." The book is a thrilling piece of fiction because the feats recounted therein are just way too self-serving. Every patron has their heart-stopped by one of Cellini's vases or his ostentatious goldworks. I would hesitate to call him a jeweler because his pieces were all originals and most jewelers work off molds of pieces, etc. The autobiography is a genre that has a lot of intersection with the picaresque. If I am not mistaken, the picaresque comes from the novel in which picaros, or zealous charlatans, are the central characters and they rise in class through either a coincidence (Felix Krull)or through their hard work (i.e. Cellini).

In the beginning of the book Cellini bitches and moans about his father wanting him to master the musical sphere. Cellini humors his father and plays the flute but "I had to go on playing the flute, very unhappily, till I was fifteen" (1956, pg.23) And then Cellini goes on the first of hundreds of rants, "If I set out to describe all the great events in my life up to then and all the great perils that came my way, I would astonish anyone reading about them" (1956, pg. 23). It reeks of self service, as if Cellini is saying I am going to skip this part because I don't want to bother the reader with the most spectacular events that comprised my life during that time. Que...? Isn't that the whole point of autobiography: the monotony turning into epiphany, the same way it happens in life...

Despite these shortcomings and probably because of these shortcomings, Cellini's autobiography is pretty brilliant. I mean Cellini confesses to murdering at least five people and is never really brought up on charges. In fact, one time the Cardinal of Ferrara or some shit tells him about a day when all sins are pardoned and that Cellini should remain hidden until that day, etc. His countenance is intimidating; he is a murderous man of his word. And this avocation is more a threat than a promise. In Cellini's Italy is you talk trash you will get what is coming to you, sooner or later. Honor is almost bonded to the sense and god of Fortuna.

Cellini spends time in prison, escapes, and is put back there. The warden is a psychopath that has schizophrenic episodes where he thinks he is another animal, like a bat or cat or butterfly. And Cellini respects the open door policy until one of the guards tells him that the Cardinal or Bishop or some shit has plans on keeping him imprisoned for more than a comfortable stay. One of my favorite parts, Cellini confesses that he can see a halo around his head after he has a vision. He says, "From the time I had my vision till now, a light--a brilliant splendour--has rested above my head, and has been clearly seen by those very few men I have wanted to show it to" (1956, pg. 23) What an arrogant, delude bastard.

But then again, that is why we read autobiographies: to test whether or not the author knows that we know that all that they're writing is some nicely wrapped shit. I love reading and feeling that the author is fucking with me. In this light, the whole bruhaha with that "Million Little Pieces" author comes into relief. I mean, when did people start judging autobiographies by how accurate the shit contained therein is. I think it is silly to read an autobiography and expect the truth about any event in that autobiography. Am I the only twat that reads autobiographies for fun? Should I be making sure that what the author says has any semblance of truth?

Spicaro