The Worst of the Passions
Envy is the worst of the passions. The envious do not attack head on. When slandered by the envious, people often tend to get angry; it is best to think that envy involves recognizing oneself as inferior, being aware of… being at a disadvantage. Hence it must be very sad to not cause envy. I think with greater superiority there are less probabilities of envy and more probabilities of admiring others’ capabilities: a big man smells, senses or knows intuitively what is big.
Human nature permeates every action in life. People who only have garbage inside cannot but give only that. Although they disguise it, it contaminates their perception and the way they achieve their goals.
W. A. Mozart and Antonio Salieri are the typical envied-envious relationship. The former was infantile: he acted unconsciously, with the rebelliousness of a child, he was not aware of the mental obstacles of those who are inferior: Salieri, who, instead of dedicating himself to his work, became obsessed with Mozart, compared himself and allied himself with others to make the road difficult for Mozart; he even took advantage of his illness and poverty to kill him with a Requiem which, in my opinion, is the best of his work. But his envy also led him to mediocrity, suffering and madness, which was not madness but a guilt complex. He was killed by his conscience.
Envy is such a hidden passion, so irrational, that the more you try to hide it, the more obvious it is.
Having been the victim of a jealous person, I will share it. Circumstances brought us together. I do not understand, but I felt he raged at hearing my voice, but did not dare to intervene. After a while, he began to create discontent around me. From then on, I simply avoided him. His gaze became suspicious. In each of my actions he saw treachery. On one occasion, he came to befriend my mother-in-law-to-be in order to undermine my image. Since then, that lady became part of the past, along with her son. I regretted this loss: he was a saxophonist and he serenaded me by moonlight, I was entranced by the melodies that flowed from that instrument; it was he who encouraged me to learn to play the maracas. Over the months, we had formed a musical group, whose name was “Love, Rock and Maracas.” I dreamed of giving concerts and thought to include some of the songs that we had composed, such as: “If your mother had not got in the way” and another very cute one, “Let’s not argue.” These songs are proof of our turbulent love. It was for the best that this romance ended: I could not continue to play the maracas … they got in the way of my studies … they wouldn’t let me read or write … And what mortal being can make a living playing the maracas? The envious young man has done everything possible to get on my nerves and I, meanwhile, am very concerned about his mental health, because from living so long with psychiatric patients, I have learned to simulate sanity even in my moments of greatest madness.
