Kipling said that you can give a writer to create a fairy tale, but do not know if it's true. Writers like Kipling evade this pseudonecessità which is pushing many newcomers supposed to have their say. The novels that are produced these days look like much to the investigations. All in pursuit of truth - and hence the proliferation of yellow in circulation, the truth was not even a lizard or a mouse to track down, to turn things to an image much abused in Hamlet scespiriano. The mousetrap is now back in fashion. But the writer who does this, or at least intends to do this is a failed writer. Fails from beginning to end. Heck, authors are no magistrates! (Today, things often coincide with the anticipated results)
the writer's task is to find, if anything, the beauty, looking no less arduous. In Zurau
aphorisms, Kakfa conjecture that our expulsion from Paradise, we thought our condemnation, to our infinite surprise, never happened. The punishment is terrible but they were blinded to Eden, the paradise of beauty that surrounds us always. The beauty surrounds us therefore according to Kafka ever. It may be the song of a siren or the di un soprano, un paesaggio suggestivo e impressionista, una poesia ben recitata di Mario Luzi, il cappotto rosso della bambina in Schindler’s List. La bellezza affiora di rado, ma affiora.
Patrimonio di Roth parte dal sottotitolo, che recita: una storia vera. Ma Patrimonio non è affatto una storia vera. La verità io non l’ho trovata da nessuna parte. E poi da che parte sta la verità? Patrimonio si rivela attraverso la sua schiettezza, attraverso la sua vena profondamente malinconica. Il recupero di qualcosa di dimenticato si fa spazio tra queste righe, che sanno tanto di sogno, e con un’immagine sognante finiscono e ci restituiscono a noi stessi. Nella malattia e in questa via crucis, Roth cerca innanzitutto la bellezza. The truth draws him yes, but like Odysseus he gets tied to the pole of the main mast to not yield to it, not to be charmed by the sweet song of the sirens and enveloping.
Kafka, yet he has told us this episode of the Odyssey, twisting. In Kafka's fiction the hero instead of being only tied to the stake, he is ing ears with wax that he used for his teammates. He believes that the sirens sing without knowing that he did not hear anything. He always, a hero of Beffa. But this time the sirens, as he passed by, said nothing. They are mute. Which interpretation is better suited to this wonderful dish? The answer was suggested to me long ago from reading beautiful essay online on the subject saying something like: it is better to be known for having lost the beauty of this melody so gentle, rather than be saved without having ever known.
Heritage is an attempt, beautiful, of perdition.
Give Peace a Chance 
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