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AMATO BORGES


In principio furono le sue Inquisizioni, poi venne l'universo e ogni altra cosa.
Questa introduzione forse non sarebbe dispiaciuta a Borges che amava tanto citare Mallarmè mettendogli in bocca parole ormai non più sue: il mondo esiste per approdare ad un libro. Forse è vero, forse no. Ma questo non ha importanza.
In un sense, Borges has contaminated everything he has read and even his own players.
the reader with some diligence can not help but feel, in fact become a borgecitos. I remember an essay that said Llosa just something like, anyone who tries to imitate his style, ends up looking like ridiculous, awkward, creepy. What about him is beautiful, authentic, original, looking like a caricature ends, false suspicion. As a bald wig out the evil that would be better not to wear. Borges has a substantial virtues: the need to be inconceivable and out of those words. At the time I tried in vain some poems. Fetched extravagant metaphors, which invariably to coincide finivono with mirrors and mazes. The power of contamination was evident in that case. Every word he writes seems to assume a higher value and you can not believe that it can be written in another way. It 's like when we read the intro of Don Quixote "in a village of La Mancha, whose name I do not want to remember ...", we do not know if those words are correct, but we feel them as necessary. I felt this affinity for Borges. And if it is true that the player changes the law by investing it with meaning that, like the Divine Comedy has been enriched by its age-old commentators, so in my mind, his work has spread and it takes me. It 's true for me what Borges said Stevenson is for me a form of happiness.

His idea of \u200b\u200bliterature tends to a constant de-contextualization, a perpetual disintegration patterns. I was never surprised that he never attempted a novel. Critics fill entire volumes in search of answers to this question and do not realize that Borges is essentially a passionate skeptic. Just nights ago I discussed with my friend the impossibility of a Borges fantasy. Nothing could be further from him that a world where he can roam beyond the limits and circumstances. Borges passionate in what is the ongoing challenge to this world fantastic, illusory. A cross the pillars of Hercules but were still in the narrow Mediteranneo ... If there is a What I have in common with him is my total inability to know myself fall in history, losing in them. In its work force a careful control, a calculation that may seem cold (it seemed so to Hemingway, Truman Capote ...) but not at all and I forgive these people, who perhaps had not read the bottom with enough attention . I've never seen a more polished writer and equally fond of him. In the literature or are extremely shiny or is extremely passionate. Borges had both of these virtues, and we can not negarglielo, despite the outcry and incubated with envy (?) Of the various Hemingway, Mr. Capote ... An example? Yes, I think at this point right. There is a sua poesia che dà il titolo ad un suo libro che è 'Elogio dell'ombra'. Tra quei versi c'è ne sono alcuni che sono estremamente belli, almeno per me. E sono:

Nella mia vita sono sempre state troppe le cose;

Democrito di Abdera si strappò gli occhi per pensare;

il tempo è stato il mio Democrito.

E' una riflessione lucida e consapevole. Ho pensato troppo, sono andato al di là di ciò che era in mio potere. Democrito si è strappato gli occhi da solo per far questo. Il tempo è stato ciò che io non sono riuscito a fare, è stato il mio Democrito.

thinking becomes an inescapable destiny to Borges, his blindness, that almost obliges the development of mind and humility that he accepted with resignation.

The latter then returns us to the inevitable passionate flavor that pervades his work, anything but cold and cynical. I would say instead epic - the adjective would have moved, I know, and you would be deemed unworthy, that he loved westerns and the Norse sagas - epic because, far from me the literal meaning of the word and literary reading Borges I realized how much people will be thirsty.

The stories are many and there are those who sometimes find the right words to tell and it is important that they are many or there is only one word, which is a storyteller, or are in many, the literature, like all art, is a miracle that does not like to reveal itself and it would be impossible if one day something happened to us similar to what happened to that painter at the end of his life: having drawn paintings on canvas, landscapes on landscapes, portraits portraits, he saw at the end that the whole his work was a single drawing and painting: that of his face .

At first I thought the literature was a large space, which would include history, geography, everything. Borges has taught me the love for certain authors, or rather to certain pages, or even better for certain phrases.

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...DOLOROSO PASSO

The Kreutzer Sonata, this stroboscopic masterpiece that stubbornly continues to not exalted despite those years and re-read, now scrambled after thoughtful, marks his arrival here. Not open any more, so be it. And this act is already a sign of my infinitesimal leave (hopefully slow, slow) from the universe on such gestures T. built a career. Flying over the plot and style, and I only a few puntarella di stagione. Nonostante continui ad apprezzare più il Tolstoj di Chadzi Murat o dei racconti di Sebastopoli o di alcuni episodi romanzeschi, la Sonata è fra tutte le opere tolstoine quella che mi mette più ansia, anzi che no. Non saprei definire cosa mi mette sulle scapole. Sarà che anch’io son caduto nella trappola del Conte finendo per soffermarmi sull’intrinseca malia morale dell’opera, passando solo in breve rassegna quella estetica, a torto. Perché il ritmo galoppante e il concitato racconto di Pozdnyšev sono quanto di meglio T. abbia fatto e continui a fare per l’umanità, e immancabilmente non ce lo vuole mostrare.

La bellezza del racconto procede di pari passo with its linearity and its clarity. Hemingway will remember as long fields of this lesson, too. When the alter ego of Hem, Nick Adams, he sees the trout incredulously through the clear water, clear, smooth river, we learn, through those eyes, all the effort that has cost the poetic to the author and his satisfaction. Few will see the trout in that way.
I wondered if it makes sense today to talk about sexual acts performed as a means of rehabilitation of humanity. I think not. He still makes sense to refer to a "tragedy of the bedroom," as T. called them. The idea that Tolstoy clings singular in this case is the beautiful and equally disturbing sonata of Beethoven, with whom he shared the power of expression and representation. Kipling's friend reminds us, in that wonderful diptych leaf of which are books of Puck, and the beautiful story of Brother tail, that Pharaoh and the druggist Toby "did not speak much to each other, but playing together and, those who can hear, the music is as good as the conversation. " Nothing could be truer. Also, perhaps the poor wife of Pozdnyšev was limited to the conversation, but denied the audacity to Tolstoy, and she died. And we weep for those who do not know and with whom they identify.

The last sad and smile at the end of Pozdnyšev His tragic story, the narrator leads almost to tears as the story of Paolo and Francesca did with Dante. And then we remember the opening words with which Pozdnyšev begins his story: "You want to tell you how your love has brought me to do what I have done?" Those very same words that Dante gives tearful fans: "Alas! How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire / Conducted these unto the dolorous pass! (...) Francesca, your martyrs / to make me weep with grief and pity. / But tell me at the time of those sweet sighs, / what and in what manner Love conceded, / That you should know your dubious desires? (...) Is no greater sorrow than to recall a happy time ... But, if know the first root / Of love thou hast so great desire, / I will say as one who weeps and says. "

The stories, both painful, both pathetic, are divided into a single point: the supremacy of carnal love in 'one, the story of Dante's love than the most exemplary leadership in the other. But they have so many similarities that when T. the story closes, we look around in wonderment and we understand to be in hell, and in the deepest and the narrow literary hell.

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UNO DI NOI

The man who watching trains go by - Georges Simenon

poping Kees has a job and a family like many others, a devoted wife and two children as nerve-wracking so common that take to slap every single day if it were not for social services. She speaks four languages, but it uses only a hopelessly. It 's a great chess player, but may miss small distractions and thus undermine its credibility. Watch the trains pass with melancholy and in Groningen in the thirties I would have watched it too.

seems to live, but only known to exist.

Its leader, one night, reveals the end of the company - bankrupt - and its imminent escape after having staged a fake suicide, providing insight that too with mr poping not have the right words or perhaps because of the words to explain. But I do not know that in the cauldron of everyday life of poping bubbles always the desire to revenge himself refute that poping up to forty years made a curt "I'd rather not." But as Samuel Johnson would say, forty years it is time to make a move.

We do not know for sure what he thought or what's around the head, if it was the thought of a moment or the conclusion of a long and endless series of moments. We only know that Kees poping railed hard against the wall of hypocrisy and conventions, and tried to break through, with success. When he is on the other hand, armed with Calepino and in the hands of fate, we follow him, but not how to follow a thief or a murderess. We follow with poping because there is a small part of ourselves, and we would wholeheartedly be safeguarded, not mocked, not flat-spotted on the pages of the first newspaper in the city. Poping goes for a walk in Paris with his private ethics, a small piece of all of us, perhaps the oldest phylogenetically.

's prose, as usual, is fluid and the magic is at hand, the author has put the grout to even the smallest cracks. Needless to say, the few times that Simenon does open his mouth to protect us, then nobly silent and still looking too, with our own curiosity, as it ends the story of a man who "was one of us."

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How Long Can You Hav Chlamydia

NEL PETTO FEDELE

The shadow line - Joseph Conrad

They asked me why I read this book three times. I had to say in fact that it is the third reading. I read it every year. Ho questa buona abitudine. Non è troppo lungo per impegnarmi troppo, nè troppo breve da lusingarmi del suo pieno possesso. Ciò che possiedo di 'The Shadow Line' è invero molto poco.

Ha le caratteristiche giuste per attrarre le mie esigenze di lettore - una macchina perfetta che viaggia con il vento in poppa nonostante il ristagno della bonaccia che ivi si racconta - e le doti giuste per plasmare quest'essere che sono e che si sta formando e che si fatica a chiamare uomo. Intravedo la mia linea d'ombra, ma non ne ho la certezza e non vorrei fosse un miraggio o, peggio ancora, una fata morgana.

Il racconto è una storia d'amore. Oserei dire la migliore storia d'amore mai scritta. But do not deceive you the breadth of the intro, no. This is not a history of weddings and the like. But please read and tell me

Placing his hand on my shoulder made me turn a little, while his other arm pointed. "There it is! That's your ship, captain," he said.

I felt a sinking heart. It was once, as if his heart had stopped beating. (...) Yes, it was there. His boat, its equipment filled my eyes with joy. That feeling of emptiness that had made me so restless in the last month lost its bitter plausibility its evil influence, dissolved into a stream of joyful emotions.

There seem to these accents of a heart in love? But Conrad never cease to amaze - if he were describing his wife, his lover - and to move us:

At first glance I saw that he was a high class vessel, a harmonious creature in the lines of the body well Indeed, in the height of its proportionate trees. (...) One of her companions moored to the shore, all older than she looked like a noble race of creatures - an Arab steed in a team of horses.

The story avrebbe dovuto intitolarsi 'Primo comando' come ci dice Conrad nella sua nota, perchè nasceva dall'inesperienza del giovane autore come comandante, per la prima volta, di nave; ma il racconto si intitolò 'la linea d'ombra' e mai titolo fu più suggestivo e interpretabile.

Cos'è la linea d'ombra?

E' Conrad stesso a spiegarci e svelarne il senso. Chiunque abbia visto una linea in questo romanzo penso sia fuori strada. Non c'è un momento in cui noi sentiamo che questa linea è stata attraversata, eppure il protagonista alla fine è cambiato, ha un'aria diversa. "Mi sento vecchio. Tutti voi a terra mi sembrate un mucchio di giovincelli bizzosi" dice al capitano Giles dopo aver scampato un shipwreck. Yet that line continues to be indefinite, precisely in the shade. The ship was seized by tropical fevers and all the crew fell ill, except the captain and the cook Ransome, but that is a heart condition. In addition, the supply of quinine, which was to keep them alive was deceptively destroyed by the former captain in the middle of megalomania and destruction. The only ones not sick are those who have hurt inside, suffering inwardly. And who are having to fight a lot, which is more serious than expected. The captain, the young man who has abandoned all met this great opportunity of the first command, and Ransome, a heart condition. At this point it is difficile non commuoversi, trovando la chiave di lettura. Nel congedare Ransome e nel congratularsi con lui per l'ottimo servizio reso, nonostante la sua salute, il capitano sente questi allontanarsi dalla sua cabina e salire le scalette del boccaporto con cautela, gradino per gradino, "nel timor panico di far adirare di improvviso la nostra comune amica, che era suo destino di dover consapevolemente portar nel petto fedele". Con sublime maestria questo passo chiarificatore ci illumina e ci fa comprendere tutto. Oltrepassare la linea d'ombra è essere coscienti della morte "la nostra comune amica", è fare le scale "gradino dopo gradino", è essere consapevoli della sua esistenza. Questa è la verità. Difficile non commuoversi e non meravigliarsi because all is said and suffusion with that skill that makes it immortal. I think Conrad has brought this image in its intimate, almost an ideal, for all his life and make us more aware of what we read while we are, what we will and we can not be.

Far, through the mists of a nebulous future, I like you, perhaps we will find our line of shade. Blessed is he who knows how to find, like Conrad, the right words to its meaning.

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LO STILE DELL'ANATRA

some time ago I read a book by Raffaele La Capria who had a rather odd way: The style was called duck. The demon of curiosity, I suggested ear interpretive options, and gave in to his blackmail: I bought the book and began leafing through it.

Curiosity led me always, in every choice, Leonardo da Vinci discovered it through a cave, and gave you all my life, when he was still a child he found himself in front of a dark cave that attracted him so irresistible. Since then I still have this image in mind, curiosity must be a dark cave facing the gaze of a child. I remembered years later when, immersed in literary rage, stumbled across a work of art (in De Crescenzo some talk about his book) that was nothing more than a plywood board that had been made a lot of holes, the artist, with peaks of wisdom, the work was written under the title, namely sex, and even more under a note inviting his audience to put his finger in each of these holes, making sure that in one of these, only one, there was a nail with the tip pointing outward. Then everyone, armed with holy patience, spent a good fifteen minutes to put your finger in each of these holes, with extreme caution and care in order not to cause harm with that one nail in a rather cruel, only to find at the end that non c’era nessun chiodo. Il sesso era rappresentato benissimo. Una camera buia in cui si entra con estrema cautela, senza sottrarsi però al piacere di provare, quindi anche con curiosità. W la curiosità.
Ero rimasto dunque allo stile dell’anatra. Che cos’è dunque questo stile? Una nuova categoria olimpionica? I 200 metri stile anatra? Fatta apposta per le olimpiadi cinesi? E’ pur sempre un libro di La Capria, massimo rispetto al vecchio.

Osservate un’anatra sulla superficie di un lago. Osservate il suo scivolare lieve, soffice, quasi impalpabile sulla distesa acquorea. Quel movimento, così lirico, così uniforme e trasparente, è il frutto di due gambine che sotto fanno un gran lavorio. Il tutto avviene sotto la superficie dell’acqua, e noi non possiamo vederlo. Ma vediamo ciò che c’è in superficie: uno spettacolo, la meraviglia del creato che si dispiega nel movimento e nella poesia del movimento.

Alice Munro dunque; chi è costei? L’erede di Čechov? di Flannery O’Connor? Forse no; non saremo noi a dirlo. Noi siamo troppo coinvolti dal presente per fare spazio nel mistero dell’eternità. E dell’eternità letteraria. Possiamo dire però che la Munro ha uno stile molto simile a quello dell’anatra. Ha due gambine forti, poderose, che trascinano il sottile corpo con eleganza, raffinatezza, narrative with great shrewdness.

The eyes of vivisection Munro reality, but in his stories there is no smell of formalin. In his stories there is a growing vibrancy, richness and opulence of the everyday one and only in its vitality.

Balzac, one of the two prefaces to Father Goriot, wrote that the old father was the murderer as the dog, licking the hand of the owner when it is stained with blood, he does not question and does not judge: it loves. The Munro knows by heart the great lesson of Balzac. 'S why his characters can succeed, and often successful, wonderful. And what shocked me at first, because when I read Balzac I always seem to be the only (that arrogance and presumption!) to take care of him.
extreme use of the real thus making it akin to Chekhov, but a reality that just described and shaped well, eventually deform under his gaze, as the metal at the hands of the blacksmith. But the nice thing is that it is his gaze to distort it. The reality here is distorted from within, from the bone begins to fester on its own. It 's great lesson, not only of the French naturalists, from which the Munro took his soul and female portraits, but also that of "metaphysical" American: Hawthorne, above all. You ever read "The veil of the shepherd" or "Wakefield"? Here, the homework home.

Enemy, friend, lover ... is an exceptional book. Probably unique in the literary scene today.

There is a wonderful poem do not know who - is so beautiful that I ended up forgetting who wrote it - in which there is a soldier lying on a hill in the grass and a lawn full color, blazing with vitality, which is described in its forms, and its development, in its harmony with creation and the universe. We suspect's resting, which is to release a moment by the weight of war and its unspeakable torture. We enjoy seeing him lying down, breathe deeply, finally free to put down his rifle. The last touch of the poet, however, that there had been feasting on such a wonderful ecstasy of the senses, makes us understand, in fact just makes us understand clearly that what we see before us is just a soldier fell, dead, probably not hard or cold. With a final flash, the poet avoids the simple glorification of the grandeur and harmony of the universe, and its quiet warning inextricably linked to the idea of \u200b\u200bthe end of this magnitude, of transience. With that last flicker of light bends the poet tells us, as the Munro that takes us by the hand and leads us, leads us to touch that body which we thought vital, beautiful, handsome, with that light, flash of light bends the poet shows us the ineffable union of life and death.

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KAFKIANO

L metamorphosis in part by an axiom.

Gregor Samsa (if we replace the D in K and M in F we own him) wakes up one morning and finds himself transformed into an insect. If we postulate this as true, the whole story has a logical consistency and a sad reality.

We know that Kafka asked his friends to destroy his work once disappeared, but it is clear to everyone that if he really wanted would done himself. Maybe it's unloaded weight. The weight that I was not happy and have longed for. The weight of a man looking for a place in the universe, albeit small, but that is denied. Kafka suffered and endured all this, but posterity has not forgotten his heartfelt lament. They've bestowed an adjective "Kafkaesque", which indicates something overwhelming, something that tends to nightmare. For my part I can not deny that every time I read his stories I do not think he would not like it. I have a little 'time in mind to write to any one Zingarelli. Adjective deserves a different meaning. Worth, in my opinion, this meaning, something that despite everything, despite adversity e le incomprensioni, tende e aspira alla felicità. Detta così allora possiamo dire che ogni uomo è kafkiano. Perchè questo fu Kafka: un uomo non felice ma che bramò di esserlo.

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Denise Milani Vs Linsey Mckinsey

KIM, UN CAPOLAVORO DI FELICITA'

Kim è uno dei libri più felici che siano mai stati scritti da un uomo e uno dei miei libri preferiti.

Chi non l’ha letto non può avere un’idea della felicità di cui parlo. E il Ventesimo secolo (Kim è del 1901- un libro vecchio cent'anni) si apre con un inno alla vita, alla gioia che non ha eguali.

Non lo consiglierei a un giovane, nonostante the book is wrongly categorized as a children's book, because young people must learn to look at life with their own eyes, still full of radiance and in the morning. And 'the book of youth, not for youth. I would recommend it to who, along the way, lost enchantment, the old, the detecting, the lost. A Serb who in the depths of his heart a barren stalk that can still catch fire. He should go to Kim and her story.

It 's a first-rate book, as Edmund Wilson said, "where Kipling, more than any other in his book, his imagination left free to follow his memoirs and exploration." Wherever you lay eyes lively Kim, the Little Friend of All the World, flows a river of life. The lama as usual, was deep in meditation, but Kim's bright eyes were wide open. The broad river of life was pleasant in his opinion, much more interesting than the narrow crowded streets of Lahore. There were new types and new shows with each step ... he knew that caste and caste to him unknown. We are in the look of Kim a lightness and vivacity fresh, for him there is no mystery that can not be revealed, there is no cross that can not be raised together, there is the dialect that can not be understood. The strength of the charge which his gaze is not due to the world but to himself. It does not matter the world, but his eyes to watch it. And the language to call it. If the world is awake, Kim, there is in the middle, more alert and impassioned as ever, "chewing a twig which then serve as a toothpick," as Kim takes her costumes everywhere in the country he knows and loves. Nobody knows why a little later, in the grip of an unconscious need, Kipling relies on little friend around the world in light of the terrible task of the Great Game Anglo-Russian rivalry. How to tell someone, many years after Kipling will prove still unrepentant in his autobiography for this choice. Kim, during the trip with the Lama in search of a sacred river, is enlisted in the regiment of father, and, impressed by its dual nature of English but also of "black as a coal indigenous" ("so was born a hundred years") hired him in the secret services. He goes to "Bobs" the details of a 'planned invasion by' five confederate kings, a conniving northern power, a Hindu banker in Peshawar, a factory of 'arms in Belgium and an independent Muslim principality in the South. " I read on the web: Kim - so full of what Le Carre called "tricks of the trade" - will have even greater significance because it will lead to the founding in 1904 - three years after its publication - the Indian secret service, quickly followed by MI6. Kim inspired even the birth of the U.S. Secret Service. Kipling's friend, U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt - who had answered the 'call of Kipling's "bear the burden of' white man" by throwing his knights against the Cubans' English Empire - he used to call his son Kermit "Kim" and will then Kermit / Kim founded the Oss (Office of Strategic Services, later the CIA). One of its first director, Allen Dulles, always kept on the table a copy of Kim, who became one of the reference manuals of the CIA. Born as its creator in 1865, just eight years after the dramatic anti-British uprising of 1857, the character Kim is also the "cover story" of Kipling, his second hidden life. In the novel, the spy Kim refines the same qualities that the journalist / spy Rudyard was learning: the spirit of observation and attention to detail, as in "Kim's Game" (a classic game of observation). Both were just as many other indicators, an outsider who lived in two cultures. "

They lived in two cultures." Kim In no trace of this duality, because the author with a clever narrative structure gives the reader a wonderful cohesion to the whole, still included. As in a circle, the story ends there, where it was started, with no apparent pattern. His mother tells him in a dark windy autumn: You know you can not write a plot to save your soul. Even life and death here does not appear the two poles of existence, but intimately connected and blended. Tell a native in the story: "When I was fifteen, I had already killed a man and given birth to a son." As in a magic act.

The novel can be summed up because, as one critic said, Kim focuses on himself, with an incomparable happiness, every literary genre: the novel 's adventures, picaresque novel, novel travel, spy novel, a novel of initiation , mystical novel.

bed after several years, I can not help but look back on Kipling with Kim that offers its readers. Enchanting. It 'a look of understanding, curious, passionate, who knows the danger without escape, without knowing the evil bland. In the beautiful "simple stories of the hills," reads:

Throwing stone on each hand

From each well-ordered road we travel

And the whole world is wild and unknown.

For Kipling the world does not obey an order, but is on the brink of confusion and irresponsibility. What fascinated him, however, and he adapts his heart to the beat of the earth. And his call is noble and solemn, supportive, ecumenical.

My brother (so says Kabir)

Adora brass and stone as an infidel,

but in the voice of my brother

feel the same anguish of my heart.

Its God is the one that gave him the Fates ...

His prayer is that of every other man ... and mine.

Why Kipling reminds us every step of his work that the sky has its lofty wars, but the earth's wars trivial. So "who you beat the narrow way, between flashes of hell, to the day of Judgement, when the infidel Please be kind to the Buddha in Kamakura."

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