How To Make Homemade Rigatoni Noodles

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.

Give Peace a Chance