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Widely staff

(written emphasis on Allen Ginsberg)

The wagon is almost empty, dimly lit.

Beyond the window keeps coming off the usual flat landscape: cultivated fields, empty fields, fields cemented.

continues, somehow, the drowsy roll of the carriage.

Then I call this lady, educated, you can imagine, very gentle and delicate. He says that as it deems evocative, just can not publish my book (Introduction to City), because they generally do not fruit at all poetry, and - according to veto - because the text, it seems, is strictly personal .

I wonder what that means for her personal .

instinct then I think of Allen Ginsberg.

staff was Allen Ginsberg?

Sure, he was wonderfully personal.

Now, in my personal case was probably declined in provincial . Undisputable fact, for that matter.

I could perhaps be argued that Sassuolo is not Newark, New Jersey, and Modena, which is not like New York. True that we are in Emilia subtly hip, but in some respects we are still very square.

In fact, I can only write in cursive, a partial view on this matter.

begins from New York, Allen Ginsberg, from Newark and Paterson, in fact.

and William Carlos Williams, poet, Paterson, however, to introduce Howl ; is Pivano, sweet Fernanda, to translate for us, in addition to the verses, allusions and private aspects of Allen, information without which we would not have understood the complex poetic and nominal author.

In the case of Ginsberg, also, we are dealing with a work of translation on the field. Fernanda Pivano prides itself in the substance of knowledge "sensual" events, in particular the context in which they were developed. The work of translation will thus become "perpetual confession on the text, as well as meticulous literary importance.

Practice - is self-evident - strictly personal.

Thus, one can separate places Ginsberg and the private facts of Allen?

Unthinkable, say.

Consider, for example, the brutal and sweet text Kaddish.

The body of Naomi, the mother the poet, is cut fiber to fiber, whole-gutted for each page of the hymn. Still, the story of the vivid madness of the parent, dizzying list of memories, defects and dead relatives, he sings out the "expanded sense" of things.

Life, if lived body and mind, it is shown always sacred.

is important, in brief, is to be understood by level, its range is to rotate staff in a general concept and learning.

The more closely an author redesigns its staff on the design of a universal sphere, able to encompass and contain multitudes of personal spheres, the more powerfully can reach the sensitivity of its readers.

So at this point, largely staff.

The car is half-empty, dimly lit.

Cultivated fields, empty fields, fields cemented.

Personally I feel not bad.

Lots Of Mucus And Engaged

Living of "sprawl"

(written emphasis on Michel Houellebecq)

Michel Houellebecq?

The essay on Lovecraft, I remember.

I liked?

thought for a moment, there in front of the shelf, with domain in the hands of the fight.

stop thinking, through the book, the smell of good paper spurious Pocket Bompiani, the simple books in paperback, "recently," I have always adored.

addition to the impression that the case proceeds to open a few pages of text, read two lines, four, ten, there is already entitled to decide for me. Extending the domain of the struggle : title simply disastrous. Then there's that name, what do you think? Sounds amazing, Houellebecq.

Instead, for some kind of flaw, I read the book quickly, vulgar, which is perhaps more than anything else I swallow it, a practice generally reserved for texts bland, grayish, to be stored as read and nothing more.

Moreover, the narrator seems to tell him first that we could also skirt the issue on the history of this man in his forties who is not seeking any joint interest with their lives. Moreover character reminds me of the "popular" by Camus, I l 'Etranger . The

I read the book, however, places it in the limbo of those texts that do not love and not hate.

yet, and yet - think - something in that little book appeals to me.

that happens every so often rescued from the shelf and reread it a few steps.

Like, the more I read, the more I like it.

I was hasty to bury Houellebecq so soon? This simplistic

his writing, science, serious, he expressed himself on the other hand with a cynical force, and senseless in the succession of events, marginal characters, in some dubious extras, I could easily trace the author's intention.

now connected to the formal emptiness emptiness real.

More generally, I would say that the form of Houellebecq - Extension of time to the domain of the struggle in many of its passages of poetry - mirroring the "light but widespread poverty simultaneously."

Today's "cave Social refuses entry to sighs mortal remains rough old age, doom, goodness. Outside

death becomes something worse, becomes disappearance without a trace, the non-memory.

Therefore, to leave any trace of him, you get roughly the domain of the struggle. Bella

the fight, its a beautiful lie.

If we try to immerse ourselves in the fight, just to take us beyond the territory that is known to us, we die here every day, little by little.

The extension, therefore, is only a chimera, a maze of cowardice.

short, we are on a platform ; place unstable, neutral, located between melancholy and fierce desire to escape the fear of failure.

So there is a decent way to fight, or to extend the domain of the struggle?

Apparently not.

course, there's always the search for love, but love is very rare - Houellebecq says, moreover, even when it encounters, you will have to fight again, almost always in vain. As long as there will be new, chilling, masterful vision of death.

Ultimately, more than death itself, or the decay of the flesh, here we read first the painful loneliness of man, the man who lives in un'autocensura of the senses, abdicates, leaves, closes; later the man who throws a few crumbs of fighting on the ground, and there it ends.

ascend Concorde Imaginary of the fight, take off, we go to altitude.

Now slip with their eyes down, look at the "sprawl", the apparent dispersion of human shelters ridiculous.

From now we will see, the man of Houellebecq: alone, a gray, already dissolved, the enormous loss of life.