From Milan, his friend F. I wrote: "What good thing can be no fall back at eight-thirty am on Sunday to go to lavorare in un negozio dove trascorrerò la giornata in balia di orde di italiani votati allo shopping pre-natalizio?”.
Caro F., rispondo comprensivo, l’unico aspetto positivo che mi viene in mente è quello di non essere morto durante il sonno.
Ma appena dopo aver pensato alla sacra bellezza del poter vivere, il mio pensiero si sposta verso vantaggi ulteriori. Una volta superata la domenica lavorativa, l’amico F. potrà anche decidere cosa guardare alla televisione lunedì sera:
Vieni via con me della coppia Fazio-Saviano o il
Clasico di Spagna, Barcelona-Real Madrid? Conosco bene F., e fino all’ultimo resterà indeciso.
Intanto la domenica donated to the God-if the job will go in the best way through the usual trick: buy a book after you have chosen, or the opposite of what he does most of the customers of the shop where he works, which, like white sheep red and green, tend to choose the rectangle with pages located at the top of the list (thinking that reassures the cloned sheep Italic luckily, "Oh, that book is the first, better to be safe, if you like the majority of people there is a reason will ... ") or as recommended by some journalist / writer (sometimes prostituted intellectually) in a review of national newspapers.
F. almost always buy books recommended trusting the suggestions that, inevitably, some writers who defy the law. But you do not remember who, some years ago, presented him with Flannery O'Connor. Patience, luck to have met Flannery is overshadowing those who gave it.
American writer, F. Remember the photographs unearthed network. F. always check the face of the writers he loves, maybe to see the wrinkles or the cut of the eyes as they be so good. His is an attempt to discover by reading sections of the nose or the cut of the mouth of the writers estimated, a physiognomy of genius or at least the talent, not to mention that, as he learned listening to Frank Sinatra, in the end we
poor brooks no Source . O'Connor's my friend F. points above three photos: one sitting in an armchair with a book in her hands, with a hat behind a fence, with a necklace that looks like a photo ID card from idendità. There's a common sentiment, however, that emerges from the three images: it is humility.
A F. Flannery's photographs come from somewhere in the head while in a box is a rectangular glass top open to breathe, inside which there is a cashier, he in this case. But everywhere you turn, look at the photographs of other writers. They are all very serious, his hands resting on a part of his face as if they were thinking of something absolute, fundamental and decisive. Hands holding up chin, forehead, eyebrows. To be clear no one picks his nose. Truman Capote settles his glasses for example, but it is clear who is thinking about something very important. Ernest Hemingway is as big as a door instead, and holding a cat. The cashier F. bad start with him when, turning left and having the impression that the cat wants to get away from that embrace a little 'forced the causes:
"And let it fall Ernest, poor beast. You know what? Francis Scott Fitzgerald I like a lot more than you. I do not know what it is, but
The Great Gatsby, so here it is that. And let the cat down. "
F. would take a photo of Flannery O'Connor to watch every now and return money or loyalty cards to customers who buy
cooked and eaten. The desperate search for his eyes, but could not find on the walls. Flannery, Where Art Thou? Remember
then an excerpt from
In the territory of the devil (minimum fax) essays on the craft of writing the author of The Wisdom of blood
.
"Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair and teeth fall often fail. If the novelist is not sustained by the hope of making money, must be almeno sostenuto da una speranza di redenzione, altrimenti non sopravviverà alla prova. Chi è senza speranza non solo non scrive romanzi ma, quel che più conta, non ne legge. Non ferma a lungo lo sguardo su nulla, perché gliene manca il coraggio.”
Con tutti i soldi che mi passano tra le mani qui in cassa, pensa F., qualora avessi al riguardo dubbi che non ho, li butto nel cestino. Non i soldi, ma i dubbi: nel mio percorso di piccolo scrittore, l’unica forza che mi spinge è la speranza di redenzione.
Questo è l‘ultimo discorso registrato di F., prima di essere inghiottito nella ripetitività dei gesti, tumulato nella teca di vetro domenicale in attesa delle ore diciannove.
Then on Monday evening. The decision is made: Barcelona-Real Madrid, and the range
Come away with me. Will prove to be the right one, except for the interval, which will unfortunately coincide with the boring and useless ballet theater accelerated the notes of the song of Elvis, staged by actors exaggerated for the fourth consecutive time. Basta.
The start of Guardiola's team is creepy. Xavi, Iniesta and company spin so fast that the ball
Meringues Madrid do not know which way to turn. 2-0 after eighteen minutes, the ninetieth 5-0. The
Manita . A result that is close to the boat, composed of eleven Players who have the courage to look. The one hundred thousand of the Camp Nou pass the second time finding his voice Jose Mourinho apparently disappeared. E 'instead of sitting on the bench, while a camera cuts to the banner of the evening:
"Mourinho, now and forever translator."
For the Portuguese coach, just back from triple Inter achieved without sportsmanship, a really bad night.