Saturday, March 5, 2011

Why Wont It Let Me Drag

In Santo Stefano Belbo c 'I was eating snails with my "lost friend" Morra (where are you? All those parts are called Morra and I can not find you!).

I had already seen much in that 'time. I had seen the opera 'obese bumblebee, smell the miasma of maidenhair, heard the noise of the crickets was going to handle. It was nestled in the brain even for those 'smell rasping of the hills and vineyards. I noticed the path that jut out and / or the notched edge. It seemed to me to even hear those loud bands all huddled in search of safety first on the clarinet that brings them (the 'only one with a' smattering), but the victims of 'relentless stupidity of bombardeni and genis.

So I think in due time (20 years ago) that if I ever read a book, what would have been told of this outlying village. So classic, so rustic.


He is a person full of aches, a bad life and temporary decrepit feels like only a woman or a goat can 'be, poor thing, so afflicted by "veterans" too "civilized" to know how to defend, with the "waiver" easy, the 'attitude given to surrender, the boredom of "expect," run, the desire to "let win" which is equipped to react and who dies in our hands: rejected by thousands of women and a thousand trades, who committed suicide as a rock star. An 'icon of adolescent school desk with the butts as under Leopard can only' be.

But the real ailments of 'age are the remorse, the remorse and the torment walk through the native mulling the past, when the Pillars of Hercules' were not in Gibraltar but Canelli, when the world came to flush him out from there with hunger.

language idioms with which he makes' universe inhabited by people with eyes that controls the family and just says "yes" and "no" to the stranger, ill agree with the 'tilt of the brooding protagonist.

him, having escaped, now drinking coffee pushing the little finger, can 'tell' s sinister and distressing experience of peasant women who die without care, or exhausted and bled by the parties, old and young fans begging the streets and end up abandoned when they are no longer even good to ask, the sadistic obsessions that mountain farms in the co 'the mold, cold wall manned by skeletons of dogs with distemper that crazy if you lean.

's just the cold that makes it look bright moist eyes of farmer. In fact inhabit a country where the flies are better than Christians. Works and scores, work and Sparta. But it's never enough.

hardly his women will survive the "joke", especially on Sundays, when the party back on its hooves tipsy from the country after the vermouth and the card game that seals a week in which he laid the hoe just to challenge the rincola, and laid the roncolasolo to give the sulfate or bring Cavagna. The blow was heavy but the crash moms, you know, crying softly, even if they have good bones minimize, whining, do small odd verses in an attempt to believe and pretend that everything is already finished - but it is a war learn against sensitive whiskers children - but not over come upon them because of the stupidity of another shot, moaning like sparrows with the 'broken wing: their face is deformed and recomposed continuously. Then, after the Burian, pulling out a handkerchief and put them in their corner (die sooner or later, you'll find a cold morning lying in bed with his teeth open, and the 'idle trigger yet impotent rage). The children, while attending to 'the beginning of a discussion that is only the prologue to the straps, approach to' door, without even really want to escape from the clutches are clear-cut case called into question. E 'terribly easy "to be called in question" when there' is no "cause" at stake. Then, after the "free all ", the campaign turns to brown, some people think" that cold, it will cool off? can I return? ", someone else thinks" one day the 'kill. "Then the signal: the mother calls them all by the door with a furious voice, as if the seats. Every now and then, from a rickety el' the other, a daughter born with eyes like the hearts of the poppy, more sensible, for (maybe) to a life "not stupid". Guggi Otherwise, sack, polenta, chickpea, grass for rabbits and ignorance of those who do not know what happens beyond the Bormida. Just open a radio from time to time. Maybe.

After cronachetta which only goes from the teribile and tasty, following the brutal ideological synthesis: the world is badly and you have to do it again, the fault lies with the money, and of those who 'invented, that the government must burn with its defenders. Then you can go back to listen to the fairy tale with fine eyes, the beautiful effect that ventilates the vent worm, you can go back to the bonfire ritual in the moonlight.

Cesare Pavese - the moon and the bonfires


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