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time to write?

In the village cunning and lack of respect, loud and unnecessary files (for the few that do not come from nowhere), the ranking of kindergartens and ghost do not exist, of 'extremism and individualism without limitation, the short memory and the excessive flexibility of belief, there are still thousands of people who write. The extent of this phenomenon is only superficially appreciated the number of unpublished novels that arrive every day at various publishing houses, set or not, now that arise in every corner of the country. Just think of newspapers, paper and virtual, internet sites, to blogs, mail to, and appreciated the old signs still present during the protest marches.

We want to express ourselves, we want to explain, we want to ask for help, we want to be famous, we want to hear without it being possible for the other reply. It would be particularly interesting to ask why and to what end? If we are all committed to writing in an attempt to get our message to someone who, a few inches from us, is doing exactly the same thing, who will be willing to listen to us?

In an article devoted to some emerging authors, which appeared a few days ago on a major Italian weekly review, remember how important it was for writers to promote their work because publishers, especially smaller ones, were no longer able to do so. It is necessary, peremptorily claimed the journalist, an author who writes about blogs, magazines, on facebook, twitter, participate in events where he can hear and be heard and all that devotes much of his time with frequency and consistency. The writer must construct its public debut before his book is available , so that its already loyal readers do not need the investment sales of the publishing house to know and understand. At a time when the author was "available" this "basic readers / customers" will propose to the publishers, who at this point will not even need to evaluate his work.

looks like a coherent narrative of the times we live in, where is the visibility more than what we make it visible to be important. And though some publishers are still a serious breeding work on the contents (and image) of the potential new author, we return to the previous question: "Is there a basis readers / customers still available to read and especially to really listen to all these new voices? Because if the publisher can buy enough of the 'product book, the writer should be read in the real heart of his work and especially the impact it could have on readers, even only in strengthening and ideas contrary to those of 'author.

then I leave the word to Anton Chekhov: " Read yourself any detail and, even more, writing for the press is for me a true martyrdom ."

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A word, a verse: Sixteenth - "perseverance"

persevere v. intr. [From Lat. persevere, der. Severus 'harsh'] (I persevered, etc. aus. have). - Persist, remain firm and constant in purpose, actions, carrying out an activity: p. in the well, undertaking, work, study, in the fight; Less com. with negative connotations: PM worse, the vice, the dishonesty, prov., to err is human, p. (Error) is evil.

Lying on your couch, with the TV volume to a minimum and a plaid orange legs, look at the rain hitting the glass of your windows nervous, as if to break them, as if he had joined the crowd of beggars around you every day, asking time, work, play .

you try to resist, to defend that clipping of passions and projects that you stubbornly drag behind, locked in a backpack that starts to seem too shabby and horribly "juvenile". Would you like to get up, open the window and scream in the rain to stop. Would you like to open the backpack and try to catch the desire that still moves, crushed at the bottom of your years; would like to empty the bag, spilling all the cuttings on the ground, then fly them out of the time in which to vegetate persist. Faces of lime on the bodies of velvet, the shaking on the screen in front of you, demanding your attention, I order you to fill his knapsack.

Would you like to turn off the damn box, stop listening to those who have made their wishes chopping those of others, demonstrating that ignoring the rules is the best choice.

The rain increases the meantime, his strokes becoming more tight, disturbing your illusions and forcing them to return to a body that, for some time, not yours.

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"Trust In"

a sunset and a trip ...
introspective to discover new horizons and unmentionable fears.
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"Me and You" by Niccolo Ammaniti

When Lorenzo gets large? When he loses the tenacious distance from the world, a world who does not understand and which inevitably feel different to wear the patina of aseptic middle class hospitality when they found her parents? The arrival of the sister Olivia, so fascinating in its diversity combative, it's really the point of no return to the childhood of Lawrence? Or maybe in his course of action and thought is especially the meeting with death to make a difference? The death that everyone, sooner or later we must face as it tells the same character at the beginning of the text: " Nasci, go to school, work and die ." It is death to decide in this tense tale of Amman, which begins and ends touching, spying, and feel it moving just below the surface of the words that you cling to each other, stuck to the old boxes that live in the cellar where a boy of fourteen years (Lawrence) tries to escape from the flow inexorable identified by him in that " Nasci, go to school, work and die ." and for which there is no sound at all brought. And so the notes that move the dead around him, announced that Olivia, desired that his grandmother, the Countess's necessary that allowed his parents to take possession of their home. In each there is the search for a confirmation of himself, already perfect and inevitably different from his classmates built, but already mastered the art of the chameleon silent as the only device to get to lay their lives in the banks that these deaths are drawing, because indeed " things, once you think, what need is there to say? "

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Air New

Standing sardine man among thousands of similar attempts to sneak in a bubble of fresh air that compressed between incense and body odor, moves suspended over the heads of a multitude of pilgrims.

Only this man sees sardine: heads.

arms, hands, legs, mouths, words, nothing is left, only necks or faces, depending on the direction in which watching herd flow. Head forward, all agree on the place from which should come the realization of the deepest desires and appreciated. Link to a huge lens red door, which seems to move in hypnosis marked pitch, get larger, more hungry.

the first door, the man discovers sardine two other gates, beyond which new rules, those of the soul, wait heads, while rabbits of pink paper enjoy the show, thinking they were just born, but already smarter than that continuous flow.

man springs around the river sardine, stands of old tastes and tinkling objects close ranks, boiled chestnuts in abundance and fish. Raw fish, even in the sugar-covered biscuits, fried fish, dried fish, frosted, eviscerated, boiled for hours until the smell of desire that is most important, to remind the witness that the end that awaits them is common and then it's better to eat, in small controlled steps, continue, until the drum becomes unbearable, the space does not exist, the toss of a coin to ask what nobody has to know, a violent gesture liberating and that you will not forget.

sardine

The human hand is there, like that of the other was suspended in the air to overcome the currency groped to the crowd before him and finish the big rack that engulfs everything neatly.

Then the crowd pushes the man out of the sardine temple, three hours were consumed and sardine man you just have a cookie nibbled by fish meal, with a glaze of brown algae. He wanted it to be chocolate, but can not complain. His greatest desire is another, one might expect. Incense gets lost, their heads are not so agree on where to go, want to go out, want to escape, they want fresh air, fresh air here for today will suffice.