Quelli che sto per citare non sono i miei cinque libri preferiti. Piuttosto sono quei libri che, in un modo o nell'altro, hanno lasciato una traccia nella mia vita. Probabilmente ne ho dimenticato più di qualcuno, ma le pagine lette sono tante e la memoria ogni tanto si prende il lusso a little vacation.
soon as I started to read, and once all the fairy tales, I had the gift of my first real book: "HEART" Edmondo De Amicis. It 'was a seminal text in the passage from childhood to adolescence and I think he deserves the top spot on my list over the place of honor on my bookshelf.
The first day of school
Today first day of school. They spent those three months as a dream holiday in the country! My mother took me Baretti this morning to let me enter the section for the third grade: I thought the campaign, and I went reluctantly. All the streets were swarming with boys, the two shops were crowded bookseller fathers and mothers who were buying backpacks, folders and notebooks, and many people thronged in front of the school, the janitor and a civil guard duravan to struggle to keep clear the door.
After "Heart" began to devour the entire children's literature that I came in sight, with the exception of the saga of Louisa May Alcott preferred to which the exciting stories of Jules Verne ( the But Alcott was to be my destiny because many years later when someone gave me "A Long Fatal Love Chase," which I would not advise) and his mysterious Captain Nemo.
The high school years were exciting from this point of view, I recall an endless array of titles and genres, from classical Italian literature that was part of the curriculum, as a contemporary Italian and foreign authors. But the book that influenced me the most hidden, that which was (and is still the head) to my need to write was undoubtedly "The Aztecs" Gary Jennings, a skillful blend of history and fantasy sciorinare in over a thousand pages of delightful reading.
(the song that follows is the beginning but not a part of the Dixit)
My lord,
Forgive me, my lord, if not I know the official titles and honors that belong to you, but I trust not to take the risk that you, my lord, I feel offended. Are you a man, not a single man among men I've known throughout my life has never felt on hearing of the Lord. Well, my lord ...
Or perhaps Your Excellency?
Ayyo , is an even more illustrious title of nobility ... what we call a ahuaquàhuitl of this land, a tree from the large shadow. Excellency, I will call you, so. The more it strikes me that a character of so eminent excellence wanted to call someone like me to say words to the presence of your excellence ... But Your Excellency
want to hear what I was. This, too, I have been told. Your Excellency would like to know what my people, this land, our lives were in past years, the sheaves of years before that would appeal to the King of Your Excellency and to those who bear the cross and carriers of spring, to free ourselves from the bondage of barbarism.
want to hear what I was. This, too, I have been told. Your Excellency would like to know what my people, this land, our lives were in past years, the sheaves of years before that would appeal to the King of Your Excellency and to those who bear the cross and carriers of spring, to free ourselves from the bondage of barbarism.
E 'correct this? Then Your Excellency asks me not an easy thing. How can I, in this small room, with my little understanding, with the little time that the gods, the Lord God may have me assigned to reach the end of my journey and my days as I can evoke the vastness of what was our world, the diversity of its people, the events of the sheaves on sheaves of years?
conceived, imagined, depicted Excellency, as the large shade tree. Vedine mind the immensity, the mighty branches e gli uccelli tra essi, il fogliame lussureggiante, la luce del sole sulle foglie, la freschezza che l’albero getta su una casa, una famiglia, la ragazza e il ragazzo che erano mia sorella e me stesso. Potrebbe, Tua Eccellenza, comprimere quell’albero dalla grande ombra nella ghianda minuscola che il padre di Tua Eccellenza ficcò un tempo tra le gambe di tua madre?
Yya ayya, ti sono dispiaciuto e ho sgomentato gli scrivani. Perdonami, Eccellenza. Avrei dovuto supporre che le copule in privato degli uomini bianchi con le loro donne bianche devono essere diverse – svolgersi con maggiore delicatezza – di quelle che li ho veduti imporre alle nostre donne in pubblico, con la strength. And, without doubt, the father of Christian copula your Excellency, had to be more so.
Among high school years and those immediately after I began to get acquainted with the man who, more or less unconsciously, was to justify his publishing success with so-called giants of the international literature: Stephen King. On a hot summer eighties, dragged against my will in a house hidden among the olive trees in that Barletta (it was the time when the children went on holiday with their parents), I decided to exorcise my personal Gethsemane closing under the stairs ( only place where you could enjoy a bit 'fresh) with three of King's novels in my possession. So it was that I came across what I consider the masterpiece of S. King: "IT" . His later novels impressed me less up to the readings, unfinished, of " Buick 8" and "Dreamcatcher." But you know, genius is not always unlimited.
The terror that would last for twenty-eight years, but maybe more, began, as far as I know and tell, with a paper boat in the newspaper that ran down a sidewalk in a stream swollen by rain.
The boat pitching, tilted, straightened up, courageously face the treacherous eddies and continued on her course down Witcham Street, to traffic lights that marked the intersection with the Jackson. The three lamps arranged vertically on all sides of the traffic lights were out, that afternoon in the autumn of 1957, and were also turned off the windows of every house. It was raining non-stop now for a week and two days the wind had risen. So almost all districts of Derry were left without electricity and the supply had not yet been restored.
A child in a raincoat giallo e stivaletti rossi correva allegramente dietro alla barchetta di carta. La pioggia era tutt’altro che cessata, ma la sua violenza si andava finalmente allentando. Tamburellava sul cappuccio giallo del bimbo e suonava alle sue orecchie come pioggia su una tettoia: un rumore amico, quasi intimo. Il bambino con l’impermeabile giallo era Gorge Denbrought. Aveva sei anni. Suo fratello William, conosciuti fra i ragazzini della scuola elementare di Derry ( e anche fra gli insegnanti, che mai avrebbero usato quel soprannome in sua presenza) come Bill Tartaglia, era a casa a smaltire i postumi di una brutta influenza. Nell’autunno del 1957, otto mesi prima che l’orrore si manifestasse definitivamente e ventotto anni prima dello scontro finale, Bill Tartaglia was ten years old.
My readings have always been pretty diverse, like my ice cream cones (Laura still shudders when he sees me mixing strawberry and chocolate). Have often been the result of suggestion, often have blossomed along with my desire to taste a bit 'of everything, without depriving them of anything, Mickey Mouse is my favorite comic. Sometimes it was the case in point for me. In one of my rare visits to her in-laws' house, I came across "A MAN" of Oriana Fallaci. He leafed through a few pages, perhaps to give me a tone, a intellectual nuance and could not stop. The love story of Fallaci with Alekos Panagulis captivated me as a chronicle of events of the Greek resistance. It 's a fact that the famous motto: "Trees die standing" is one of my favorites and that book I never returned.
A roar of pain and anger rose over the city, and echoed relentless, obsessive, sweeping any sound, articulating the big lie. Zi, zi, zi! Live, live, live! A roar that had nothing human. In fact, did not get up by human beings, creatures with two arms and two legs and just a thought, rose from a bestia mostruosa e senza pensiero, la folla, la piovra che a mezzogiorno, incrostata di pugni chiusi, di volti distorti, di bocche contratte, aveva invaso la piazza della cattedrale ortodossa poi allungato i tentacoli nelle strade adiacenti intasandole, sommergendole con l’implacabilità della lava che nel suo straripare divora ogni ostacolo, assordandole con il suo zi, zi, zi. Sottrarsene era illusione. Alcuni tentavano, e si chiudevano nella case, nei negozi, negli uffici, ovunque sembrasse di trovare un riparo, non udire almeno il ruggito, ma filtrando attraverso le porte, le finestre, i muri, esso gli giungeva ugualmente agli orecchi sicché dopo un poco finivano con l’arrendersi al suo sortilegio. Col pretesto di guardare uscivano, were meeting in a tentacle, and we fell in, they too become a clenched fist, a distorted face, a mouth contracted. Zi is, zi! And the octopus was growing up, was spreading in jerks, each jerk another thousand, ten thousand, one hundred thousand others. At two in the afternoon they were five hundred thousand, one million to three, to four and a half million, the five could not be counted.
And finally, not to forget, I like to think that one of the books that formed my social conscience and moral "If this is' A MAN " by Primo Levi , which, rather than the incipit, I prefer to quote the poetry of the same name. And do not think I have to add more.
If this is a man
You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find, returning in the evening
Hot food and friendly faces
Consider if this is a man
What works in the mud
Who knows no peace
Who fights for a bread
Who dies and one is a no.
Consider if this is a woman,
no hair and no name
no more strength to remember
eyes empty and cold The Grambo
Like a frog in winter.
forget that this was:
Remember these words.
Engrave in your heart
When at home because,
lying down, getting up
Repeat them to your children.
O there undone the house,
illness impede you,
May your children twist their faces from you.
Certainly in my life I meet other books worthy of mention, I like to think that one of them is yours ... get busy.
Lory
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