What beautiful libraries in the Christmas. A London or Toronto, as St. Maria di Leuca in Udine. Piles, pallets of books, crowds of people between the batteries and the cashier.
Well I confess, do not go to the libraries. I read very little. We generally do not buy books. I have read so much in the past. Today I am passionate with reading food labels, nutrition tables in this are informed, I would support would be glad to table a question on the subject, with some little box or jar chosen at random from a diner in amazement.
libraries do not attend because I'm sick. Just inside the door I take intoxication. Then a frenzy. Comes the anxiety. I have to acknowledge the compelling urge to buy everything. It 'a frustrating experience, as a coitus interruptus on the most beautiful. Libraries are wonderful places, Toyland. The attendance of the libraries is one of the few flaws which I can not give up. I abandon myself to the other languidly as a muchacha argentina tango in its final waterfall of a sensual dance. No reservations.
literature are not a faithful practitioner. Save me Hell, for the omission of the practice, a strong curiosity that is a gift of nature (leopardescamente stepmother).
few days ago I entered the beautiful library of a large shopping mall. Gifts, toys, decorations, elegant ladies and gentlemen made the environment much New York. I request the information I need and then, as now there are, do a tour. I feel like a starving stray dog \u200b\u200bthat you open the doors of the refrigerator, between quarters of beef hanging, offal, tripe, flank. I recognize many of the titles reviewed, others attract me like the queen bee pheromones subjugate the workers. Thoughtlessly leaping from table to table. Do not buy anything, I tell myself.
Then, in the distance, I see the top of a drain slightly lower than the surrounding, a cover that stands up as the tip of the shoe of Ali Baba, a modest but significant hyperbole, a keen observer, and I consider myself a keen observer, can not help noticing. The covers your ears (we remember our dear old masters, Gelmini before its time?) Are frequently browsed the books. Rotary, I said, not read. And when the ears are the books that have attracted several new means really curious.
The book in question, made five steps was clear to me, is "Wetlands" by Charlotte Roche Fraulein. Ahhh here's the nteresse, where it comes from. I had read some things, all positive, with applause skinned hands of the reviewers, are racing to clear the endoscopic view, sera and secretions from the antrum of the forbidden is high, finally, to artistic expression, but not to appear conservative or prudish. Personally, that kind of writing as a way, I like it. I like the analytical description, meticulous pathologic protocol applied to writing, the process described aseptic. It 's a terrific launching pad to be able to strike deep feelings and, sometimes, people's hearts. I say this because I am interested in butchery, and because I have to secrete a mucus that protect me from the filth that I'm going to say. Our dear
Carosella, she herself, had dipped his pen in the ink-stylish to talk about this complicated book. Complicated by many points of view, even practical, such as its location in the library of the house under the noses of our adolescent children. My corner topic, dedicated to the obscenities, it is quite in full view so that my son can use it without too much guilt, which surely would feel if every time would desecrate the hiding place of Dad to read things taboo. Thus, in Ikea bookcase, next to manual pilot and flight instruments, together, house the autobiography of Rocco Siffredi, Tropic of Cancer, The other side of sex Looks of woman-man corps of phenomenology bare-breasts, Guess Who's Coming to bed (probably the most important scientific compendium on popular sexual fantasies), the comic book by Milo Manara and so on.
I read the first three pages of "Wetlands" and then jump to the seventy, have done so. I got an idea, though. I'd like to read but not buy it, I will keep faith with good intentions. Ah, what a beautiful British libraries where you can safely sit on the chairs placed there on purpose for customers. Browse or read your favorite book throughout the afternoon and then decide whether to buy it or not. Years ago I spent whole days at Oxford in these places confortable and quiet, with my pile of books I sifted among thousands, accommodated in a chair under a soft light. I passed through the hands almost all the photography books, those of forensic pathologists (for a period I have been fixed), the publications most unexpected and strange.
There are many things that shocked me. But most are not those that belong to the common sense of morality, understood in its strict sense and anachronistic. Pornography does not bother me, in the common understanding and putting aside semantics and etymology, and indeed I am interested in attending, as long as we find something stimulating. I think for the most part, can be attributed adjectives such as monotonous, repetitive, mechanical, anerotica, stereotyped. However, the sea and we need to know how to navigate inside the Great. From point of view of life, however, found a very interesting kind of pornography: pornography, intellectual and emotional. That can be attributed almost nothing to do with sexuality. Where are we heading?
Some time ago I wrote a quick little story. I'm going on in his head and a long succession of events has been the excuse to write a long afternoon in a few short pages. It 'was an experiment not easy. To prove myself to the limit of my imagination. Write a story to pornographic Trecentosessantagradi, take me to the brink. He read the story, only one person and the feedback was not positive, I think it was shocked, for various reasons. It is written that a great good, in fact, but what interested me was the parallels between, as I wrote, "a sexual practice extremely unlikely and sentimental and practical, unfortunately, that yes, very likely." What is the real pornography? What strikes the most? The story is hard, hard. The terminology pure.Può summon ghosts, causing revulsion, excitement, but eventually, it will be possible to reach the hard core, in the sense of the matter through the butcher's counter? Or you're forced to respect the ethics of good-goodie-cattivini feelings? The experiment failed and I felt so abandoned.
Now comes this German boy on his body secretions and builds on its hemorrhoids a best seller, selling copies of the mountain does talk of the whole, very good-if-and by his Seated players reach the hard core, the core issue of fiction and philological. Well fine.
said I am not an exhibitionist (that is, only that something that unites the bloggers). Having said that, nor I can or want to compare with Miss Roche in the arts. Said I'm a creep. Having said that, I am ashamed (yeah, I made an altar boy as a child). Yet here is proof that my experiment was not entirely wrong, I think. I would like a confirmation.
I would post this little story. But I will do it only if a majority of those few who read the blog (and there are just four in number) me permit. And kindly give me an explicit mention. And then a comment other than the usual monosyllabic expressions (and not to the public). The content is not suitable for minors and, thus, if the site will remain out for a few days so that it can be read and then removed.
I never put in an interactive way on the blog, I never asked interactions. I do this time and could be the last (not a threat).
Merry Christmas to all,
Jamiro
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