Lethal Amount Of Ambien

Around the Andy Warhol exhibition CHINA

Around the exhibition China

How can you write in China now without looking constantly present roots and routes in this country?

I made my first trip to China in 1981 with the Italy-China Association, one of the few organizations that had access. I remember when I decided I wondered whether it was prudent to deal with that adventure. I arrived with a head full of propaganda that was made in our newspapers: dim lights, the thoughts of Mao that were read during the hours of work, food rationing. I was expecting a dark country, sad and instead found in the cities I visited Beijing, Nanjing, Shanghai, Guangzhou and some interior villages, people did not seem to be traumatized.

In museums saw Chinese small families, people smiling and surprised to see Western faces. Nothing seemed to me as I had imagined, even if the Chinese were still all in gray uniform, the hotels were dirty (very), the city streets crowded with bicycles, there was only one shop for tourists and there was talk of the Cultural Revolution as the greatest scourge who had suffered the country.

Many topics were taboo for the guides who accompanied us. I also saw one of the few women with bound feet. Feet that were not wrapped to make the most beautiful women but only because they could not escape. I did the first group allowed to enter the birthplace of Confucius, when rehabilitated, along with the craft stalls and the main road was not paved, I found an immense library.

from that trip I reported the impression of a peaceful population, despite the evident poverty.

In return I went to study and China for a year and a half. I read everything I could find around: from the Snow Collotti Pichen, the Macciocchi, the sixteenth-century novel Chin P'ing Mei, which alone is a great lesson on China at that time and all times up to Mao.

I was struck by what Mao had realized how the Long March was a miracle. Snow's explanation of why I was adopted communism: the West was the representation of the occupants of nearby Japan and the usurper. The Russia had helped Mao to establish a policy in the country, had sent technicians: then the inevitable choice.

And over time, returned to China in the wake of my son who has spent 10 years creating great works for a major Italian company, I confirmed my views, watching, amazed at the speed of change .

I was in a yard in Yanan when it took three days of travel to get there. Only the train from Kumming Panzihua employed in nine hours and was occupied by mice over the inability to use the toilet. I remember trying to lean traveled as little as possible to the seat and everything around me.

in Shanghai when I was still that wonderful museum (built in 1995 by a Japanese architect), was not realized, when Pudong, with new quarters and the new airport, there was still when the magnificent opera house built in 1998 by architect French Charpentier, was not expected. I had the privilege of living area China not as a tourist but as a resident, in contact with people everyday.

Now, I want to support what is, without Mao, today, that China would not exist. What I regret that proliferate in many articles in our newspapers, is the emphasis of "totalitarianism" and adverse impacts on the country. Even for the abolition of the Pokemon you have not avoided the ridiculous attributing it to an authoritarian attitude. But who knows these cartoons monster knows that it is only good for a child does not See. And I do not think that Chinese children feel discriminated against for it.

But when the newspapers will learn to be serious?

In the July 16, Federico Rampini, La Repubblica correspondent in China, after taking steps to Snow, have said the heroism and the enormous difficulties experienced during the Long March , ends by saying that Snow could have been manipulated and that even then, the liberation of China from the Japanese, were the seeds of dictatorship.

But there realizes, while the bias and bad faith, but also what it means to a revolution in a country where the Forbidden City, has for centuries been the symbol of the relationship between those who wield power and the population? Inside the walls the life and privileges beyond the walls had no right to exist. Was not the totalitarianism of emperors who "ignored" millions of lives?

E 'against this background that China would put the wonderful exhibition was held in Rome at the Quirinal Stables. The famous, amazing terracotta warriors, bronze, porcelain, the warrior jade, all relics from the tombs of the emperors, what are they but a demonstration of power and wealth of the empires that have followed? How many, how many Chinese died in the construction of the tombs that were to ensure welfare and happiness to those in power even after death?

Mao's intentions were to abolish the distance, giving each individual a life of dignity through work and culture.

Of course, he failed even to him, nor can anyone, just anyone in the world. I can not deny that Mao's regime has not brought death, executions, factional struggles, suppression of enemy.

But who knows that a revolution has not had to pay these prices? What's more, a revolution that was for a billion people.

never forget, in '81, a group of Chinese, in their own department store, look amazed and amused because there contending for the fabrics to four pounds.

told me then that the bodies had floated on the Yangtze River and the Gang of Four who had destroyed historical monuments (Of which I saw some ruins).

But that small group of Chinese people enjoy, in the poor department store, had not reached the dignity of life through work, their daily food, the consciousness of being considered? I saw them: did not look distressed.

There is a price to be paid to exit from the inhumane conditions as poor Chinese who lived before the revolution?

We Europeans we have had tragic experiences, in much smaller size and condition. While Mao built in '34, we were on the brink of the abyss with the arrogance of our civilization.

It seems strange that China today is the country that is worrying the major Western powers and we find it hard to put Europe together?

Besides, if there was democracy in China, as we understand it, there would be no economic development that is taking place. Unable to hold together a half billion people without rules, even authoritarian.

We denounce human rights violations, poverty in the countryside, not the freedom of worship. Surely, it will all be true, there is still much to conquer. But it will come to these goals, I'm sure.

How can we Europeans are incapable of eradicating poverty in our countries as large as a province of China, pontificating on a reality which, as a famous phrase, we think we know after a month, you think of need to deepen after a year, and after ten years you are sure you do not understand a lot?

love China for this potential force and vigor, I admire what he is building, and I hope she can bring to life all its people with the dignity it deserves.

Kate Playground Taking A Shower

The art of repetition *

age of eight years Andy was a nice plump-looking baby, high forehead, blond hair separated from one side, eyes long, dark, insightful, humorous.

His mother, a woman from breast provocative, eyes and lips accentuated by makeup, hair curlers, curling by, if he carried with him everywhere, even when unknown men met or when he cleaning in a department store.

Andy adored her, followed her obediently did not protest when they left, without knowing why, hours sitting in a chair waiting for his mother to come out of a room, always different, with a sir, always different. It was the nurse had said, and went to treat patients at home. Andy waited, later, a toy car as a prize, or to design an album or a package of those butts that it likes strawberry. When mum was a cleaner in the largest department store in Pittsburgh, Andy enjoyed it turned to the shelves full of cans, bags, bras, sweet. Sometimes I even touched them, without letting them fall though, as recommended by the mother.

'Andy, where are you? "The item exceeded the hum of the vacuum cleaner.

"Where are the lipstick."

"Do not touch, otherwise I can not take. Will not you regret it? "

" No, Mom, no. "

So, one day after another, in the hours outside of school.

At school Andy had a deep blue-eyed boyfriend Glenn. It was the first thing that Andy had noticed. Glenn was a year older than he was taller and robust and very kind. When Andy gave him his drawings - because Andy knew how to draw very well - they collected a red card which he kept under the counter.

It was a picture of Andy that caught the attention of the school. One morning I called him into his office and asked him to join a small exhibition inside.

Then he stroked long.

At fifteen a boy Andy was not very tall, thin, full of pimples that disturbed the dark eyes and long thoughtful air.

At school there was Glenn, went to college two years before, and there was even the principal, replaced by a fat lady friendly.

Andy, for some years now, no longer accompanies his mother. He remained at home waiting for her and often would come back tired and restless.

"Do not you look happy, Mom," he said one evening when he returned with the dress and makeup in a mess crumpled.

She began to weep bitterly, went to change and said

"I will pass. Eat the meantime, you will not want me to regret it? "

" No, Mom, no. And he went back to drawing.

Andy especially loved drawing, making portraits, use colors. He had a picture of Glenn and remade with deep blue eyes, and the mother with the heavy makeup.

Twenty years Andy was not very tall, thin, long and dark eyes and mirthless. His mother had died of tumors in a 'few months in utero. Before expiry had said

"Be wise, Andy, you will not want to hurt me, right?"

"No, Mom, no."

And she ran out of Pittsburgh.

He went to New York with his few belongings and the desire to draw.

understood Glamour, the famous magazine, which was looking for young talent. The director was kind, I spent a long time in the study, as did the headmaster.

Andy was hired.

began his sensational rise in the world of advertising. She remembered the deep blue eyes of Glenn, strong colors he used his mother, cans stacked on the shelves of department stores in Pittsburgh and began to create, to create non-stop billboards, posters, covers.

knew a photographer, Andrew. Often called him into his study to do to attend sittings. Often remained long with him. After each match the creativity and exploding Andy trying out driven by the fury of the relationship just had. He soon felt increasingly needed.

Forty years Andy was not very tall, thin, long and sad eyes in a face that was beginning to give way.

lay in a hospital bed in New York seriously wounded by a woman, the founder and only member of the Society for to pieces men which was introduced in his study and had downloaded a gun on him.

It was saved, but in two months the hospital had seen and reviewed his life as a repetition of his paintings.

had made of things in those years. Maybe if it was too close a budget through the collection of bills, air tickets, postcards, city maps, photos of people who had fueled the reputation of both Factory.

Yeah, the Factory. A 'idea that had come from its being primarily a commercial, creative, a creative loner. He accepted all in what looked like a multinational corporation: aristocrats and tramps, hookers and transvestites, artists and criminals.

Factory was his most brilliant ideas. More cans of Campbells or Martison Coffee or bottles of Coca Cola. Of those people, after the first surprise, would no longer surprised, but the Factory, yes. Each was found in there, everyone had fulfilled his secret desires, without abandoning inhibitions to that environment friendly and challenging.

Andy, patron and exploiter, reigned all exhibiting his homosexuality and his depravity, exposing it as a product of great stock more to continuously feed the myth that his need for a genuine show.

He was left alone, inside, he remained what he was satisfied with the butts of strawberry. The meaning of death if they wore. What was his painting, if not the representation of the dissolution of what is there and disappears due to consumption, reckless use of images and things?

"I realized that whatever I was doing had to be Death."

Here, he was driven by an unbridled need to see others and be humble and bow in front of the boy who had spent hours in small rooms or in the bleak corridors of a deserted department store dirt.

A fifty-eight years Andy was not very tall, thin, long eyes, behind round glasses and serious ones. The flaccid face marked by lines on the sides of his mouth drooping. white hair combed as eight years, separated by one side, sometimes covered with a white wig, a little 'eccentric and a bit' ridiculous.

He was famous in the world. One of the artistic geniuses recognized the 900. Cans to his, her Marilyn, his Mao Zedong, his Elvys, its flowers that formed part of the major museums and collections of the most exclusive, it allowed him to add from the picture of Leonardo's Last Supper.

the collection of tickets and cards and airline tickets were added to objects of all types combined, shamelessly, in the halls of the factory and in his own home.

In a moment of foreboding loneliness, Andy had himself photographed with make-up colors that he used his mother's eyes, magnified by the eye shadow, eyebrows marked, the heavy blush, the mouth is marked by a dark lipstick, her hair hidden under a blonde wig-serving.

Under that picture, magnified out of proportion, framed and hoisted on one of the walls of his bedroom, they found him dead February 22, 1987.

sad, grotesque, tragic.

* Andy Warhol - 1928-1987

Milan, July 30, 2006

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healing the soul, the heart of hospitality meets

Listen to collaborate in writing the paper. this is a piece that will be published in next issue

The entry of family members - No. 18 Healing: reception -

healing the soul, warmth Heart

"I was raped. This was his chance. "

By calm, simple, Peter said this sentence, for us women contains fear and anxiety. It is the tone, however, who has been objectified history dramatic, metabolized and broke a lot to say to another as if he were telling the plot of a novel.

The 'other', in this case, I'm sitting next to this white American than forty years, in a plane that takes us from Frankfurt to Portland, Oregon. Peter is an agricultural engineer. Back home after two weeks, his wife Beatrice, and their daughter, Alicia.

As often happens in a long journey, we began to talk to banality. He, perhaps encouraged by my white hair, was told, first superficially, then on personal things, and eventually was abandoned in the confidence that intervenes between strangers because thinking never to see more reassuring and can give vent in a loud voice, to his own thoughts.

"He may have followed the events in Rwanda," he tells Peter after a long silence.

"Yes," I tell him sure, "I saw a nice play."

"He will know of the genocide of 1994, the ferocity with which ethnic communities are addressed. My wife is Rwandan. He lived in hell and you have saved by a miracle. "

We had already said everything about Portland, the pleasure of living there, the serenity of his family, the joy of having a child when no longer mattered.

Faced with the realization that my confidence gross ignorance and I feel guilty watching this man pleasant, open-faced, almost family is so typically American.

Forget the drowsiness that gives me the xamamina, I let go surface considerations that are made in situations like that, and I understand that I find myself facing a man of quality. I have to give very careful if you do not want to offend him.

"I'm sorry. A painful experience. "I say with great participation. "How did you meet?"

"I worked in Rwanda for a year and she worked for a Dutch company with whom I had business contacts. Just a friendly meeting. When I left I wrote until I knew who worked in the Netherlands. I was surprised that he had abandoned the country and family, but I thought an opportunity work.

I did not know, however, who had been forced to flee and the company he worked for had helped her to safety. I did not know she had been beaten, tortured, hunted. I did not know they had taken away the family to kill her. I knew nothing, despite knowing well the tensions in the country. Beatrice, then, was twenty years old and very beautiful.

Wishing to see her strongly, I reached in the Netherlands: a woman transformed by fear, anxiety, rootlessness.

I realized, looking at her, suffering what could be taken to the extreme limit. The atrocities experienced, with such modesty and neglect together, I have revealed his mind, his sensitivity. I already knew that I was in love with her, from Rwanda, but at that moment I loved her with a transport I would not have imagined. I asked her to marry me and come to America with me. Four years ago, Alicia was born. "

I was so moved by this story to want to know about Beatrice. Maybe it was not part of the ritual of casual acquaintances and perhaps, to meet this requirement, Peter was uncomfortable. But he reading my heart, I said: 'Beatrice and Alice waiting for me at the airport. She likes to know? "

I said yes with his head, murmuring:" Thank you.

After landing and sbrigate control practices, we have initiated with the output.

When I saw a black woman, tall, delicate features, elegant in ethnic dress, in her arms a tiny, curly-haired blacks, I recognized Beatrice and Alicia.

were safe, they were healthy, were serene.

Mi, 11.10.2006

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Marai Marai - The right woman

Marai Marai meets

Having been fascinated the reading of The Embers (1942), I'm reading back the other books published by Sandor Marai publisher Adelphi.

This order of reading back to the roots of the characters and lends itself to considerations of great interest. I dare say you can discover some of the obsessions and perhaps human suffering Mara.

Love with a capital A, it seems, at first glance, the major theme of his stories. Eternal love understood as a passion, "the fullness of life" between man and woman love understood as a great friendship and loyalty men. And only for men: the friendship between a man and a woman is not considered. The woman is the medium of love.

Actually Love is an excuse to lift a veil on ambiguity, on the rivalry, hate on, the most secret passions that dwell within us and that each of us exercises under the umbrella of love. They are ruthless characters who entrusts this task Marai, are often ugly (the Casanova de the recitation of Bolzano actor de Rebels ), cause the player to recognize the true and false, the 'innocent and the wicked, the victim and the victimizer. But then, when everything seems understandable, creeps a question: is everything really so clear? And the reader goes from hero to solve the riddle.

For simplicity, I analyze the elements that connect the stories and intertwine in an unmistakable way.

Women

The Mara relationship with women, even with the Woman , must have been suffered much if the writer felt the need to make a disputed subject. The only two female characters who live an active role, are Eszter, I The ereditàEszter ( 1939), and Francesca, it The recitation of Bolzano (1940).

The first Eszetr, a woman is passive, resigned, a love lived twenty years before he left the incurable wounds. Victim of his domain yet can not get rid of the arrogance of the man who has deluded "the unhappy love never ends."

The second, Francesca, while still loving Casanova aged , fat and poor, without any attraction, it feels the weakness of a great memory of love, but also feel the strength that comes from the consciousness of a time gone by.

Francesca has a glossy shine and this lets you control the passions. And while confessing - a Casanova vendutosi cowardly to count, her husband - a love that will never end, abandoned him leaving him in the squalor of its reality, in a cold room where the fire has died a long time. "to indicate that one day all the passions become ashes."

And 'the only woman, narrated by Mara, that for a long night talking and dominates with its passionate arguments about love, beauty, life, death, fate, a man who dares not answer because he signed a pact of treason: "It did not help to nothing I have offered you the pleasure and peace, purity and regeneration? " But he is silent.

The other women, while the protagonists of the events narrated in the novel do not live as if ghosts conjured by men who have loved and continue to consume their lives in the memory of that 'lost love.

Krisztina is the woman he loved The Embers. Noble, mysterious and treacherous, and emerge when it is spoken, dead for years, the two men who owned reunite old now but still need to clarify that betrayal. Their meeting, in an interview, which takes up practically the whole book, lays bare how this betrayal has left a deep wound to her husband, the general, and how much it was for Konrad's friend since the days of exclusive college , a way to clear social differences (which has unconsciously led him with great difficulty), and rivals that friendship so deep and generous that he never could reciprocate equally. Its social and economic conditions have not let permission and that weight has never abandoned. Betray his friend, making love to his wife, is the despicable act that allows Konrad liberating but to flee rebuild his life away, free of the comparisons, free from remorse.

Another woman, Anna, in Divorce in Buda, (1935) living dead in the long indictment which Imre, a middle-aged doctor, nail all night Kristof the judge. That court would have to say the day after their divorce. Imre but can not break his relationship with Anna except through death. Indeed, the causes and Kristof goes to confess to rebuilding, as in a dream, a hypothetical attraction that would feed the same Kristof for so many years ago by Anna Anna, unbeknownst to him, a woman contention.

Kristof's character would be General de "The Embers young: noble, perfect, with the responsibility of great traditions, like the character of Imre could be a precursor Konrad: experienced modest origins as a kind of frustration, against the noble class, while Anna Krisztina anticipates, immensely loved and lost. Divorce in Buda seems the plot, then developed and perfected, the masterpiece The Embers.

The social

Besides that The Embers, apparent gradient from the friendship and never expressed feelings and never dealt with fairly, Divorce in Buda and , that the difference of caste is another issue that Marai wishes to highlight in his books.

clear it very well The Rebels (1930).

A group of young people, united by belonging to the same school, rejecting the idea of \u200b\u200bactually living in a small town - devastated by World War I - decided to form a "band" to act and behave outside the rules imposed by their upbringing and their environment. Everyone feels bound in brotherhood by sharing this secret, do not feel any difference between them . From Abel, the son of a wealthy doctor, he feels "the effluvia acres penetrating ether and tincture of iodine that filtered of medicines from the cabinet," in Bela, son of the butcher , "around which floated an aroma of oriental spices, herring, and fresh fruit " to Erno, the son of a shoemaker, " that smelled of glue and leather unfinished, "at Tibor , son of a colonel in the war, with a very ill mother, in whose house "ruled the smell of poverty and disease full of lavender."

"The trades of the fathers of odors permeate their homes unmistakable." Marai says at the beginning of the novel to warn the reader that the differences between the "gang" there are and odors are a compelling track.

complicit in the war - parallel to that of their fathers - fighting against society; compact in the games that they invent and develop, they end up not seeing, in their innocence, the boundary between reality and game. They do not know the risks and go into a tragedy when they discover that unexpected Erno, the son of a shoemaker, has betrayed them by denouncing their secret games. And here it explodes, in all its tragic hatred, class conflict, never subsided and never born. Erno responds to allegations of his companions: "The thousands of times every single day, I kicked you in one way or another? No, it was not your fault. It is never to blame. You were and feel the goodness in person. I hated your touch. I hated your kindness. I hated you when handling a knife or fork. When you greet someone. When she smiled. When thank you for something, an object or information ... I hated your gestures, your look, the way you got up and I would sit. It is true that these things can be learned. I understand that there is money, power, strength, knowledge that can compensate for this. What can I live a hundred years and become a millionaire, and when you rot in the crypt some time - because you others also died there be in a building around you, dogs do not like us, that there are in the cellar already live - even then I feel unhappy because I will think of the way in which Tibor knew apologize to a passerby, who had accidentally hit with a wave of his hand and a smile ... I do not know how we can purify, but I feel cleaner just thinking of you all into the mud up to his neck. And in the end you die. "

Hatred hatched and eventually confessed, causes the suicide of Erno that fails to survive his own feelings.

representation

The recitation of the mask, is another of the themes beloved by Mara, in fact, as mentioned before, maybe the most popular theme. Treaty as psychologically deeper than we can say that this is in one way or another, in each of his books. Each character seems to have a form, each character seems to belong to a precise and sophisticated screenplay.

course it The recitation of Bolzano becomes crucial meeting between Casanova and Francesca. For a whole night confront, confess, speak of absolute love, dressed in costume and with their faces covered: she dresses in men's and women's clothing him. The roles exchanged reality and fiction, of disguise destinies.

Marai is to say to Frank: "And you ran away in vain, because now here we are again, facing each other, and look forward to when we take off the mask, my love : there are still many, many masks among us, and we will remove one after another before finally seeing each other with open face. Do not rush, do not panic, do not reach for the mask, do not throw it again! It is no coincidence that today, after so long, we are left with the mask on your face, when each of us is freed from his prison and we are here, facing one another, do not rush to shed the mask, because there's another below, made of bones, meat and skin, but is a mask just like silk. We will throw a lot of other masks before I can see and know your face. But I know that somewhere, far, far away , there is also your face different, and that's what I have to see one day, because I love you. "

And all what you say what you belong to? To recite or to life? The charm of fiction or the reality of suffering and abandonment?

Marai gives the reader all the reflections on truth.

It Rebels becomes fatal encounter between the "gang" and a failed actor who fascinates them ambiguous with its transformations, winning their trust, enter into their games by providing costumes scene, makes them believe free "from the tentacles of the discipline that had oppressed them in their childhood." Serve of their ingenuity and their fear for his shady dealings. "But the actor had the ability that no other was with. ... "He could talk to them like no adult had never been able to do. ..." The actor stated, driven by the same necessity that forced them to play well, distorting the reality behind the faces of a painful character, form. Play a part for him was a need, as well as they had a law. Perhaps the actor most authentic experience the movements of his life just as he was on stage, just as the boys had the feeling that their lives behind the screen of reality was more authentic than any reality. "

And it is he, the actor, the masked character, which leads them to tragedy, cynically.

It Confessions of a bourgeois (1934), autobiography of the writer, are found the roots of his novels. It 's the key to understanding the book by Mara.

They understand the important passages of his life, and, as in his books, the women accompany him but not seen. We do not know much about them, even if he loves a veil of modesty protects them from the reader's curiosity.

Unforgettable pages devoted to Berlin and Paris of the time. Beautiful city views and the experiences of a young foreign journalist in search of affirmation.

Last book published earth, earth (1969), no more complete an autobiography recounting the wanderings of a young ambitious bourgeois, but the suffering of a civilian during the occupation of Budapest by the Nazis before, the Communists, then. In the pages that talk about the humiliation of the beloved city, you hear the bourgeois in his wounded pride, after all, does not demand a living thing who does not belong to her class, but suffers for what he , the bourgeois, the intellectual is private. "The bureaucratic cruelty, mechanized and impersonal it is humiliating for men, while the individual is content to cause tormenti.E now, still in uniform, cruelty had come back to Budapest."

The interest of this book, passionate and painful, and also make us feel more like Mara belonged to Mittleuropa a great writer but a writer close, contemporary, belonged to our history.

Yes, Sandor Marai in his novels, makes us reflect on love, but there is a reflection deeper on truth and fiction which are owned in the same way, to our lives.

September 3, 2002

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comment - comment

the right woman Sándor Márai

Three points of view, three truths, three characters who indulge in the familiar three long monologues.

There is the "right person" for each of us? It seems that the thesis of the novel. Márai think no, no. In each of the people we meet and with whom you develop a love relationship there is something important to us.

is a fascinating thesis (which I agree in full), which allows us to live not only in waiting for a meeting, one fatal, but taking in the intensity of each meeting, what we need at that moment, our lives.

the right woman is the first novel Mara, among those published so far by Adelphi, which obviously deals with class conflict, the relationship between man and woman on the floor sentimental, intellectual and physical . Written in three phases, 1941, 1949 and 1980, is In my view, the novel summa thought of Mara. Never, as in this novel, the writer finds out and you leave to the reader. He, too, in a long monologue.

Two women and a man. Not the usual triangle that arises from the betrayal, but a triangle that comes from a different social status.

The first woman, elegant and devoted wife loves sublimating feelings;

the second woman, the proletarian serves a middle-class home;

man hopelessly bourgeois, who represents his social class.

The three face each other, they study, get control, are analyzed according to their capacity for analysis and reaction.

the background of political events in Hungary of '47 and '56, Mara tells of Peter, the man the bourgeois, the bourgeois intellectual that, realizing the failure and collapse of the world belongs to the generations, trying to escape through a proletarian love. The proletarian needs of the explanations and bourgeois sophistication of love, Peter thinks, the proletarian belongs to nature, simplicity and strength, strength that Peter feels liberating in itself and its superstructure.

Peter knows that only the proletariat wants to become a civilian, in civilian dress, live like a bourgeois, plunder the bourgeoisie. It is that his desire has always been. It is what Judith, the maid. Peter sees it as an opportunity to exit order and loneliness that you feel confined. Judith wants to get into that world to repay the humiliation, to forget the grave with mice in which she lived as a child. Each of the two follows a drawing. Each of the two fails in that design.

Only Lazar, an intellectual, disillusioned, he is aware that this is the definitive end of an era. And he understands what Judith has been part of a perverse game, as has been used to serve once again the bourgeois illusion of having held the post, he has won and, ultimately, she is still the victim who finds herself without any identity.

Márai gives us unforgettable pages: from the great master of writing, knowledge of feelings and emotions tangle in which they are forced to move.

I think everyone can find a piece of what he has lived in love mechanisms traps fiction, drop-outs.

The bourgeois state, the great theme of the writer, is told like a cage from which it is impossible to escape. It 'so riddled with selfishness and a retreat on our feelings makes it impossible to overlook the feelings of others.

The analysis makes Márai can only be a citizen (which he was) as he struggles in that condition and that he lives like the "forbidden city" of the Chinese emperors. On this side of the wall you ignore the humanity that lives beyond.

The difference in class, and in the other novels in the background, this is the pivot of the book and the "other" social class is considered only as a possibility of salvation. So, once again, exploited by those who have the privilege of the intellectual and economic power.

Some comments on the society in which the protagonist lives, are of great contemporary relevance.

Márai Only in 1980 added to the book, the fourth entry.

is his outburst on communism, on the consumer society that replaces the bourgeois, the transformation of a world that no longer finds himself. It is the cry of the intellectual in front of rampant ignorance.

"Because this sort of Petõfi of my boots have been told that the world is something that is a thousand times better than eating and drinking. What is it? But it is the culture! And he also said that culture is a conditioned reflex. "

It is no coincidence that the book ends set in America.

It is no coincidence that, just in America, where he had gone into exile, Mara has committed suicide.

July 2006

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Sister

sister is the novel written in 1946 by Sándor Márai The Embers after and before exile in America.

The theme is unusual compared to what we have read so far in the novels of Mara, the man facing a serious illness and subsequent reflection: what is the meaning of illness?

is never pronounced the name of the disease as is never pronounced the name of the sick are universal, we mean writer.

The historical background of the novel is the period before World War II: a tragedy waiting to happen but not yet exploded. The journey that the protagonist, Z, faces on the train, still takes place in an 'apparent feeling of comfort and privilege. Z is a famous pianist and went to Florence for a concert.

This is not a case, the choice of the city symbol of beauty as opposed to the image the destruction that looms on the horizon .

That autumn evening, then Z will play at the Palazzo Pitti, ready to give beauty in "celebration" which is the concert.

But after the show Z is ill.

Márai And here comes the story of the disease. He knows the routes, it seems, the cruelty, the anguish. The pain in the morning taking turns during the day (with the light encourages them to fight and become sneaky night with dark silence.

"So the pain crouches because the patient gathers all his strength and yells at the executioner who has had enough, that it must stop now ... knock on this side, now a handle down a bit ' further. Interested in everything, eyes, ears, stomach, heart region. At the end is bored and a bit 'disappears. As if he left. Where is he hiding now? .... "

I went into this book with love and suffering, with the memories.

How not to love so intense and dramatic pages on a condition that I knew him well?

Sylvie's disease, AIDS. The first that I was confronted with an evil without remedy. Carlo's disease, Alzheimer's disease. For fourteen years has kept me tied becoming accepted as "normal" as "order," the repetition of gestures of care and assistance. Finally, my disease, cancer, exploded like thunder when the 'order' had been established with other diseases.

" The disease is nothing more than an insult to the cosmic "says a doctor Z " The disease is a condemnation "because God has turned away from man.

This is the argument I heard from the primary support of the German clinic where I had sought refuge to recover from the devastating health. I rebelled. I could not accept "even" that sentence.

What did he still lives with me? Only much later he had given me the serenity and had rushed her off through the illness of my husband. He gave me "my" disease and wanted I accepted that "also" an order?

It could not, however, the disease, a cry of pain to tell the world "Enough, I can not bear, the measure is full?"

Márai thinks the disease as a "torturer of China." And why not a communist? I would ask him. But China is far more mysterious, more cruel for a civilian like Mara.

Z remains in a hospital room very comfortable, but that does not allow him to watch out: there is a wall. The art of Florence, though so close, can not help him even making spy.

No, the disease is a cage, alone, is the end of "lies", the end of that "representation" that is life. Down the stage costume. There is only the truth.

" Modesty can only exist where there is desire and guilt ' and the disease is choking the one that the other .

"It's possible a more confidential, more complete, more sincere than that of a body in front of those four women in his stand between life and death ?

Z assisted by four sisters, sisters in fact.

"The intimacy is created between the body of the seriously ill and who cares ...."

"But the sick body has no secrets ...."

How not to rethink my "Sister" next to Charles? On his body, which I loved so much in love, abandoned to the need to be looked after and cared for? How often, when I lifted the pillow, I thought as the Christ in the arms of his Mother. How many times, the pity for that body led me to kiss it, caress it , tighten and fragrant.

be aware of your sister, I know that the rubber tube in his nose stuck mercilessly to force the body to eat, to live. I know the color of the liquid that would require dense cinnamon that body not to surrender.

Márai brought me back to all this with the strength of his extraordinary narrative ability.

Then, this narrative about the disease back to a subject very dear to the writer, the "love". And we will return by the metaphor of disease to an inability to cope difficult love, without hope, that poisons those who experience it.

rid of that love means to cure disease?

" And that fight, or run, it was not the disease but his whole life. "This thought when Z is sure to die.

But there is a female voice, one of the sisters (but which of the four?), Who tells him: "I do not want her die." And he thinks it is a feminine energy that is fighting for him. And he can not resist. It is stronger than his desire to die, that energy.

It was my energy to keep Charles in life for many years, to keep it from surrendering to the devastation? I do not know. What is certain is that I told him: "I do not want you to die." And he did not die until I realized that I could not ask him much pain and so much heroism.

" Because life is a big responsibility. But we think, live among the people! ... There are many who do not make it. How many interests! Boredom, vanity, ambition, sense, and what lies behind every death ... Who can stand all that remained healthy at all times? "

Milan, July 26, 2006

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The Dying Animal - Philip Roth

L 'dying animal - commentary on the novel by Philip Roth -

A Philip Roth in great shape.

Ironic, deep, dramatic in this short novel that could be called hastily to the erotic genre ( The Portnoy's Complaint). To me it seemed, instead, an arm of the famous trilogy, a piece to add to quell'impeccabile fresco on America after the war ( American Pastoral, I Married a Communist The Human Stain), that the writer has given us in recent years.

An older man falls in love, out of control, no brakes, a very young woman, very pretty, detached, intriguing.

We are in the sixties. America lives the explosion of the sexual revolution, the spread of behaviors that the girls "had no biological terror erection, they did not fear the transformation phallic man." And David Kepesh (also the protagonist of the story and comic visionary, The breast) everything is easy. Exercised with great natural charm and his influence on students the tip as a hunting dog and seizes without miss the opportunities, however, the girls the offer without caution, without any request.

Man it moves forward in reading, one realizes, however, that this is not to tell that David Roth is talk of Consuela, his perfect body and her breasts, "the best I've ever seen .

Social transformation, obsessive attraction to this woman become food for deep and painful reflections on life that passes, the unbridgeable gap between youth and old age, "the wound of old age" on death. Yes, David, Consuela is a fixed idea, an idea of \u200b\u200bpossession, but without love nor passion, nor feelings. She explores the body, contemplation of bodies, pleasures that the mere contemplation can give. E 'on the bodies that the transformations of time are seen much more than feelings. And speaking of Consuela's breasts. The breasts, the symbol of nourishment, from which the old - and Roth challenge this word - it feeds using sex as a "revenge on death. not forget, death. Never forget it. "

But the relationship ends for a trivial pretext, which is logical in the field when there are feelings. Spend some time. David has seventy. 's just the night of the millennium. A message on the answering machine's back, as from an 'ancient times, the voice of Consuela, who asked to see him. David, overcoming weak uncertainties, the recalls and the other side. She's always beautiful, with a strange hat and looked more mature, which makes it very feminine. Surrenders and confesses that he wept with breast cancer and will be made, perhaps a radical operation. Her breasts, her magnificent breasts. Asks David to photograph them because no one has ever loved her body like him. And he is willing, wants to please her in everything. But this does not require more.

With a flick of the tail old age she takes on youth. "Now his sense of time is like mine, pressing and even more desolate than mine. Consuela actually passed me. Because I can still tell me I will not die in five years, maybe I will not die ... I could live out of ten still another twenty, and she ... "

David seventies, he can never take that food. The breasts are of no use anymore.

cancer, the great justice!

I read a long interview with Philip Roth about to publish a book "death." The writer says he has to deal with this topic that he did not think long.

do not agree with Roth. In 'Animal dying seems to me that this thought, along with that of old age, is very present, as is present in the trilogy. The Human Stain, pages describing the death of a friend dying what are they? What are Roth's characters as they confront the youth, if not a melancholy and resigned reflection on death?

seems to me that Roth is compared continuously with the thought of death is the background even when writing about another.

Mezzadri Maria Grazia Hood

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Americaaaaaaa

Americaaaaaaaaa!

Baricco, Tornatore, Novecento, The Pianist on the Ocean. Skyscrapers in Manhattan that are reflected in the left eye of the emigrant Italian.

It 's all that came to my mind when I left by boat for the trip from the shore in the evening. Perhaps the lights of those skyscrapers were reflected in my left eye, I thought. And the voice of the guide seemed shrill and tamed As we approached Staten Island, and showed us the island where the migrants were kept in quarantine just landed: Ellis Island, and told us of Statue of Liberty. As I seem to make disciples of all the theories that they want this country as the most free and democratic world.

Just to ask questions about events known to the world: this is not the country that has not hesitated to massacre the Indians to take their territory? Is not the country that held blacks in slavery for centuries? It is not the country that brought in millions of migrant poor, hungry, in rags with their cardboard suitcases, only because she needed the poor, those hungry to continue to assert its role as a slave?

This Country Did you ever wondered what anxiety, what discomforts, frustrations which migrants lived? And the nostalgia? And the melancholy?

Vietnam, Chile, Argentina, unloaded bombs on Laos, Iraq, Guantanamo ...

Americaaaaaaaaa!

I made my first trip to America in 1966 and three more in a few months. I remained some time New York, Washington and San Francisco. I went to work.

met three very different reality. I was struck by the diversity but I could not, then, to pursue these.

I was Alice in Wonderland. Everything great, everything extraordinary, astonishing. From the tomato to the taxi, the record store to the elevator. I had in mind images of films with Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, Greer Garson. Corresponded to what I saw. I lived in Astoria and Woldorf Park Hotel: turquoise carpeting and bathrooms with double sinks. Breakfast brought to the room with the cart by a black waiter.

A delight for one who had never moved so much from Italy, who had no equals. saving for an education, for which he had no idea of \u200b\u200bopulence and, more importantly, had no culture to interpret.

They took me to Harlem in a car carefully closed, with tinted windows because it was a risk that visit. And in San Francisco witnessed, instead, at a reception of blacks in evening dress.

Negroes, then, were called Negroes.

I'm back, only in New York, year: 2005.

I have not seen great as then, nothing really surprised me more than the exhibition of greatness. I realized that I had changed the way I look at this country.

And 'course, after forty years', I said. But I felt that I came the same emotions that if I returned to London or Paris, Amsterdam or Madrid. After forty years' I noticed changes in the economic development, customs, traffic, but I heard Van Gogh and Rembrandt, Velasquez and Goya, Manet and Turner still around. Those were the places of their life and of inspiration.

And I would be in Europe.

But here I felt a sort of stillness, even in the apparent changes.

Negroes, in fact, call themselves African-Americans and show impersonating incorruptible judiciary and police. Today, you meet them on the streets of the center: a few on Fifth Avenue or the Park, many in Broadwai where shops are popular and affordable prices. Harlem, which turns into white residential neighborhood , tourists strolling convinced to imagine what a ghetto was for so many people. Where to end up blacks, indeed, African-Americans who lived for years, if you ask anyone.

Little Italy is pathetic with the shops of salami and cheeses that must match in an Italian stereotype: the smell of rancid squalor they had in Italy fifty, sixty years ago. At the border Cinatow presses that now occupies, with its junk, the closet that were the Italians.

No, at a glance, this city has not changed.

The outsiders continue to be increasingly marginalized. And the power, the arrogance, the arrogance of the master is always the same, ever more declarations, performed.

primates, this is American history. The guides delight in saying "the biggest, the most important, the highest in the world." And they all think they play a leading role this "more".

I said to myself: what would America without primates?

New York and ostentation, New York and cruelty ', New York is the cynicism of' America. How King Kong: a great, big, scary, m that (and I strongly hope), it will not prevent its annihilation.

No, New York, I was most impressed.

in its museums, with collections "more" of many of the world, are masterpieces that European and Chinese and Egyptians. Everything comes from "A ltrove. Their paintings, with good will, beginning with the nineteenth century. And one of the twentieth century was the need to denounce loneliness, poverty 'human, the frustration of those who live this reality: Hopper, Worhol, Pollock ...

The big American orchestras have only one root: Famous European Directors, employed by the magnates in the late nineteenth century trying to publish, or in the 30s fleeing from Nazism and Fascism . How Mahler, Furtvangler, Toscanini.

What you learn in this country to survive if not overwhelming the other? The law of most strong, the largest, the highest.

Egypt, Greece , Italy would need to have the largest stock of the world? They have the Pyramids, the Parthenon, the Colosseum that tell a story of millions of years of culture.

How many Americans know this story? The intellectuals, those who travel. But those traveling in a country so immense?

I think there is, in 'American medium, the belief that nothing resembles what he lives. Does not need to be compared. belongs to the "more".

Where are those beautiful boys tall, blond, healthy hair with a brush so that we have seen in war movies of the '60s?

Today, perhaps all belong to the "more" fat. E 'impressive number of obese people you meet. Young and old, men and women and boys.

I say more you go down the social ladder, and most are fat because fed by Mac Donald and many processed foods that you buy at low cost in many huge and supermarkets.

But a country where there is "most" because not about a social problem so widespread?

course, mine are superficial considerations, to "blow hot."

course a country like this you are sure to have picked up atmospheres important after a few weeks of having to investigate, after months and having to study in depth, after many years.

My son lives and works in Oregon, in Portland. A city democratic, pacifist, environmentalist.

spent time at his home located in a neighborhood of perfection awkward, almost painful.

wooden single-family homes, Tudor style, with gardens, flowers, manicured lawns. American flags and banners, however, that welcome to passersby.

trees, raccoons that inhabit the gardens, scottaioli crossing the street and climbed up the trees munching on something, doors without alarms, car parked in front of houses. And the deserted streets during the day, you can walk for hours without seeing a soul, in complete silence. And if someone greets you meet him, wishes you good day. Maybe he walk the dog and carefully collect the poo, How is in possession of bags distributed by the City.

I wondered: who's inside these homes? Young people, happy, healthy, which is the perfection of the Truman Show? O there will a director who directs this perfection?

do not know. It 'hard to imagine the elderly, sick or people who are full of hatred and frustration.

What I appreciate what I know America?

the "civilization of the process." Wherever you perfect toilet. Even with the hand cream and Tampax offered in a nice basket. If I was not in menopause for years, it gladly take advantage.

And then the super-organization.

If a Saturday evening, at 20.30 you should wish to order a black elastic pants, you can call the house that distributes it, ask to speak in the language you prefer, order giving the number of your credit card on Monday and receive it on time at home with the catalog you presents the complete collection of underwear.

Everything is done to sell, to buy. In every store clerks will be meeting to ask if you need information, you greet a nice day, good afternoon, good evening. The sentences are programmed, you feel that there 's preparation. But you are always welcomed and treated with great respect. You can buy and sacred because they are there to encourage you to do so. Studied for this.

In New York I could change three times a shirt going from store to store. And I could buy in golf pants and super balance. There is always a sales department, not a season for sales. And people buy when it is appropriate to buy. Summer 's winter and vice versa.

In September, all ready for Christmas and next year. Agendas and ribbons and cards.

E 'enough to accept and live a country?

I think of Baricco's Novecento and Tornatore. I think back to our culture and our imbalances. Our difficulties and our broken dreams. And I am convinced that I, as the twentieth century, I would not have abandoned the ship to go to endless roads.

Mezzadri Maria Grazia Hood

Portland, September 29, 2005