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Dear XXXXXX,

I liked. Now I know for sure. Now that I have no illusions and I do not believe in many things for which I'd give my life, now, yes, I liked. Because it made me feel alive. Which is the thing that comes close at what he calls "involuntary happiness." I refer to those days when there were people in a single glance of which satisfies me. Those in which they listened to songs and you cried for that same expression when there was though. When Libin was bleeding and there was no boundary between a finding by a reader of "words" and the attendance of the most dizzying literary places to find an answer, or simply a definition of the abyss that creeva to live. I do not like anymore. Better: I do not think there is someone who can give me similar feelings. You were giving me. From years of "Young Werter" to those of "La Repubblica" I think that now is spending too much time. That time attentive to everything we produce or are looking for.
It cost me too much, after all, a desecration of everything: there is nothing that can justify now: Everything is included, cataloged, dated. The literature is, in general, all things said or written are only the phenomena and, as such, can be studied and understood, but, then, they are, eo ipso, in relationship with each other, in respect to one with others, relatively speaking, rather, to each other.
love becomes something that produces a stoic smile, Ariosto, and the credibility of Santa Claus. We are doomed to try, in vain, the truth, the price, then the rupture of that psychological well-being.
Recipe Foscolo abandonment of illusions, perhaps it is effective anesthesia. Personally, I'm missing your image, that same image that I sing in everything I did, exalted to the point of considering his infatuation with a mawkish personal merit be shown, even to the other, with a gesture of pride pathetic.
The letters I wrote you with a commitment to poetry, because you could love my soul and my love for you, as the nature of "stepmother" will prevent any movement to me. If you could, I'd ask as a gift, one of those days. But you can not because your light is gone.
M.

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Only people know what fragile psychological terrorism. I mean those who "not intimidated" I do not know why, the very moment that they could be intimidated, they do not intimidate. And, therefore, do not feel the emotion of having been intimidated. I belong to the first category of men. Somewhere (an American novel, perhaps) are also called "skinless" phrase, here, when just a hint of vocal timbre might devalue the definition and make it popular-offensive.
But let's also make an illusory vowel that the shade all know the word, because who can understand only part of discomfort [1] is someone who has already won a sensitivity (including literary, sometimes) able to understand the hardship and its moral and intellectual capacity. I believe that there are many small inconveniences, but the inability, Leopardi, Russian, Pirandello, boudeleriana etc etc, literary, and short-term nell'accezione better to live life with constant indignation. For some, the discomfort of which I speak is the subject of ridicule, pity for others, for others the mother (and sometimes thwarted) ambitions, others of pure sadism and narrow (it bothers me to use the word "sadism" because I imagine the Conte's book, I'd rather talk about abusetto Rifle). But none of the "skinless" is uneasy about this. Not to mention that all those who are not "skin" inherit the earth, I wonder, quietly, if the solution, all literature cited by no less than philosophy, it is getting closer to a lobotomy (sorry for the hyperbole but I find it brilliant). There is talk of them, at best, because the civilization which "hosts" is right if you take, somehow, care, even if only for subsequent rejection of delusions and autotutelante fascists. But never with real dignity of a serious offense, such as, for example, taking the life. I live this uncomfortable and often the time when I take subisco awareness is precisely when an episode of psychological terrorism. It makes little sense to invite the psychological and intellectual significance "skinned" to "put the cross on his right shoulder" (O. Wilde, De Profundis, ????) because, what it does empower the author / ice of violence is not a victim, and most of the victim, an uncomfortable, even if different? The "skin sensations" have no way to not be so because, euclidianamente, can not be "skinned". Fossati is right when it creates the metaphor: "I live with prudence / as a great merchant in a great deal." Prudence is something rat-, sad, micragnoso ... but I find so dull at times, the hero!




[1] "that waste time Who knows more, sorry," Dante, Prg. III, 27; although cf. F. Turelli, "What a waste time Who knows more sorry" (Purgatorio iii, 78): "Who knows more" or "To whom more sal?, RD 2004) taken from Exc 1, 18. About: The official version of the Catholic Bible translates badly hemistich the first place because of this, there where the Italian text has "trouble", the Hebrew text has ka'as mean that indignation, as evidenced by translation Jerome: indignatio and that of the LXX even if they understand us less than Jerome, why resort to a pleonasm unless the word gnoseos (= knowledge), was not in some ancient text properly, even a mocking sense.