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But maybe someone had destroyed something. A bit of movement is good for both the body and the physique.

I’ll add that I saw them two years ago in theater. They gave me the ticket as a gift, and you did well not to pay for it. 28 euros aren’t worth it at all... maybe thirty years ago, but nowadays, with Di Cioccio acting like the village idiot, 28 euros couldn’t be seen even with a telescope. Aug

Bravo. The caryatids of rock, and let's face it, they've been playing nothing but De André for 10 years now, I'm sick of this fucking De André. Just a few years ago, at the first of May, they didn't perform because they couldn't get the TV coverage, and evidently 500,000 people weren’t enough. I like PFM as musicians... but as people, like everyone who does it for money, they completely disgust me. And someone tell Di Cioccio to play the drums, because when he sings he sounds like an idiot.

After a head-on collision with "Sober" playing in the stereo and the car crumpled up with the stereo still blasting... well, you lose your taste for Tool. This song brings bad luck. Review, a quick kick in the balls and out.

Don’t worry, Finnegan, I didn’t take anything personally. In fact, I read your comment and it seemed to me that an interesting discussion had started. I agree with you on not making rankings; when I review a book, I don’t even give it a score, and that’s precisely because I’m not capable of evaluating it according to a standard. Bye.

Look, "One, No One and One Hundred Thousand" is the one that bores me the most because it’s too introspective and a bit vacuously so. I prefer "The Late Mattia Pascal," and that's because humor doesn't bother me; on the contrary, it’s a good tool. The comparison with Dostoevsky came to mind for that “the disintegration of the self in modern society” that connects them. The protagonist of "Notes from Underground" is so disintegrated that he can't even be bad. Of course, there's no humor in Dostoevsky, and for a depressed person like him, that seems the least (even if when I read "The Idiot," the episode with the little dog and the general nearly made me convulse with laughter), something that is instead present and very important in Pirandello. I don’t dislike it for the medium but for how it’s managed. It colors everything pink or light blue; I appreciate writers who desaturate reality... it’s a quirk of mine, I know. And then, right in that particular historical moment, there were writers who, still speaking about “the disintegration of the self in modern society,” which is the common thread of all contemporary literature, did it better... and then, another of my quirks, I detest psychoanalysis. Anyway, I found the book and set it aside. As soon as I have a bit of time, I'll read it.

Good job, Bruno. Do you think anyone would say something if you left that comment? Not me, and then a serial killer!?! I admit that being a serial killer is one of my greatest aspirations and that as soon as I'm armed, my neighbor is doomed, but reading your comments takes ten minutes and on Sunday nights, it doesn't seem like there's much else to do... unless there's a late game or if on Saturday you went home at a decent time that allows you not to be a zombie the whole next day and maybe, in the evening, go out. Right? For me, yes. Now I have to go. Woof.

And relax, there’s no "malice and frustration"... I like to tease the fools, and now you’ve come under my radar.

Bruno, come on, the morning has the gold in its mouth. Pavese wrote every day from 5 to 9 in the morning. Are you still here? Do you want to earn your keep? I've already explained it to you, you are wallpaper... the only way I knew about your existence was through your comment. I inquired, I read... nothing, you don't know how to write. You should be quiet, instead you talk and we have fun. But if you have a moment before you start your new masterpiece, explain to me how the meaning of your comment differs from the meaning of the review (only that the review is better since the comment seems to be written by Sister Paola)... I ask you this because "works for many, but not for all" under a work that until that moment had been rated only by one type makes it seem even more like an intellectual in a robe all day who is killing himself with masturbation.

"the disintegration of the self in modern society"... it's not true... actually, it is true, but this is one of its faults. It has turned the pathologies of contemporary man (nothing modern) into toilet paper. I advise, still on the same subject and just to understand the distance between Pirandello and someone with square balls, "Memories from the Underground," which today is also translated as "Underground Reminiscences"... obviously by Dostoevsky, and the distance between the two, between Pirandello and Dostoevsky, is like that between an architect and someone who builds with Lego... saying Dostoevsky is like saying the best, but even between Svevo and Pirandello, there’s a galaxy in between. And then everyone talks about the disintegration of the self in modernity... it doesn't seem to me that books about romantic heroes or epic gestures come out every day. Always with the usual "for me" in front of everything.