Many—plus a few others—will never understand the tragedy of those who don’t know what a Frasca is in the Friulian sense.
There’s no point in explaining it to the integrated ones, the demanding, the sophists: they came to discipline, to regiment, to push around exactly those who had fled to the Frasche to avoid being regimented, divided, pushed around.
I will never write a review; but not because I couldn’t, rather because I am a pale, patient animal, like the desert. Waiting for your civilization to collapse, like all the others.
My (RIP) friend Tellio on May 6th, 1976, during the earthquake, was with the “owner” in Gemona (which, practically—along with Venzone—was almost razed to the ground) in a Frasca—precisely—a sort of cellar located below ground level.
A thousand dead, almost all of them there.
The rescuers dug them out three days later, so irreversibly drunk they complained about the sunlight!
Those were MEN, damn it!
You don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, you listen to rappe, ippeóppe or trappe, or positronic music without reading Asimov, you don’t know how to sing nor, siammái, how to play: we didn’t know shit either, as we literally came from the stables.
But there, we were afraid, for real. Not just afraid of dying, but afraid of the foreign ‘civilization’ that we knew would follow our peaceful existence.
Many of you don’t, and it shows, it reads, it’s obvious.
It’s not your fault, I know.
Even if I recommend to you a memorable anthology by the immense Daphne Du Maurier (the one behind Hitchcock’s “The Birds”) called “Not After Midnight.”
You’ve all had it: and if you haven’t noticed, it means you’re not able to understand what I’m talking about.
Not that I care. sofisti: suonare: avuto:
