Vieri Cervelli Montel - risveglio [official lyric video]
Story of a tear. Album released yesterday, wonderfully dark in this autumn May. Guaranteed IOSONOUNCANE
"There is nothing more futile than the review; a miserable, irresponsible gesture, a snippet of chatter, a ball of useless adjectives, frivolous adverbs, and risible sentences. Yet this insolent futility can make the review a literary 'genre' more inferior than minor, a chatter from back alleys, a senile babble; thus, even the review can expect some reception in the disordered, noisy square of literary trades, between the epic poem and the epigram, the caudated sonnet and the rhymed chapter. It is amusing to think of the literary article as related to the Eulogy of the eel-fish, nobly slippery – or the chamber pot – an intimate, sorrowful, and indispensable object, a matter of laughter and anguish. Indeed, something ambiguous, meager, frail, and elusive, and at the same time futile and poor, yet constant, a silly and unsettling thing like a shadow. If literature is a chaotic and unrestrained dream, a city inhabited by storytellers, buffoons, paid mourners, virtuous charlatans, and preachers of elaborate vices, then the reviewer will be the buffoon of the buffoon, the sidekick of the great tragic figure, the claque of the meditative, the parasite of the pedant. Behold, the parasite, a noble, archaic, odious, and petulant figure that belongs to the oldest traditions of the urban planning of the literary suburra. The parasite is a mixture of grimaces, misunderstandings, distorted words, ambiguous echoes, indecent noises, thoughtful jests, and lackadaisical concepts; what could be more pertinent to a literary discourse, an adorned, splendid funeral oration in honor of the only reliable hero, the negative hero! Indulgent, worried, cast your offering to the clever parasite."

G. Manganelli, Altre concupiscenze, Adelphi, 2022.
Farmer in the City

Scott Walker. Listening guide: where to start? I tried to dive into Tilt, incredibly fascinating, but the 'black mass' intimidated and overwhelmed me.
Scott Walker - 'Epizootics!'
Again M. Cartarescu, Solenoide, il Saggiatore, 2021, p. 213:
"why was I given access to the logical space and the structure of the world? Just to lose them when the body disintegrates? Why wake up at night thinking about dying, and rise up in the middle of the bed, all sweaty, and scream, and thrash about, and try to suppress the unbearable thought that I will disappear forever, that I will never be again, until the end of time? Why will the world end with me? We grow old, we wait quietly in the sequence of the condemned to death. We are executed one after the other in the most sinister extermination camp. First, we are stripped of beauty, youth, and hope. We are wrapped in the penitential cloak of diseases, fatigue, and decay. Our grandparents die, our parents are executed before our eyes, and suddenly time becomes shorter, and all of a sudden, you see the blade of the guillotine in front of you. And only then do you have the revelation of living in a slaughterhouse, where generations are slaughtered and the earth swallows them, where billions of people are pushed further into the throat of hell, where no one, absolutely no one is saved. That not a single man of those seen in Méliès’ films stepping out of the factory door is alive anymore. That absolutely everyone in a sepia photo from eighty years ago is dead. That we all come into this world from a terrifying abyss of forgetfulness, that we suffer incredibly on a speck of dust in the infinite world, and that we then perish, in a nanosecond, as if we had never lived, as if we had never existed."
Between 2020 and 2021, I came across a Hungarian writer, Lazlo Krasnahorkai. In these last days of 2021, I stumbled upon a Romanian writer, Mircea Cartarescu. The differences are striking; however, a triplicate reason recurs in the powerful volumes of both writers: the fall of ideality; the ruthlessness of a cosmos devoid of reassuring embellishments, a form of mad lucidity; individuals who move through the mud, between reality, dream, and madness, disgusting yet wonderfully human. Are they the results of the collapse of a possibility for a world different from tentacled capitalism?
A fragment from that wonderful and indescribable narrative object that is Solenoide by Mircea Cartarescu (il Saggiatore, 2021):
"I rinse that disgusting substance several times and then I start combing my hair over the sink with its porcelain gleaming with cleanliness. And suddenly the parasites begin to fall, two, five, eight, fifteen... They are tiny, each contained within its droplet of water. I can barely discern their bodies with their distended abdomens and three little legs, still moving, on each side. Their body and mine, as I find myself, naked and wet, bent over the sink, are made of the same organic tissues. They have organs and similar functions. They have eyes that see the same reality; they have feet that carry them into the same infinite and incomprehensible world. They want to live, just as I do. I push them away from the surfaces of the sink with a jet of water. They go down through the pipes, arriving in the underground sewers" (p. 20).
Il gioco
On the way to L'Aquila. Twilight notes
La cattiva amante Andrea Chimenti
The Third Man......The.Cuckoo Clock
Orson Welles - The third man
"In Italy, for 30 years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock."
Io so che ti amerò

Autumn melancholy.
Festival della Mente 2021 - Alessandro Barbero - La guerra civile inglese (1/3)
Barbero's triptych on civil wars is really interesting.
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