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Rating: The esteemed DeUtente Targetski (officially known as Targhetta Francesco) has written a book: "Fiaschi". Even Poetry. That's crazy. Exactly.
Nous allons pouvoir commencer.
One) Primarily, being a good troublemaker as the most poetic book I've read to date remains "Crash" by the mystical Ballard, I was wondering what type of motorized transhumant vehicle You prefer for Your space-time travel (teleportation excluded, of course).
The Ballard reference, dear Sfascia, is timely, given that a few months ago I was hit by a car driven by a young lady. The day after, at the bar, while doing the friendly report, I discovered that the lady was quite experienced in filling out the form, as she had already filled (the form) four times. However, having found out that I was a substitute, that the car I was driving wasn't mine, and that the only car registered to me was a red 500 parked sideways in the garage at home (my parents'), she seemed to lose interest. I will say, despite these inconveniences that spice up the daily routine, I prefer the bike for wandering the countryside around home and going to town on Saturday night, although since they've started doing alcohol tests even on cyclists, I prefer to drive, so at least they take my license for a good reason.
Dos) Let's assume little Targhettino, thirty years ago, was born, instead of in the predominantly bucolic Venetian valleys, in Washington DC or so down there. Would he have written? To whom? And what, if anything?
I think I would have written anyway, yes, also because I am convinced that the more a place and a civil society move away from any artistic taste, the more they stimulate the internal rebellion necessary to write. In this sense, a hypermarket or a row of terraced houses inhabited by angry 'leghisti' due to the ease with which Rai dispenses public money in the Game of Packages stimulates writing much more than a picturesque horizon of hills. Just imagine what Malls, McDrives, and so on could make one write. And in fact, from there, today, come the best pens. All people, from Roth to Eugenides, who abhor American society (so much that they either live like hermits or have fled elsewhere), but needed it to fuel their voice.
Trois) At this point, a thorny question arises: Do you prefer desert-dwelling cacti or the more modest and homely succulents? {It might seem a stupid question, but, in fact, it has all the characteristics}
No (as Homer replied to Bart when he asked him if he wore boxers or briefs). And anyway, I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for these inexplicable and undeserved five questions.
Zero-Tré "serious") [the previous was a fatigue-relieving quip] Holding a role of crystal-clear stature within the suffocating tri-color underground poetic landscape, I was wondering what your current feeling is about the state of the {as long as one persists} [independent] boot-shaped literary scene.
Not before pointing out that 'crystal-clear stature' should be replaced with 'underground opacity', I confess that the feeling, at least regarding the poetic scene, is positive. Many interesting voices are circulating, but they have enormous difficulty emerging and distinguishing themselves from the pack. The publishing world does not help, because either it supports those who already sell or it offers itself in a whorish manner to anyone willing to pay, without making even the slightest selection among the works (considering poetry, none will have a market anyway). However, in the meantime, the darkness of these Berlusconi times is promoting strong voices (I repeat here some names: Antonio Turolo, Igor De Marchi, Paolo Maccari, Fabio Donalisio, Maurizio Mattiuzza, Ivano Ferrari, Sebastiano Gatto), who have already written important things and who deserve the showcase and echo that is instead given to the friends-of-Maria.
Vier) Three Rogue-Books-Movies that are almost indispensable to bring to a desert-island locality eavesdropped in the emerging new millennium? And, if applicable, why.
Only stuff from the new millennium? Uhm, let's see. Rogues: Arcade Fire, "Funeral," because it was unconditional love at first listen, and that's rare; Beth Gibbons & Rustin' Man, "Out Of Season," because on the desert island I will need to indulge frequent whims; Interpol, "Turn On The Bright Lights," for the sum of the two reasons above. Books: a Houellebecq, I suppose ("The Elementary Particles," maybe; bringing "The Possibility of an Island" to an island would be too banal), because that way I convince myself that the world is awful and that being on a deserted island I miss nothing; certainly a Roth, and I would say "Everyman," which is a good education on drawing your last breath; and Coetzee, "Disgrace," devastating but sublime. Let me add a pre-2000 book, namely "Il Giorno del Giudizio" by your compatriot Salvatore Satta: a book about life and death together extraordinarily intelligent and capable of stirring the guts. If I could bring only one book to the island, I would perhaps bring that one (also for its absolute 'insularity'). So start worrying, because that island might be yours. As for films, I'm not sure. Considering the last fifteen years, if you allow me, I would choose "Taste of Cherry" by Kiarostami, "Smoke" by Wang, and "Secrets and Lies" by Leigh. Or maybe "The Virgin Suicides." The film. Even if the book would be better. Even if the virgins would be better.
Kimbe) Is it better to try to corrode/shape the rotten-system from within, or a healthy and uncompromising extra-parliamentary militancy: in short... but, what makes you do it?
Look, so far all the 'systems' I have timidly tried to enter (university, for one) have crapped me out and rejected me with a kick in the backside, so, as a 'repudiated', it would be easy for me to answer that independent and uncompromising militancy is better. And indeed, that's how I answer, also because I have not experienced firsthand whether, as they say, entering systems destroys any willingness to corrode them and soon makes you adhere to them. If I should ever, by mistake (by now the only way to enter them), start to be part of them, even as the last underdog, don't doubt I'll let you know what it feels like. I will say, however, that staying out (with the perpetual, very disturbing problem of making ends meet) does not mean that the power clusters should not at least be continually annoyed, trying to put a spoke in their wheels whenever possible. For heaven's sake, it's true that we often have to spend the energy meant for daily opposition (against the bastard boss, the principal, the wall of unresponded curricula, bad people, 'leghista' bartenders, the arrogant, the barons) to survive the daily routine itself and somehow make it to the end of the month, but as long as each person plants at least one legitimate fuss, for their own sake or thanks to the common breath that the internet can give, to leave a mark and create disturbances and important interferences. If a few poems can also help the cause, even better. And if those poems can also help to smile and give a moment of sweetness, even better.
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