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At whatever price. Without limits. The usual ten of the deal is enough for me. I am not expecting to be present at the sale… if you like. You, tell me yes. Even for free. The voice: a sort of whining, of weeping. A little longer, and the Fat Man is ready to pray. The man counts: Twenty. He is immobile.

Gli occhi sono semichiusi, come di uno che pensa lontananze. Le braccia sono lunghe, sui fianchi. La punta delle dita, arriva alle ginocchia. Non vole- vo. Vedo che disturbo. Vado subito via. II Grasso, rotola sulla grata, e a terra, sulle formiche uccise. Il Grasso, urla. Un pugno che sembra inguantato nel tirapugni schiaccia un coso che serviva a respirare, prima. Il primo pugno, spezza il setto nasale del Grasso. Il secondo, trasforma la grata del porto nella parete di un mattatoio, sanguinante. Impara, stronzo: Signore. Quattro paia di occhi scoppiati stanno immobili, dentro una Mercedes.

Elettronica addolcita da violino e sax struggenti, come in una tango Una rapina tranquilla. Forse anche dolce, in ambiente ovattato. Il inale del racconto va col inale di Jinx. Non riuscirei a spiegarlo: bisogna ascoltare il inale. His body is like a tree trunk. His eyes are almost closed shut, like one thinking of distant things. His arms are very long, on his hips. The tips of his ingers, reach his knees. I had not meant to. The Fat Man rolls on the grating, and on the ground, on the dead ants.

The Fat Man, screams. The man kneels down. A ist that seems to hold brass knuckles crushes a thing that once was meant to breathe. The man grinds his teeth, behind his lips. The second, turns the grating of the port into a slaughterhouse wall, bloody. Learn it well, asshole: Sir. The man jumps over the grating, lightly leaning on his hands: a hop up, a hold, a vault, calmly and fast into the darkness of the port.

Four pairs of eyes big and wide motionless, inside a Mercedes. That man, he is already gone. Electronic track sweetened by heart-rending violin and sax, like in a tango A quiet robbery. Maybe even sweet, in a mufled environ- ment. The end of the story goes with the end of Jinx. Some call that man Cain. Not a trace of his real name.

Chiedete, a chiun- que abbia un potere da difendere, anche minimo, quanti sono, i caini che cercano di portarglielo via. O a chi buca. Un pazzo che ha imparato la prudenza. Entra nel portone nero — odore di cavoli — di una casa antica. Appena oliati: in venti secondi puoi fare una guerra. Ha scelto una simca verde. Siede davanti, e controlla le armi. Partecipa per inanziare un trafico di coca. Ha portato le bombe. Alle colline del Margine Rosso, la simca prende un viottolo di terra.

Si ferma, al buio. Ask anyone who might have some power to defend, even the smallest, how many Cains have tried to wrest it away. Ask all the paranoid people in the city, those living behind barred and locked doors, with their tvs turned up high, so as not to hear the noises from the stairs. Or those who shoot up. They know how much of a Cain attitude there is around. A young barbarian, from the immense periphery that has grown like a cancer around the Ciudad. He looks like he might be courageous: actually, he is insane and should be institutionalized, someone who counts ants, recites nursery rhymes, never reads a paper and, if he had a brother, would not trust him in the least.

A crazy man who has learned to be prudent. The Pula has never caught up with him. They have at time scaught his scent from a distance. He walks. He goes through the dark gate - the smell of caulilower - of some ancient home. Recently cleaned: you can have a war in twenty seconds. He walks through the alleyways of the old city.. The hunchback is the driver. He has chosen a green Simca. Moses leads the attack: the idea, is his. He sits in the front, and he controls the guns. The third one is Shrub. He is participating so as to inance his coke smuggling. He is a violent sadist.

He brought the bombs. II mitra sulle spalle, e maschere di cartapesta, in faccia, come a Carnevale. Arrivano al muro di cinta della casa: oltre il muro, un giardino e una lolla, e un salone: e decine di giocatori di carte. Tavoli verdi. Lampade a stelo. Bar, lungo tutta una parete: per gente che si serve da sola: alcol e bicchieri. Al primo piano, le stanze, per gli amici che smettono tardi, e per quelli troppo ubriachi.

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Cento a letto. Si beve. Si gioca. Si parla poco. Calca un campanello bianco. Niente polizia: mai. Dopo dieci passi, spara. Una raffica, un pelo sulle teste. Fermi, e zitti. Io non sparo. Se vi muovete, se parlate, se strisciate, sparo nel mucchio. It stops in the dark. The four get out of the car, they start their trek through ields of almonds and homes. They arrive at the wall that surrounds the house: over the wall, into a garden and a foyer, and a hall: and dozens of card players.

The habitual gathering of certain friends who love to play hard: the house, the wife, the gold watch ive percent of winnings go to the house. Green tables. Floor lamps. A bar, the length of a whole wall: self-service: alcohol and glasses. The toilets are like those in a club. On the irst loor, the rooms, for those friends who stay until late, and for those who are too drunk. One hundred per bed.

They drink. They play. There is little talking. The Hunchback and Cain get over the wall, cross twelve feet of shadows, and slip through the open windows of the toilet, on the ground loor. Moses follows the wall to the main gate. He rings a white bell. No security check, neither on the outside nor at the en- trance. Only friends come up here. No police. Moses pushes the gate. He goes inside.

He takes ten steps and ires. A burst of gun ire slightly over their heads. Only the wife of the man who gambled away his wife cries; she did not hear the gun shots. Another burst of gun shots. Be still and quiet. If you move, if you speak, if you try to crawl away I will shoot into the group. The ofice is on the second loor. I1 Cassiere sviene, quando vede il mitra che spunta dalla porta, e entra, seguito da un mostro giallo coi denti rossi — un Satana colorato male, sulla faccia del Gobbo. Il denaro, nella cassa a muro, aperta.

Arraffano, e ilano. La inestra del bagno, a piano terra. Il muro di cinta. Mentre salta, Caino spara un colpo. Il privato corre fuori, fra i giocatori immobili proprio mentre una granata scoppia sulla destra, e fa volare due auto ben parcheggiate. Una bomba cecoslovacca piomba fra i tavoli: un gran botto, molto fuoco, gente che scappa colla giacca in iamme. Il privato si tuffa a terra, colle mani sulla testa. Cespuglio ha fatto un buon lavoro, dal muro di cinta, colle bombe. II Gobbo strattona la simca per quattro chi- lometri folli, di stradine di campagna.

Fino a un casolare, sul bordo di una vigna. Odore di muffa, e di marcio. Divisione rapi- da. Quindici a Caino, Gobbo e Cespuglio. Altri cinque a Caino, per le armi che ha pagato, e che ora si riporta via, colla simca rubata. La getta nello stagno, quasi subito. Raccoglie una bicicletta. Sembra un operaio nottambulo, con quella borsa appesa sul manubrio. La casa dei Cavoli, nella Ciudad. Detraggo dalla tua quota. The Cashier resides in the ofice, forced to work through the day and hold night hours: he dreams of a job with a construction irm, as an accountant.

Usually, there is a private guard on duty in the Ofice. But at this moment the private is downstairs, crouching, and hoping that the nut-job shooting from the garden will come forward. When he sees the gun come through the door, followed by a yellow monster with red teeth, a poorly colored Satan on his face, the Ca- shier faints. The money, in the open wall safe. They grab and run. The toilet window, on the ground loor. The surrounding wall. Cain ires a shot as he climbs. The private runs outside, through the immobile players, just as a grenade explodes on the right, and two well-parked cars are blown up.

A Czeck bomb falls among the tables: a huge explosion, people running away with their jackets on ire. The private dives to the ground, his hands on his head. A war has started. Shrub did a good job, with the bombs from the surrounding wall. The Hunchback races the Simca for four crazy kilometers of country roads.

Up to a farmhouse, at the edge of a vineyard. Smell of mold, and rot. A quick split. Thirty for Moses. Fifteen for Cain, Hunchback and Shrub. Another ive for Cain for the guns he bought, and is now taking away again with the stolen Simca. He drives it into the swamp, almost right away. He comes out of the water with wet feet. Grabs a bicycle. He looks like a night-shift worker, with his bag hanging on the handlebars. Or a farmer who has gotten up very early. The Cab- bage house, in the Ciudad. There is a smell of cat piss now. Give me half of what I paid for them.

Voci e coretti che citano forse, Simon e Garfunkel? Quando giocano col sud del continente Sandinista, una band di New York? Autoironia, citazioni, una morbida allegria. No: che razza di eroe sarebbe Rockmusic, Clash. Come avere le fanfare alla inestra, per Caino addormentato. Alle otto del mattino. Bisogna mangiare. Terzo Pulmann. Una specie di Maratona del mattino, con le note della banda dei carabinieri, nella testa. E lo stomaco vuoto. Pasta-cappuccino-corsa, ultimi dieci metri a passo lento per recuperare il respiro, digerire la pasta, preparare le parole.

Non sono ancora le nove: puntualissimo. Voices and choir that quote maybe Simon and Garfunkel? When they play with the south of the continent … with only the slightest bit of irony. Sandinista, a band from New York? Self- mockery, quotations, a soft cheerfulness. Self-mockery… No: what sort of a hero is he … or, maybe?

A military band, a sort of parade for an anniversary, a national holiday, from Mrs. Like having trumpets at the window for a sleeping Cain. At eight in the morn- ing. A breathless dash to catch the eight-thirty bus, after a shower and a growling stomach - a real shock, for the shits - and then get- ting off at the piazza running to catch the other bus, always tense and a stomach ache. I have to eat. A third bus. A sort of morning marathon, with the notes of the police band in my head.

And an empty stomach. Croissant-cappuccino-dash off, the last ten meters at a slow pace to catch my breath, digest the croissant, and get my words in line. Type: wicked but honest woman: she doled out punches to the unpleasant ones with the same discipline and defended her extraordinary twenty-year old chastity. Cain is in love. It is allowed, within the limits allowed a Cain: keeping an eye on the knife. Nothing more. Neither Cain nor Anyone else. Actually: Cain is the dearest of friends. Having said all this, what is left is the most important, at least for Cain: Daisy Duck is quite a dish: a woman of perfect propor- tions, movements, voices, eyes, class, everything.

The bed could turn into quite a mess. Paperina, non ci sta. Giornata di riposo. Loro, non sudano. Corrono, affianco al mare, ancora quasi vuoto: i cittadini, si svegliano tardi, la domenica. Ore dieci: Paperina ha voglia di fare una nuotata, e stoppa in un tratto fra mare e pineta, e si sveste di corsa. Nuovamente, correre. Lei, sempre dieci metri avanti. Una maledetta campionessa di nuoto. Ore undici e trenta: il momento beato di Caino. Popolo di merda.

Lenti come lumache, e viscidi e imbroglioni. Day of rest. In the warm June of these parts: the sirocco makes every step heavy and sweaty. They run along the still mostly empty sea: people wake up late on sundays. Beach time is at noon. Again, at a run. Everything off, lying, and she is already in the water, laughing.

She, always ten meters ahead. A damned swimming champion. They come out of the water, unfurl the towels, stretch out in the sun. Thirty seconds later, Daisy Duck is wide awake and is point- ing to some blondish guy who seems to be German: he walks to the water leaving behind unguarded a leather wallet a pair of shoes and a sort of rubber bag with beach wear. The Nazi has to stop - time enough to call the police, because one of His fucking bullets hit a tire.

Fucking people. Slow like snails, and slimy crooks. Caino preferisce colpire al buio, e con molti ripari. Queste mattane gli scassano il sistema nervoso. Le vanno, le azioni di coraggio. Lei lo molla al volo a un passo da casa, e corre a rifugiarsi, in un posto sicuro, per un mese buono. Forse, a Parigi.

Di corsa. Una maledetta banda dei carabinieri, in testa. Almeno fino a domani. Repubblica ha rivelato che lo ascoltano a Parigi, a Londra e nelle capitali dello spettacolo. Grazie, Repubblica, che dai cibo alla nostra fame. Buona salsa, naturalmente. Il raccontino cerca di rispettare la punteggiatura della musica. Il ritmo, numerabile. Sabato mattina, visita parenti. Ha le bocche di lupo, le garitte di guardia, le mura di cinta, i fucili mitragliatori puntati.

Cain, is a cold chill, nerves, fear. Cain prefers to hit in the dark, and plenty of cover. These sorts of outbursts wreak havoc with his nerves. And they are going to give him a stomach ulcer. Daisy Duck is calm. She goes for gutsy things. She lets him off on the ly near his place, and goes off to hide, in a secure place, for a good month. He will take a trip.

Maybe, Paris. With the light that leaves in an hour. A damned band of police, ahead. At least until tomorrow. By the way: Manu Dibango has become rather important. The newspaper La Repubblica said that they listen to him in Paris, in London and all the entertainment capitals.

Thank you Repubblica, for feeding our hunger. Good sauce, of course. This little story tries to respect the musical syncopation. Its rhythmic beats. Saturday morning, family visitation. It has basement windows, sentry tow- ers, surrounding walls, machine guns at the ready. According to popular tales, the architect who dreamed it up, and the engineer who built it, both died suicides, after they saw the end product. A disgusting prison: no even the bandit Mesina was able to escape from here. Piccolo entra nel portone alto fatto per mettere paura. Piccolo ci ha le palle, ma le porte che si chiudono lo fanno tremare.

Dieci minuti, cogli occhi del mitra a un passo e mezzo. Mammai sa vivere con gioia. La cicatrice e gonia, e viola. La passeggiata! Due ergastoli, deve scontare. Due, i cristiani ammazzati.


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Primo, Babbai. Squarciato col coltello grande di cucina e trascinato sotto il ico del cortile: macellato come si deve, prima di darlo a mangiare al maiale. Mammai recita la solita litania di lamentele: niente tele a colori, in cella, e puzza di piscia di donna gravida. E rancido di donne sporche. Dice che non riesce a farne a meno. No- stalgia. II mondo, dico io, ci ha il culo al posto della testa. Piccolo has balls, but the closing doors scare him. Ten minutes, with the eyes of the machine gun a step and a half away.

Mammai knows how to enjoy life. The scar is swollen, and purple. Souvenir of a pruning hook, when the family was together, and Babbai still living liked to prune every now and then, in the euphoria of good wine. A walk! She has to serve two life sentences. Two, the good christian souls killed. First, Babbai. Ripped open with a large kitchen knife and dragged under the ig tree in the courtyard: butchered clean, before being fed to the hog. The sausages were good that year: all meat and anise, no fat at all. Babbai was a pig and a drunkard, he had been tender only once, just once, in his whole mortal and immortal life, after the hog had digested him.

They put Gigliola in isolation. I think the world has its asshole in place of its head. And yesterday she went crazy, instead of banging her head on the wall she banged it against a guard. Thirty days of therapy for that. Oh, anche gli sbirri, sembrano budino. Gente di nulla. A lei piacevano gli sbirri di un tempo.

Ha persino nostalgia, di quello che aveva resistito quattordici minuti di orologio, ai suoi cazzotti. Ah, era un uomo. Era successo quando Mammai si era arram- picata sul tetto, a respirare. Grandi come angurie e bianche come formaggio fresco. Al quindici era morto. Cosi, il direttore aveva dato ordine che attendessero, e lei era tornata quando era venuto il buio. Era tornata. Ha paura di tornare a casa: non riuscirebbe a dormire, per nostalgia di Mammai. Cosi non spreca il tempo. Aveva le labbra rosse ributtanti di una zingara. Altri avrebbero dovuto, da tanto. E tanto, meritava. Comprava le anime, per strada.

Oh, no! He almost died because of a head-butt; he quit and is looking for work as a bricklayer. Good for nothings. She like the old-fashioned guards. She is even nostalgic, of the one who had resisted her punching him out for a good fourteen minutes. Ah, he was a man. It happened when Mammai had crawled up onto the roof, just to get a breath of air. Huge like watermelons and white like rounds of fresh cheese.

That guard, the one of the four- teen minutes, had climbed up on the roof and wanted to take her down. At the ifteenth he was dead. The warden had then ordered everyone to wait, and she had come back when it turned dark. She came down. It was cold, on the roof.

Bring me the Grand Hotel magazine. He lets himself be tempted by a car stereo. Then another. So as not to waste time. Sure: I killed the woman. She had the red disgusting lips of a gypsy. Someone else should have done so, a long time ago. In any case, she deserved it.

She bought souls, in the streets. I mixed my steps up in the city, along shop windows. If I ripped up my documents, it was not out of fear. Per imporre rispetto, e cominciare bene, come si conviene, e un poco a modo mio. In sole sette notti cancellai i ricordi. In soli sette giorni cambiai faccia. Mi diedi da fare. Un bel cominciamento. Si diverte, la gente, a spaventarsi. Quanto a questo, era un uomo di coraggio. Venne una Carmelitana labbra di biacca, mezza bianca mezza nera, cosce chiare e pizzi viola, parole di scirocco. Venne Benda Rossa dei Pirati lingua fra i denti di riso, non parlava ma, Dio, sapeva camminare, culo di colomba.

Venne una donna rara, una che regalava, guardava dritti gli occhi, e buona mercanzia, sudore di letto caldo. Disse no. Venne una donna vera col ventre al posto giusto e labbra di farfalla, delirio di una notte senza sonno. Certamente, disse no. Vennero Labbra Rosse di una solitudine stanca.

La donna abbandonata e triste che. The hotel. In only seven nights I erased the memories. In only seven days I changed face. I worked hard at it. When the new man that I was walked out into the street, an orchestra played, and the sun put on a show in red. A beautiful beginning. The city, half was going crazy and the other half had locked itself in, afraid. People have fun at being scared. The new man aimed his colors and decided to pass. In this, he was a courageous man. There came a Carmelite with leaden white lips, half white half black, pale thighs and purple lace, sirocco words.

The new man replied no. There came a rare woman, with many gifts, she gazed straight into your eyes, and good merchandise, the sweat of a warm bed. He replied no. There came a real woman with a womb in the right place and butterly lips, delirium of a sleepless night. He said no. Of course, he said no.

The new man that I was did not look at women. Neither lace nor sirocco. Neither roses nor apple nor seawater. Neither tongue nor ass nor gifts nor bed scents, wombs nor butterly lips. The new man that I was knew his road: to walk on without goal. There came Red Lips of a tired solitude. The abandoned and sad woman who. I followed her through the alleyways of the city, the new man in heat; they brushed hands at the corner, livid car lights, a step from home.

Solita storia di donna abbandonata, i pianti e le sfortune. La stanza divenne azzurra di sorrisi, e calda di letto. Ben presto, il miracolo fu fatto: la donna nacque a nuova vita. Aveva labbra rosse ributtanti di una zingara. Comprava anime, per strada, e non pagava il prezzo. Per imporre rispetto e cominciare bene, come si conviene, e un poco a modo mio. Quel sax, non smette di suonare.

Un buon cominciamento. The new man ran after her down humid stairs, down to the lair of past love and resentments. He lay his head down, softly, listening. The usual story of abandoned woman, the tears and misfortunes. The new man invented bells, and laughter. The room turned bright blue with smiles, and warm like a bed.

Soon, the miracle happened: the woman was born to new life. The new man, who works free for no-one, asked to be paid for the restored soul and the spent effort.

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He set the price: took the woman into the palm of his hand, and started with the irst torture. She burned the open hand that held her, vendetta. She bought souls, in the streets and did not pay. The old night porter, there at the hotel front desk, I crushed his glasses into his eyes. Oh, the perfume, the smell of the hotel, so much scent of woman, the adulteress leeing and forgetting her goodbyes, the sound of water running and alleviating the pain of slap, doors broken down by the cuckold husband, gun shots, the blonde dying on the stairs.

That sax still playing. The Hotel. When the new man that I was went out into the streets, an or- chestra played and the sun put on a show in red. A good beginning. She is a poet and literary translator, writing both in English and Italian. Her poems are found in numerous literary magazines and websites in Italy and abroad, as well as in many thematic and group anthologies, the most recent of which are Varianti urbane ; Sempre ai conini del verso: dispatri poetici in Italiano Paris, ; mila poeti per il cambiamento: Poets for Change Bologna, ; Sotto il cielo di Lampedusa and Nei boschi: poesie dalle iabe di Grimm Since she has been a member of the Compagnia delle poete and with them has performed in various Italian and foreign cities.

She was for many years English-language translator for El Ghibli, a website specialized in immigrant writing in Italian. Magazzeni, F. Mormile and A. Mia Lecomte lives between Rome and Paris. Her poems have been published in Italy and abroad, in poetry magazines and anthologies including InVerse. In Guernica Editions has published her bilingual poetry anthology For the Maintenance of Landscape.

A translator from French, Mia Lecomte is a critic and editor in the ield of comparative literature, especially as regards trans- national literature. She edited the anthologies Ai conini dei verso. Poesia della migrazione in italiano , Sempre ai conini del verso. The Poetry of Migrant Writers in Italy ; she frequently lectures on this subject in Italy and abroad. She is on the editorial board of the bi-annual journal of com- parative poetry Semicerchio and of various online literary sites, including the tri-monthly El-Ghibli.

She is a contributor to Italian edition of Le Monde Diplomatique. Studiato malamente , bevuto molto, pesante , mi ero drogato meno, leggero , non mi ero mai innamorato non sono un tipo passionale e per questo avevo sposato la donna giusta una qualsiasi. And I accepted, even willingly after all, what else could I have done? And at the time the proposal seemed quite attrac- tive or anyway not outrageous. What had I done before my middle age? No children there was still time , or friends even more time or even a ixed home, really.

E alla lettura. Richiameranno o vuole dire che non era il caso. Due giorni dopo si rifanno vivi era il caso, almeno per loro. And to reading. It all happened without any warning a sort of luckless lucky stroke. A winter afternoon the light irremediably gone.

They call but no one is at home, neither my wife nor I no other humans around. Two days later they turn up again it was worthwhile, at least for them. The speciied publishers ix an appointment for the following week time and place certain. And the week goes by with me being normally convinced half-way between the worst expectations and the highest hopes. I forgot to say I always for- get this that besides conversation, cinema and sex, and reading, in those days and now, too, unfortunately I devoted myself to writing the irst thing I devoted myself to, actually, throughout the great void punctuating my existence.

Belli, interessanti, con ottime pubblicazioni anche il suo autore preferito, una prosa assolutamente originale, innovativa. Alle pareti premi, locandine e qualche foto di scrittori famosissimi i mostri sacri del secolo, gli unici con una faccia adatta a competere con la propria opera.

Prego, mi vuole seguire? Quando sono entrato ho subito notato che il verde era cambiato in blu in evoluzione cromatica e bluette regressa. Ridevo tra me sulla strada del ritorno, in autobus verso il mio quartiere, al sicuro. Ma poi a chi altro lo potrei raccontare? E a cosa mi servirebbe raccontarlo?


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  8. Attractive, interesting, with excellent works even his favorite author, an absolutely original, innovative prose style. Folded into a green cloth armchair hopeful , he was thinking about the errands in wait for him that afternoon all near the house he lived in, he never risked leaving the neighborhood when someone — not the same woman as before, another just as lawless a deliberate display of the ideal igure — came to call him.

    Excuse me, would you mind following me? And a long hallway with a lot of closed doors, the last on the right waiting for me who knows since when. As soon as I entered I noticed that the green had changed to blue chromatic evolution and azure regression. And that the desk was too large for the bald little man sitting behind it an newborn baby abandoned on the church stairs.

    Then I had no more time to notice anything, concentrated as I was on the proposal being made. Why me? I was taken aback and surprised on the contrary and also highly amused that was the main reason I accepted.

    I laughed to myself all the way home on the bus going back to my own neighborhood, to safety. Who knows when I tell my wife Yes, but only her. I was not allowed to tell anyone else or the con- tract would be cancelled a fairly generous one, I have to say. But then, who else could I tell? And what use would telling be? And gradually the light-hearted disbelief which also held a bit of pride, and why not gave way to inexorable weariness my weariness , a damp hole dug just beneath the foundations of consciousness the bottom hidden by darkness. And so when I got home I said nothing to my wife I lit a cigarette and sat down in front of the television.

    And she still knows nothing and never will. E ma da anni ho un nuovo lavoro e la stessa casa. Mia moglie pensa che io scriva pudichi sfoghi post-post-post e mi lascia tranquillo.

    Col tempo sono diventato piuttosto bravo, perfettamente integrato con la sua prosa pensiero la sua seconda voce, a cappella , fuso con la sua musica perfettamente in controtempo. E forse, poco a poco, sto cominciando a sperare anche in altro comincia a non bastarmi. Ci sono molti altri aspetti del periodo, appunto. Se esistono gli scrittori e i loro libri.

    Esiste almeno un solo scrittore? Tutte domande inutili. Tra parentesi. Everything is quiet, in a word, apparently which is what counts. One of these days I have to ind the courage to mentionit to those in charge those who have shown themselves to be. Others just like me in every way except for their jobs, perhaps, after all a sentence has many other aspects. If writers and their books exist. Does at least one writer exist? All useless questions. Unknowable, by contract a note in boldface at the bottom of the page.

    In parentheses.

    the avenging saint Manual

    To relect, with you, on my time, to give it through your eyes and your thoughts the signiicance, the importance that together we believe in. Una luce gelatinosa si sta riversando molle sulle colline intorno, riverbera i proili inanimati. Se tu fossi qui con me, fra poco po- tremmo avviarci, entrare pieni di speranza e allegria in questa terra per uomini nuovi.

    Ci siamo conosciuti tardi, troppo per il vecchio che sono al cospetto della tua giovinezza consolatoria, riparatrice, che avevo atteso per tutta la vita. Subito, senza appello, dopo che per mesi ci eravamo trovati costretti a dividere con altri quello che insieme avremmo meravigliosamente moltiplicato. Un privilegio per pochi eletti.

    Lavoravano a turni, giorno e notte, instancabili. Come schiavi sulla soglia ormai ultimata della tomba del faraone, ostacolo estremo al riscatto di una vita ultraterrena degna di questo nome, anche qui erano in gioco vita e morte, an- che se in ordine rovesciato. Non lo sapevano, ovviamente. This letter is doubtlessly gratuitous, yet another gesture from the gratuitous man you know, but it is important to be together once again in the only way that has been granted us so far. This is how I can be sure that somewhere you are waiting for me, and therefore I am waiting for you somewhere, too.

    I beg you to remember this, to remind me of this, because it is this that keeps me alive, with you. A gelatinous light is spread softly over the surrounding hills, re- lecting inanimate forms. If you were here with me, soon we could set out, full of hope and high spirits as we enter this land meant for new men -- the land of salvation, a salvation not at all worthy of the name, since without you it is not fair. But nothing has ever been fair for us.

    My surprise at so much happiness made me uncertain, hesitant, until someone else decided for me. Immediately, without appeal, after months during which we were forced to share with others what you and I together could have multiplied, gloriously. But multiplications are part of a wholly other sphere of miracles, like immaculate conceptions, where lesh, matter itself, is satisied and renewed. A privilege for the chosen few. Apollodoro conosce sia il rapporto di Atena con la saggezza cfr.

    Sulle fonti del capitolo. La seconda citazione, di sapore orfico, ha trovato conferma in un papiro fiorentino che attesta un inno a Zeus. Chrysippum ] Diogenes Babylonius consequens in eo libro qui inscribitur De Minerva partum Iovis ortumque virginis ad physiologiam traducens diiungit a fabula. Torniamo ad Apollodoro, la cui trattazione su Atena dovrebbe essere fonte del capitolo cornuteo, e che vede nella dea una vigorosa e aggressiva intelligenza. Su come sarebbe nata, non ci sono altri particolari.

    C, Appendice? SVF , I, Dunque, un altro parallelismo tra la nostra anima e Zeus anima del mondo.

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    Cosa abita in cielo? Dal commentario stoico? Pan manca nella Teogonia esiodea. Di cosa si tratta? Le anime che giungono dalla terra non arrivano subito sulla luna, ma vengono premiate o punite in spazi intermedi per un tempo determinato. In questa direzione Reinhardt fu portato, comprensibilmente, dalle affermazioni di alcuni testimoni, come il Somnium Scipionis ciceroniano, che definisce il sole mens mundi De re publ.

    Di che cosa si tratta? Il fr. Potremmo pensare al cuore fr. Il silenzio di Galeno su questo punto, dunque, dipenderebbe da circostanze molto materiali. Di tutto questo troviamo traccia nei frammenti posidoniani? Sopra cfr. Come abbiamo visto cfr. C , e che, sia pur in minoranza, vi sono anche interpretazioni etiche, contro una maggioranza di spiegazioni fisiche.

    Non lo sappiamo. La supremazia omerica. Chi sono questi testimoni? Dal momento che nel dio tutti questi aspetti si compenetrano, in qualsiasi modo si fosse proceduto, non si sarebbe mai evitato un certo effetto di disordine. Si tratta di epiteti, ma anche idee fondamentali garantite da alcuni passi del Poeta. Il primo sembra essere pindarico Isthm. Il secondo sembra provenire da Sofocle Tr. D , su questi punti precisi, non menzionano il nome del grammatico. Macrobio, Sat. Qui vediamo chiaramente come Cornuto riformuli la materia e la teoria apollodorea. Eraclito, Allegorie omeriche , 38, ed.

    Per quanto riguarda Posidonio, il fr. Seneca, Nat. Ideoque Neptunum, umentis substantiae potestatem, Ennosigaeon et Sisichthonem poetae veteres et theologi nuncuparunt. Insomma, la fonte di Cornuto sembra essere informata non solo sulle cause, ma anche sulle tipologie di terremoto. D , sia per le citazioni letterarie. DHM a NY. E Omero? Comunque, non tutto il materiale escerto sembra utile a dimostrare questo nesso. Dunque, non si tratta altro che di tre aspetti della medesima questione. Nel caso di Nereo abbiamo invece una dissonanza capp.

    Questi passi, che stabiliscono una chiara graduatoria, difficilmente saranno sfuggiti ad Apollodoro. Questo garantisce che la classificazione dei terremoti, essendo attestata da Apollodoro, precede Posidonio cfr. Il cap. Di conseguenza, sarei propenso a considerare erroneo il numero di XVI offerto dal fr. Su Dioniso, vedi infra. Chi ha ragion? I, I legami paiono piuttosto superficiali.

    Ora, mentre le Cariti sono trattate poco dopo cap. De mundo , cap. Ricordiamo infatti che, con il cap. Lo stesso Omero dava adito a questa interpretazione, mostrando la dea armata di egida cfr. Appendice , se vi fosse una particolare fonte stoica anche dietro questo capitolo. VI, 8. Dione Crisostomo, Or. Gli epiteti, come nel De mundo , sono sfruttati in sede di perorazione finale. Luciano, Tim.

    Arato, Ph. Aux sources de Cornutus. Plan Introduzione. Le Allegorie alla Teogonia di Esiodo. Natura, coerenza interna, datazione del commento. La stratigrafia delle Allegorie. Le citazioni poetiche e filosofiche. Confronto tra Galeno e Cornuto. Confronto con testimoni e frammenti apollodorei. Apollodoro, Cornuto e il De mundo. Il capitolo 7 del De mundo. Schmidt, De Cornuti theologiae graecae compendio capita duo , Halle, M.

    Niemeyer, , p. Lang Cornuti theologiae Graecae compendium , a cura di C De emendatione Theogoniae Hesiodeae libri tres , a cura di G. Muetzell, Lipsia, C. Poetae minores Graeci. Gaisford, Oxford, Clarendon, Schoemann, Opuscula academica , II, op. Reinhardt, De Graecorum theologia capita duo , Berlino, Weidmann, , pp. Reinhardt, De Graecorum theologia capita duo , op.

    Schmidt, De Cornuti theologiae graecae compendio capita duo , op. Che e Sul testo delle Allegorie , vedi infra Muetzell, De emendatione Theogoniae Hesiodeae libri tres , op. Krumbacher, Geschichte der byzantinischen Literatur , op. Flach, Glossen u Agrandir Original jpeg, 46k. Galeno si r Agrandir Original jpeg, 31k. Schoemann, Schoemanni opuscula academica , II, op. Agrandir Original jpeg, 25k. Lamberton, J. Rose, Anecdota Graeca et Graeco-Latina. Mitteilungen aus Handschriften zur Geschichte der G Rose, Anecdota Graeca et Graeco Reinhardt, De Graecorum theologia capita duo , op Stoicorum veterum Fragmenta , a cura di H.

    Teubner, , pp. Aratus, Phaenomena , a cura di D. Kidd, Cambridge, CUP, , p. Lasserre, Berlin, W. Ramelli, Anneo Corn Agrandir Original jpeg, 77k. Agrandir Original jpeg, 54k. Schmidt, De C SVF , I, per cui cfr. Cratete di Mallo, I frammenti , a cura di M. Schmidt, De Cornuti theologiae graecae Ramelli, Anneo Cornuto.

    Annaeus Cornutus, De natura deorum , Con J. Schmitt-Blank, op. Deacy, Athena , Londra, Routledge, con bibliografia West, Hesiod. Theogony , op. Jacoby, Hesiodi carmina. I, Theogonia , op. Callimachus, Hecale , a cura di A. Agrandir Original jpeg, 26k. Data la sua pr