I was busy living. Or, on closer inspection, one could say that someone who proposes this start is more easily involved in a process of survival. In short, I was busy. And not writing.
I don't know exactly when I realized it was one of mine.
If when he treated a potential customer with undisguised disdain who asked if she could find the cheap version of a book that just came out or if when he ironically expressed regret for the discovery of the relatively recent death of the author of one of the books I was asking him for.
He certainly helped to use the word "shit" when it came to expressing the concept that a certain author is worth...little.
Those kinds of librarians who tell you "you have to read this" win me over. He even took a book he was recommending to read the beginning aloud. In short, crazy stuff. And what a fool I am, that seems tailor-made for me.
In short, you smell certain things even without knowing their motivation or knowing how to concretely describe the process. (Roberto told me this) (this is a fictional name, mine not that of his parents. For his parents it would have been called Riccardo) the librarian I ran into this weekend, is one of mine.
I'll be back to torture him with our confrontations until they will fire him. Which, given the attitude, but above all the types of people he stops talking to while working, will certainly happen.
I have been in a slow battle with Fedor lately. Considered and recommended to me as one of the greatest writers and an unmissable reference point, well I took the courage to bite into the pages of the Karamazov Brothers. , and here I am. What follows is my partial analysis. Partial both because I have not reached the end of the book and because my skill in terms of literary criticism is such.
I can say that it certainly seems to me that the novel is written for other rhythms of life. It is very long. Long. And I'm not just referring to the number of pages, which for sure are many, but more to the feeling it gives me. It is as if Fedor sat there saying, “we are in no hurry. Make yourself comfortable. And if it is a question of opening a couple or three chapters in a row just to take some tangent here...so be it ". So much so that I think that probably at the time it was written the idea was to offer a work that could be read aloud around the fire to entertain an entire family. For months and months. In short, I see the care of the internal description (the coolest I discovered that they call it "psychological") of the characters as well as the ability in some passages to convey a feeling, a state of mind. I repeat, my judgment is partial. Let's not trust it. We will have to update.
I stopped (only figuratively) to listen to yet another podcast by Dr. Andrew Huberman.Particularly one on meditation. Andrew has the ability to convey things to me in a way that captures me. Extreme competence together with humility and passion in conveying what is necessary without having to appear pedantic. Plus the guy admits he's not a superhero. This category, that of non-superheroes, is in short supply nowadays. Wherever I turn around, I am surrounded by people who give advice on how to bring out the best version of myself, and how to learn more, faster and effortlessly. Many explain to me why working is for losers, how to make millions, and why not be happy until I have so much money to be able to buy cars that I would be ashamed of. It is full of experts who offer me the 3 secrets, the 5 tips, and the recipe to make my life longer. In short, hard times for the non-superheroes.
I wrote to Andrew to see if we can get together and get a book out.
In the meantime , His Majesty Roger Federer has retired. It is a sad thing. One of the many from this period.
Someone once told me that we start to get old when our football idols are younger than us. And I was there to think that I would remain a child for a long time since I did not believe that I would ever become older than Roberto Baggio. Okay, but let's leave the Divin Condino aside.
Roger, we said. Enough, he said enough. It leaves us with a vomit of records and an elegance that we will hardly forget and look for forever in the next phenomena that will blossom, risking only to wallow in "eh but he was another stuff", "I once saw him play", "but do you remember that time ...".
I don't understand it. I never did it. Like when It happened to me to look at a tiger. I can't even dream of being him. I can not do it. He belongs to another heaven. He has talent and class.
I...I just feel like saying thank you. I have no other words. THANK YOU. In short, I enjoyed it as long as I could, and then...the child looked at himself in the mirror, he discovered the reflected face is more similar to that of his father than to the one he believed and his eyes became warm and moist. A few tears fell. Some of the many from this period.
That may be enough for now. I wish you to find some normality.
Ah, yes...without all of you asking me. I'm not going with anyone. No, I will not sympathize with anyone. In matters of the heart, I have no plan B. Never.
Immature, a person who cannot lose, unsportsmanlike, I thought you had overcome it.
Tell me what you want.
Believe me, I can't do it..
It still hurts me.
I hope they lose. All of them.
-1335 days..
