was in the late 70s and I was in high school.
In the living room was a large library of sheet Lema glazed white, the symbol of the Italian designer at the time.
Maybe because I was little I or maybe he really was, but it seemed overflowing with books and magazines. At the bottom disordered stacks of World Panorama Worker and, higher up the books.
I climbed on the shelves and chose at random: that's where I first encountered poetry: Neruda, Lorca, Prevert, Cardarelli, the indigestible (for me) and then he Baudelaire Arthut Miller.
A cover not at all attractive but I reached out and took it: Theatre: After the Fall.
I realize now that it is a difficult book, which is important, then I read it and without enough knowledge and from the first pages I went inside.
I were just checking the wings, I was waiting for the great flight! I was sleeping with books under my pillow because I wanted to learn everything, everything, names, things, everything! I had an anxiety! Oh, my darling, what a mystery! What a great mystery! Life ...
I read it with hunger, nor I stressed whole passage, every word I forged my own and maybe me, opened roads, ideas, reflections. I overlapped and overlapped I preassembled.
It does not mean that we can not live with the despair, indeed! But you have to believe it, accept it, love it, despite everything, and start from there ... start over again ...
How could 12 or 13 years to emphasize a phrase like that? Yet I did and one of the words always echo in my mind, as the next and perhaps more
this hope they can find it, grab it, put it up against the wall, see what it is made and if it is a lie, under the foot, and if not, make it my own! ...
This sort of challenge to property: click and watch, there is no other way, other possible way.
But let's call them by name, otherwise it is a scam.
nudity are against the wall, there is no way out except the show and it reveals the lie.
Then this book was gone. The life and lost it moving.
I made without it for years, was really impressed on the heart and brain, but one day I felt the need for reunion. It will seem too silly, but it was so.
You will lose many things, but it is said that we should resign ourselves to the absence.
I looked, was not published. It took me weeks to find him anywhere near a guy who is old and out of print books: identical. I just open it to find pages and emotions.
I had to start from there. It was time to ask the daemon not to leave again, it was time to resume the thread of me.
"Because it seems that everything goes to pieces? It 'never been integrated? "
" Take hand in their lives - like a deformed baby? Who has the courage to do it? Who is capable? To kiss your life? "
I did everything I did because the past has already considered and regained my twelve year old to be climbing on the bookcase and put me back in gear from there.
How are the few days that keep the mind well stretched, like a blank screen stretched to the four leaders! And the day when a species ceases to want to be: the day when it begins to exist. This happens when the theories, schemes, rules, patterns dissolved, and the smoky fog of "what should be ", he begins to discern" what is ".
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