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Camus-the smell of lemons

Jacques's mother, came home one evening, fresh and rejuvenated and with his hair cut, saying, with a false joy, what transpired behind the unrest, he wanted to give them a surprise. In fact it was a surprise for her grandmother, who had merely to say, in front of her son, who now looked like a whore. And it was then returned to the kitchen. Catherine had stopped smiling, and his face had been painted all the misery and weariness of the world. Then he met the eyes of his son, he tried again a smile but his lips trembled and tears rushed into his room. Jacques le had approached. "Mom, Mom," he said, touching it tentatively with one hand. "You're so beautiful." But she had heard, and with a wave of his hand, asked him to leave her alone. And the boy had retreated from the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, he began to turn into tears of love ed'impotenza.

Camus also raises the veil on her secret desire for life:

this anguished heart, eager for life, deadly rebel order of the world, continued to fly with the same force against the wall that separated him from the secrets of all life, with the will to go farther, go further, and to know before you die, to be finally know, once, just one second, but forever.

Years before he had long worked on developing Caligula . The intellectual contemporaries recognized, behind the mask of the mad emperor, the figure of Hitler and other prominent personalities the clear consciousness of those who, at that time, although aware of the tyranny, he could not oppose it because of the weakness of their own identity culture.

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Vincenzo Cardarelli-L 'waiting

waiting for you now that you're not coming.
And your absence I know what I say,
your absence that tumultuous
into the void you left,
like a star.
says he does not want to love me. What a summer storm

being announced and then goes away, so you
denied to my thirst.
Love, in the bud,
has this sudden repentance.

Silently we understood.

Love, love, as always, I cover you with flowers
ed'insulti.

(from "Poems", 1958)

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Plots, 16 October 2010, the Territorial Museum Biellese

Have you ever wondered what your personal relationship with the cultural heritage of the area where you live? A museum is only a repository of collective memory, or it can become a place of relationship building with the contemporary heritage?

Dhammika, Iman, Habiba, Bashir, Song, Stefka and Gerardo have told and revealed unexpected correspondences between museum objects and walks of life in a collaborative exhibition. Alessandra Chiara and gave further voice to the exhibits. Objects that have become a pretext for narratives can outline new paths of meaning for the heritage revisited with other eyes. A heritage museum is not only preserved but more exposed and put in direct contact with the inhabitants of a territory of reference if they are symbolically re-appropriated. A web of stories in which the museum becomes a place of relationships that implements a virtual process of sharing authority in the transfer of meaning. Democratic space for participation. At the end of the tracks told the opening performance was enhanced by contemporary artist Gigi Piana that he wanted to involve the public offering to write on strips of PVC, which were then twisted to form a structure equal to that on which were projected images shot during the selection of museum objects in storage by migrants.

Photo: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=85567&id=1455487651&l=3578b833e2

friend Look down, you will not see roots, but feet.

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Farting Through Vergina?

Eugenio Montale Pier Paolo Pasolini























Intelligence weight will never, never
in the proceedings of this public opinion.
Not even the blood of lager, you'll get

from one of the millions of souls of our nation,
clear opinion, wholly indignant
every idea is unreal unreal, every passion,

of this people now dissociated
For centuries, whose gentle wisdom
they need to live, no one has ever released.

Show my face, my leanness -
raise my own childish voice -
no longer makes sense: the cowardice accustomed

to see die in more atrocious
others, in the strangest indifference.
I die, and even this harm me.

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Happiness reached, you are walking on the edge of the blade.
six eyes gleam that wavers,
the foot, tense ice cracks;
and therefore does not touch you who loves you more.

If you come upon the souls of sadness
invaded and cleared, your morning is sweet and
disturbers like the nests of cornices. But nothing
charged the baby's crying
that runs the ball between the houses.

(from "Ossi di sepia", 1928)

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