-Where do you live? -I have an apartment in the north of Italy -And how do you take care of your apartment? -Well, I clean and tidy it up, I fix things when they are broken, I repaint the walls… -Okay, now think bigger. Where do you live? -Italy, Europe…? -Even bigger. -On the Earth?! -Great. How do you take care of that? This introduction is quite self-explanatory. This article is about the environment, our poor planet. Since I started writing my novel, and the idea developed and expanded in my mind, I realized that my plot was taking a
Yesterday I was coping with the fact that there’s not enough time in a human life to read all the book we wish to read. But maybe, it’s not time the thing that lacks. Not in my case, anyway. I stared at my shelves with defiance, waving “hello” to the few books I have read from first to last page, and approching cautiously towards those who are waiting for me. I have an endless list of started-but-not-yet-finished books and another endless list of bought-but-never-even-cracked books. So, here came my idea. It took me time, but I made a little card
Almost 4 months ago, I published an article about my Reading List of 2017; all the books I had planned to finish and read during these 12 months. Now, thinking about it, I realized I completely failed. And because I failed, I deserve to publicly humiliate myself about it. I had 9 new books to read and 6 books to finish, on my list. Well… None of those are on my “currently reading” one. I have to say this: I bought 16 new books. And it’s only the end of March. I’m guilty. In my defense, I can honestly admit
Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday and stand in the moon. The moon’s man stands in his shell, Bent under a bundle Of sticks. The light falls chalk and cold Upon our bedspread. His teeth are chattering among the leprous Peak and craters of those extinct volcanoes. He also against black frost Would pick sticks, would not rest Until hos own lit room outshone Sunday’s ghost of sun; Now works his hell of Mondays in the moon’s ball, Fireless, seven chill seas chained to his ankle. Clicca qui per la versione in Italiano!
Haunched like a faun, he hooed From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost Until all owls in the twigged forest Flapped black to look and brood On the call this man made. No sound but a drunken coot Lurching home along river bank. Stars hung water-sunk, so a rank Of double star-eyes lit Boughs where those owls sat. An arena of yellow eyes Watched the canging shape he cut, Saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout Goat-horns. Marked how god rose And galloped woodward in that guise.