Qui si parla di libri. Il titolo l’ho rubacchiato a Umberto Eco e al suo “Costruire il nemico”. Libri di avventura, di amore, di sport, di calcio, di calci. Cronache di storie e storie di cronache. Nessun genere è pre-cluso o post-cluso. I libri sono mondi che ci rendono grandi o piccoli in base a come li navighiamo.
Chi comincia?
Per gli amanti del cinema, il Maestro Truffaut : http://marilyn.corriere.it/2014/10/14/truffaut-trentanni-dopo-un-amore-di-cinema/
…e comunque non credo di esagerare (aimhe), sarebbe un segno che siamo in qualche modo, nel modo peggiore, vivi (cosa di cui ho i miei dubbi)
Si Ezio l’individualismo ormai è una sorta di religione dello “stato mondiale ”
E difatti, stiamo “morendo” lentamente e in silenzio, come pecore, questa è l’Italia.
beh Luca, non esageriamo………… ci vorrebbe partecipazione, impegno nostro, in prima persona, forse qualcosa si potrebbe fare, ma siamo tutti presi dal nostro orticello, e, come loro, della res publica ce ne freghiamo nei fatti, quanto ci indigniamo a chiacchiere………….
http://www.giornaledellumbria.it/article/article193524.html
Io dico che l’unica speranza, e’ una versione aggiornata e corretta delle Brigate Rosse, non vedo alternative altrimenti, se non la rassegnazione.
ma non tutto ciò che è scritto è cultura e dunque conoscenza.
Scritto da teodolinda56 il 7 ottobre 2014 alle ore 16:39
:-))) certamente non il mio libro……….
“Some Prose on Poetry”
by Raymond Carver.
Years ago — it would have been 1956 or 1957 — when I was a teenager, married, earning my living as a delivery boy for a pharmacist in Yakima, a small town in eastern Washington, I drove with a prescription to a house in the upscale part of town. I was invited inside by an alert butÂ
very elderly man wearing a cardigan sweater. He asked me to please wait in his living room while he found his checkbook.Â
There were a lot of books in that living room. Books were everywhere, in fact, on the coffee table and end tables, on the floor next to the sofa — every available surface had become the resting place for books.Â
While I waited, eyes moving around, I noticed on his coffee table a magazine with a singular and, for me, startling name on its cover: Poetry. I was astounded, and I picked it up. It was my first glimpse of a “little magazine,” not to say a poetry magazine, and I was dumbstruck. Maybe I was greedy: I picked up a book too, something called The Little Review Anthology…What on earth was all this? I wondered. I’d never seen a book like it, nor of course, a magazine like Poetry. I looked from one to the other of these publications, and secretly coveted each of them.
When the old gentleman had finished writing out his check, he said, as if reading my heart, “Take the book with you sonny. You might find something in there you’ll like. Are you interested in poetry? Why don’t you take the magazine too? Maybe you’ll write something yourself someday. If you do, you’ll need to know where to send it.”Â
Where to send it. Something — I don’t know just what, but I felt something momentous happening. I was 18 or 19 years old, obsessed with the need to “write something,” by then I’d made a few clumsy attempts at poems. But it had never really occured to me that there might be a place where one actually sent these efforts in hopes they would be read and even, just possibly — incredibly or so it seemed – considered for publication… I thanked the old gentleman several times over, and left his house. I took his check to my boss, the pharmacist, and took Poetry and the Little Review book home with me. And so began an education.
This was back in 1956 or 1957, as I’ve said. So what excuse is there for the fact that it took me twenty-eight years or more to finally send off some work to Poetry? None. The amazing thing, the crucial factor, is that when I did send something in 1984, the magazine was still around, still alive and well, and edited as always by responsible people whose goal it was to keep this unique enterprise running and in sound order. And one of those people wrote to me in his capacity as editor, praising my poems, and telling me the magazine would publish six of them in due course.
Did I feel proud or good about this? Of course I did. And I believe thanks are due in part to that anonymous and lovely old gentleman who gave me his copy of the magazine. Who was he? He would have to be long dead now and the contents of his lttle library dispersed to wherever small, eccentric, but probably not in the end very valuable collections go — the second hand bookstores.Â
I’d told him that day I would read his magazine and read the book, too, and I’d get back to him about what I thought. I didn’t do that, of course. Too many other things intervened; it was a promise easily given and broken the moment the door closed behind me. I never saw him again, and I don’t know his name. I can only say this encounter really happened, and in much the way I’ve described. I was just a pup then, but nothing can explain, or explain away, such a moment: the moment when the very thing I needed most in my life — call it a polestar — was casually, generously given to me. Nothing remotely approaching that moment has happened since.
Beh, ezio, in linea di massima sono d’accordo.
Solo, io credo che la cultura dovrebbe contribuire a migliorare l’animo di una persona.
Non so di Malerba, ma non tutto ciò che è scritto è cultura e dunque conoscenza.
http://www.lastampa.it/2014/10/07/cultura/opinioni/buongiorno/il-disoccupato-riluttante-kBi6drke2x369by3zrgQ6K/pagina.html
Per Lex.
Ammetto di non aver letto il libro vincitore del premio Sciascia, Malerba, dell’ex killer di mafia Grassonelli (si chiama così?).
La mia domanda è: secondo te con l’assegnazione del premio all’ex delinquente, mai pentito, è una sconfitta della cultura o della delinquenza?
Scritto da teodolinda56 il 1 settembre 2014 alle ore 17:01
La cultura è conoscenza e come tale non fa classifiche……………