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Francesco Alberoni 45 sociologo, giornalista e scrittore italiano Ettore Sottsass 98 architetto e designer italiano – Always and everywhere, you have thwarted my actions with your outbursts of mindless animosity.
But later, toward evening, that hurricane fire of light softens. Andrea De Carlo 67 scrittore italiano. Kamil Glik 1 calciatore polacco. Yehiel De-Nur cannwlla scrittore polacco.
It was too meagre for the many roofs, which remained black or rust coloured, shingled roofs like arks and thatched cottages, concealing within them the smoke-blackened expanses of attics—charred-black cathedrals bristling with ribs of rafters, collor and joists, dark lungs of the winter gales. It was the incomprehensibility that could not be contained within their lives, a wild and obsessive caprice, their ill-judged and blind obstinacy. Oh, the autumnal day, that old jester-librarian clambering up ladders in his slipped-down dressing gown, sampling the preserves of all ages and cultures!
Here are the great incubators of stories, storyteller factories, misty kilns of fables and dolor.
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Henryk Sienkiewicz 11 scrittore e giornalista polacco. Those distended boyteghe dolls of burdocks bulged there like peasant women sitting around half-devoured by their own crazy skirts.
Anniversari di oggi Giovanni Pascoli 87 poeta italiano – Alfred Kubin 6 illustratore e scrittore austriaco. A threadbare and patchy, too-short mantle of snow was spread over the reddened earth.
Herded into their mania, they could not extricate themselves from the knot of those horns, and so, lowering their heads, they looked boteghe sadly and wildly from between them as if trying to find a pathway through their branches. Oh, those cunningly smiling mornings, like shrewd palimpsests, many-layered like old, yellowed books. We, to the contrary, love its abrasiveness, its unruliness, copor rag doll ungainliness.
Le botteghe color cannella. Tutti i racconti, i saggi e i disegni
Michele Marzulli 34 poeta, pittore e scrittore italiano. One began to cut them with blunt knives without appetite, with a lazy indifference.
Wrapped up in the precision and meticulousness of their bodies, they knew neither deviation nor error. The horizon grows rotund, beautiful, and full of azure, like a glass ball in a garden with its miniature and illuminated panorama of the world, in a happily ordered composition, above which the clouds are arranged, its conclusive toppings, unfolding in a long row like rouleaux of golden medals, or peals of bells combining in rosy litanies.
We are simply rapt by it, entranced by the cheapness, the paltriness, the tawdriness of the material. Francis Picabia 6 pittore e scrittore francese. Nato da una famiglia di ebrei della Galizia, allora in Austria, oggi in Ucraina. Frasi di Bruno Schulz. One must interpret the flights of those birds Autori simili Andrzej Stasiuk 1.
Le botteghe color cannella : Bruno Schulz :
Behind each gesture, each movement, we like to see its exertion, its torpor, its sweet ursinality. I understood why those animals were disposed to ill-judged and wild panic, to startled frenzy. But today, clad in armour, I mock your tickling, by which you once drove one helpless to despair.
There, it had assumed its wild, incalculable, and incredible shape, twisted into a fantastical arabesque, invisible to their eyes, but dreadful nonetheless, the unknown numeral under whose menace they lived. The Alexandrine epoch of the year, gathering into its enormous libraries all the sterile wisdom of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the solar cycle!
But a moment later, cast out to the edge, to the surface, they yawned in their nihility, disappointed and without illusions. Oh, those aged mornings, as yellow as parchment, sweet with wisdom, like late evenings.
We give precedence to junk. Ricopre tutto senza discernimento, confonde il senso con il nonsenso, eternamente buffona, finta tonta, di una leggerezza senza limiti. Like late begotten children, it lags behind in its development, a hunchback month, a half-wilted offshoot, and more conjectured than real.
Their perfection was alarming. People go about stupefied by the light, their eyes closed, exploding inwardly with rockets, Roman candles and powder-kegs. They sank for a moment, far into themselves, to the bottom of their being; they froze in their soft fur and grew menacingly and ceremoniously serious, and their eyes grew as round as moons, soaking up the view into their fiery craters.