Chiamami quando arrivi in cielo (Italian Edition)

Preview — Chiamami quando arrivi in cielo by Jacky Newcomb. Chiamami quando arrivi in cielo by Jacky Newcomb Goodreads Author ,. Jacky Newcomb e Madeline Richardson sono sorelle. Nel febbraio del si sono strette nel lutto per la morte del padre Ron, senza mai perdere la speranza di poterlo rivedere, di risentire la sua voce, di comunicare ancora con lui. In questo libro Jacky e Madeline hanno voluto condividere con i lettori la loro esperienza, ma anche mandare un messaggio di conforto e speranza a chiunque abbia perso una persona cara: To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.

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Let me quote Maurice Friedberg to push the point across more directly: If one must speak of differences between poetry and transla- tion, it would have to be with this political dimension kept in mind. That is, translations might be, if possibility is the correct connota- tion in this case, a little freer and certainly more remunerative than poetry. Though both practices are most of the time conined to its national borders, translation is the more lucrative.

A translator can make a living from his writing; a poet rarely. Like we said, transla- tion is highly political. Herein lies a paradox, a sizable contradiction. What one deems inferior turns out to be humbly superior in intent. Translation is a key to another world. And the price to pay for this key is very high. Often higher than what the poet is willing to pay. Translation lifts poetry onto another dimension. What used to be imprisoned in a speciic tradition and culture is raised onto a larger level.

Traduttore, amico should be the adage. There is never betrayal. Unwillingly what is local turns out to be a global event. What was to be centripetal becomes centrifugal. What was to be centralized becomes polycentric. There was a famous quarrel between two Italian writers on this speciic topic. One, I believe, was Italo Calvino, who argued against the other, Pier Paolo Pasolini, that writers should become at the time of writing aware of the fact that their works would one day be translated and so, if I understand their differences, a writer should write with the prospect of translation in mind from the start.

Although I have no proof of how translation affects a poet later on, I am certain that the translated poet has learned more about his own words by reading a translation of his words than by discuss- ing with other poets from his own territory. If there is an Italian author who is global, it is Pasolini. Poets are inexorably regional. In the s, T. Noticeably, we are dealing here with a very sensitive issue that will have many of us scream at the top of our voices.

The controversy, though inestimable, brings to the fore what hides in the background. Comparing a poem to its translation underscores the very notion of what is a work of the irst-order or of the second-order. Every one drops the blame on the translator. But is the translator to blame? And it is not the fault of the translator. The Penguin Poets edition speaks tons.

The translations are presented below the French original like footnotes; it is as though Hartley was quite aware of the missing gravity of the text once translated. Translation should, however, never be a footnote. One tradition simply does not carry over without damage. What can be translated is the universality of the poem. Precisely the very thing that might not have been important for the poet at the time of his composition.

And for this, the translator is accused of being a traitor. The translator has not dished out the stash that was expected from him. Even if the translator could have handed over the goods, he might not have been willing to do so. Perhaps, it was simply impossible for him to do so. Poetry afirms a speciic locus. Poetry afirms the focal point of subjectivity as well as a collective station. There is no such thing as free poetry. The moment poetry is writ- ten in a certain language, it is this language that conditions focal point and locality. Deconstruction works only within the conines of the borders of language.

Feminine and mas- culine rhymes, alliterations, beats, syllabiication, grammar belong to poetic afirmation and rarely can they be transposed into another language without loss of individuality and community. All the translator can do is permute, transigure, and substitute one con- inement for another. The bet is steep, yet the winning enormous.

By placing one literary circumscription beside a second might not, in itself, break down borders, but it will certainly broaden the expanse of both. Something recalling the Gestalt Effect occurs when a work is transposed into another environment, as it widens the physical perspectives for both the host and guest.

Critical thinking brought forth by the exercise of translating the work of living au- thor usually punctures the balloon of innocence and unconscious- ness. Translation awakens a cognitive state in the poet. No matter how alert the poet might have been during the composition of his original poem, the translation of the same poem modiies forever his writing and his future writings. He will no longer be able to read his own work as he used to, in the restraints of his collectivity. He now knows that a reader in a different situation knows as well. It is thanks to translation that connections between heterogeneous regions develop.

Passing over the gangway on to otherness produces the most delicious of fruits. By conirming the afirmation of poetry, transla- tion universalizes what is speciic. Translation analyzes details and plunges into the ocean of the unexpected. We must beware of not mistaking the universalizing mecha- nisms of translation with translation as being universal. Global- ization is not an immediate acquisition. Translating into English works originally written, say, in Italian does not automatically guarantee English-speaking readers to react in the same manner.

The reader in London does not read poetry the same way as the reader in San Diego. Local thoughts and practice systems vary according to geography. Poetry is not geographically blind. The dissimilarities within a language should, however, not hinder the translator from doing his work. The translator in Toronto will not translate a Serbian poet the same way as the translator in Sydney. There is no single way to translate a work, no matter what intel- lectual apparatus the translator uses to defend or a critic to attack a translation.

In the industry of books, the concept of a perfect translation has more to do with rights and royalties than it does with translation per se. Translation follows the same pattern as pain management. Our Western philosophy has taught us to want to change things as they are; whereas Eastern philosophy teaches that it is only by accepting what is there that we can adapt with circumstance. What we have to change is our perception of the situation.

We must shift our focus and change ourselves. Surely, there are times when adding a comma produces the right amount of endorphins that will relieve us from a malaise. There are times when writing a phrase in the negative can render what was written in the positive. Other times, the active voice is preferred to the original passive voice.

Some times, switching the position of an adjective unleashes just enough charm for the reader to let out a gasp of contentment. Once we have accepted the fact that there will never be a single, perfect translation of a poem as there will probably never a unique cure for elevating pain, we must reinforce wellness of mul- tiple translations instead of hurting translations. By outplaying regional poetry, translation works toward a more open society.

She is also a poet, short-story writer, editor and blogger. Sarah Jane Barnett is a poet, creative writing teacher, and book reviewer.

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Facing the Empty Page Random House. She teaches creative writing at Massey University. She lives in Wellington, New Zealand, with her husband and son. He wants to communicate the meaning of the source-language. He gently smoothes the original text. He moves throught the shape of the words, which, strictly speaking, are his shape.

The concept of metaphrase is imperfect, he knows this. A translation is often not word-for- word, style, concordance, word order and context — they all matter. They are crucial values in seeking equivalents. Here, the ground has a different name. The sky is quartz blue. Yes, he thinks, this is literally a re-languaging. He carries his words in books and on his tongue. Appiana delicatamente il testo originale. Sono elementi cruciali nella ricerca di equivalenti. Qui la terra ha un altro nome. Porta le proprie parole nei libri e sulla lingua. Bilingue, la chiave del traduttore, lingua di destinazione, parafrasi: In the aisle of the New World I examine the packets: Last week a woman brought bright pink buns illed with sweet cream.

An old man is touching the tea, his hand lifts one box and then another, holding each like a cubed puzzle. I see his arm tremble. I look over my shoulder.

SOULFUNKDANCE

Hot needles prick into my face, my throat thick and salty. The man turns to face me. Sun spots blotch his cheeks. For a moment, I look back. A translator who habitually speaks both languages cannot see the world as a monolingual does. Each object has a layer of words: His habit of use decides which comes irst, the change most noticeable in everyday speech. He can feel new words in his mouth, others dropping away. They are tied to ground he no longer walks. He watches his thoughts for interfer- ence, when the second language disrupts the irst.

Proper nouns are the most in danger. He will forget the names of certain birds and the word for his local drink. He will forget the green strip where those birds once roosted. He has already forgotten the amber lash of their wings. Nella corsia del New World prendo in esame le confezioni: La settimana scorsa una signora ha portato panini rosa ripieni di crema dolce. La gente ha applaudito. Vedo che il braccio gli trema. Mi guardo alle spalle. Mi viene un formicolio alla faccia, un nodo salato alla gola.

Le guance macchiate dal sole. Per un attimo mi guardo indietro. Ogni oggetto ha uno strato di parole: Si sente le parole nuove in bocca, le altre che lo abbandonano. Controlla le interferenze nei pensieri, quando la seconda lingua interrompe la prima. Through sleep, cloaked horsemen ride their mares down tepid roads that end in fields of hay. A calm, clear night. With blind dread, heard from far away, the trains bear down on crowds and market wares.

But you, a god who smiles at gain and loss: Now be the sheen In wine. Alle fronde dei salici, per voto, anche le nostre cetre erano appese, oscillavano lievi al triste vento. Portami tu la pianta che conduce dove sorgono bionde trasparenze e vapora la vita quale essenza; portami il girasole impazzito di luce. With foreign boot soles stamped down on our hearts?

Among the littered dead left in the square on frozen grass? Or to the lamb-like cries of children left un-dammed? Or to the black howl of the mother running toward her son the telegraph pole strung up, cruciied? On the willow limbs, we left a vow— our votive lyres, which we suspended there, to tune sad air to all that lives and dies.

Bring it so that I may plant it in my sere and salt-sown space, and offer to the blue reflective sky, all day, the fear that paints its yellow face. They reach toward brightness, all the darkest things, spending their bodies in the shades that flow and melt in music. So the dark things go, fading in the destinies chance brings.

Chiamami quando arrivi in cielo

Qual sia la sua bellezza io non so dire, come colui che ode suoni dormendo e virtudi ignote entran nel suo dormire. In catena di putti non mise tanta gioia Donatello, fervendo il marmo sotto lo scalpello, quando ornava le bianche cattedrali. What woman ever gave herself in love except for you, for you, dear quite as sweetly as this current, full and free?

Its beauty, taken whole, defeats my words. I keep on hearing sounds while sleeping. I hear their unknown powers that come seeping, deep into my sleep. The green, audacious waves leap—green waves wild with foam. They churn as they advance with all the grace a bold young animal might show.

Donatello styled less joy in all the angel hands he formed, that linked in marble that his chisel warmed, when he adorned the white cathedrals. There below the garlands carved with fruit and blooms, a child- like gambol wreathes his pulpits. Adora, adora, e attendi! Sono le reti pensili. Your feet were bare, And left their prints of light. You see them there? Out of those waters rise great calices woven from gold iner than I can say. Butterlies like your golden hands ly clear in pairs; they ind in waves discoveries of wonder—giant blooms from some strange sphere— while you breathe brine-sachet, the salt-sea scent.

You see the ishing nets hung out? Some slope like balance-scales that hang from poles in place to prop the high, extended platform-bridges where the men keep watch to twist the rope. Some hang from bows of dories, where they cut the everlasting, glass sea-face that mirrors them in turn; and when the sun beats on the boats astern, and all the oars are shut down, stilled, huge radiance transigures them: Out of these waters rise great calices— lilies alame.

Praise such enchantment with joy, our soul. As a translator he has published works by Paso- lini, Merini, Caproni, Porta, and Zanzotto among others. His own writings of poetry, reviews, criticism, and photography have been published in journals and in book form by a variety of presses. His books include Devils in Paradise: Sergio Atzeni — was an Italian writer from Sardinia.

He lived and worked in Cagliari as a journalist for a number of the most important Sardinian newspapers. His language shows a strong inluence of the Sardinian tongue coupled with a lively experimental streak, fusing literary Italian with the language of the Sardinian working- class. Martin San Martino , oak, h. Le immagi- ni non sono le stesse per tutti. Le mie immagini dipendono da molti fattori: Ci sono impedimenti abbastan- za comuni: E livelli di adesione: Suoni africani, elettronica, voci umane fra il computer e il discosound.

Tessuto poliritmico veloce e ossessivo. Spazi di sola percussione. Finale in crescendo, violento. The images are not the same for everyone. Obviously, every single one of us has their own images, ones that depend on the singularity of their existence. My images depends on a number of factors: There are some fairly common obstacles: African sounds, electronics, human voices between computer and disco sounds. Fast and obsessive poly-rhythmic fab- ric. Violent ending in crescendo. La suola, schiaccia una formica.

Le formiche escono da una crepa fra due pietroni squadrati — e si sistemano sotto il piede. Massacra le formiche, e guarda il mare. Sembra uno che riflette, intensamente. E schiaccia la formica. II mare e scuro, appena siorato dalle luci di una nave che va via. Dalla Mercedes lo guardano Il Grasso, e la sua banda: La Mercedes prosegue, lenta, per una decina di metri. Sem- bra un sacco pieno di roba molle, pronto ad aprirsi sulla pancia, Il Grasso. Dal basso, vengono due gambe gonfie e flaccide.

In cima, coperta dai capelli appiccicati, una palla di ciccia, che dentro ha due cerchietti neri che sembrano appuntati cogli spilli: Nessuna espressione, tranne un ghigno ebete che non si muove mai. Trema continuamente, II Grasso: It gifted me with a nocturnal image, inhabited by a mono- maniacal … The shoe of that man is high, up to the neck of the foot. The sole crushes an ant. The ants come out of a crack from between two large square stones and arrange themselves under the foot. He crushes them, one after the other, with metro- nomic regularity.

The man, standing behind the grate of the port, looks out at the sea. He is tall, wrapped in some black thing that falls to his rain shoes, high up to the neck of the foot. He massacres ants, and looks out to the sea. He looks like someone who thinks about things in an intense manner. Instead, he simply counts: And he crushes ants.

He never has, in his whole life. The sea is dark, lightly touched by the lights of a ship sailing away. The man looks out at the ship. Slowly, a yellow Mercedes passes behind the man. From the Mercedes the Fat Man and his gang look at him: The Mercedes drives on slowly for another thirty or so feet. It looks like he is thinking. But he is not. The Fat Man slides out of the back seat of the Mercedes: He looks like a sack full of soft stuff, ready to split open at his belly. Two swollen and laccid legs rise from below.

Up above, covered by greasy hair, is a ball of lesh, in it are two little black circles that seems to be attached with pins: His skin is yellowish, bruised. No expression, besides an unlinching moronic sneer. He trembles constantly, the Fat Man: E ammazza le formiche. Dieci minuti, buoni, e lentissimi, prima che II Grasso apra bocca. So che devo aspettare al Polpo, ogni sera, per poterti parlare. Mi dispiace davvero, disturbarti Ho bisogno di dieci chili. Tutti in una volta.

Chiamami quando arrivi in cielo by Jacky Newcomb

Per uno che parte fra due ore. Senza limite in alto. A me, mi basta il dieci del bisnass. Non potevo fare altro. Non pretendo di assistere alla vendita Io ti mando il bisnass, e aspetto in macchina Non si muove di un centimetro. The man, as if no-one else is there, beside him. He looks out to the sea. Ten minutes, a good ten, and very slow, before the Fat Man even opens his mouth. The voice is a threatening whisper: I know that I have to wait for the Octopus, every night, in order to talk to you. A moment… The man looks out to sea, as if he were alone. I need 10 kg. For someone who is leaving in two hours.

The usual ten of the deal is enough for me. I am not expecting to be present at the sale… if you like. You, tell me yes. A little longer, and the Fat Man is ready to pray. Gli occhi sono semichiusi, come di uno che pensa lontananze. Le braccia sono lunghe, sui fianchi. La punta delle dita, arriva alle ginocchia. II Grasso, riprende a pigolare: II Grasso, rotola sulla grata, e a terra, sulle formiche uccise.

Un pugno che sembra inguantato nel tirapugni schiaccia un coso che serviva a respirare, prima. Il primo pugno, spezza il setto nasale del Grasso. Il secondo, trasforma la grata del porto nella parete di un mattatoio, sanguinante. Quattro paia di occhi scoppiati stanno immobili, dentro una Mercedes. Elettronica addolcita da violino e sax struggenti, come in una tango Forse anche dolce, in ambiente ovattato. Il inale del racconto va col inale di Jinx. Non riuscirei a spiegarlo: His body is like a tree trunk.

His eyes are almost closed shut, like one thinking of distant things. His arms are very long, on his hips. The tips of his ingers, reach his knees. The Fan Man, he begins his chirping again: I had not meant to. The Fat Man rolls on the grating, and on the ground, on the dead ants. The Fat Man, screams.

The man kneels down. A ist that seems to hold brass knuckles crushes a thing that once was meant to breathe. The man grinds his teeth, behind his lips. The second, turns the grating of the port into a slaughterhouse wall, bloody. The man has a deep voice, low, furious: Learn it well, asshole: The man jumps over the grating, lightly leaning on his hands: Four pairs of eyes big and wide motionless, inside a Mercedes. That man, he is already gone. Electronic track sweetened by heart-rending violin and sax, like in a tango Maybe even sweet, in a mufled environ- ment.

The end of the story goes with the end of Jinx. Some call that man Cain. Not a trace of his real name. Chiedete, a chiun- que abbia un potere da difendere, anche minimo, quanti sono, i caini che cercano di portarglielo via. O a chi buca. Sembra uno di coraggio: Un pazzo che ha imparato la prudenza. Entra nel portone nero — odore di cavoli — di una casa antica.

Ha scelto una simca verde. Siede davanti, e controlla le armi. Partecipa per inanziare un trafico di coca. Ha portato le bombe. Alle colline del Margine Rosso, la simca prende un viottolo di terra. Si ferma, al buio. Ask anyone who might have some power to defend, even the smallest, how many Cains have tried to wrest it away.

Ask all the paranoid people in the city, those living behind barred and locked doors, with their tvs turned up high, so as not to hear the noises from the stairs. Or those who shoot up. They know how much of a Cain attitude there is around. A young barbarian, from the immense periphery that has grown like a cancer around the Ciudad. He looks like he might be courageous: A crazy man who has learned to be prudent. The Pula has never caught up with him. They have at time scaught his scent from a distance. He goes through the dark gate - the smell of caulilower - of some ancient home.

He walks through the alleyways of the old city.. The hunchback is the driver. He has chosen a green Simca. Moses leads the attack: He sits in the front, and he controls the guns. The third one is Shrub. He is participating so as to inance his coke smuggling.

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He is a violent sadist. He brought the bombs. II mitra sulle spalle, e maschere di cartapesta, in faccia, come a Carnevale. Arrivano al muro di cinta della casa: II ritrovo abituale di certi amici che amano giocare forte: Bar, lungo tutta una parete: Al primo piano, le stanze, per gli amici che smettono tardi, e per quelli troppo ubriachi.

Calca un campanello bianco. Dopo dieci passi, spara. Una raffica, un pelo sulle teste. Se vi muovete, se parlate, se strisciate, sparo nel mucchio. It stops in the dark. The four get out of the car, they start their trek through ields of almonds and homes. They arrive at the wall that surrounds the house: The habitual gathering of certain friends who love to play hard: A bar, the length of a whole wall: The toilets are like those in a club. On the irst loor, the rooms, for those friends who stay until late, and for those who are too drunk. One hundred per bed. There is little talking.

The Hunchback and Cain get over the wall, cross twelve feet of shadows, and slip through the open windows of the toilet, on the ground loor. Moses follows the wall to the main gate. He rings a white bell. No security check, neither on the outside nor at the en- trance. Only friends come up here. Moses pushes the gate. He takes ten steps and ires. A burst of gun ire slightly over their heads.

Only the wife of the man who gambled away his wife cries; she did not hear the gun shots. Another burst of gun shots. The third round of shots — the private one crouching behind the door to the patio — is followed by a voice: Be still and quiet. If you move, if you speak, if you try to crawl away I will shoot into the group. The ofice is on the second loor. It is the heart of the villa: I1 Cassiere sviene, quando vede il mitra che spunta dalla porta, e entra, seguito da un mostro giallo coi denti rossi — un Satana colorato male, sulla faccia del Gobbo.

Il denaro, nella cassa a muro, aperta. La inestra del bagno, a piano terra. Il muro di cinta. Mentre salta, Caino spara un colpo. Il privato corre fuori, fra i giocatori immobili proprio mentre una granata scoppia sulla destra, e fa volare due auto ben parcheggiate. Una bomba cecoslovacca piomba fra i tavoli: Il privato si tuffa a terra, colle mani sulla testa. Cespuglio ha fatto un buon lavoro, dal muro di cinta, colle bombe.

II Gobbo strattona la simca per quattro chi- lometri folli, di stradine di campagna. Fino a un casolare, sul bordo di una vigna. Odore di muffa, e di marcio. Quindici a Caino, Gobbo e Cespuglio. Altri cinque a Caino, per le armi che ha pagato, e che ora si riporta via, colla simca rubata. La getta nello stagno, quasi subito. Sembra un operaio nottambulo, con quella borsa appesa sul manubrio. La casa dei Cavoli, nella Ciudad. Detraggo dalla tua quota. The Cashier resides in the ofice, forced to work through the day and hold night hours: Usually, there is a private guard on duty in the Ofice.

But at this moment the private is downstairs, crouching, and hoping that the nut-job shooting from the garden will come forward. When he sees the gun come through the door, followed by a yellow monster with red teeth, a poorly colored Satan on his face, the Ca- shier faints. The money, in the open wall safe. They grab and run. The toilet window, on the ground loor. Cain ires a shot as he climbs. The private runs outside, through the immobile players, just as a grenade explodes on the right, and two well-parked cars are blown up.

A Czeck bomb falls among the tables: The private dives to the ground, his hands on his head. A war has started. Shrub did a good job, with the bombs from the surrounding wall. The Hunchback races the Simca for four crazy kilometers of country roads. Up to a farmhouse, at the edge of a vineyard. Smell of mold, and rot. Fifteen for Cain, Hunchback and Shrub. Another ive for Cain for the guns he bought, and is now taking away again with the stolen Simca. He drives it into the swamp, almost right away. He comes out of the water with wet feet.

He looks like a night-shift worker, with his bag hanging on the handlebars. Or a farmer who has gotten up very early. The Cab- bage house, in the Ciudad. There is a smell of cat piss now. Give me half of what I paid for them. Voci e coretti che citano forse, Simon e Garfunkel? Quando giocano col sud del continente Sandinista, una band di New York? Autoironia, citazioni, una morbida allegria. Come avere le fanfare alla inestra, per Caino addormentato. Alle otto del mattino. Una specie di Maratona del mattino, con le note della banda dei carabinieri, nella testa.

E lo stomaco vuoto.

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Pasta-cappuccino-corsa, ultimi dieci metri a passo lento per recuperare il respiro, digerire la pasta, preparare le parole. Non sono ancora le nove: Voices and choir that quote maybe Simon and Garfunkel? When they play with the south of the continent … with only the slightest bit of irony. Sandinista, a band from New York? Self- mockery, quotations, a soft cheerfulness.

A military band, a sort of parade for an anniversary, a national holiday, from Mrs. Like having trumpets at the window for a sleeping Cain. At eight in the morn- ing. A breathless dash to catch the eight-thirty bus, after a shower and a growling stomach - a real shock, for the shits - and then get- ting off at the piazza running to catch the other bus, always tense and a stomach ache. I have to eat.

A sort of morning marathon, with the notes of the police band in my head. And an empty stomach. Croissant-cappuccino-dash off, the last ten meters at a slow pace to catch my breath, digest the croissant, and get my words in line. Cain is in love. It is allowed, within the limits allowed a Cain: Neither Cain nor Anyone else. Cain is the dearest of friends. Having said all this, what is left is the most important, at least for Cain: Daisy Duck is quite a dish: The bed could turn into quite a mess. Paperina, non ci sta. Corrono, affianco al mare, ancora quasi vuoto: Paperina ha voglia di fare una nuotata, e stoppa in un tratto fra mare e pineta, e si sveste di corsa.

Lei, sempre dieci metri avanti. Una maledetta campionessa di nuoto. Ore undici e trenta: Il borsello prende il volo, e i due scattano come fulmini cen- tometristi verso la Honda, ma Paperina sta ancora soltanto mettendo in moto che — quello comincia a sparare: Lenti come lumache, e viscidi e imbroglioni. In the warm June of these parts: They run along the still mostly empty sea: Beach time is at noon.

Daisy Duck wants to go for a swim, she stops between the beach and the pines and quickly undresses. Again, at a run. Everything off, lying, and she is already in the water, laughing. She, always ten meters ahead. A damned swimming champion. They come out of the water, unfurl the towels, stretch out in the sun. Thirty seconds later, Daisy Duck is wide awake and is point- ing to some blondish guy who seems to be German: The Nazi has to stop - time enough to call the police, because one of His fucking bullets hit a tire.

Slow like snails, and slimy crooks. Caino preferisce colpire al buio, e con molti ripari. Queste mattane gli scassano il sistema nervoso. Le vanno, le azioni di coraggio. Lei lo molla al volo a un passo da casa, e corre a rifugiarsi, in un posto sicuro, per un mese buono. Una maledetta banda dei carabinieri, in testa. Almeno fino a domani.

Repubblica ha rivelato che lo ascoltano a Parigi, a Londra e nelle capitali dello spettacolo. Grazie, Repubblica, che dai cibo alla nostra fame. Il raccontino cerca di rispettare la punteggiatura della musica. Sabato mattina, visita parenti. Ha le bocche di lupo, le garitte di guardia, le mura di cinta, i fucili mitragliatori puntati. Cain, is a cold chill, nerves, fear. Cain prefers to hit in the dark, and plenty of cover. These sorts of outbursts wreak havoc with his nerves. And they are going to give him a stomach ulcer.

Daisy Duck is calm. She goes for gutsy things. She lets him off on the ly near his place, and goes off to hide, in a secure place, for a good month. He will take a trip. With the light that leaves in an hour. A damned band of police, ahead. At least until tomorrow. Happy Feeling by Manu Dibango, from the album Ambassador, from Manu Dibango has become rather important. The newspaper La Repubblica said that they listen to him in Paris, in London and all the entertainment capitals. Thank you Repubblica, for feeding our hunger. Good sauce, of course.

This little story tries to respect the musical syncopation. Saturday morning, family visitation. It has basement windows, sentry tow- ers, surrounding walls, machine guns at the ready. According to popular tales, the architect who dreamed it up, and the engineer who built it, both died suicides, after they saw the end product.

Piccolo entra nel portone alto fatto per mettere paura. Piccolo ci ha le palle, ma le porte che si chiudono lo fanno tremare. Dieci minuti, cogli occhi del mitra a un passo e mezzo. Mammai sa vivere con gioia. La cicatrice e gonia, e viola. Due ergastoli, deve scontare.

Due, i cristiani ammazzati. Squarciato col coltello grande di cucina e trascinato sotto il ico del cortile: Mammai recita la solita litania di lamentele: E rancido di donne sporche. Dice che non riesce a farne a meno. II mondo, dico io, ci ha il culo al posto della testa. Piccolo has balls, but the closing doors scare him. Ten minutes, with the eyes of the machine gun a step and a half away. Mammai knows how to enjoy life. The scar is swollen, and purple. Souvenir of a pruning hook, when the family was together, and Babbai still living liked to prune every now and then, in the euphoria of good wine.

She has to serve two life sentences. Two, the good christian souls killed. Ripped open with a large kitchen knife and dragged under the ig tree in the courtyard: The sausages were good that year: Babbai was a pig and a drunkard, he had been tender only once, just once, in his whole mortal and immortal life, after the hog had digested him. Mammai goes through the usual litany of complaints: They put Gigliola in isolation. I think the world has its asshole in place of its head. And yesterday she went crazy, instead of banging her head on the wall she banged it against a guard.

Thirty days of therapy for that. Oh, anche gli sbirri, sembrano budino. A lei piacevano gli sbirri di un tempo.