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Tutti sono liberi
Mia sorella è figlia unica
SpanEnglish
Chirurgia Plastica
Cattura il tempo che passa
Metrosessuale
W le lavatrici
Sindrome di Pigmalione
Blog-mania
L'Italia è un emozione
Cheese Cake
L'arte di perdere
Frigida ero...
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Il dolore
Gonne molto maschili
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Il mio primo matrimonio gay!
Intervista ai Rospi in Chat!
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Stephen King – On Writing
non aprire...
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Io sono Sick Boy...
Lo strano caso del cane
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Carmen Callil
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What I loved
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Che dio lo benedica...
Buonanotte John-Boy...
Sindrome di Clérambault













































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































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25 maggio 2009

W.

Darsi delle regole nella scrittura è fondamentale. Trasgredirle solo per eccesso, mai per difetto.




permalink | inviato da principessalea il 25/5/2009 alle 18:19 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (3) | Versione per la stampa



19 maggio 2009

What goes around comes around...




to see them all

http://theinspirationroom.com/daily/2009/what-goes-around-comes-around/






permalink | inviato da principessalea il 19/5/2009 alle 23:37 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (0) | Versione per la stampa



15 maggio 2009

Il draghetto Grisù




permalink | inviato da principessalea il 15/5/2009 alle 13:57 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (2) | Versione per la stampa



7 maggio 2009

Audaci Visionari

"Gli imprenditori credono nel loro futuro"




 
George Bernard Shaw diceva "Questa è la vera gioia della vita, l'adoperarsi per un obiettivo che si ritiene grande"




5 maggio 2009

Nuova definizione di Nerd...

Come nerds? porta gli occhiali ed ha i brufoli? e si veste con sandali e calzini bianchi? ed ha i capelli unti? e non usa deodorante? e mangia cose unte? e parla per ore ed ore della sua passione per un videogioco che si chiama Deadly Combat Rush 8. E si vanta di avare una fidanzata in California che va a trovare una volta all'anno e che si chiama Ollie e che pesa 87 Kg quando va bene?
 


Tag inseriti dall'utente. Cliccando su uno dei tag, ti verranno proposti tutti i post del blog contenenti il tag. Nerd

permalink | inviato da principessalea il 5/5/2009 alle 12:39 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (3) | Versione per la stampa



5 maggio 2009

Oroscopo

Vergini d'agosto

Sostenute nell'ego e nella creatività, ma infastidite dalle piccole attività quotidiane e particolarmente allergiche a scherzi e battute…


permalosette eh?




permalink | inviato da principessalea il 5/5/2009 alle 9:49 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (0) | Versione per la stampa



29 aprile 2009

Un libro delizioso....




Il solo modo per smettere di soffrire è avere la testa completamente vuota. Il solo modo di vuotarsi completamente la testa è andare più velocemente possibile, lanciare il cavallo al galoppo, appoggiare la fronte contro il vento, non essere che il prolungamento del destriero, il corno dell'unicorno, con il solo scopo di fendere l'aria - fino allo scontro finale in cui l'aria vincerà, in cui cavallo e cavaliere, perduti nella loro corsa, saranno disintegrati e assorbiti dall'invisibile, aspirati e polverizzati dai Ventilatori.

Elena è cieca. Questo cavallo è un cavallo. Ogni volta che c'è liberazione per mezzo del vento e della velocità, c'è un cavallo. Definisco cavallo non ciò che ha quattro zampe e produce sterco, ma ciò che maledice il suolo e me ne allontana, ciò che mi solleva e mi costringe a non cadere, ciò che mi calpesterebbe a morte se cedessi alla tentazione del fango, ciò che mi fa danzare il cuore e nitrire il ventre, ciò che mi spinge a un'andatura così forsennata che devo stringere le palpebre, poiché anche la luce più pura non abbaglierà mai quanto la sferza dell'aria.

Definisco cavallo quel luogo unico dove è possibile perdere ogni ormeggio, ogni pensiero, ogni coscienza, ogni nozione di futuro, per essere solo uno slancio, una vela spiegata.

Definisco cavallo quell'accesso all'infinito, e cavalcata il momento in cui incontro le schiere innumerevoli dei mongoli, dei tartari, dei saraceni, dei pellerossa o di altri fratelli di galoppo che hanno vissuto solo per essere cavalieri, cioè per essere.

Definisco cavalcatura lo spirito che scalcia con quattro ferri, e io so che la mia bicicletta ha quattro ferri, e scalcia ed è un cavallo.

Definisco cavaliere colui che il suo cavallo ha sottratto all'insabbiamento, colui che il suo cavallo ha reso alla libertà che fischia nelle orecchie.

Ecco perché nessun cavallo ha mai meritato il nome di cavallo quanto il mio.

Se Elena non fosse stata cieca, avrebbe visto che quella bicicletta era un cavallo e mi avrebbe amato.


Tag inseriti dall'utente. Cliccando su uno dei tag, ti verranno proposti tutti i post del blog contenenti il tag. Sabotaggio d'amore Amélie Nothomb

permalink | inviato da principessalea il 29/4/2009 alle 10:55 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (0) | Versione per la stampa



22 aprile 2009

Auguri a Rita, oggi probabilmente la Donna Più Saggia del Mondo

«A me nella vita è  riuscito tutto facile. Le difficoltà me le sono scrollate di dosso, come acqua sulle ali di un’anatra».  





L’OLOCAUSTO – UNA TRAGEDIA DI NATURA BIOLOGICA!



“Tutte le grandi tragedie – la Shoah, le guerre, il nazismo, il razzismo – sono dovute alla prevalenza della componente emotiva su quella cognitiva. E il cervello arcaico è così abile da indurci a pensare che tutto questo sia controllato dal nostro pensiero, quando non è cosi.”

E’ una citazione di una delle scienziate più note e stimate del mondo, Rita Levi-Montalcinii,  che ha dedicato tutta la sua vita allo studio del cervello. Ha ricevuto il Premio Nobel nel 1986. Ha scoperto – così ci dice – che abbiamo due cervelli in uno: il primo è quello  arcaico; è molto vecchio e non molto diverso dai cervelli dei mammiferi inferiori. Il secondo, il cervello cognitivo, è molto più giovane. Negli ultimi tempi si è sviluppato rapidamente, grazie alla cultura. Il grosso problema, afferma Rita, è che il cervello arcaico è così abile da indurre il cervello  cognitivo a credere che ciò che facciamo è controllato dal pensiero razionale, anche “quando non è così”!
       
La  Shoah, l’Olocausto – una terribile tragedia? Non un male consapevole?  Rita Levi-Montalcini spesso sottolinea di essere ebrea. Tuttavia non dice, e così rivela la sua vera grandezza, che Hitler e i tedeschi sono colpevoli di aver commesso il male consapevolmente  e che quindi ciò che hanno fatto debba essere vendicato. Sembra considerare questa tragedia una cosa naturale, che si è verificata seguendo le leggi del cervello arcaico, come quel orso polare nel Giardino Zoologico di Stoccolma che una volta nella mia gioventù mangiò un cucciolo di foca, caduto per sbaglio nel recinto degli orsi ii,  o, forse, una follia  collettiva, simile a quella dei ragazzini che violentemente distruggono i castelli delle termiti prima di trasformarsi nelle formiche rosse di  Le Clézio iii che divorano tutto, o alle decine di milioni di locuste ciecamente forzate dalla serotonina a formare sciami devastanti. iv
       
Rita Levi-Montalcini è un po’ pessimista sul futuro umano. Interrogata sull’argomento durante l’intervista afferma: “Il cervello arcaico ha salvato l’australopiteco, ma porterà l’homo sapiens all’estinzione. La scienza ha messo in mano all’uomo potenti armi di distruzione.”

In ciò si avvicina ad un altro ebreo geniale, Albert Einstein. Poco dopo l’olocausto di  Hiroshima anche Einstein ci mise in guardia rispetto ai pericoli della corsa alla realizzazione di armi di distruzioni di massa sempre più letali. v  Ma, con i due cervelli di cui parla Rita, è possibile arrestare la corsa agli armamenti?

La risposta a tale domanda dipenderà molto dall’attenzione con la quale daremo ascolto alla saggezza di Rita Levi-Montalcini e dalla capacità che avremo di riuscire a impegnarci non già nei nostri annosi conflitti animali, ma in uno sforzo congiunto dei nostri cervelli  cognitivi  volto a tenere a freno la violenza primitiva dei cervelli  arcaici che brama odio e vendetta.

Anche il Parco Filosofico di Capri esprime a Rita, oggi probabilmente la Donna Più Saggia del Mondo, le più sentite felicitazioni per il suo centesimo compleanno!
       
Gunnar Adler-Karlsson       
www.philosophicalpark.org




17 aprile 2009

canzoncine...

"...per amore o per carità ditemi come si fa, a fare di un bisogno solo un desiderio..."





15 aprile 2009

Libertà di stampa! Ce lo devono dire dall'estero?


Dalla Germania:



Dall'Inghilterra

Silvio Berlusconi is free to blunder before Italy's obliging media

While his shocking gaffes make news abroad, the Italian PM's stranglehold on TV and newspapers keeps his nation clueless

Shocked? Indignant? Hard to tell, really. Most Italians simply don't know that Silvio Berlusconi has compared the plight of earthquake victims forced to sleep in tents in the wintry weather of the Abruzzo region to a camping holiday.

Television broadcasts tactfully ignored the slip. The good man, after all, was only trying to keep everyone's morale up. Virtually every newspaper in the country did the same. Only the readers of the very leftwing Il Manifesto were informed in a brief note: "Shock at 'camping weekend' comment. But only abroad." That's it, really. Past caring. If you can take the spectacle of your prime minister parading in front of TV cameras, massed officialdom and one miserable homeless old lady in an outsize fireman's helmet, you can take anything.

Berlusconi the blunderer is news abroad, not at home. The astonishing trail of antics and misdemeanours that Berlusconi blazed across Europe as he hopelessly tried to squeeze into the limelight of Barack Obama left the rest of the world gawping and most Italians apparently resigned. It's an old story, which may puzzle outsiders but not anyone familiar with the Italian media.

Trouble usually starts when Berlusconi ventures abroad. In Moscow at the end of last year, he hailed then president-elect Obama as "handsome, young and suntanned". (Speaking for the many Italians who cringed, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy said she was glad she was no longer an Italian citizen.) Back in 2003, during a debate at the European parliament in Strasbourg, he called a German MEP "kapo", as the guards in Nazi concentration camps were called, and said he would put him forward for a part in a film about the camps. In the same year he attempted to charm investors in New York with the line: "Another reason to invest in Italy is that we have beautiful secretaries." The list goes on.

At home, however, Berlusconi's image and public appearances are minutely managed. He chooses questions, his staff plan every outing and appearance, cameras are positioned at what he and his aides consider flattering angles. Remember, half the journalists in Italy work for him and the other half know they might do so one day.

Through his media group, Mediaset, Berlusconi and his family control three private national television channels (the family advertising company Publitalia supplies most of the others as well), two newspapers, a fleet of magazines, the biggest cinema circuit, and the country's largest book publisher. Conflict of interest? Ironed out of existence by self-serving legislation that the former hard-pressed and short-lived centre-left government of Romano Prodi never got round to abolishing. Thanks to another trademark law, Berlusconi overruled the constitutional court and legalised his virtual monopoly while consolidating absolute political control over the public service broadcaster RAI.

Even as the earthquake in the Abruzzo continues to wreak havoc, all the top jobs in RAI are up for grabs. Parliament has agreed on a new board of directors, and now Berlusconi and his allies are turning their attention to the newsrooms. Every one of the current heads of RAI's three TV networks, news programmes and radio services will be reappointed. According to tradition, the prime minister will pick the head of TG1, RAI's banner TV news programme. Its current incumbent, apparently well aware of Prodi's wobbly hold on power, was always remarkably polite to Berlusconi even when he was in opposition. He has been guaranteed a very soft landing as editor of the country's most important newspaper, the Corriere della Sera.

It should be cause for concern to any Italian that political horse-trading over the top media jobs in the country is so all-embracing that even the main privately owned newspaper is thrown into the same basket as the state broadcaster. But nobody turned a hair, and news of the appointment was recorded with zeal by every media outlet in the country.

In this situation the very notion of the media as watchdog has paled into insignificance. There will, no doubt, be some excellent investigative reporting on just why so many new buildings collapsed in the latest earthquake - in spite of existing, but apparently widely flouted, construction laws. But they will, if we are lucky, be shown late at night on the one channel traditionally conceded to the opposition. That is, if the new appointee thinks fit to renew the best investigative journalists' contracts.

On his return from his tour of London and Strasbourg, Berlusconi raged publicly at the journalists who had had the cheek of reporting on his embarrasments. "We will take steps!" he threatened. The first step Mr Berlusconi should take, however, is thinking more carefully before opening his mouth.

• Tana de Zulueta is a former Italian MP and board member of Articolo 21, an NGO supporting press freedoms




permalink | inviato da principessalea il 15/4/2009 alle 9:0 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (1) | Versione per la stampa



15 aprile 2009

” Ma io per il terremoto non do nemmeno un euro…” e rivendico il diritto di dire quello che penso!

” Ma io per il terremoto non do nemmeno un euro…”

di Giacomo Di Girolamo

terremoto

Scusate, ma io non darò neanche un centesimo di euro a favore di chi raccoglie fondi per le popolazioni terremotate in Abruzzo. So che la mia suona come …

… una bestemmia.
E che di solito si sbandiera il contrario, senza il pudore che la carità richiede. Ma io ho deciso. Non telefonerò a nessun numero che mi sottrarrà due euro dal mio conto telefonico, non manderò nessun sms al costo di un euro. Non partiranno bonifici, né versamenti alle poste. Non ho posti letto da offrire, case al mare da destinare a famigliole bisognose, né vecchi vestiti, peraltro ormai passati di moda.

Ho resistito agli appelli dei vip, ai minuti di silenzio dei calciatori, alle testimonianze dei politici, al pianto in diretta del premier. Non mi hanno impressionato i palinsesti travolti, le dirette no – stop, le scritte in sovrimpressione durante gli show della sera. Non do un euro. E credo che questo sia il più grande gesto di civiltà, che in questo momento, da italiano, io possa fare.
Non do un euro perché è la beneficienza che rovina questo Paese, lo stereotipo dell’italiano generoso, del popolo pasticcione che ne combina di cotte e di crude, e poi però sa farsi perdonare tutto con questi slanci nei momenti delle tragedie. Ecco, io sono stanco di questa Italia. Non voglio che si perdoni più nulla. La generosità, purtroppo, la beneficienza, fa da pretesto. Siamo ancora lì, fermi sull’orlo del pozzo di Alfredino, a vedere come va a finire, stringendoci l’uno con l’altro. Soffriamo (e offriamo) una compassione autentica. Ma non ci siamo mossi di un centimetro.
Eppure penso che le tragedie, tutte, possono essere prevenute. I pozzi coperti. Le responsabilità accertate. I danni riparati in poco tempo. Non do una lira, perché pago già le tasse. E sono tante. E in queste tasse ci sono già dentro i soldi per la ricostruzione, per gli aiuti, per la protezione civile. Che vengono sempre spesi per fare altro. E quindi ogni volta la Protezione Civile chiede soldi agli italiani. E io dico no. Si rivolgano invece ai tanti eccellenti evasori che attraversano l’economia del nostro Paese.
E nelle mie tasse c’è previsto anche il pagamento di tribunali che dovrebbero accertare chi specula sulla sicurezza degli edifici, e dovrebbero farlo prima che succedano le catastrofi. Con le mie tasse pago anche una classe politica, tutta, ad ogni livello, che non riesce a fare nulla, ma proprio nulla, che non sia passerella.

C’è andato pure il presidente della Regione Siciliana, Lombardo, a visitare i posti terremotati. In un viaggio pagato – come tutti gli altri – da noi contribuenti. Ma a fare cosa? Ce n’era proprio bisogno?
Avrei potuto anche uscirlo, un euro, forse due. Poi Berlusconi ha parlato di “new town” e io ho pensato a Milano 2 , al lago dei cigni, e al neologismo: “new town”. Dove l’ha preso? Dove l’ha letto? Da quanto tempo l’aveva in mente?
Il tempo del dolore non può essere scandito dal silenzio, ma tutto deve essere masticato, riprodotto, ad uso e consumo degli spettatori. Ecco come nasce “new town”. E’ un brand. Come la gomma del ponte.
Avrei potuto scucirlo qualche centesimo. Poi ho visto addirittura Schifani, nei posti del terremoto. Il Presidente del Senato dice che “in questo momento serve l’unità di tutta la politica”. Evviva. Ma io non sto con voi, perché io non sono come voi, io lavoro, non campo di politica, alle spalle della comunità. E poi mentre voi, voi tutti, avete responsabilità su quello che è successo, perché governate con diverse forme - da generazioni - gli italiani e il suolo che calpestano, io non ho colpa di nulla. Anzi, io sono per la giustizia. Voi siete per una solidarietà che copra le amnesie di una giustizia che non c’è.
Io non lo do, l’euro. Perché mi sono ricordato che mia madre, che ha servito lo Stato 40 anni, prende di pensione in un anno quasi quanto Schifani guadagna in un mese. E allora perché io devo uscire questo euro? Per compensare cosa? A proposito. Quando ci fu il Belice i miei lo sentirono eccome quel terremoto. E diedero un po’ dei loro risparmi alle popolazioni terremotate.

Poi ci fu l’Irpinia. E anche lì i miei fecero il bravo e simbolico versamento su conto corrente postale. Per la ricostruzione. E sappiamo tutti come è andata. Dopo l’Irpinia ci fu l’Umbria, e San Giuliano, e di fronte lo strazio della scuola caduta sui bambini non puoi restare indifferente.
Ma ora basta. A che servono gli aiuti se poi si continua a fare sempre come prima?
Hanno scoperto, dei bravi giornalisti (ecco come spendere bene un euro: comprando un giornale scritto da bravi giornalisti) che una delle scuole crollate a L’Aquila in realtà era un albergo, che un tratto di penna di un funzionario compiacente aveva trasformato in edificio scolastico, nonostante non ci fossero assolutamente i minimi requisiti di sicurezza per farlo.
Ecco, nella nostra città, Marsala, c’è una scuola, la più popolosa, l’Istituto Tecnico Commerciale, che da 30 anni sta in un edificio che è un albergo trasformato in scuola. Nessun criterio di sicurezza rispettato, un edificio di cartapesta, 600 alunni. La Provincia ha speso quasi 7 milioni di euro d’affitto fino ad ora, per quella scuola, dove – per dirne una – nella palestra lo scorso Ottobre è caduto con lo scirocco (lo scirocco!! Non il terremoto! Lo scirocco! C’è una scala Mercalli per lo scirocco? O ce la dobbiamo inventare?) il controsoffitto in amianto.

Ecco, in quei milioni di euro c’è, annegato, con gli altri, anche l’euro della mia vergogna per una classe politica che non sa decidere nulla, se non come arricchirsi senza ritegno e fare arricchire per tornaconto.
Stavo per digitarlo, l’sms della coscienza a posto, poi al Tg1 hanno sottolineato gli eccezionali ascolti del giorno prima durante la diretta sul terremoto. E siccome quel servizio pubblico lo pago io, con il canone, ho capito che già era qualcosa se non chiedevo il rimborso del canone per quella bestialità che avevano detto.
Io non do una lira per i paesi terremotati. E non ne voglio se qualcosa succede a me. Voglio solo uno Stato efficiente, dove non comandino i furbi. E siccome so già che così non sarà, penso anche che il terremoto è il gratta e vinci di chi fa politica. Ora tutti hanno l’alibi per non parlare d’altro, ora nessuno potrà criticare il governo o la maggioranza (tutta, anche quella che sta all’opposizione) perché c’è il terremoto. Come l’11 Settembre, il terremoto e l’Abruzzo saranno il paravento per giustificare tutto.
Ci sono migliaia di sprechi di risorse in questo paese, ogni giorno. Se solo volesse davvero, lo Stato saprebbe come risparmiare per aiutare gli sfollati: congelando gli stipendi dei politici per un anno, o quelli dei super manager, accorpando le prossime elezioni europee al referendum. Sono le prime cose che mi vengono in mente. E ogni nuova cosa che penso mi monta sempre più rabbia.

Io non do una lira. E do il più grande aiuto possibile. La mia rabbia, il mio sdegno. Perché rivendico in questi giorni difficili il mio diritto di italiano di avere una casa sicura. E mi nasce un rabbia dentro che diventa pianto, quando sento dire “in Giappone non sarebbe successo”, come se i giapponesi hanno scoperto una cosa nuova, come se il know – how del Sol Levante fosse solo un’ esclusiva loro. Ogni studente di ingegneria fresco di laurea sa come si fanno le costruzioni. Glielo fanno dimenticare all’atto pratico.
E io piango di rabbia perché a morire sono sempre i poveracci, e nel frastuono della televisione non c’è neanche un poeta grande come Pasolini a dirci come stanno le cose, a raccogliere il dolore degli ultimi. Li hanno uccisi tutti, i poeti, in questo paese, o li hanno fatti morire di noia.
Ma io, qui, oggi, mi sento italiano, povero tra i poveri, e rivendico il diritto di dire quello che penso.
Come la natura quando muove la terra, d’altronde.

Tratto da: www.facebook.com/




permalink | inviato da principessalea il 15/4/2009 alle 8:50 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (8) | Versione per la stampa



9 aprile 2009

‘A Strange Evening’

‘A Strange Evening’

A little rain falls out of amethyst sky;
if there were a rainbow, it would be on the ground.
If I were here, that single swallow would be I,
if these green trees were heavy, their weight is in my hand.

If trees and fields are green, their veins run blood,
if there is a poem, it moves across the leaves.
If there is love, of tree and sky our bed.

Since there is such a sky, I cover it with peace,
with blue unbounded of the living eye,
the ox-eye pasture of the marguerite. 


The suggested gemini poet is KATHLEEN RAINE, born 14 June 1908.


Tag inseriti dall'utente. Cliccando su uno dei tag, ti verranno proposti tutti i post del blog contenenti il tag. Kathleen Raine

permalink | inviato da principessalea il 9/4/2009 alle 18:17 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (2) | Versione per la stampa



9 aprile 2009

Primavera di terremoti





Apro la finestra e sento milioni di uccelli impazziti per l'arrivo della primavera.
Tutto il resto è calmo e tranquillo...
L'aria è fresca
Il prato è pieno di fiori gialli e viola
La terra è solida, morbida, senza crepe
Tutto è come deve essere per questo periodo dell'anno.
Tra due giorni è Pasqua, tutto va come deve andare.

Chiudo la finestra.
Torno a guardare i tg italiani su internet, con la gente disperata, i morti e le macerie.
La terra è montagnosa e dura e rotta
La polvere è ovunque
E  presa in questi due mondi mi succede di non sapere più qual'è la realtà





permalink | inviato da principessalea il 9/4/2009 alle 12:35 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (0) | Versione per la stampa



8 aprile 2009

Ricetta pesce - Io adoro le ricette facili facili, max due pentole


Metti a mollo in un pò di vino bianco lo scologno (o cipolla) tritato
fino e se ce l'hai anche del sedano e/o un pò di carota.  Prepara il tutto
almeno mezz'ora prima.  Poi butta in un tegame, mettici
dentro i filetti di pesce surgelato e verssa sopra tanta acqua quanto
basta per coprire il tutto. Metti la fiamma alta e porta a bollire.  Pochi
minuti in genere bastano, a seconda del pesce.  Attenta a non overcook
perché altrimenti il pesce diventa "cartonoso" e il sale metticelo a fine
cottura quando il pesce è sul piatto - se fai lo smoked haddock il sale
non mettercelo per niente.  Una spruzzatina di lime o di limone poi ci sta
sempre bene, così pure come un pò di prezzemolo fresco tritato, se ce
l'hai.

mau, max due pentole!


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6 aprile 2009

Trieste

Guradando le macerie del terremoto penso alle case numerate di Trieste.
E non riesco a immaginare neanche a quanto coraggio e determinazione ci vuole per ricostruire e rimettere tutto in ordine, come se niente fosse successo...


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permalink | inviato da principessalea il 6/4/2009 alle 14:51 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (0) | Versione per la stampa



6 aprile 2009

Libri



D: Quanto sono pericolose le donne che leggono? E quelle che scrivono?
R:Quelle che leggono sono pericolosissime perché rompiscatole, ipersensibili e ipercritiche. Quelle che scrivono probabilmente ancora peggio. Ma sono le uniche donne, soprattutto quelle che leggono, delle quali vale la pena diventare amiche.



Daria Bignardi nell'intervista a Sabine Bertagna su Future Magazine, in occasione della presentazione del suo libro 'Non vi lascerò orfani'.




28 febbraio 2009

El mojito perfecto

Procurarsi:
un mortaio e un trita ghiaccio  (o un amico che lo sbatta ben ben nel canovaccio! //haha)

1 lime intero
4 cucchiai di zucchero di canna
1 o 2 rametti di hierbabuena (che non è la marijuana ma la mentuccia. Se comprate la menta va  bene lo stesso!)

Pestare con il mortaio tutti gli ingredienti, aggiungere il ghiaccio tritato e si mette il rum.
Se esagerate e lo fate troppo alcolico potete aggiungere dell'acqua.  Ame non capita mai...


Niente Soda. Non ci piace il mojito con la soda!










Tag inseriti dall'utente. Cliccando su uno dei tag, ti verranno proposti tutti i post del blog contenenti il tag. mojito mortaio menta hierbabuena

permalink | inviato da principessalea il 28/2/2009 alle 15:52 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (5) | Versione per la stampa



28 febbraio 2009

Letto il libro, visto il film!

A fine pickle

Un regista ha detto a Salma Rushdie che tutti i film adattati dai libri sono una schifezza! 

Agli Oscar di questa settimana, con tantissime sceneggiature tratte dai film, Slumdog Millionaire ha  fatto furore,  e Rushdie si chiede se si può ottenere un buon film adattato dal un libro.


Scene from Slumdog Millionaire

Scene from Slumdog Millionaire

Adaptation, the process by which one thing develops into another thing, by which one shape or form changes into a different form, is a commonplace artistic activity. Books are turned into plays and films all the time, plays are turned into movies and also sometimes into musicals, movies are turned into Broadway shows and even, by the ugly method known as "novelisation", into books as well. We live in a world of such transformations and metamorphoses. Good movies - Lolita, The Pink Panther - are remade as bad movies; bad movies - The Incredible Hulk, Deep Throat - are remade as even worse movies; British TV comedy series are turned into American TV comedy series, so that The Office becomes a different The Office, and Ricky Gervais turns into Steve Carell, just as, long ago, the British working-class racist Alf Garnett in Till Death Us Do Part turned into the American blue-collar bigot Archie Bunker in All In the Family. British reality programmes are adapted to suit American audiences as well; Pop Idol becomes American Idol when it crosses the Atlantic, Strictly Come Dancing becomes Dancing With the Stars - a programme which, it may interest you to know, invited me to appear on it last season, an invitation I declined.

Songs by great artists are covered by lesser artists; on inauguration day this year, Beyoncé performed her version of Etta James's classic "At Last" to the considerable irritation of Etta James herself (but then, James seemed even more irritated by the election of Barack Obama, so perhaps she was just in a bad mood). All of these are examples of the myriad variations of adaptation, an insatiable process which can sometimes seem voracious, world-swallowing, as if we now live in a culture that endlessly cannibalises itself, so that, eventually, it will have eaten itself up completely. Anyone can make a list of the many catastrophic adaptations they have seen - my personal favourites being David Lean's ridiculous film of A Passage to India, in which Alec Guinness as a Hindu wise man dangles his feet blasphemously in the waters of a sacred water tank; and the Merchant Ivory emasculation of Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day, in which Ishiguro's guilty-as-hell British Nazi aristocrat is portrayed as a lovable, misguided, deceived old bugger more deserving of our sympathy than our scorn.

But adaptation can be a creative as well as a destructive force. Rod Stewart singing "Downtown Train" is almost the equal of Tom Waits, and Joe Cocker singing "With a Little Help from My Friends" achieves the rare feat of singing a Beatles song better than the Beatles did, which is less impressive when you remember that the original singer was Ringo Starr. I'm currently teaching a course that highlights some of the instances in which fine books have been adapted into fine films - Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence mutated into Martin Scorsese's The Age of Innocence; Giuseppe di Lampedusa's portrait of Sicily in 1860, The Leopard, turned into Luchino Visconti's greatest film; Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood became a wonderful John Huston movie; and, in his film of Great Expectations, Lean produced a classic that can stand alongside the Dickens novel without any sense of inferiority, a film that allows this film-goer, at least, to forgive him for the later blunders of A Passage to India.

There are many other examples of successful adaptation. Few people these days read Jan Potocki's 19th-century Franco-Polish masterpiece The Manuscript Found at Saragossa, but I urge you to discover it for its playfulness and bizarrerie, its surreal, supernatural, gothic, picaresque world of Gypsies, thieves, hallucinations, inquisitions and a pair of unbelievably beautiful sisters who are, unfortunately for the men they seduce, only ghosts. Its qualities are perfectly captured by the Polish film director Wojciech Has in his 1965 film The Saragossa Manuscript, which you should seek out at once. Satyajit Ray's 1955 film Pather Panchali ("The Song of the Little Road") not only equalled but bettered the 1929 Bengali classic by Bibhutibhushan Bandhopadyahya from which it was adapted. Huston seems to have been a particularly gifted adapter of good literature, and his film of Joyce's "The Dead", perhaps the greatest short story in the English language, brings it vividly, passionately to life; although right at the end, when the camera moves out through a window to watch the falling snow, and Joyce's famous words take over from Huston's images, speaking of the snow that was falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead, we are reminded of the difference between excellence and genius. The Dead is an excellent film, but the last lines of Joyce's story surpass it effortlessly.

The question raised by the adaptive excesses of Adaptation is the question at the heart of the entire subject of adaptation - that is to say, the question of essence. "Poetry is what gets lost in translation," said Robert Frost, but Joseph Brodsky retorted: "Poetry is what is gained in translation," and the battle-lines could not be more clearly drawn. My own view has always been that whether we are talking about a poem moving across a language border to become another poem in another tongue, a book crossing the frontier between the world of print and celluloid, or human beings migrating from one world to another, both Frost and Brodsky are right. Something is always lost in translation; and yet something can also be gained. I am defining adaptation very broadly, to include translation, migration and metamorphosis, all the means by which one thing becomes another. In my novel Midnight's Children the narrator Saleem discusses the making of pickles as this sort of adaptive process: "I reconcile myself," he says, "to the inevitable distortions of the pickling process. To pickle is to give immortality, after all: fish, vegetables, fruit hang embalmed in spice-and-vinegar; a certain alteration, a slight intensification of taste, is a small matter, surely? The art is to change the flavour in degree, but not in kind; and above all (in my thirty jars and a jar) to give it shape and form - that is to say, meaning."

The question of essences remains at the heart of the adaptive act: how to make a second version of a first thing, of a book or film or poem or vegetable, or of yourself, that is successfully its own, new thing and yet carries with it the essence, the spirit, the soul of the first thing, the thing that you yourself, or your book or poem or film or your pre-pickle mango or lime, originally were.

Is it impossible? Is the intangible in our arts and our natures, the space between our words, the things seen in between the things shown, inevitably discarded in the remaking process, and if so can it be filled up with other spaces, other visions, that satisfy or even enrich us enough so that we do not mind the loss? To look at adaptation in this broad-spectrum way, to take it beyond the realm of art into the rest of life, is to see that all the meanings of the word deal with the question of what is essential - in a work adapted to another form, in an individual adapting to a new home, in a society adapting to a new age. What do you preserve? What do you jettison? What is changeable, and where must you draw the line? The questions are always the same, and the way we answer them determines the quality of the adaptation, of the book, the poem, or of our own lives.

So what of the adaptations in this week's Oscars? In 1921, F Scott Fitzgerald wrote an odd little story called "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", about the birth, to "young Mr and Mrs Roger Button", of a male baby who is born as a 70-year-old man and who then lives backwards, getting younger all the time, until at the end of his life, baby-sized and shrinking slowly in his white crib, he is sucked away into nothingness. In 2008, this little squib of a tale was turned by Brad Pitt and the director David Fincher into a $200m film.

However, the difference between the story and the movie is unusually great. In Fitzgerald's story, Benjamin is born as a full-sized septuagenarian male. It is never explained how Mrs Button managed to give birth to such a large baby without being torn in half. Indeed, Mrs Button never gets a look-in. In the story, Benjamin's life is lived largely in the private sphere, apart from an excursion to fight in the Spanish-American war, while in the movie he becomes involved in so many of the public events of his time that the picture might almost have been called Zelig in Reverse, or perhaps Forrest Gump Goes Backwards. (The screenwriter of Forrest Gump, Eric Roth, who adapted that screenplay from the novel by Winston Groom, is also responsible for Benjamin Button

Perhaps the biggest difference between the two works is that, other than sharing the idea of a man who lives backwards in time, their stories are entirely different; the film is not really an adaptation of the book, but almost entirely Roth's creation. And while Roth and Fincher's film is essentially a bravura special-effects performance helped by two fine acting performances, by Pitt and Cate Blanchett, it doesn't finally have anything in particular to say. Fitzgerald's story is at least a comedy of snobbery and embarrassment which, while maintaining a deliberately frothy and light tone, enjoyably satirises the social attitudes of late 19th and early 20th-century Baltimore.

Everyone accepts that stories and films are different things, and that the source material must be modified, even radically modified, to be effective in the new medium. The only interesting questions are "how?" and "how much?" However, when the original is virtually discarded, it's difficult to know if the result can be called an adaptation at all.

There are, after all, other well-known stories of time-reversal that precede the Fincher/Roth film. In Martin Amis's 1991 novel Time's Arrow, the story of the Holocaust is told in reverse, so that, in one extraordinary scene, kindly Nazi doctors in a concentration camp fetch gold from their private stores and use it to put fillings into the teeth of Jewish dental patients. But in Time's Arrow everything, and not just one single life, goes backwards. Perhaps the best known example of another Button-style reversal is the character of the wizard Merlyn in TH White's 1938 classic The Sword in the Stone, itself the subject of a Disneyfied adaptation over which it would be best to draw a veil. Merlyn, the teacher of the boy known as Wart, the future King Arthur, lives backwards in time, and thus has the great advantage of knowing the future while being confused about the past. Benjamin Button has no such luck. He's old and robotic, but as ignorant as any new-born babe. On the other hand, he grows into Brad Pitt, so things are not all bad.

What can one say about Slumdog Millionaire, adapted from the novel Q&A by the Indian diplomat Vikas Swarup and directed by Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan, which won eight Oscars, including best picture? A feelgood movie about the dreadful Bombay slums, an opulently photographed movie about extreme poverty, a romantic, Bollywoodised look at the harsh, unromantic underbelly of India - well - it feels good, right? And, just to clinch it, there's a nifty Bollywood dance sequence at the end. (Actually, it's an amazingly second-rate dance sequence even by Bollywood's standards, but never mind.) It's probably pointless to go up against such a popular film, but let me try.

The problems begin with the work being adapted. Swarup's novel is a corny potboiler, with a plot that defies belief: a boy from the slums somehow manages to get on to the hit Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and answers all his questions correctly because the random accidents of his life have, in a series of outrageous coincidences, given him the information he needs, and are conveniently asked in the order that allows his flashbacks to occur in chronological sequence. This is a patently ridiculous conceit, the kind of fantasy writing that gives fantasy writing a bad name. It is a plot device faithfully preserved by the film-makers, and lies at the heart of the weirdly renamed Slumdog Millionaire. As a result the film, too, beggars belief.

It used to be the case that western movies about India were about blonde women arriving there to find, almost at once, a maharajah to fall in love with, the supply of such maharajahs being apparently endless and specially provided for English or American blondes; or they were about European women accusing non-maharajah Indians of rape, perhaps because they were so indignant at having being approached by a non-maharajah; or they were about dashing white men galloping about the colonies firing pistols and unsheathing sabres, to varying effect. Now that sort of exoticism has lost its appeal; people want, instead, enough grit and violence to convince themselves that what they are seeing is authentic; but it's still tourism. If the earlier films were raj tourism, maharajah-tourism, then we, today, have slum tourism instead. In an interview conducted at the Telluride film festival last autumn, Boyle, when asked why he had chosen a project so different from his usual material, answered that he had never been to India and knew nothing about it, so he thought this project was a great opportunity. Listening to him, I imagined an Indian film director making a movie about New York low-life and saying that he had done so because he knew nothing about New York and had indeed never been there. He would have been torn limb from limb by critical opinion. But for a first world director to say that about the third world is considered praiseworthy, an indication of his artistic daring. The double standards of post-colonial attitudes have not yet wholly faded away.

There is a widely held view among movie-lovers that films made from original screenplays are and must be held to be superior to films made by adapting plays or books. The brilliant books of recent times that have undergone cinematic transmutation include - to offer a very incomplete list - Martin Amis's The Rachel Papers, Ian McEwan's Atonement, Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day, Graham Swift's Last Orders, Peter Carey's Oscar and Lucinda, Patrick McGrath's Spider, Günter Grass's The Tin Drum, Gabriel García Márquez's Love in the Time of Cholera, Innocent Eréndira and Chronicle of a Death Foretold, Philip Roth's The Human Stain and Short Cuts from the stories of Raymond Carver. (Independence Day, the movie, was of course not an adaptation of Richard Ford's award-winning novel, which unfortunately came out at much the same time as the film, so that, according to legend, when customers in bookstores requested the book, the booksellers were obliged to ask: "With or without aliens?")

Of this particular list, however, perhaps only Volker Schlöndorff's film of The Tin Drum is worth talking about as a film, and this imbalance between good and bad adaptations strengthens the argument of the anti-adaptation lobby. Short Cuts betrays Carver's vision by moving most of his characters up the social scale, where their barely suppressed despair looks like self-indulgence. And down at the very bottom of the barrel is the film of The Human Stain, which casts, in the role of an African-American man who manages to pass for white for much of his life, the actor Anthony Hopkins, a light-skinned Welshman.

The anti-adaptation, pro-original-screenplay argument was once expounded to me with immense vehemence by a somewhat inebriated British film producer, who said, with a certain amount of fist-pounding on our hosts' dinner-table, that all movies made from books are shit. It is certainly possible to make a strong argument for the Shit Position. The Human Stain does not stand alone. The films of almost all the books I've just mentioned are failures, tedious, lazy and limp, where the originals are gripping, energetic and taut. The films of García Márquez's masterpieces, in particular, are travesties, replacing the writer's imaginative precision with a lazy exoticism that betrays the originals profoundly without even knowing it is doing so.

However, Schlöndorff's Tin Drum stands as a magnificent exception with, at its heart, the electric performance of David Bennent as Oskar Matzerath, the Peter Pan among the million lost boys and murderous pirates of Nazi Germany: little, stunted Oskar, the other boy in classic literature who never grew up. I've tried to find more films that disprove the British producer's dictum, and could add, for example, the Coen brothers' No Country for Old Men, a film that succeeds by keeping very close, scene by scene, line of dialogue by line of dialogue, to Cormac McCarthy's novel, and There Will Be Blood, which succeeds by the opposite method, making a free, loose and largely successful adaptation of Upton Sinclair's novel Oil!; but the failures are so much more frequent than the successes.

The auteur theory of film-making was first expressed by François Truffaut in Cahiers du Cinéma in the late 1950s, and amplified, first as film theory and then in the making of actual films, by a group of critics who would turn into some of the world's most important film-makers: Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, Claude Chabrol, Eric Rohmer and Jacques Rivette. But even though the idea of the superiority of scripts written as original screenplays rather than adaptations lay at or near the heart of the French New Wave, many of the finest works of French, and indeed world cinema in the 50s and 60s were, in fact, successful adaptations. Godard, a devotee of the original screenplay, had his greatest commercial success with Le Mépris ("Contempt") which was based on a novel by Alberto Moravia. Chabrol made a terrific film from Cecil Day Lewis's pseudonymously written thriller The Beast Must Die, or, in French, Que la Bête Meurt; Rohmer brilliantly filmed the classic novella by Heinrich von Kleist, Die Marquise von O ...; and then there's Jules et Jim, from the novel by Henri-Pierre Roché.

The immensely rich world cinema of the same era likewise went some distance towards exploding the Shit Principle. Kurosawa's early samurai masterpieces Yojimbo and Sanjuro had literary originals, although The Seven Samurai came from an original screenplay; and Rashomon was made by combining two short stories by Ryunosuke Akutagawa. Satyajit Ray took much from classic Bengali literature, and some of his greatest films, such as Charulata and The Home and the World, are adapted more or less faithfully from originals by Rabindranath Tagore. Ingmar Bergman and Federico Fellini invariably filmed their own original screenplays, but Luis Buñuel was less dogmatic and made some of his most successful films by allying his own anarchic, surrealist tendencies to classic European literature, adapting for instance Belle de Jour by Joseph Kessel.

The case against film adaptations thus remains unproven and, when we look below the level of great literature, a plausible argument can be made that many cinematic adaptations are better than their prose source materials. I would suggest that Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings films surpass Tolkien's originals, because, to be blunt, Jackson makes films better than Tolkien writes; Jackson's cinematic style, sweeping, lyrical, by turns intimate and epic, is greatly preferable to Tolkien's prose style, which veers alarmingly between windbaggery, archness, pomposity, and achieves something like humanity, and ordinary English, only in the parts about hobbits, the little people who are our representatives in the saga to a far greater degree than its grandly heroic (or snivellingly crooked) men.

My personal experiences with adaptation have been ... well, mixed, though they are improving. Things got off to a bad start. One of the producers of Richard Attenborough's Gandhi said she was keen to make a film of Midnight's Children, except for one small part, which she found weak and redundant. Unfortunately, this small part was the climax of the novel, in which the Indian prime minister, Indira Gandhi, was, more or less, the villain. "You just don't need that," the producer said, "the book is so much better without it." That project did not go forward. In the years that followed there were other abortive attempts to film the novel. The nearest miss was in 1997. There was a plan for a five-part BBC mini-series, for which I wrote the adaptation myself. This taught me much of what I know about adaptation, in particular the need for ruthlessness with the extremely long original, combined with a determination to fillet out and preserve its essence. The series was never made because of last-minute political problems in Sri Lanka, where the principal photography was to have taken place, and that was a huge disappointment.

A couple of years later, however, I was able to use that experience, and some of the work, in a theatre adaptation of Midnight's Children, directed by Tim Supple, which the Royal Shakespeare Company performed both in Britain and in America. Theatre is a different beast - it's so present, the play's being right there in front of you makes it such an insistently declaratory form (except in the hands of a Beckett or Pinter, who turn its normal rules upside down); and what is true of the theatre in general is doubly true of epic theatre. As a result the stage adaptation of Midnight's Children differed in two striking ways from the book: first, it was much more noisily, obviously political, putting the political material front and centre instead of using it more suggestively, in the background, as the novel often does; and, second, there was a lot more sex. I mean: a lot more.

Speaking as the author of the adaptation as well as the novel, I liked these differences. I thought of the play as a sort of second cousin of the book - perhaps its illegitimate child; its relative, not its mirror-image, and I thought its brasher, more aggressively in-your-face style was powerful and effective and properly theatrical, while remaining true to the book's spirit. The response from audiences was interestingly divided. It soon became clear that the people who most enjoyed the show were those who had not read the novel.

This production was in marked contrast to Supple's, marvellous, fluid, magical adaptation of Haroun and the Sea of Stories for the National Theatre. So perhaps the problem was me. We'll find out soon enough, because I'm about to do it again, this time for the movies. There's a new project to film Midnight's Children, this time with my friend Deepa Mehta, director of the Oscar-nominated Water, and in a few months' time she and I will be settling down to work out how you preserve the essence of a 600-page novel in a 100-page screenplay. There are some obvious decisions to be made. Can we really tell the story of all the novel's three generations, or ought we to concentrate on Saleem's own life? But then, would it be Midnight's Children, especially without the "perforated sheet" - the episode in which Saleem's grandparents fall in love through a sheet with a hole in it? And again: what language should the film be in, as many of the book's characters would not really be speaking in English? (Here we may actually have been helped by Slumdog Millionaire, which is accustoming international cinema-goers to an Indian movie in which the dialogue is partly in English and partly in subtitled Marathi and Hindi.) And what shall we do about Saleem's enormous nose?

The essence of a work to be adapted may lie anywhere - in the frame-stories that tell us, for example, how Superman became super, why Batman became batty, or why the Joker jokes. It may lie in a story's unique atmospherics - the depression-era bigotries of a small Alabama town as seen through a young girl's eyes - or it may lie in a character's interiority, the inner life of Holden Caulfield or of Proust's narrator Marcel. That these essences can be understood and captured on film is exemplified by, for example, Raul Ruiz's great film of Proust's Time Regained, or Robert Mulligan's film of To Kill a Mockingbird, or Heath Ledger's extraordinary incarnation of the Joker in The Dark Knight

Most difficult of all for the adapter are those texts whose essences reside in language, and this may explain why all those García Márquez movies were so bad, why there have never been good films made from the work of Italo Calvino or Thomas Pynchon or Evelyn Waugh (though there are many snobbery-choked versions of Brideshead Revisited), why movies of Hemingway so often misfire (I'm thinking of The Old Man and the Sea, with Spencer Tracy cast horribly adrift with a dead fish), and why even a really good try such as Joseph Strick's 1967 attempt to film Joyce's Ulysses doesn't fully match up to the original, even though it is perfectly cast, with Milo O'Shea as an uncannily good incarnation of Leopold Bloom, and Maurice Roëves as a more than adequate Stephen Dedalus. When it does succeed, it does so, like Huston at the end of The Dead, by surrendering to Joyce's language completely. In the final scene of Ulysses, Barbara Jefford as Molly Bloom lounges and rolls promiscuously upon her marital bed, and delivers in voiceover the grandest soliloquy in any novel, and as yes she says yes she says yes, the world of Joyce's tongue comes fully alive at last.

What is essential? It's one of the great questions of life, and, as I've suggested, it's a question that crops up in other adaptations than artistic ones. The text is human society and the human self, in isolation or in groups, the essence to be preserved is a human essence, and the result is the pluralist, hybridised, mixed-up world in which we all now live. Adaptation as metaphor, to paraphrase Susan Sontag, adaptation as carrying across, which is the literal meaning of the word "metaphor", from the Greek, and of the related word "translation", another form of carrying across, this time derived from Latin.

What are the things we think of as essential in our lives? The answers could be: our children, a daily walk in the park, a good stiff drink, the reading of books, a job, a vacation, a baseball team, a cigarette, or love. And yet life has a way of making us rethink. Our children move away from home, we move away from our favourite park, the doctor forbids us to drink or smoke, we lose our eyesight, we get fired, there's no time or money to take a vacation, our baseball team sucks, our heart is broken. At such times our picture of the world hangs crookedly on the wall. Then, if we can manage it, we adapt. And what this shows us is that essence is something deeper than any of that, it's the thing that gets us through. The 12 separate varieties of finches that Charles Darwin found on the Galápagos Islands had all made local adaptations, but when the ornithologist John Gould examined Darwin's specimens in 1837, he could see that these were not different birds, but 12 variations of the same bird. In spite of random mutation and natural selection, their finchness, their essence, was intact.

As individuals, as communities, as nations, we are the constant adapters of ourselves, and must constantly ask ourselves the question wherein does our finchness lie: what are the things we cannot ever give up unless we wish to cease to be ourselves?

We can learn this much from the poets who translate the poetry of others, from the screenwriters and film-makers who turn words on the page into images on a screen, from all those who carry across one thing into another state: an adaptation works best when it is a genuine transaction between the old and the new, carried out by persons who understand and care for both, who can help the thing adapted to leap the gulf and shine again in a different light. In other words, the process of social, cultural and individual adaptation, just like artistic adaptation, needs to be free, not rigid, if it is to succeed. Those who cling too fiercely to the old text, the thing to be adapted, the old ways, the past, are doomed to produce something that does not work, an unhappiness, an alienation, a quarrel, a failure, a loss.

But those who do not know who they are, are doomed too: individuals who sacrifice themselves for the sake of pleasing others, comedians who stop telling jokes because they find themselves in a humourless world, serious people who start trying to tell jokes because they fear being thought humourless, people in a new situation, a new relationship, a new university, who act against their natures because they think that's the way to make things easy for themselves.

Whole societies can lose their way through a process of bad adaptation. Striving to save themselves, they can oppress others. Hoping to defend themselves, they can damage the very liberties they believed to be under attack. Claiming to defend freedom, they can make themselves and others less free. Or, seeking to calm the violent hotheads in their midst, societies can try to appease them, and so give the violent hotheads the notion that their violence and hotheadedness is effective. Wishing to create better understanding between peoples, they can seek to prevent the expression of opinions unpalatable to some of their members, and so immediately make others even angrier than they were before.

Societies in motion, at a time of rapid change such as the present day, succeed, as all good adaptations do, by knowing what is essential, what cannot be compromised, what all their citizens must accept as the price of membership. For many years now, I'm sorry to say, we have lived through an era of bad social adaptations, of appeasements and surrenders on the one hand, of arrogant excesses and coercions on the other.

We can only hope that the worst is over, and that better movies, better musicals and better times lie ahead.




27 febbraio 2009

Voi perché leggete?

Mi avete fatto riflettere sul perché non mi piacciono i gialli...

Li trovo interessanti dal punto di vista della struttura. Posso immaginare lo scrittore elaborare la trama e creare personaggi e moventi per far girare tutto il racconto. Mi sembra quasi che sia più divertente scrivere un romanzo giallo che leggerlo.

Nel leggerlo infatti trovo i segni dove la storia è stata montata. Si arriva alla conclusione solo se l'autore vuole che ci si arrivi. Ci lascia clue calcolate e si puo' dedurre il finale solo se lo vuole lo scrittore / scrittrice. Ma la nostra intelligenza non ha nessun merito! Siamo guidati dall'ideatore.

Altro motivo per cui non li leggo è che sono pigra. Tutto mi costa fatica, anche le cose che dovrebbero essere piacevoli come viaggiare, leggere, imparare un'altra lingua, scrivere - tutto per me è uno sforzo immane. Quando leggo quindi scelgo libri che mi insegnino anche qualche cosa. Li leggo per intrattenimento, certo, ma anche per imparare. Perché oltre che a essere pigra sono anche pragmatica e non faccio nulla se non ne trovo una qualche utilità.

Allora scelgo libri dove penso di scovare insegnamenti di vita, che mi diano gli strumenti per poter capire quello che succede, dove si sbaglia nei rapporti con le persone, nelle scelte che si fanno a tutti i bivi che dobbiamo prendere. Scegli l'altra strada, a volte sono decisioni lunghe e sofferte, a volte è solo una questione di un attimo, e la vita è tutta diversa!

A volte trovo risposte a dei miei dubbi, a volte esempi da seguire...o da evitare. A volte il libro mi dice:nessuno ha capito niente in questo mondo, non ti illudere di trovare risposte dentro di noi perché siamo stati scritti da essere umani esattamente come te.

Ma questo non mi fa desistere e contino a cercare risposte.

E voi perhè leggete?


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permalink | inviato da principessalea il 27/2/2009 alle 2:19 | Leggi i commenti e commenta questo postcommenti (6) | Versione per la stampa



23 febbraio 2009

Il libro dei tramezzini



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