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News that left me dry


I stood in front of the computer to browse through all that stuff put on websites every day and so when I read this news that nearly left me dry. He, I mean the old JD was dead. Let's be frank: it was as if he had been dead ever since in practice it was buried alive after writing a book. A book only because the others - we are even more honest - it's as if they had been ever written. But I bought them anyway. The others. It 'obvious. Finally, because the only one that interested me was that, I bought in English, to read his exact words and not those of the translator. I know that you can understand, that you know why I'm writing in this way and everything.
So now I know how it feels when one dies of those writers. Before I did not know because when I read the version of the old Barney he was already dead (cazzo! fucking shit!).
are books that when you have finished reading and all that follows that the author would like to be your friend for the skin and can call on the phone every time you turn. No one can call JD to the old phone. And probably even before, if you had come to doubt. E 'by people like him in front of a frozen lake in the midst of skyscrapers, we learn to ask the right question. That is: where the ducks go in winter?
He was 91. An age that I would do the signing, if you really want to know. But that's another story. They were not to name a school of writing. He hated these things. He would have hated a post like this, for that matter. The light had written: "I hope with all my soul when I die someone will have much common sense to be thrown into the river or something. No matter what, rather than stuck in a damn graveyard." Imagine if would have welcomed a damn "crocodile."
Del Giovane Holden I'd love to write a book that is exceptional, etcetera, etcetera, but I refrain. Outstanding. If there's one word I hate is exceptional. It's so fake. I wish I wrote it myself. But it was him. If only we could call on the phone, who knows what he would say.

a minimum: you read a few passages of HERE JD Salinger. I swear it's the stuff of goose bumps.

German War Heroes Of Ww2

Fausto



the fiftieth anniversary of the death of Fausto Coppi (today) I will publish this piece that had a completely different purpose (and perhaps have it yet) but he was dozing on my hard drive. I read about the celebrations and I realized that, although incomplete, it was time to pull it off.


... forty-four step bends when there were going to make it known that because he was Bartali, the great champion, and went up the ramp of the Stelvio in the snow last May with the passage of the rider in a state of grace. Forty-three switchbacks to the summit but missed him - Bartali - saliva without fear, looking up on the slopes of the Alps, the track that would bring the top and then down to the sprint, to the glory of the finish line.
It 'nice to climb the Stelvio pass, this ramp endless and frightening, if you are on top Bartali wrote on the pedals and there are two legs that push a bright and obedient relationship of five feet. It 'nice to read on the wayside Austrian count down the hairpin turns - are missing only the sunset, it will take that? - While opponents are left behind, removed one by one, giving the moral that extra something that put the man in charge to spin straight victory. It 'nice to take a run on the cobblestones of the sixth bend (the top 42 are missing) to jump straight on synchronizing the breath, deep and regular, with the pedal stroke. Pending the brow
Bartali, still incredulous, pray to the Madonna, he's got a prayer by Madonna, which took him to the top and then down to the finish in Bormio to take the pink jersey.
It 'great to hear from a heart that beats regular bison inside the chest, a heart that morning grumbles forty beats per minute, but when you need it can get to one hundred and eighty. A heart of those - the doctors say - you see once every twenty-five years and would be a wasted miracle - say the team managers - if you end up working the fields instead of the engine on a bicycle.
E 'bello - being Bartali - that squeezes the stomach feel the energy from the bread and salami, bottle of water that goes to replace the sweat that fell copiously on the gravel road. Then
Bartali - the invincible Bartali - that is where the Virgin Mary and pray adjustable pedals on Stelvio pass, a bike ride and a breath, a ride and a breath, when the twenty-second bend (only twenty-six are missing!) makes the mistake of raising his eyes for the first time from the handlebars closer to the railing and look to the low where - instead of empty - see the blue and white shirt of a ghost. But Fausto Coppi - Bartali think - it's too far, four curves below, although he seems to have the engine down there, in front of motorcycles, with the awkward chest (But how large?) But on the seat of a bicycle becomes a boiler with the pressure at the most.
Fausto Coppi's lungs burn seven gallons of fresh mountain air and then shot to blow steam, putting in motion two powerful pistons that turn the wheels of the sample leading rival.
It 's hard to get behind Gino Bartali when Fausto Coppi, with his heart from his horse at rest is thirty-five beats per minute, that one - the doctors say - comes only once every fifty years and comes just a shameful fate to dominate the scene when you were there.
Cursed Fausto Coppi. Gino Bartali gets up furiously on the pedals, sticks to the bottle (not the water, the other one) and sends it to the devil Went down into the Madonna on the handlebars. But the thirty-eighth bend - just ten when they are missing, but they seem a lot - my legs became rubber rods instead of steel, the stomach has no food to be processed into gasoline Fausto Coppi and is back there - with its huge boiler puffing among the piles of snow - to get those nerves with dark hair and waxed. If it were just for the taste of blood that feels in your mouth (broke capillaries for the effort) Gino Bartali is queued at the wheel of the enemy and we would be nailed to the death. But the burr paste the jaws, the legs are on fire and the fog comes down over his eyes. Except that in 1953 we would take it back to television, but on the mountain road - where the Tour of Italy goes for the first time (never went up so high!) - Gino Bartali, only with the opponent , feels the powerful breath of Fausto Coppi that takes a run, shoot and overtakes the forty-fourth bend (when only four at the end!) him that instead of a prayer by Madonna has a beautiful white lady who awaits him down the line. Gino Bartali sees him face the last curve on that bike light blue-white and then become more distant. I can only imagine while you run down with a newspaper under her shirt - and maybe not even that - to protect from frost. Spectators cheer on the pitch in the eyes a little sad, as if for a moment (only one!) Had thought of his brother Serse Coppi died in bones are too fragile to travel and that he, Fausto, broke, riding without fear on roads in Trentino. Bartali is now disconnected, but it's as if she saw him - Because he has seen so many times - gripping the handlebars as the horns of a bull and jump to Bormio.
Then for a moment - you know Bartali - Coppi off his right hand off the bicycle and the port on the back pocket of the shirt to make sure everything is OK. When will it arrive and will take that comb through your hair before coming in sight of photographers.
Bartali not. The hairpin number forty-eight (the last) slows the pace. We are in 1953 and there is no television, so no one sees it but with tears in his eyes rests a foot on the ground (Bartali rests a foot on the ground!) And the energy of despair ...

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