*
From that evening, in which I revered this man opened his soul to that night forty years ago, all our novelists and poets tell how overtime, all the comedies that are under the mask of tragedy, it seems childish, it seems useless. E 'for convenience, for lack of courage or to have too narrow a horizon that they always show all and only the edge surface of life, which are operating under the clear light of day, clearly and methodically, while down below, in underground, in caves or sewers of the heart, the perilous beasts s'agit sinister glow of passion, joining in the dark and torn in all the most fantastic pair?
frightens them and the hot breath of struggitore demonic instincts, the exhalation of the blood burns, fear of contamination of the hands are too delicate to scourges of humanity, or their eyes unaccustomed to light a milder
not find the way to go down the slippery steps of wet rot?
Yet for one who loves knowledge, there is no greater pleasure than to know the hidden secret
there is no more powerful than the thrill that accompanies the danger, suffering and there is no more sacred those who can not speak for shame.
Here, however, a man was opening in absolute nakedness, he tore his chest deep, ready to show his heart tortured, poisoned, burned and rotted. With savage delight you with this battered flagellating confession suppressed for years and years. Only he who all his life he tried to shame all his life hath been hidden, has run down and hidden, could erupt in an outburst as he so impressively overwhelming
ruthless in his confession. This man was digging his life piece by piece from his chest,
and for the first time I, boy, pushed him look down into the deepest depths of human feeling.
D'apprima his disembodied voice wandering in the dark, dark foreboding of emotion, made vague reference to the mysterious, yet I sensed from the desire to painfully restrain this passion, all the power that was about to erupt, as in some jokes are very slow a very accelerated pace s'indovina earlier, he feels with every fiber of the "furious" that will follow .....
Capriccio daring of fatal destiny,
Even the clear day you try it
Towards the abyss, into the labyrinth
of the human heart, oh subversion of the senses!
Since dualism can save our
You only nell'amplesso your mortal;
Wake up, there difendiam against fate,
vile Fearing the fatal passion.
burning blood and spirit in separated flame
Only fate, veiled in dark years
In the storm's unite them know .
conteniam As long as there are not true:
Lightning sol, and red sparks in us
Spirit in blood and blood in spirit melts.
Biography:
"Why 'Love is a liaison between a reflex and its object "
Joseph Brodsky Foundation of the incurably pag.100
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