Archive for ottobre, 2011


Murray era nuovo alla Hill e aveva spalle curve, occhialetti rotondi e barba alla Amish. Era visiting professor di icone viventi e sembrava imbarazzato da ciò che era andato a spigolare in quegli anni dai suoi colleghi di cultura popolare.
– Capisco la musica, capisco i film, capisco persino come i fumetti possano insegnarci qualcosa. Ma in questo posto ci sono docenti ordinari che non leggono altro che le scatole di cereali.
– E’ l’unica avanguardia di cui disponiamo.

Babette parla coi cani e coi gatti. Io vedo macchie colorate con la coda dell’occhio destro. Lei progetta gite sciistiche che non facciamo mai, con il viso illuminato dall’eccitazione. Io salgo a piedi per l’altura fino a scuola, osservando le pietre sbiancate a calce che fiancheggiano i vialetti delle case più recenti.
Chi morirà prima?
Domanda che si presenta di quando in quando, come, per esempio: dove sono le chiavi dell’auto?
Conclude una frase, prolunga uno sguardo tra di noi.
Mi chiedo se il pensiero in sé non partecipi della natura dell’amore fisico, un darwinismo al rovescio, che premii il sopravvissuto con tristezza e timore. O è un elemento inerte dell’aria che respiriamo, una cosa rara come il neon, con un punto di fusione, un peso atomico? La stringevo tra le braccia sulla pista di cenere.

Era mia abitudine formalizzata, di venerdì, dopo una sera passata davanti alla TV, leggere attentamente fino a tarda notte testi di argomento hitleriano.

It was a pleasure then
Could you just be here again
To know what there was to see
When all the Sunday people
Were so quiet in the dark
Afraid to be better the next day

La la la la la la la
La la la la la la la…

It was a pleasure then
When we could sit and stare again
Until the stars fell through
The cloudy trees onto the grass
Stars to smile with us
Until they too had tears in their eyes
You tell us this one tale
Of how much we must not agree.

It was a pleasure then
To see the dying days again
In horror of the nights
Never never never
Never be too bright
We’ve got no secret
Heart to hide somewhere at last
As long as we could see
The sky confess this crime
0f bitter tasting hatefulness
Above our shattered minds.

It was a pleasure
It was a pleasure

La la la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la la la la la…

 

 

 

(Un capolavoro.)

How pale You are in the moonlight and how dark

Your eyes – They are so large that they blot out

half the sky – I can barely make out your features –

yet I can glimpse Your white teeth when you smile

He laid his head against her breast – he could hear

her heartbeat – felt the blood coursing through her

veins – and he felt two burning lips on his neck – it

sent a shudder through his body – a shiver of

desire so that he clasped her tightly to him

Theys step down into the boat – she and he – I know

– I know that they are going to the island over

there – that bright, smiling island – with the green

meadows and the sheltered thickets – there they

will stroll, arm in arm – the air so soft – it must

be beautiful to love now –

Your face speaks of immeasurable tenderness –

Moonlight glides over it so full of earthly Beauty

and Pain. For it is now that Death joins Hands

with life to forge the chain that links the thousands

of Generations now dead and the thousands to

come

Your eyes are as large as half

the Sky as you stand close beside me and your

Hair is spangled With gold and your mouth

I cannot see – only your smile

She pulled him towards her – kissed him on the

neck and head – on the eyes – She huddled up to

him threw her naked white body over him –

squeezed him in a vicelike grip She had never

stayed so long with him – he begged her not to go

– he had never been so aroused – he wanted to be

able to embrace her again feel her kiss again …

A mysterious look of jealousy

In these two pearcing eyes are concentrated

as in crystal many reflections

The Look is questioning

interestedly full of hate and love

an essence of her

whom all of them share

 

The mystique of a whole Development

concentrated into one –

Woman in all her Variety

is for a Man a Mystery  –

Woman at once Saint – and Whore

and one unhappily devoted