"No need to prepare the bags or to make plans on paper, accompanied by involuntary forgetfulness, still free for the next day. It does not take anything from the day before not ever. " The bookseller was reading. Read for anyone. I read in an incomprehensible language, Greek, Czech, thought, and my heart sank. What voice was that? It seemed a kind of chant, a litany, a prayer ....
"I do not sell books, read them.
- Do you read? Who?
- A bookstore that sells books? Bookseller But what is that?
Roberto Vecchioni, Italian writer, constructs a fascinating and unforgettable story based on love of books and what would happen without them. Selinunte, the ancient Greek city south of Sicily, marks the coastal scenery of the old bookseller and Nicolino, a 13 years old.
In reaching the village, the bookseller installed a gallery of books, offering free readings, without arousing the interest of the inhabitants of Selinunte. Nicolino, silent witness to the literary circles, does seep into the store, and from time to time, surprised to hear Shakespeare, Rimbaud, Borges, Pessoa, Proust, Leopardi, Tolstoy, Dante, Ivan Ilich ..
"All the words written by men are crazy unrequited love, is a hasty and uncertain day we have to fill the race because there is little time. A huge day we have for God, for not going with nothing to quote "
However, indifference, hypocrisy and blindness to the books, causing the inhabitants of Selinunte, fail to communicate through words, not hard to agree with the rest of world, for example, that old man who began to confuse "lemons" with "rudder." We lost key verbs, and did not get to use them in appropriate circumstances, we have lost all the nuances. And with the nuances, all the feelings that accompany or cause "
Telling Primrose, Nicolino thought:" Nothing lives as intensely as the lengthy time, because there are people who are, falling objects, voices that resonate, which make life: these are inaccurate imitation of life. Life is an immobile, like herself forever, life is nothing "
Primrose knows I love her, but within it has a knot that would make sense and can not, will help with truncated gestures with words, not that I care for myself, but I suffer for it. I see it, would be happy to talk to me, if I tell something else, find tenderness, but all you have inside you is there because it lacks the words, it is in the air, as a premise without end.
Roberto Vecchioni, the reader achieves a sublime tenderness, childhood memory that goes beyond: "For the winds never know when they arrive, how they come. They are unexpected and inexplicable as the motions of the heart .. And then when the wind calms, calms down, look around and see that everything has changed, everything has changed, it has become unrecognizable "
bookseller While the house burned, echoing the words of Rimbaud:" No greater pain to remember the happy time in misery. " Arson, burned all the books, later, they flew in the skies of Selinunte orchestrated by a flutist. A singing bird attacked, wounded, filled the silence: The words left for forever. What a tragedy!
They slip on and magnify in my memory: "The bookshelf Selinunte. Beautiful, original and necessary. Easy to read, warm colors, cherry flavored, the smell of mint, olive, rosemary and grapefruit .
Book: The Bookseller of Selinunte
Author: Roberto Vecchioni
Editorial: Gadir
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