Luci nelle tenebre (Narrativa) (Italian Edition)

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And she murmured your name: Still small you would tell her about when on foot in the savanna, you walked to the school to teach children how to read. About when you met the lion and petrified, you observed it crossing your path.

But we have never been in the Northern lands, that we know how things have changed. Perhaps the lions are still there. Wonderful story to frighten the children that go around alone! You, Af Dabeyl, at least you had a giant brother. Everyone called him Fudde, the powerful one, and when you picked a quarrel you hid behind his shoulders. Since you broke your ankle, everyone took better care of you. You still drag your left foot. Avevi solo ventisette anni e il povero vecchio era quasi centenario. Tuo padre te le fece per ricordare.

Chi ha mandato il malocchio ad Af Dabeyl che si contorce per i crampi alla pancia? Forse una madre gelosa nel vedere tanta prodezza nel parlare? Bella maschera usare un oppositore politico per dare una parvenza di democrazia. Io non rubo, dicesti. Ti portavano in giro nei convegni internazionali per dar mostra della tua cultura, per far vedere che la Nazione aveva gente valida. Ti prestasti al compromesso. Era stato un modo per sopravvivere. Ora come riuscirai a sopravvivere? Il mare ti spinse fuori. Oh, Af Dabeyl, scintilla agile e lucente, volevi diventare una stella, ma brillasti invano.

You always loved Xush the Light so much, after you finished the university in Italy, while many others preferred to stay, you said you had to return, for your father, for your country. Then they say mother-land. You were only 27 years old and the poor old man was almost a hundred.

He died when you were in jail. Do you remember those burns? Your father made them so you would remember. Who sent the evil eye to Af Dabeyl who writhes from the cramps in his stomach? Maybe a jealous mother in seeing such boldness in talking? At least at the beginning was the sense of justice, now it is only desperation. Nice mask using a political opponent to give an appearance of democracy. What work do you do? They would take you around to international conferences in order to show your culture, in order to see the nation had worthwhile people.

You lent yourself to compromise. Because already the cancer of alcohol gnawed at you. You were an Islamic extremist. It had been a way to survive. What euphoria when they bombed the city, the tyrant flees, death to Afweyne, this is the moment that I have awaited for twenty years. The sea pushed you out. And now the sea has been made saltier by the tears you cried in exile in the cold waters of the North. Oh, Af Dabeyl, shining and lively spark, you wanted to become a star, but you shone in vain.

Io, sulla camionetta sudicia e un involucro prezioso tra le braccia. Fissavo attonita i fucili appoggiati sulle spalle. Guerriglieri accompagnavano il nostro addio. E la sabbia ricopriva tutto. Tra le dune scivolose, rare capanne. Uscivano gridando i bambini e le donne tendevano il braccio.

Ne percepisco il sentore. Ora mi accorgo di avere le labbra salate. Fuggo dalla morte e la porto con me. Se non fosse per il viso sereno dei fanciulli. Ondeggia fluttuante come pesce marino, il mantello rosso. Ora stringo al petto il prezioso involucro. La libellula si alza. Mio padre gesticola frenetico. Ma non sento la sua voce. Vedo il guerrigliero con il mantello rosso. Forse ha diciotto anni. E nasconde il torace con il mantello rosso. Come il mantello rosso. E tiene il fucile a tracolla. E vedo un lungo cordone di guerriglieri circondare la spiaggia.

Poi al centro un mantello rosso. Che fluttua, si contorce, si allarga. I, on the dirty jeep and a precious package in my arms. Dazed, I stared at the rifles resting on their shoulders. Guerrillas accompanied our goodbye. And the sand covered everything. Among the slippery sand dunes, a few rare huts. Children came out screaming and women stretched out their arms. This is the last goodbye. I can feel it. Now I realize I have salty lips. But the sky is clear, clean, pale-blue. I flee from death and I bring it with me. If it were not for the serene face of the children.

And I see rusty and heavy, an obtuse warship. A guerrilla raises the red cloak to the wind, the other grabs two edges. The red cloak sways fluttering like a sea fish. And it rises, from the obtuse warship, a steel dragonfly. A few hours have passed since a tender pulsating creature emerged from my womb. Now I squeeze the precious bundle to my chest. The dragon fly rises. My father gestures frantically. And I turn around. I see the guerrilla with the red cloak.

Perhaps eighteen years old. And he hides his chest with the red cloak. Like the red cloak. He holds the rifle slung over his shoulder. But his smile is candid, open, innocent. In the dragonfly surrounded by steel walls, I look out for the last time. And I see a long line of guerrillas surrounding the beach. Then at the center a red cloak.

Sono di madre europea, questo mi distingue. Attenta che ti strappi! Non sono pura, chiusa, bella. Quelle piccole labbra pendenti, sono brutte. Le gambe immobili, un fiore sul pube, un abito largo. Insetti prenderanno la mia mente? Ci laviamo con le altre donne. I miei figli sono i loro figli. Voglio tenere insieme tutti i pezzi. Senza di loro, vecchie ed adolescenti, storpie e bellissime, bianche e nere, io non esisto.

I am of European mother, this makes me different. On the sand, among friends, I fall down split. Those little hanging lips are ugly. Xiran so proud, at the center of everyone. Will the winds ever take me as well? Unhealthy breaths that rising through my guts. Will insects seize my mind? Will a mark on my body, unbalance me? We wash with the other women. My children are their children. I want to hold together all the pieces.

Putting on a dress with the others.

I am a woman as long as they exist. Saltella tra i binari e vaglia la palude della mente.

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Isla hadle si sente espropriato. Camminava nella savana per andar a vendere perline ai turisti. Isla hadle veste ancora anni settanta. I pantaloni a zampa e i capelli crespi gonfi. Isla hadle ha deluso la povera sognatrice. Ha tanta compassione ancora. La voce fluente e i pensieri aggrovigliati. He skips between the tracks and examines the swamp of his mind.

He has a fracture that bleeds there between his ribs. And the pain is so sharp that it terrifies him to touch it. Isla hadle feels dispossessed. He walked in the savanna to sell beads to tourists. His father walked to lead his herds to pasture and from drought. But the bracelets bring in a lot, a lot more. Bell bottom pants and curly teased hair. He still wears a little gold chain given to him as a gift by a whorish aunt who knew whom to make deals with to send him to study abroad.

He still has so much compassion. Isla hadle wears leather sandals in the winter. The fluent voice and the entangled thoughts. I can no longer stand to see you unhappy. The trains come and go. Agronomo, allevava mucche e maiali. Ha risparmiato cinquantamila dollari per la salvezza dei fratelli. Per uno di loro ha comprato maschera e pinne e ora va per mare a pescare aragoste. Ma il dolore non ha senso. Il dolore colpisce a tradimento. Ci vuole molta calma e pazienza.

Devo capire e distinguere. Un troppo vasto margine di scelta mi uccide. Voglio vivere in solitudine e addestrare la mia anima. Voglio vivere in moltitudine e che con gli altri sia condivisione e vita. As an agronomist, he raised cows and pigs. Boots in the mud and a raincoat for the rain. He saved fifty thousand dollars to save his brothers.

For one of them he bought a mask and fins and he now goes in the sea to fish for lobsters. Another became rich dealing in sugar and milk. You should hold pain there and learn to bear it. You ought to rock it, caress it, so that it does not eat your heart out. Much calm and patience is needed. When you want to talk about it you risk betraying it and then it grows bigger and it takes your breath away. If used with conscience pain is a privilege. Pain is illumination and catharsis. Then light can come in, but that, too, must be filtered, too much life could burn you.

I must understand and classify. I see circular points. A margin of choice too vast kills me. I want to live in solitude and train my soul. I want to live among multitudes and let there be sharing and life with the others. Only love can save me. Ti vedevo da lontano arrivare, con grossi libri di scuola, e correvo sempre gioiosa, con mani sporche di terra. And I was the most beautiful actress, I only lacked the hair, the long and raven-black hair of the sweet and distant Indian.

From a distance I would see you arrive, with big school books, and I always ran joyously, with hands dirty with earth. Ricordi di quando sul fuoco, preparai le anguille fumanti e rosse uova alla coque? E tu Nureddin sorridesti Vedrai tutte le amiche, come saranno invidiose. E tardi, verso il tramonto, rinchiusa in una piccola stanza, udii un canto dolcissimo, di donne che battevan le mani. Do you remember the time over the fire, I prepared the smoking eels and red egg a la coque?

And you smiled, Nureddin. All that gold weighed heavily. And later, towards sunset, locked up in a small room, I heard a very sweet song, of women that clapped their hands. I thought that it was already time: Ma subito mi videro le zie: But immediately my aunts saw me: Resign yourself today little one, for you can be a bride only once. It was thus that I saw you arrive, from a distance and the sun was red, Nureddin my most loved cousin and I had royal jewels and long raven-black hair. In Bagdad he published his first works of narrative and poetry, working as a journalist for various journals.

Currently, he is a member of the advisory board of the journal Al Mefiyon Exiles , published in Lebanon. In exile for many years, he now lives in Florence, where he graduated with a degree in the History of Islamic Countries at the School of Literature and Philosophy, after which he received a doctorate in research from the Oriental Institute at the University of Naples.

His texts in Italian have come out in Eleusis, Varia, D. From what wound do we come, weak wayfarers? There is the whole globe of the earth over our blankets, our cities are under the lead tent. Vedo le donne nude come vetro roteare in danze funebri. Ci ammazziamo nel silenzio, odo candele livide nello specchio. The cold covers me with ice and in love you are my isolated lodging. In the forest the sparrows crash into me the wind and the storm crash into me but your face was beautiful in the window dust the rooms are white, the stone is like soap.

I wait for your water you arrive where the night writes my silence and my drought. Because museums have bastard padlocks and my years flow into the canals with quiet light for us stone is bread, dagger the water. I see women naked like glass panes whirling in funereal dances. In the feast of the happy butchers I see naked cities, I see a knife longer than our days, longer than the season of peace. We kill ourselves in silence, I hear livid candles in the mirror. Il tuo viso non lo vedo: From piazza santissima annunziata to the church of san marco the public bus crowns us with its smoke and I under the wall of rain the cry goes on behind the window of the trolley and there is another cry on the sidewalk I see naked cities.

I soldati del mio tormento, inerti, sono fili di vento e di neve Sono queste ombre volanti, questo brivido segreto nel corpo. Oh Eufrate di Nassiriya Nelle foreste, perseguitati dai trattori o dai grappoli dei fiori. The soldiers of my torment, inert, are wisps of wind and snow They are these flying shadows, this secret shiver in the body. They are this overturning in the land of paradise, they are those that slip a sail into the heart of hell.

Oh Euphrates of Nassiriya In the forests, pursued by tractors or by bunches of flowers. Ricordi il sale che ancora resta nel tuo bicchiere? Era questa la strada del riccio, lo stendardo della fame del lamento? Ogni volta tu canti per la gloria: I tuoi alberi erano orecchini con pietre di Gerusalemme: Do you remember the salt that is still left in your glass? Who will save the country then? Who will save the water? Who will pour the honey on the table or in the tea glasses in the afternoon? And is this then the disappointment of the lesson of the living? And let the call of goodness rise virtuosly after your death, and let it make, in order to not forget, jewels of your dream!

Was this the road of the chestnut husk, the banner of hunger of moaning? Every time you sing for glory: I fari del martire e le sue stelle sono le stelle della famiglia, i nostri vestiti sono intessuti della stoffa delle farfalle. Al mattino cantiamo con il nostro pianto prima degli uccelli dei vicini: That was the affection that lights the wings of water.

Sono di ghiaccio le nostre cinture, si estende la nostra terra per ingravidarsi di fuoco. And who among us knows the hour of night? Our belts are of ice, our land spreads to become pregnant with fire. Before they abandon the flesh Un palpito di violenza. A beat of violence. Difficulty in tearing the quiet flash And then what, of an eagle that picks up the tribes of the insult? And what about its severe hostility? Then what will remain among the density of the city the bursting of the dam? Clouds spring tears towards the eye sockets, towards the suburb, beyond the debris and violence in the dark night.

I ignored it and ignore it. All has by now entered this time of history: Pioggia sopra il nostro espatrio. Signore della roccia credono la Morte madre dei nostri figli, la credono signora dei nostri poeti. Rain on our expatriation. Ladies of the rock believe Death mother of our children, believe it to be the lady of our poets. Now I need a song of love that tells the story that I embrace offering my forgiveness.

Neppure fuoco sui confini. Se abbaiasse sul tuo viso il vento Che rotolino i giorni e il tuo rifugio triste! Non ho detto che sono del nostro sangue. Non ho detto che i loro elmi rotondi sono regalo della sera.

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Non ho detto che una terra proibisce ai suoi figli di entrare in un giardino: Not even fire on the borders. If the winds were to bark over your face Let the days and your sad refuge roll on! You are following the wheat without wings from sidewalk to exile from paradise to fire or from fire to fire The first day stitched up your whimper, the Bedouin soldiers sewed you only some of them excluded.

And you are following the grain without wings from sidewalk to exile from paradise to fire and from fire to fire. Ho strappato la punta delle lancette che scimmiottano le ore della mia morte dalle ombre livide inclinate. E la pianta eretta nella sua crescita incerta somiglia alle nostre mani. Vieni, io costantemente ti chiamo, e la mia luna scioglie il ghiaccio della solitudine. Muri, eremiti sospesi nella condotta da ruffiani che hanno posto sotto la testa la pietra corrotta della mia mano, le mie mani tremanti nella marcia spettro della poesia.

I ripped the point of the hands that mimic the hours of my death from sloping livid shadows. And the standing plant in its uncertain growth resembles our hands. Come, I call you constantly, and my moon melts the ice of solitude. Walls, men lined up and prostitutes standing. Walls, hermits suspended condoned by pimps that have placed under the head the corrupt stone of my hand, my trembling hands in the march specter of poetry. Nella notte dicendo il grazioso sogno silente, seduta in quarantena.

Tu, profeta analogo dal grido soffocante nella gola, lo sguardo fisso sulle porte chiuse spezza le ostinate barriere del cielo. Questo tempo che io ho preso solo per gioco. Nella notte seduta, leggera, le mie mani si allontanano dal sibilo della frusta, e come si trascinano il lucchetto e la catena dietro di me!

Quando con un voto alla stella di fronte alla finestra vuota io danzo. Mi getto coraggiosa nella vita. In the night saying the charming silent dream, seated in quarantine. Ah, but how heavy beats here the stroke of the clock! This time that I took only for a game. In the night seated, light, my hands move away from the hissing of the whip, and how they drag the padlock and the chain behind me! When with a vow to the star in front of the empty window I dance.

My reckless enthusiasm at the beginning of the trip. Ah, this autumn, vain cypress of your four seasons! I throw myself courageously into life. Tu resta, che non manchi la tua ombra dalla mia testa di girasole. Stay, that your shadows will not be absent from my sunflower head.

I morti delle diverse ombre dicono: For friendship the tree knocks at the window. I know when I throw the noose, before the trip, the tree strangles me. The tree promised to your skeleton. The dead of different shadows say: And when I wait for death that the condemned from aligned trees know, the command that frees the space is the wind in the air.

E la luce tremante, nel tempo del mio sonno, guarda la mia veglia. Avevo gli occhi negli occhi del vino per poterti bere.

Ah, my heart, you so soft playmate of the moon with wings bright and dark you delayed the entrance of the moon. And the light trembling, in the time of my dream, watches my wakefulness. From the tree no sign, all of a sudden the vase of color breaks in the middle of the sky. I had eyes in the eyes of the wine so I could drink you. The measured chalice of my age and the bittersweet slash of a rebellious love. He works in Milan as a professional educator in the area of drug addiction and intercultural affiars.

He is on the editorial board of the online trimonthly of literature of migrationEl Ghibli and contributes to many journals, among which Internazionale, il manifesto and Caposud. His work has appeared in several anthologies of short stories and poetry. You leave a reality, an equilibrium, and enter in a new dimension, thus discovering analogies and differences, light and shadow, new noises, new sounds, new words.

Feeling itself generates the need to communicate and make ones own emotions comprehensive for the listener. Words are thought, emotions just exist. What is really important for me is communication, the possibility to tell and de scribe to others what I am living, without appealing to a bilingual dictionary. On the other hand, in the experience of migration words have the same power of notes: He lives in Trent. Among his published books are: Gianmario Lucini has written about him in Arnold de Vos. Do you ask me why I chose to write in Italian, I did not: I am a small fish not easy to take in, and this is not my home sea.

Distance is reckoned to be the breeding ground of desire, a stimulus to authors. So, I succeded for the first time to write real Italian poetry my migrant voice, born in Holland, was accustomed to the use of the Italian language since , while staying with my Dutch wife as archaeologists in the loneliness of the Tunisian countryside near the Algerian border, and then by myself in Tunis. Forse ho preso da lui. Ricaduta a distanza di tempo volente o nolente la raccolgo, una forma contorta che mi brucia tra le mani: La mano non data. Maybe I take after him. From the blast furnaces of our silence some residue has flown.

Fallen again in due time willingly or unwillingly I pick it up, distorted shape burning my hands: The hand not given. The moth-eaten sweater reveals with delight a body that wrinkles. Leaning against the front wall the new door is ready: La rosa della rugiada spina la voce che espettora gli struggimenti della notte e la lena della luce che torna. The rose of dew bone chips the voice coughing up nocturnal heartaches and the force of turning light. Uno si affeziona al male per la bellezza, la vigoria e il rigoglio. One is drawn to sickness because of beauty, vigor and growth.

Even water is a gift and I carry the fertilizer which I eat from my garden. What is mine of botanical arts I gladly husband to a lovely plant. And if you have given me eyes to see beware, if it was to poison my life. Sono davanti al tavolo come davanti al muro. La parola mi inchioda, minchia. Essa ferisce e guarisce, nel mentre la vita va avanti e intristisce. I am in front of the table; as if in front of the wall. It wounds and heals, meanwhile life goes on and gets uglier.

Solitudine divina, screzi buio e luce del pensiero. I sette giorni della settimana sono tutti per te: Salvati con il frutto della mente se in previsione non hai il frutto del ventre. Heavenly solitude, you tinge the dark and light of thought. The seven days of the week are entirely for you: They seek refuge where there is no refuge.

Fra i due tramonti giorno e notte sgrottano il grande occhio della creazione. Dawn opens up to hope. Between the two sunsets day and night unwrinkles the great eye of creation. Siamo stati creati, ma non finiti: We have been created but not completed: A varcare stretti clandestini anche se non sappiamo nuotare: To cross clandestine straits even when unable to swim: The ancient tribe of the desert blocked by frontiers, shuttered in cities flies at the height of the skyscraper on carpets woven inside the tent in the image and likeness of the rare heavens of prosperity, God willing.

They shatter on marble pavements already cracked, because the place is in shambles. I would have done better to cloister myself, but what clause is enclosure? Suffering for the beauty of creation is our tribute to the body that we rent. Insieme, e mai insieme. Separati dalla cortina invisibile della convenienza: E lo hai fatto. Together and never together. Divided by the invisible curtain of convenience: A crooked love was born that I pay off in solitude.

My love is a basket weave with broken wickerwork everywhere: Composizione per la decomposizione. The old man stares at his useless clean poems, when cleanliness is no longer desired. Composing for the decomposing. Penso alla mia lontana figura sulla luna che il bosco si riprende. I stagger among the tree trunks, an old bark my feet ambushed by the thick under-bush. I think of my distant image on the moon that the forest reclaims. Dew, what moist carpet you have put down on the mad planet where chipmunks rain down egg-shaped nuts while a church bell invites the spirited mob of this world to come to mass.

He received a degree in Albanian literature at Elbasan and in modern literature from La Sapienza in Rome. In he published in Albania his first collection of poetry, Antologia e shiut Anthology of the Rain , which came out after five years of censorhip with the editor N. Also his second book, Il diario del bosco The Forest Diary , suffered the same fate at the hands of the censors, but this time it was never published. In Hajdari founded with other intellectuals the newspaper Il momento della parola The Moment of the Word , for which he now works as associate editor, writing at the same time for the local daily Republika, and has taught literature in the high school of his city.

In Italy he won several prizes, including the Montale Prize for unpublished works , and the Dario Bellezza prize , and has been included in numerous anthologies, among which Ai confini del verso. Diario in nero Muzungu. A Black Diary, Lecce, Besa Mi senti, tu, terra mia incurvata? In questa dimora di pioggia un filo sottile ci separa Quelli che ancora restano portano i volti di quelli che partono.

Are you listening to me, my curved earth? In this abode of rain a fine line separates us Those of us who stay wear the faces of those who go away. Procedo nel verde consumato e non porto niente oltre il mio corpo. I make my way through the worn greenery carrying nothing other than my body. I will leave nothing behind! Immobile e forestiera in uno spazio imperfetto, mai ospitale aspettando che il silenzio uniforme della sabbia ti parli del segreto. Immobile and a foreigner in a place imperfect, always inhospitable where you are waiting for the monotonous silence of the sand to speak to you of the secret.

And all around it will go on, the frailty of things the vanishing of poets who connect the earth and heaven. They say that we will die in opposing lands. In Italy since , he lives in Milan where he has cultivated his interests in literature and culture through his involvement in many activities and experiences. For twelve years he traveled throughout Italy giving lessons on African history and culture in a variety of schools, as well as discussing the themes of multi-culturalism.

At the request of School Systems Officials, he has given courses on integration to teachers and, for three years he has taught Italian to foreigners as part of the literacy program sponsored by the city of Milan. He has participated in many national and international conferences, held in some of the most prestigious Italian universities Milan, Rome, Bologna on the topics of immigration, culture and literature. In he was invited to present a cycle of conferences in the U. Almost every year since he has been involved in research, sponsored by centers for studies, by non governmental agencies, and by local as well as provincial administrations, in the fields mentioned above.

He has published Io, venditore di elefanti I, Elephant Vendor, in collaboration with Oreste Pivetta, Milan, Garzanti, , which has reached its eighth printing and is being used as a textbook in many schools. That of the vendor is a difficult occupation. Hard, sad, full of humiliations. It has taken some time and a few adventures before I arrived in Milan, where I was an inventor, because I was the one who put up the first small markets in the subway stations with three friends.

By selling we earned enough money to eat and sleep inside. Not always, but often. By selling I also learned Italian. Someone tries to change his job, hoping for a quiet life, to find a house, to reunite a family. There is no shame in it. This is the life of a Senegalese, the life I have known for a time that seems extremely long, but all considered fortunate because, as they say in my country, if you can recount something it means it brought you luck. A lot of guys rip up their staying permits and return to Senegal, because they have had it with Italy, the police, the carabinieri, the selling, the elephants, the ivory eagles, the necklaces, the Lacoste, the Vuitton purses, the hotel rooms, the expulsion orders, the seizures, the cold.

This cold I will never get used to. Many stay and meet Italian girls. They fall in love. There are marriages, and then even separations and divorces. And then more marriages. E presto, presto, i vostri cavalli, e spronateli a sangue. Suonate le vostre trombe, eccitate e liberate le vostre mute di cani assassini. Cavalcate, gridate, urlate, attaccate, massacrate alle spalle questo sporco negro che ha il torto di assomigliarvi. Urlate a pieni polmoni: And quickly, quickly, your horses, and whip them until they bleed.

Blow your trumpets, stir up and set free your hordes of killer dogs. The nigger hunt is open. Ride, yell, scream, attack, shoot in the back this filthy nigger whose sin is that he looks like you. Justice is done, here in Rwanda. Riempi il tuo cuore di odio prendi il tuo coltello e il tuo manganello. Organizza la tua muta, armala, di fucili, di solide sbarre di ferro, di grosse catene in acciaio temprato. Brucia i semafori clacsona ai quattro venti Fill your heart with hate take along your knife and your nightstick.

Organize your pack, arm them with guns, with solid bars of steel, with thick chains of tempered steel. Step on your cool machine and quickly, quickly ride it at full speed like a damned fool. Ignore the stoplights blow your horn to the four winds… The hunt for the nigger is on. Get him out in the open, and above all show no pity for this intruding filthy nigger who dares to step on your flowerbeds. A Berlino Indossa i tuoi anfibi, la tua redingote, la tua croce uncinata. Gott ist mit euch. Fai come a Roma. E vomita il tuo odio, la tua ignoranza e la tua follia, e urla: E non sta mai a casa sua.

Fate come a Berlino anche se siete a Parigi. Fate come a Parigi anche se siete a Bruxelles. Milano, Ginevra, anche se siete sul tram, o sul marciapiede. Fate come in Algeria! In Berlin Put on your army boots, your frock coat, your Nazi cross. Et cetera, et cetera… Do as in Rome. But quickly because you could miss the best part of the nigger hunt knife in the back and with no pity this dirty Italian nigger who stinks too much of macaroni and never stays in his own place.

God is with you. Do it as in Berlin even if you are in Paris. Do it as in Paris even if you are in Bruxelles. Milan, Geneva, even if you are on a bus, or on the sidewalk. Do it as in Algeria!

Uccidete, uccidete alle spalle. To the Indian because is neither black nor white. To the Polack because he is too white. To the one from Bosnia because especially he must not be white. To the homosexual… and why not? Shoot, shoot in the back. That is how justice is done. Et hurle et vomi ta haine, ton ignorance et ta folie: Ainsi justice est encore faite! Sonnez vos trombes, excitez et liberez votre meute de chiens tueurs Suonate le trombe e applaudite! Blow the horns and applause! In his country he has published short stories and poems in opposition journals; he also has contributed to Al Karmil, a monthly journal of culture in Arabic published in Cyprus.

Exiled in Italy in as a political refugee, he lived in Rome for an extensive period of time, and worked from to as a correspondent for Al Watan, a Kuwaiti weekly dealing with contemporary Italian literature. He has translated into Arabic: He contributed to the daily il manifesto and he also published a novel, Lontano da Baghdad Far from Baghdad, Rome, Sensibili alle foglie Obviously without my knowledge.

They tell me that among other things there were some writings. The poet in me rebelled and thought: I lacked the spirit and strength. All I could do was to laugh. Thinking about it calmly, I have to be doubly grateful to that doctor and his nurses. They not only treated me, they also unintentionally forced me to face a decisive battle. An inevitable encounter I had always postponed.

It is a vital struggle with language. Slowly, and with difficulty, I rebuilt my memory and wrote the new manuscript. This time in Italian, although still rough. For an exile, it means to tear the baggage of incommunicability. A source of mistrust, isolation, aversion. For the poet and the narrator becoming the mediator of Consciousness. Del blu della notte un fuoco accendiamo. In the blue of the night we light a fire. There, near the inlet of the river, over the stones, rests the dust of battles; a memory of smoke lights in the heart.

O, ships of this morning that have given to the sea that which united the two extremities. At the beginning it had been down there, under a tent of shining grief then, the conflagration raged. Let Sawsan ask the divinity for mercy, following the changes of the seasons and let her steal one from summer to bring it over to us later.

Ossessioni trasparenti appesantiscono ora questa aria. Obsessions, transparent, make this air weigh heavy now. Love that labors beings and non-beings, a sad love that oscillates between hope and prison. In the horrible songs that are my soul, sorrow is song: A labyrinth haunts the prison of this love, a love that unfurls wings of flame like the wheel that moves events. Love has remained paralyzed between passion and patience: My step has swerved from the storm during the halt, I have ordered the harnessing of the horses and with a cry I have filled my throat.

Lottavano contro il terrore della giustizia maltrattandomi nella malasorte sgranando cumuli di sabbia si disperavano, si disperavano They fought against the terror of justice, abusing me in my bad luck husking heaps of sand they dispaired, they dispaired… They will not hold the water between the cracks. Their appointed time was before ours, like the desert of Lot, a crushed summit a land collapsed in the water of a fountain. My deepest culture is marked by the Guarani language of my native ancestors. That of my origin, that allows me to filter other cultures without fear.

I feel a great strength coming from my culture, and the others can only enrich me because they take nothing away, they only add something. I have realized a cultural synthesis, not a symbiosis. Alle due del pomeriggio. After the rest and the remains. Otto mesi a subire la prepotenza dei tuoi muri di pietra ad assordarmi nel tuo silenzio assordante ad annientarmi ad appartenere a te, al tuo spazio io, piccolo piccolissimo Davide in pugno a Golia basta! Eight months suffering the Power of your walls of stone growing deaf in your deafening silence, becoming nothing to be yours, in your space, me, small, miniscule, David in the grip of Goliath enough!

To scream against the echo of my own screams, kick and punch at you every day, stain myself with my own blood on your walls, lave myself inside with my tears enough! Io stesso ho camminato a lungo per i lunghi corridoi del buio, spesso colpevolmente smarrito in facili labirinti Frutti di cocco appesi alle finestre dello stanzone vuoto di bambini ridenti. Coconut fruit hanging at the windows of the hall void of laughing children. A guitar plays, melancholic, as a harp slowly strokes its impetuous rivers.

Fiori di cocco, a Natale. From inevitable moans of those tortured forever to the shots still distant but drawing closer and closer, and the enlightening words of the new poets: Coconut flowers, for Christmas. People say good-bye, wish good luck: Questo mestiere di vivere rovesciato del tutto verso fuori, in avanti, a momenti parrebbe che mi vuoti che mi dissangui.

Sono in ripiego, ma impegnato molto impegnato premeditando un salto. I hope Mister Davis continues to narrate for this author, h Nothing else to add that I haven't said below so I'll second my recommendation for this and add my thoughts on the narrator. I hope Mister Davis continues to narrate for this author, he and the narrator of Marina are perfect: July 11thth Carlos Ruiz Zafon is one of my favorite writers, the man has a beautiful way of telling a story His books always have me thinking about for days afterwards, even if I'm reading something else..

It sounded intriguing so I snapped it up and took it home This one is my favorite of the lot, so far ;. An atmospheric, subtly creepy story I was gone from the very first page: You'd be surprised to see how little things have changed since those days. The lighthouse still rises through the haze like a sentry, and the road that runs alongside the Englishman's Beach is now just a faint track snaking through the sand to nowhere. If you remember David's "employer" from that book, you know who I mean.

I won't spoil for you his name in the book that he goes by This man has a small but significant part in the book, and he sets in motion consequences that Lazarus Jann doesn't fully understand at the time, not until much later. Makes me wonder if Mister Zafon had this planned out as this characters first appearance, laying the ground for the Angel's game or was just testing him out.

When everything is tied together at the end, a chill ran down my spine and a tingling came in my hands. I wanted to jump in Cravenmoore and help them but all I could do was bite my lip and try to read faster while not missing a word. The end for one was sad but made sense in the end after I thought about it One final scene Ishmael witnessed broke my heart for Lazarus.

The final narration of Irene cleared some things up and ties in with the beginning and leaves you with a smile on your face. I'll leave you with this quote from the book: They remind me of what the discovery of reading meant to me.

The Watcher in the Shadows

I hope they remind you too, regardless of your age. View all 5 comments. Y por eso se merece ese puntaje.!! El autor es un genio!! Una trama impactante, engancha desde la primera frase. Sus personajes no paran de sorprender al lector, a evolucionar y a crecer. O local mostra-se encantador e hospitaleiro.

L'ho iniziato senza leggere prima la trama, in questo modo ogni pagina era un passo verso una scoperta nuova. Dentro ogni essere umano buono o cattivo che sia,si nasconde qualcosa di immensamente odioso. The stories in this young adult series aren't connected at all. They all have a great sense of mystery and fantasy, but one is set in Spain, the other in India, and this one in France.

How much better than Prince of Mist this book is! I couldn't put it down. His characters are REAL! REAL I tell you. There's so much emotion in his words I don't know how Ruiz Zafon can keep cranking stories like this one. Easier to relate than The Midnight Palace, this story gives us a glimpse of Andreas Corelli, The stories in this young adult series aren't connected at all. I love to see the origin of the ideas for Shadow and Angel's Game. I wish I had this book when I was growing up. This author is a magician of words.

What a gift he has! This is the third book by this author that I have read and I should have stopped after the first. I feel like I just read a bunch of stuff and have no idea what happened. I think perhaps something has been lost in translation? Shadows and doppelgangers and toymakers and this child's history and that one's and masks and machines.

Lots of broken glass and explosions at the end, and I could clearly envision a movie scene with the automatons burning, but other than that I'm not sure what happened. I This is the third book by this author that I have read and I should have stopped after the first. I'm not sure why Ismael and Irene fell in love except that they were fourteen though in one spot I thought it said 15 and in another I could have sworn I read she was almost I'm not sure what point the whole cave scene had, or why Dorian was there.

It just seemed very disjointed and did not flow from one scene to another, or create any kind of tension. The only creepiness to be had was what I imagined myself when thinking of all the different automatons there could have been. The Prince of Mist was the best of his three that I have read and I don't know that I will be interested in reading any future books by this author.

Fourteen-year-old Irene Sauvelle's family has just moved to the foggy coast of Normandy. There, living on the estate of a reclusive toymaker and inventor, she's immediately enchanted by the beauty of the place and the local wealth of ghost stories. When a young girl is found murdered, her body at the end of a path torn through the woods by a monstrous, inhuman force, Irene begins to wonder: Is there more to the ghost stories than the townspeople let on?

And what, exactly, is the inventor guarding so closely in his mansion? She will have to survive the most terrifying summer of her life, trying to piece together the many mysteries and secrets hidden in a town torn apart by tragedy, amid a labyrinth of light and shadows. Con esto, estoy convencida que cada cosa que publique este autor, lo voy a leer, porque son impresionantes las cosas que escribe con aspectos cotidianos.

Apr 01, Kells Next Read rated it really liked it Shelves: This one had it fill of creepy creatures. Recently widowed Simone takes up a position in a mysterious mansion at the sea belonging to a solitary toy maker and populated by his ingenious machinery. Her teenage daughter befriends a local boy and they soon uncover a decades old mystery and haunting shadows that threaten the lives of her entire family.

I have not yet read the previous two books but they only appear to be loosely connected and based on this work can easily be read in any order. They don't seem to have an overlying story or character ark and I suspect that they may just be connected by a general Gothic mood. His early work is generally described as being aimed at Young Adults but this already bears the hallmarks of his later works and though very much focused on teenagers on the brink of adulthood, it can comfortably be read by adults as well. This is a gripping and very atmospheric novel with realistic characters and a genuine sense of fear and dread.

The first half provides ample scope for character development so that by the time the cliff hanger style threats start developing in the second half the reader can properly root for them. It's a very cinematic style of writing and time again throughout my reading I was thinking that this could make a great film Ah well, one can only dream With elements of The Turn of the Screw, Ruiz Zafon's tale of mystery and Faustian bargains enchants in its eccentric and enigmatic world.

Two stories of true love create the centerpiece for this creepy, twisted tale. Set in a picturesque, coastal French village, The Watcher in the Shadows entwines teenage r English translation: Set in a picturesque, coastal French village, The Watcher in the Shadows entwines teenage romance with the story of an odd toy magnate and his invalid wife. As the village transitions from almost painstakingly normal to terrifying, teens Irene and Ismael cling to each other and to the mystery surrounding a murder, a ghost story, and the strange shadow which envelopes the nearby woods and the town.

The perfect pacing and the moving love stories make The Watcher in the Shadows an enthralling read. I loved the fast paced nature of this book, the descriptive atmospheric setting is stunning. Especially the automated toys. Me he acabado el libro y debo decir que me ha gustado. Pues si, lo es! La historia es muy interesante y original. Es un maestro describiendo escenas y ambientes. I love the writing of Carlos Ruiz Zafon.

And his stories and ideas. His books always catch me and I don't want to stop reading and I don't want the books to end. This one ended too fast, not just because I enjoyed it too much but because the story rushed through too fast. There would have been a lot more potential for suspense and character development.

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