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mxcottonsocks · 2 years ago

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So... who drugged the sherry?

There are lots of Theories today, and I thought I'd share my own.

Long post, so I'll pop it under a cut, but in short my answer is: Dracula himself.

We'll need to step through the events in Lucy's memorandum step-by-step, but first, a couple of quick reminders about vampire powers:

This is from Jonathan's journal entry of 24 June:

I thought I would watch for the Count’s return, and for a long time sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way.

[...] Louder [the howling of dogs] seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; [...] I was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed.

So, we know that vampires can change their form into 'specks' like dust which can float and whirl around (and hypnotise people). In order to materialise themselves again, the vampire dust has to gather together until it becomes their form.

Also, we know that from the Demeter segment and the storm in Whitby that Dracula can control the weather. This is from the Dailygraph Correspondent's article of 8 August:

The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless. The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, mirabile dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour.

'Mirable dictu' apparently means 'wonderful to relate'. The harbour mouth is elsewhere described as 'narrow' (and it also looks very narrow on a map and photos). So this wind suddenly coming from the exact right direction to get the boat into the harbour is, in my opinion, certainly Dracula's doing. Not only can he control the general weather, he can control individual gusts of wind.

With those two points (vampire dust swirls and wind-control powers) in mind, let's take a look at Lucy's memorandum of 17 September. I'll start from the wolf crashing through the window:

The wolf's head crashes through the window

Mrs Westenra dies of shock, pulling off Lucy's garlic is the process, and falls on top of Lucy.

Then:

I kept my eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole myriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in through the broken window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear mother’s poor body, which seemed to grow cold already—for her dear heart had ceased to beat—weighed me down; and I remembered no more for a while.

Lucy is unconscious for a while

She awakes to various sounds, including the sound of the maids outside her bedroom door, so she calls them in, and they freak out about Mrs Westenra's corpse

Then:

The wind rushed in through the broken window, and the door slammed to.

The maids move Mrs Westenra's body from on top of Lucy

Lucy directs them "to go to the dining-room and have each a glass of wine."

Then:

The door flew open for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked, and then went in a body to the dining-room;

Lucy, who is hoping the maids will sit up with her, waits for them to come back.

When they do not, she goes in search of them. She finds that the sherry (a type of wine) has been drugged with her mother's medicine (laudanum, which is apparently very effective at inducing sleep), and the maids are unconscious.

Lucy goes back to her room with her mother's body, and makes her memorandum. The last paragraph of this begins:

The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim.

So from all this my conclusions are:

Dracula is the dust, which is noted in Lucy's room twice: directly after the wolf removes the window, and also right at the end of her memorandum

Dracula's using the wind to open and close the doors when he's in dust form

Dracula can therefore move around the house once he's in it

It's Dracula that drugs the wine

I'm a little unsure if a) the first slam of the door is essentially Dracula having a tantrum about being interrupted by the maids, then he hears Lucy tell them to go to the dining room, so he uses the wind to slam the door open and closed and goes down to the dining room very very quickly in order to get there, resume human form, poison the wine, and turn back to dust before the maids get there (then he gets back into Lucy's room when she's going in or out), or b) the first slam is Dracula leaving the room, he guesses that the maids will want to drink wine and goes to drug it while they are sorting out Mrs Westenra's body, and the door opening and closing by itself is him re-entering the room...

But either way, yeah, my theory is that it's Dracula himself who poisoned the wine.

#i just don't see why the door would open and close on its own otherwise #count dracula #lucy westenra #mrs westenra #dracula #dracula daily #17 september #24 june #08 august #corpse mention #drugging mention #death mention #liveblogging dracula daily #liveblog

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blossattic · 7 years ago

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Kitties

“What a meownificent way to keep each other close.”

“A purrfect way, indeed.“

Special mention: @kayterschmater <3

Tagging: @momokitty27, @princess-of-lucis, @mandakatt, @fieryfantasy, @nemo-ne-impune-lacessit (If you wish to be tagged -or not-, let us know, please.)

Disclaimer: -Please be so kind as to don’t use, edit, or repost this. Thank you!-

NOTES: The charm inspiration: Color - Front

#Box of Drawings #Box of OC's #FFXV #FFXV OC #Blossatteamwork #Carmen Mirabile #Ignis Scientia #Pet Names Jokes #Mrs Kitten And Mr Kitty #<3 #They're Supposed To Switch Charms #After The Pun Contest #x3 #Blushing Hues

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flutteringphalanges · 5 years ago

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Mirabile Visue

Summary: Sister Agatha Van Helsing discovers she’s in over her head when a competitive game of chess ultimately results in her becoming pregnant with the child of her worst enemy, Count Dracula. Now tied by a bond deeper than blood, the two must learn to coexist and adapt in a world that could be potentially hostile towards their offspring. Parenthood has never looked so batty.

Characters: Dracula/Sister Agatha Van Helsing

Chapters: 2/6

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: UPDATE: So, originally, this story was only going to be three chapters, but I'm upping it to five. It just made more sense to break it up the way I plan to. Anyway, enough of that. Wow! I cannot express how honored I am over the response this story has received thus far! I am truly grateful for each and every one of you! With that said, you deserve the best and I plan to deliver that to you! A quick apologies for the delay. Here is part two! -Jen

Cobor, Transylvania

A Struggling Livestock Farm on the Outskirts of the Village

Gellert Bartok was a man of pride despite the many shortcomings he'd experienced in his fifty years of life. Born from Hungarian immigrants who had settled in the countryside of Romania, he, his wife, Greta, and their two sons, Elek and Jozsef, worked tirelessly on the few acres of farmland he had inherited from his parents raising cattle, sheep, and pigs. From birth to slaughter and then to market, the pay from their labor was next to nothing. Their little village was being snuffed out by the greater estates and the agriculture along with them. They were, theoretically speaking, invisible. And it was for that reason alone that the farmer was stunned by a letter that was delivered to him with a request for a visit and the promise of a very high pay check from a man simply known as Count Dracula.

The sun had long since sunk down behind the far off hills when a gentle, but firm wrapping sounded against the door. Though he was expecting the arrival, Gellert still jumped in surprise, nearly knocking over his glass of brandy. Muttering to himself, he hurried over and opened the door to reveal a tall figure dressed finely standing before him.

"Lovely weather tonight," Dracula commented, letting out a content sigh. His teeth glistened in the light of the full moon and for some odd reason that Gellert couldn't put his finger on, it made him slightly uncomfortable. "Gellert Bartok is it?"

"Yes," the other man nodded. "You must be Count Dracula."

"Please," the vampire waved his hand. "Dracula will suffice." Silence fell between them and Dracula, sensing the man's awkwardness, smiled warmly. "May I come in?"

"Oh yes, of course. Sorry," the farmer apologized, stepping aside to allow the other man in. "Please, come make yourself comfortable. I have brandy if you'd like a drink."

"That's alright," the count replied pleasantly. "I'm not one for alcohol. And besides," he grinned at Gellert, causing a shiver to run up the man's spine. "I promised my wife I wouldn't drink tonight. She's magnificent, but can be such a bore at times." He chuckled, looking around the room until his eyes landed on the table. "Shall we sit and talk business then?"

The two men sat opposite of each other, Dracula's fingers intertwined as his elbows rested casually on the table. Though the count hadn't done anything to prove he was remotely harmful, Gellert unease made him glad that his wife and two sons were visiting her sister in another village. Something wasn't sitting right, and yet, he was still too intrigued to turn the offer away.

"So you breed pigs," the vampire inquired. "For meat I assume?"

"Baznas," the farmer replied. "They are a newer breed, crossed between Mangalitsa and Berkshire. Quite hardy, they are. Not a lot of people have felt...adventurous, I guess you might say, to raise them."

"Hm," Dracula considered thoughtfully. "And you sell a lot of pork at the market?"

"When we can," Gellert admitted. "We don't have as many sow to produce piglets like we'd want. Money can be tight sometimes." He chuckled as if trying to ease the tension. "But we make do. We all sell beef and-"

"I'm only interested in hogs," Dracula interrupted with the wave of his hand. "Particularly their blood to be precise."

"...I'm sorry, their blood?" The other man's confusion made the vampire smile. "I'm not sure I quite understand…"

"I guess you might say my household is quite fond of black pudding," the vampire stated. "Not a dish commonly found here, but I suppose one might say my family has exquisite tastes." He inhaled, straightening up in his chair. "I don't want to take up much of your time, Mr. Bartok, so I'll get to the point. I am willing to pay you forty lei for your travel alone to my castle and back. Another twenty lei for every pint of blood you bring me, provided it is still fresh upon arrival. That is of the utmost importance. I will even provide you with a few more breeding pairs if you'd like." He grinned at the awestruck expression on the other man's face before leaning in. "The meat is yours to sell, I am only concerned with the blood. Is my price fair?"

"That's...that's…" Gellert did his best to quickly calculate in his head. "That's at least sixty lei!"

"At least one hundred and twenty," the count corrected. "Once you get up and running, I'd prefer you deliver at least twice a month." He paused for a moment, seeming to consider something. "Perhaps I'll provide a few more pigs than promised, to get production up and running." He studied the farmer's eyes. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," Gellert laughed, beaming for the first time since Dracula's arrival. He held his hand out in earnest, surprised by how cold the other man's was when they shook in agreement. "Thank you! Thank you for your generosity! You won't be disappointed!"

"I certainly hope not."

And when the count smiled, Gellert could almost swear his teeth looked a little sharper than before.

Transylvania, Romania

Dracula's Castle

Dawn was fast approaching by the time Dracula had returned to his fortress. Swiftly he made his way to the front entrance and pulled the heavy doors open as if they weighed no more than a feather. Taking in the familiar surroundings, he let out a content sigh, pleased with how successful the night had turned in his favor.

"You refrained from spilling any blood tonight, I hope?"

He turned to see Agatha standing by the fireplace, the flames causing her shadow to appear much larger than she was. Nestled in her arms, dressed in a white infant's nightgown and bonnet, rested Sorina, no older than six months. The baby smiled at the sight of her father, gurgling as she clenched and unclenched her chubby fists.

"Yes, unfortunately I was obedient tonight," he smirked as he strode over to her side. Gingerly, he lifted the infant from her mother's arms and held her close, his cocky expression turning into one of warmness when Sorina touched his face. "Micul mea liliac," he purred, gazing down as if he were in a trance. "Hours feel like centuries when we're apart."

"Surely you can think of a more endearing nickname than "little bat"," the woman spoke, arms folded over her chest. "One more fitting for a child."

"Says the woman who has called her "Sunny" on more than one occasion." Agatha's eyebrows raised in surprise as the vampire merely shrugged. "I confess I've heard you in the nursery. Quite interesting coming from someone who has insisted on calling her child by her full name." His gaze flickered over to meet the former nun's, a grin forming. "But I hold no judgement towards you, scumpa mea."

If it wasn't for the fact that he was holding their daughter, perhaps Agatha would be taken by his flirtatious teasing. But right now, her partner's attention had been redirected towards the infant, who was currently chewing on her fist. Protectively, she reached forward to pull the hand out of Sorina's mouth when the vampire stepped back.

"She's fine," he promised. "She won't harm herself."

As if to ease her concerns, he gently moved Sorina's hand aside to reveal her nearly gumless mouth where only two bottom incisors had begun to erupt. Two human teeth. There was no sign of the other set that made their appearance known recently. The reason the count had gone out to the hog farm in the first place. For as both Dracula and Agatha had learned early on, like her father, Sorina possessed two sets of teeth prosumbly. Human, and of course, vampire.

"How can you be certain?" The worried mother countered. "She's too young to control them yet. What if she were to pierce her hand or worse?"

Absentmindedly, she placed a palm over one of her breasts, the tiny needle like scars hidden by the fabric of her clothing. Though her bite was not lethal, Sorina on multiple occasions had bitten down on her mother's flesh while feeding. Whether it was to drink or not, neither parent was sure, but as Agatha had craved blood during her pregnancy, the thought arose that perhaps Sorina did too. With a mortal mother and an immortal father, anything was possible.

Almost seeming to read his unorthodox wife's mind, Dracula tenderly placed a hand over the one resting on her chest. Agatha looked up at him, trying to maintain a stoic pose, but the fear in her eyes said it all. Sorina was quite possibly the only kind of her world, excluding children that died by the hands of the undead. And with that came no knowledge on how to care for her. Provide what she needed and cast out what she didn't. That thought alone would put a sense of hopelessness in the heart of any parent.

"The meeting with the farmer went better than I anticipated. To be quite frank I was growing a little worried," he chuckled. "He seemed somewhat nervous at first, but it worked out in the end." His thumb brushed across her fingers. "We should be receiving our first supply within the next few days. It'll be good for her," he spoke softly, noting how Sorina was beginning to drift off in the crook of his arm. "Like I said, it is the closest thing to human blood. But, Agatha, you must realize and accept that if she rejects it, we must-"

"I know," the former nun whispered. "I know."

Dracula nodded before returning his attention to Sorina. He smiled softly as the infant now lay sleeping against his chest, her dark curls peeking ever so slightly out from underneath her bonnet. Once when he desired nothing more than blood and the quest for knowledge now was replaced by an undying love for a tiny creature whose beating heart was no bigger than her own fist.

"Let's put her down, surely she'll sleep a good few hours." The vampire murmured, his eyes now flickering up to catch Agatha's gaze. "Then we'll retire to your room. I'll stay with you until you sleep. Unless you wish to join me in my coffin," he added with a smirk.

"I have enough trouble cleaning dirt from underneath my nails," the woman stated, smiling at the man's clear attempt to cheer her up. "So with the utmost regret I must turn down your offer."

"Pity," he replied. "Grime really brings out the blue in your eyes."

"And your sub par flattery leaves much more to be desired," she countered smugly. "But I commend you for your valiant effort."

Dracula looked like he was about to reply when Sorina moved ever so slightly in her sleep, bringing her parents back to reality. He exhaled, though he did not need to, as he smiled at his wife. How far the two had really come, branching out their companionship to include a third member, even if it had been unexpected.

"Come," he gestured towards the stairs. "Before she wakes up."

The room chosen for the nursery shared a wall with Agatha's, allowing the mother to be able to hear her child's cries if need be. Only a week had passed since she and Dracula mutually decided to see how the infant would do on her own. So far, there hadn't been any issues with both parents checking in on occasion to ensure Sorina's well being. Stepping inside, the first thing to greet any pair of eyes was the ornate crib Dracula commissioned himself. The fine detail carved into each wooden crevice put many famous sculptures to shame.

Taking great care, the vampire gently placed Sorina down on her back. He attentively watched her, preparing to lift her back up at the slightest sign she was awakening. When he was certain she was fast asleep, he smiled and gingerly leaned over to place a single kiss on her forehead. Agatha watched from his side, her fingers running against the surface of one of the top planks. Dracula turned to her and offered up his hand, she took it without hesitation.

"Leave the door crack," she insisted as they quietly left the room. "It makes it easier to hear her if she's upset."

When they entered her bed chambers, Agatha immediately went to her dresser in search of her nightgown. She could feel Dracula's eyes on her as she slipped out of her clothes knowing well enough that in a few hours she'd be dressed for the day. After all, she had only stayed up so late waiting for the vampire to return. The least she could do was to be comfortable while she took the equivalent to a long nap.

"You men and your beastly tendencies towards the mere aspect of sex," she commented, throwing a glance back at Dracula. "I can feel your eyes wandering."

"Hm," the vampire hummed, taking a step closer. "And yet, you don't shy away from it." When his cool arms wrapped around Agatha's bare middle, he could feel her shiver. "Dare I say, I might wonder the same for you?"

"Neither of us have slept for hours," the former nun stated as the count pulled her towards the bed. "Exhaustion triumphs over..." Agatha's breath hitched in her throat as Dracula began to kiss her neck, his lips lingering over her jugular. "You never fight fairly."

"And you love me for it," he murmured against her skin, letting his hands travel against her pale skin.

"I tolerate you," she smirked, leaning into his touch. "That should say enough."

"Then allow me to indulge your toleration," he whispered into her ear, Agatha letting out a small yelp of surprise when he flipped her onto the bed. "Let me satisfy you."

"Perhaps sleep can wait," the former nun said nearly breathless as the vampire began to move down her body. "Just don't wake the baby."

As if on cue, the door to Agatha's bedroom closed, leaving the couple to do as they pleased.

#Dracula #Dracula on Netflix #Count Dracula #Dracula x Agatha #agatha van helsing #dragatha

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sistemabibliotecariomilano · 5 years ago

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#Ioleggoacasa

Cari, affezionati lettori, in questo momento così difficile per tutti, noi delle biblioteche vogliamo esservi vicini, tenendovi compagnia con le nostre rubriche e continuando con i nostri consigli di lettura e non solo. Oggi vorremmo invitarvi alla lettura dei cosiddetti ‘tomi’, ossia i volumi ponderosi, quelli di cui abbiamo sempre rimandato la lettura, quelli che o si leggono negli anni del liceo, oppure mai più. La nostra biblioteca digitale MediaLibraryOnLine #MLOL ci viene in aiuto. E se già non siete iscritti, ora potete farlo online.

Alla ricerca del tempo perduto raggiunge il ragguardevole numero di 5033 pagine, ma tutte di primissima qualità. Citiamo dall’abstract del nostro catalogo: “La qualità di Proust, scriveva Virginia Woolf, è l’unione dell’estrema sensibilità con l’estrema tenacia. E resistente come il filo per suture ed evanescente come la polvere d’oro di una farfalla. Su questa sensibilità e su questa tenacia, e su molto altro ancora, è costruito il fascino della Recherche, colossale romanzo-mondo (l’unico che l’autore abbia dato alle stampe) frutto di quindici anni di tormentata gestazione. Usciti a partire dal 1913, i sette libri che compongono in un tutto unitario la Recherche esplorano una moltitudine di temi: il senso del tempo, la memoria, il sogno, l’abitudine, il desiderio, il rapporto tra arte e realtà, l’interagire di rituali ed emozioni. Memorabili i personaggi che il lettore incontra tra queste pagine, dal Narratore, figura dai fortissimi tratti autobiografici, alle donne da lui amate. Attorno al tema della memoria involontaria, le cosiddette intermittenze del cuore della celeberrima scena della madeleine, vive tutta la società francese dei decenni a cavallo del Novecento, quelli della vita di Proust, dalla sconfitta di Sedan agli anni delle avanguardie, passando per l'affaire Dreyfus e la Grande Guerra”. Sembra impossibile poter trarre un film da quest’opera, eppure è stato fatto nel 1984, con Ornella Muti nei panni della ‘disinvolta’ Odette de Crécy, Alain Delon e Jeremy Irons.

Con Guerra e pace scendiamo sensibilmente: sono soltanto 1454 pagine, scritte in sei anni, di un romanzo storico i cui personaggi assurgono però ad archetipo universale: ci si possono trovare tutti i tratti dell’essere umano descritti in mirabile stile. Il film del 1956 è il classico colossal hollywoodiano con un cast stellare: Audrey Hepburn, Mel Ferrer, Henry Fonda, Vittorio Gassman, Anita Ekberg.

L’uomo senza qualità, ovvero uno degli incipit più belli della storia della letteratura, e pensare che si tratta di un passo dal contenuto scientifico-meteorologico: non dimentichiamo che Musil era un ingegnere (come Carlo Emilio Gadda). Conta 1487 pagine, in cui succede ben poco, ma raccontato in maniera semplicemente sublime. In questo video il prof. Guido Davico Bonino spiega il ruolo del romanzo nella letteratura del Novecento.

Sono 741 le pagine dell’Ulisse di Joyce. Testo impegnativo ma ricco di soddisfazioni, indispensabile per chi vuole farsi un bagaglio culturale di livello. Con la tecnica del ‘flusso di coscienza’ (usata anche da Virginia Woolf in Mrs Dalloway, Arthur Schnitzler ne La signorina Else, Giuseppe Berto ne Il male oscuro, ma in nuce presente anche ne I Malavoglia), l’autore descrive la giornata dublinese del suo ‘eroe’, Leopold Bloom: ogni capitolo si collega in maniera antifrastica a un episodio del poema omerico, creando un senso di straniamento anti-epico. I continui richiami a Freud e all’inconscio denunciano che il processo di dissoluzione del romanzo di tipo naturalistico è ormai definitivamente compiuto.

Underworld, di Don DeLillo (885 pagine): così tristemente profetica la copertina con la croce di un vecchio campanile che si staglia in mezzo alle Twin Towers, ma il libro è un vero capolavoro. Con la tecnica della Ring Composition l’autore narra le vicende dei suoi personaggi dagli anni ’50 ai ’90 attraverso le evoluzioni di una palla da baseball. Imperdibile.

I fratelli Karamazov: nelle 1125 pagine di questo libro c’è tutto, dinamiche di conflittualità genitori/figli, di sudditanza servo/padrone, passioni travolgenti e distruttive, spiritualità religiosa, elucubrazioni filosofiche, analisi del contesto sociale, giallo poliziesco e legal thriller. Non si può proprio omettere di citare il celebre sceneggiato Rai di Sandro Bolchi, in cui trionfava una nutrita schiera dei nostri più grandi attori: Umberto Orsini, Corrado Pani, Lea Massari, Salvo Randone, Orso Maria Guerrini, Carla Gravina, Sergio Tofano. Da leggere, ma anche da rileggere.

Il mulino del Po racconta in 3 volumi (1294 pagine in tutto) la saga di una famiglia di mugnai sul Po, dal fondatore della stirpe, Lazzaro Scacerni, ai discendenti, Dosolina, Coniglio mannaro, Cecilia. Questo romanzo storico, che copre l’età compresa fra la ritirata di Napoleone e la Grande Guerra, ha molto in comune con I Malavoglia: entrambi sono una vera “epopea degli umili”, ricordano l’invisa tassa sul macinato, usano un linguaggio molto vicino al parlato, con abbondante ricorso ai proverbi popolari, come “Dio manda l’inverno secondo i panni”, “Dove men si crede, rompe Po”, “La strada conosciuta sembra più corta”. Un vero capolavoro, amato, tra gli altri, da Croce e Montanelli.

Veniamo ora a due opere decisamente più recenti: La scuola cattolica di Edoardo Albinati, tomo del 2016 di 1294 pagine. L’autore, compagno di scuola degli studenti di liceo implicati nell’efferato crimine, cerca di ricostruire un avvenimento che ebbe molta risonanza nelle cronache dell’Italia degli anni ’70: il delitto del Circeo. “Adolescenza, sesso, religione e violenza; il denaro, l’amicizia, la vendetta; professori mitici, preti, teppisti, piccoli geni e psicopatici, fanciulle enigmatiche e terroristi. Mescolando personaggi veri con figure romanzesche, Albinati costruisce una narrazione che ha il coraggio di affrontare a viso aperto i grandi quesiti della vita e del tempo e di mostrare il rovescio delle cose”. Le valutazioni su questo libro sono molto discordi: attendiamo la vostra.

Un po’ più breve (‘solo’ 839 pagine), ma sicuramente coraggioso e molto richiesto nelle biblioteche, M: il figlio del secolo di Antonio Scurati, ci presenta la storia di Benito Mussolini in forma di romanzo, ma basato sulle fonti più autorevoli e documentate. “Raccontando il fascismo come un romanzo, per la prima volta dall’interno e senza nessun filtro politico o ideologico, Scurati svela una realtà rimossa da decenni e di fatto rifonda il nostro antifascismo”. La versione audiolibro letta da Marco Paolini è accessibile a tutti nelle Risorse Open di #MLOL.

#fëdor dostoevskij #marcel proust #lev nikolayeviç tolstoy #riccardo bacchelli #robert musil #don delillo #james joyce #Edoardo Albinati #ioleggoacasa #antonio scurati #percorsidilettura

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therefractory · 4 years ago

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Ursula von der Leyen has invoked the nuclear option of the Lisbon Treaty. By threatening to activate emergency powers under Article 122 she has told the world that Europe is no longer a safe place for private capital or inward investment. The clause allows Brussels to seize factories, take direct control over the production process, and redirect vaccine flows. It enables war-time occupation of companies. A regime that behaves like this is liable to impose capital controls without compunction, or block energy flows through the interconnectors, as has been threatened three times already (I keep count). And as we have seen, anything can be politicised, even random stochastic blood clots. Will global pharma ever build a plant again on EU territory after this episode? “We want to see reciprocity and proportionality in exports,” said Mrs Von der Leyen. Delicious. The EU is currently refusing to reciprocate temporary UK waivers to smooth post-Brexit trade flows or to reciprocate on bare-bond equivalence in financial services. If these daily antics from Brussels and Berlin continue, the eye-wateringly large capital outflows from the eurozone that have already been occurring may accelerate into something closer to outright capital flight. HSBC says outflows reached half a trillion euros in the fourth quarter, an annualised pace of 20pc of GDP. It quickened to €250bn (£214bn) in the single month of December. The scale is breathtaking. It happened before the vaccine debacle condemned Europe to an extra quarter of economic recession and social despair.

Mirabile Dictu: global capital is leaving Europe and coming to Britain

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dino-ghiranze · 7 years ago

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Both girls extended their hands with kind expressions on their faces, until they froze and looked at the older woman in disbelief. "Ghiranze. Ghiranze like-" "L-Like Mr. Dino!" Carmen looked at Honey, who in turn looked back at her. Oh, snap. Two blinks and then they grinned, turning to face the woman again. "Carmen Mirabile, a pleasure." "An I'm Honey Naturae. We're friends of your- Is he your son, r-right?" Seeing that the woman couldn't shake their hands, they decided to bow their heads.

Elana blinked at the sudden exclamation that they knew her son, and her smile grew even more warm. She however, grew a blit flustered at the formality, and tried to gesture a bit, even with her full hands.

“A-ah please, don’t do that. There’s no reason for any formalities. My my…” she laughed then, her eyes seeming to dance a little. “Yes, I am his mother. So you got the pleasure of knowin’ my Dino, huh?”

She blinked then, and looked surprised, only to blush a little, then seeming to get slightly upset.

“He’s not done anythin’ to you girls, has he? If he has! Why I’ll–” she huffed.

#honey #carmen #meet ma #and she's instantly about to punish dino if he's done you wrong #xd #blossattic

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abzilp · 7 years ago

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Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston’s book on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston’s book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To another work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I have used especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris. Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.

I. The Burial of the Dead

Line 20. Cf. Ezekiel II, i. 23. Cf. Ecclesiastes XII, v. 31. V. Tristan und Isolde, I, verses 5-8. 42. Id, III, verse 24. 46. I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the Tarot pack of cards, from which I have obviously departed to suit my own convenience. The Hanged Man, a member of the traditional pack, fits my purpose in two ways: because he is associated in my mind with the Hanged God of Frazer, and because I associate him with the hooded figure in the passage of the disciples to Emmaus in Part V. The Phoenician Sailor and the Merchant appear later; also the “crowds of people," and Death by Water is executed in Part IV. The Man with Three Staves (an authentic member of the Tarot pack) I associate, quite arbitrarily, with the Fisher King himself 60. Cf. Baudelaire: “Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves, “Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant.” 63. Cf. Inferno III, 55-57: “si Iunga tratta di gente, ch’io non avrei mai creduto che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.” 64, Cf. Inferno IV, 25-27: “Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare, “non avea pianto, ma’ che di sospiri, “che l’aura eterna facevan tremare.” 68, A phenomenon which I have often noticed. 74, Cf. the Dirge in Webster’s White Devil. 76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mal.

II. A Game of Chess

77. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II, ii, I. 190. 92. Laquearia. V. Aeneid, I, 726: dependent Iychni laquearibus aureis incensi, et noctem flammis funalia vincunt. 98. Sylvan scene, V. Milton, Paradise Lost, IV, 140. 99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, VI, Philomela. 100. Cf. Part III, I. 204. 115. Cf. Part III, I. 195. 118. Cf. Webster: “Is the wind in that door still?” 126. Cf. Part I, I. 37,48. 138. Cf. the game of chess in Middleton’s Women beware Women.

III. The Fire Sermon

176. V. Spencer, Prothalamion. 192. Cf. The Tempest, I, ii, 196. Cf. Marvell, To His Coy Mistress. 197. Cf. Day, Parliament of Bees: “When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear, “A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring “Actaeon to Diana in the spring, “Where all shall see her naked skin . . . " 199. I do not know the origin of the ballad from which these lines are taken: it was reported to me from Sydney, Australia. 202. V. Verlaine, Parsifal. 210. The currants were quoted at a price “carriage and insurance free to London”; and the Bill of Lading etc. were to be handed to the buyer upon payment of the sight draft. 218. Tiresias, although a mere spectator and not indeed a “character," is yet the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest. Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into the Phoenician Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the women are one woman, and the two sexes meet in Tiresias, What Tiresias sees, in fact, is the substance of the poem. The whole passage from Ovid is of great anthropological interest: '. . . Cum Iunone iocos et maior vestra profecto est Quam, quae contingit maribus,' dixisse, ‘voluptas.' Illa negat; placuit quae sit sententia docti Quaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque nota, Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silva Corpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictu Deque viro factus, mirabile, femina septem Egerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdem Vidit et ‘est yestrae si tanta potentia plagae: Dixit ‘ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet, Nunc quoque vos feriam!' percussis anguibus isdem Forma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago. Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosa Dicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturnia iusto Nec pro materia fertur doluisse suique Iudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte, At pater omnipotens (neque enim Iicetinrita cuiquam Facta dei fecisse deo) pro Iumine adempto Scire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore. 221. This may not appear as exact as Sappho’s lines, but I had In mind the “longshore” or “dory” fisherman, who returns at nightfall. 253. V. Goldsmith, the song in The Vicar of Wakefield. 257. V. The Tempest, as above. 264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of the finest among Wren’s interiors. See The Proposed Demolition of Nineteen City Churches: (P. S. King & Son, Ltd.). 266. The Song of the (three) Thames-daughters begins here. From line 292 to 306 inclusive they speak in tum. V. Götterdämmerung, III, i: the Rhine-daughters. 279. V. Froude, Elizabeth, Vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra to Philip of Spain: “In the afternoon we were in a barge, watching the games on the river. (The queen) was alone with Lord Robert and myself on the poop, when they began to talk nonsense, and went so far that Lord Robert at last said, as I was on the spot there was no reason why they should not be married if the queen pleased.” 293. Cf. Purgatorio, V, 133: “Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia; “Siena mi fe’, disfecemi Maremma.” 307. V. St. Augustine’s Confessions: “to Carthage then I came, where a cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears.” 308. The complete text of the Buddha’s Fire Sermon (which corresponds in importance to the Sermon on the Mount) from which these words are taken, will be found translated in the late Henry Clarke Warren’s Buddhism in Translation (Harvard Oriental Series). Mr. Warren was one of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies in the Occident. 309. From St. Augustine’s Confessions again. The collocation of these two representatives of eastern and western asceticism, as the culmination of this part of the poem, is not an accident.

V. What the Thunder Said

In the first part of Part V three themes are employed: the journey to Emmaus, the approach to the Chapel Perilous (see Miss Weston’s book) and the present decay of eastern Europe. 357. This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush which I have heard in Quebec County. Chapman says (Handbook of Birds of Eastern North America) “it is most at home in secluded woodland and thickety retreats. . . . Its notes are not remarkable for variety or volume, but in purity and sweetness of tone and exquisite modulation they are unequalled.” Its “water-dripping song” is justly celebrated. 360. The following lines were stimulated by the account of one of the Antarctic expeditions (I forget which, but I think one of Shackleton’s): it was related that the party of explorers, at the extremity of their strength, had the constant delusion that there was one more member than could actually be counted. 367-77, Cf. Hermann Hesse, Blick ins Chaos: “Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumindest der halbe Osten Europas auf dem Wege zum Chaos, fährt betrunken im heiligem Wahnam Abgrund entlang und singt dazu, singt betrunken und hymnisch wie Dmitri Karamasoff sang. Ueber diese Lieder lacht der Burger beleidigt, der Heilige und Seher hört sie mit Tränen.” 402. “Datta, dayadhvam, damyata” (Give, sympathise, control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in the Brihadaranyaka – Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found in Deussen’s Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p, 489. 408. Cf. Webster, The White Devil, V, vi: ". . . they’ll remarry Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs.” 412. Cf. Inferno, XXXIII, 46: “ed io sentii chiavar l’uscio di sotto all’orribile torre.” Also F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality, p. 346. “My external sensations are no less private to myself than are my thoughts or my feelings. In either case my experiences falls within my alike, every sphere is opaque to the others which surround it. . . . In for each is peculiar and private to that soul.” 425. V. Weston: From Ritual to Romance; chapter on the Fisher King. 428. V. Purgatorio, XXXVI, 148. "‘Ara vos prec per aquella valor ‘que vos guida al som de l’escalina, ‘sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.' Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina.” 429. V. Pervigilium Veneris. Cf. Philomela in Parts II and III. 430. V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet El Desdichado. 432. V. Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy. 434. Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. “The Peace which passeth understanding” is a feeble translation of the content of this word.

#t. s. eliot #the waste land #notes #poetry #collage #materials

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tachyonpub · 7 years ago

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Ellen Klages’ WICKED WONDERS was an outstanding book of 2017 that you may have missed

MIRABILE DICTU lists Ellen Klages’ WICKED WONDERS among Four Books You May Have Missed in 2017.

No one has time to read everything. If you work full-time, perhaps you read 50 books a year. And that’s if you manage to read on the bus or the subway.

After a certain age, I wanted to emulate Thomas Hardy, who, I believe, spent six hours reading every night. And the more I read, the fussier I became. In my forties, it seemed that either (a) much worse books were suddenly being published, or (b) my taste was so honed that fewer books passed my standards. (N.B. The less exhausted you are when you read, the pickier.)

Here’s the good news: I have read some outstanding new books in 2017. And here’s some curious news: I happened upon some stunning new books that were published with little fanfare.

<snip>

Ellen Klages crafts one perfect sentence after another in her dazzling new collection of short stories, WICKED WONDERS. Published by Tachyon, a small press in San Francisco, this extraordinary collection is introduced by PEN/Faulkner Award winner Karen Joy Fowler. Klages has a reputation for eclecticism: she won the Nebula Award in 2005 for her novelette “Basement Magic” and the Scott O’Dell Award for Historical Fiction in 2007 for her Y.A. novel, The Green Glass Sea. This pitch-perfect, genre-crossing collection demonstrates her diverse gifts: magic realism, retold fairy tales, and some smart homages to Ray Bradbury’s brilliant work.

Photo: Scott R. Kline

Helen Patterson at NIMROD INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL praises the collection.

Every once in a while, I’m drawn to a book by someone I’ve never heard of because of the tittle. This was the case with Ellen Klages’s short story collection Wicked Wonders (2017). Klages is an award-winning author, primarily of science fiction, historical fiction, and science writing, whose earlier publications include The Green Glass Sea, White Sands, Red Menace, and PORTABLE CHILDHOODS.

Klages’s style is unlike anything I’ve seen recently and is hard to describe. Each story has a different feel to it, likely because, by her own confession, Klages is a little obsessive about researching content, style, and voice for all her pieces. Sometimes her writing is like Ray Bradbury’s; sometimes she’s evocative of Shirley Jackson or more contemporary authors such as Kelly Link. Science and the wonder of the mathematical and physical properties that make up the universe inform her stories, as does a careful attention to details. “Mrs. Zeno’s Paradox” drolly displays the absurdity of applying mathematical paradoxes to real-world dessert division, and “Gone to the Library” explores a budding mathematical prodigy’s conflation of math and magic as she encounters imaginary numbers and magic squares.

Two of the strongest pieces in the collection (and, not coincidentally, my personal favorites) are “Amicae Aeternum” and “Goodnight Moons.” Both pieces are sci-fi but barely, set in futures that are very recognizable and, possibly, quite close to our own. Klages does an excellent job of mixing her exhaustive research and knowledge into a world recognizable in its details and its people, allowing us easily to enter her near-future worlds. There are neither dystopias or utopias, but are rather both tragic and triumphant, as the best and most human stories often are.

It isn’t often that I read more than one book by the same writer. There are so many, many books in the world, and more being written all the time. I’m sure I’m not the only reader who often feels like she is awash in a vast tide of words. However, in Klages I’ve found an author who not only is gifted but who also speaks to me in a personal way that is hard to describe and rare to experience. Several of her stories struck a chord in my heart, twisting it in unexpected directions and upending my world in sympathy with her characters. I’m looking forward to finding and reading Ellen Klages’s other work, both past and future, and I recommend that you do the same.

For more info on WICKED WONDERS, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover design by Elizabeth Story

For more info on PORTABLE CHILDHOODS, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover by Ellen Klages

Design by John D. Berry

#ellen klages #wicked wonders #mirabile dictu #best of 2017 #review #helen patterson #nimrod international journal #portable childhoods #elizabeth story #john d. berry

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abhorrenttheorizer · 10 months ago

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Entire image is spoiled, a while back I wanted to make some more doodles similar to this one but I wasn't pleased with it and it lacked the same weight and balance that my first one had so it stayed in my Procreate septic tank till 2024 to be posted.

Also I got incredibly silly so uhhh consider this image as a warning:

Transcript:

"big ass sasaj lol xd"

"(GETS REALLY FLUFFY WHEN ANGRY)"

"(YouTube Kids)"

"2 BODY PILLOWS"

"I WEAR THESE BETTER THAN YOU, BITCH."

"(YES, THIS HURTS HIM)"

"HEARD YOU BOZOS HAD FREE COFFEE."

#brainlet hour #mr mirabil #the mr men show #the mr. men show #mr men and little miss #mr men little miss #mr. men #mr grumpy #mr. grumpy #this fucking blue muppet is one of those characters i physically cannot bring myself to publicly talk about #because i Will get weird and i Will get creepy about it #in reality i have hundreds of mr grumpy doodles i can only post like 2% of them though lol

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pangeanews · 5 years ago

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“Sex and The City… Ancora?!”: il nuovo libro di Candace Bushnell letto e recensito da Matteo Fais e Viviana Viviani

Candace Bushnell racconta l’amore over cinquanta: la strenua lotta contro il tempo per non perdere l’ultimo giro in giostra

Sex in the city… e adesso? di Candace Bushnell, cattiva traduzione dell’originale Is there still sex in the city? (C’è ancora sesso in città?), è difficilmente inquadrabile in un genere. Come parlare ancora di chick lit, letteratura per pollastrelle, se le pollastrelle sembrano ormai pronte per fare un buon brodo? Eppure le protagoniste, l’autrice stessa e le sue amiche, non si arrendono affatto al passare del tempo. E la chick lit diventa qualcosa in più.

Nessuno si illuda: di Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte e Miranda qui non c’è traccia. E sono ben conscia ma, da fan indomita della serie, quanto vorremmo sapere come stanno ora, le quattro amiche di New York con cui abbiamo condiviso risate e lacrime. Rassegnamoci, non le rivedremo. E forse è meglio così, ricordarle com’erano.

Nel nuovo romanzo troviamo invece Marilyn, Kitty, Queenie, Tilda Tia e tante altre, anche se purtroppo non le conosceremo a fondo. È questo infatti il principale difetto del libro, presente tra l’altro anche nel precedente, quello da cui fu tratta la serie: nonostante lo stile sia efficace e brillante, l’avvicendarsi di aneddoti è troppo rapido e l’approfondimento psicologico troppo debole perché il lettore possa davvero entrare in empatia con i personaggi, distinguerne i caratteri, avere una reazione catartica di fronte alle loro gioie e ai loro lutti. Alla serie tv, grazie a ottimi sceneggiatori e attori, è stata data ben altra anima.

Sex in the city… e adesso? rimane, comunque, un libro interessante dal punto di vista sociologico. Quanto sono cambiati i rapporti amorosi e sessuali delle donne intorno ai cinquant’anni, rispetto alle generazioni precedenti? Candace all’inizio del libro è decisamente triste. Dopo aver sbattuto troppe volte contro il dolore, sembra aver perso la leggerezza: sua madre è morta, il suo cane pure, il padre è malato, il suo matrimonio è fallito, anche il lavoro non va proprio bene. E di sesso non ne fa più. Poi però qualcosa cambia, un nuovo progetto lavorativo torna a catapultarla nel vortice degli appuntamenti amorosi. E, per poterli raccontare, si troverà a viverli.

Invecchiare è difficile, anche per chi non vuole ammetterlo. Dei compleanni pesa soprattutto la prima cifra. Le “boe delle decine”, come le chiama l’autrice. Le decadi scandiscono le fasi della vita, e quando da “thirtysomething”, “trenta e qualcosa”, si arriva a cinquanta e oltre, è inutile negare che la faccenda cambia. I figli, per chi li ha, iniziano ad andarsene. Gli estrogeni, pure. Ti senti ancora giovane, mentre ordini il cocktail alla moda nel locale alla moda, ma per gli uomini al banco del bar sei diventata per lo più invisibile. E allora bisogna rimanere sempre giovani, o almeno sembrarlo. A ogni costo.

Le offerte sul mercato della giovinezza sono innumerevoli, dalle creme miracolose dal prezzo proibitivo, alla chirurgia plastica, al salutismo estremo, ai soggiorni di meditazione, al “trattamento Monna Lisa”, che per tremila dollari restituisce alla vagina l’elasticità dei trent’anni, garantendo rapporti sessuali appaganti come allora, se non di più. Ecco quindi le cinquantenni rifarsi il seno, tornare sicure e attraenti, aprirsi un profilo su Tinder, frequentare venticinquenni, i cosiddetti “cuccioli”, ritrovando “la favolosa erezione di cui solo i giovani sono capaci”

Le delusioni sono naturalmente dietro l’angolo: le creme non funzionano, le protesi mammarie esplodono, i cuccioli deludono quando non ingannano, gli uomini su Tinder “cercano solo pompini”, i coetanei puntano alle più giovani. E arriva anche l’instabilità dell’umore, la paura della solitudine, l’angoscia che nulla di bello possa più accadere. FME, la chiama la Bushnell, sempre amante delle sigle: “follia della mezza età”.

Che fare, allora? Non perdere la speranza. L’amore, per le più fortunate, in qualche modo arriva. In una nuova dimensione, priva di aspettative. Se le ragazze di Sex and the city vivevano ancora il sogno, le ultracinquantenni hanno avuto ormai tutte le delusioni possibili e di futuro davanti ne vedono sempre meno. D’altra parte, man mano che aumenta il numero delle persone che hai visto morire, o vivi nel presente o impazzisci. Candace incontra that guy, ‘quel tipo’. Un novello Mr Big, che almeno nel soprannome ha perso la grandezza, ma in compenso è diventato più affidabile. Perché è lui quello giusto? Per motivi concreti: è gentile, presente, dell’età giusta, economicamente indipendente. Più realismo e meno farfalle nello stomaco, forse sta proprio in questo invecchiare, o crescere, ognuno scelga il termine che preferisce.

L’ambientazione è lussuosa, siamo tra l’Upper East Side di Manhattan e gli Hamptons. I mestieri, tutti finanziari o artistici. Il tenore di vita elevato. Le situazioni precarie e inique non mancano, un divorzio può portare sul lastrico, una cinquantenne single ha poche possibilità di ottenere un finanziamento, ma nonostante questo non si può certo dire che l’autrice racconti la vita delle classi meno abbienti. D’altra parte, perché fargliene una colpa? Ogni autore narra il mondo che conosce meglio, e vivisezionare le idiosincrasie dei ricchi è la specialità della Bushnell.

Possiamo quindi, noi comuni mortali, identificarci in queste donne? A mio parere sì, esattamente come ci siamo identificate nelle protagoniste di Sex and the City, pur non avendo alcuna Manolo nell’armadio. Le dinamiche emotive non sono molto diverse: quella paura di rimanere escluse dal gioco della passione, di non vivere mai più “un altro giro in giostra”, non conosce reddito, anche se di certo, come in tutte le cose, i soldi aiutano.

Ora qualcuno forse dirà che sono superficiali, queste donne tutte tese alla conservazione della giovinezza e alla ricerca di un nuovo amore. Che non sono questi i veri valori. Che bisognerebbe tornare indietro, a quando c’erano ancora le stagioni, specie le stagioni della vita, e i figli si facevano per dovere sociale e i matrimoni duravano tutta la vita, anche senza amore. E soprattutto, da vecchia facevi la vecchia. E a cinquant’anni, eri vecchia.

Che dire a costoro? Prima di mandarli al diavolo, intendo. Alcuni eccessi di giovanilismo sono innegabili, così come certe mostruosità della chirurgia plastica. D’altra parte, la libertà implica la possibilità dell’errore, e la guerra tra l’essere umano e il tempo è atavica. Ma è anche da sempre il motore del progresso. Ci saremmo evoluti, se non avessimo la consapevolezza di invecchiare, e quindi di dover morire? Non abbiamo forse inventato la ruota, le case in muratura e gli antibiotici con la sola speranza di vivere meglio, e anche un solo giorno in più? Quel che un tempo era semplice sopravvivenza, oggi è anche ricerca del piacere, della felicità. Una ricerca destinata a fallire, a lasciare insoddisfatti. Una guerra in cui l’essere umano è destinato alla sconfitta. Eppure si continua a lottare, e quando si parla di felicità le conquiste fondamentali e quelle frivole camminano fianco a fianco.

Nel finale del libro, Candace ci assicura che i sessant’anni saranno favolosi. Dobbiamo crederci? Non escludo un eccesso di ottimismo. Ma visto che gli anni passano, intanto ho già fatto una piccola ricerca su internet: il “trattamento Monna Lisa” esiste davvero, e in Italia costa molto meno di tremila dollari. Anzi, in molti casi è persino mutuabile. Non avremo le ville negli Hamptons, ma in alcune cose siamo meglio degli americani.

Viviana Viviani

***

Il nuovo libro dell’autrice di Sex and The City è l’ennesimo elogio idiota del mondo liberal e dei suoi costumi, senza alcuna prospettiva critica

Ho odiato a morte i libri della serie di Sex and The City. La loro versione televisiva, poi, mi faceva venire voglia di mettere mano alla pistola e sparare allo schermo. Non voglio dire che siano scritti male, né i testi né gli episodi, tutt’altro. A voler essere onesto, devo ammettere che Candace Bushnell scrive infinitamente meglio della maggior parte dei romanzieri italiani. I suoi incipit sono accattivanti, le chiusure fulminanti e ironiche. Il ritmo della prosa mirabile. Si scorre tra le righe senza arenarsi o cadere nel viscoso – cosa che quasi mai accade con gli autori nostrani. Niente da dire: come scrittrice c’è e si vede. Padroneggia la metafora. Nulla nelle sue pagine è raffazzonato, o lasciato al caso. Insomma, sul piano stilistico, si potrebbe dire che è quasi perfetta. In inglese, poi, non ci sono assolutamente dubbi, la prosa è anche migliore, quindi, se proprio doveste leggerla, scegliete l’originale. Anche il titolo, in italiano, è imbarazzante: Sex in the city… e adesso?. Decisamente più significativo l’americano Is There Still Sex in The City?. Almeno questo non sembra scegliere come destinatario le ragazzine delle scuole medie.

Detto ciò resta il fatto che quest’ultima prova letteraria dell’autrice, come le precedenti, è, contenutisticamente parlando, deprecabile. Eppure conosco l’opera di Candace Bushnell come quella di Houellebecq. Addirittura direi che sono in uno strano modo speculari. Spesso descrivono mondi molto simili, affreschi dell’universo liberal, ma in modo completamente diverso. Quello della Bushnell, certo, è più ricco e patinato, ma non è questo il punto. La differenza fondamentale tra i due scrittori è che, di fronte al rivelarsi dell’illusione liberal-liberista, l’americana continua come una deficiente a gridare entusiasta “God Bless America”, mentre il francese affina gli strumenti critici e dà inizio all’autopsia dell’Occidente.

È incredibile quanta cretinaggine e ottimismo a buon mercato ci sia nella testa dell’autrice per poterci propinare duecento pagine di stronzate simili. Assurdo che la protagonista del libro – che poi è la scrittrice stessa –, quando si rende conto che, dopo il suo divorzio, non potrà più avere accesso a un mutuo, perché ormai cinquantenne, lavoratrice autonoma e senza marito, non si capaciti comunque della stortura dell’immondo sistema capitalistico in cui vive (“In questo momento, però, mi sentivo tradita dal sistema. Non solo rischiavo di perdere la mia casa, ma stavo per aggiungermi alla schiera dei milioni di donne di mezza età che avrebbero divorziato quell’anno. Milioni di donne che avrebbero dovuto ricominciare a mettersi sulla piazza per cercare un uomo che non esiste e che, come me, molto probabilmente si sarebbero dovute trovare un altro posto dove vivere”). Possibile che a una persona non venga da farsi qualche domanda in merito? Prendere atto, per esempio, che il sistema è escludente verso i più deboli, o che è impossibile vivere serenamente col terrore di poter passare in un attimo da una posizione di sicurezza a una di incertezza assoluta. O, ancora, che questa precarietà sentimentale, tipica di un mondo in cui, anche a livello amoroso, bisogna sempre essere on the market è mortificante e grottesca a una certa età.

E il libro è pieno di situazioni ridicole e svilenti. Mariti e mogli abbandonati, incontri su Tinder che ripropongono l’inutilità di quelli già avuti nei decenni pre social network. E poi queste serate tra eterne signore Peter Pan che, a cinquant’anni, ragionano ancora come quando ne avevano venti-trenta, senza essere andate incontro ad alcun tipo di agnizione o epifania che le abbia svegliate da tale scintillante sogno di pacchiane vetrine di negozi e cocktail party della buona società.

Ecco, se esiste un motivo per leggere Candace Bushnell, questo risiede in uno studio antropologico volto a sottolineare come le storture del liberalismo riescano a insinuarsi nella mente delle persone quali datità, aspetti inalienabili dell’Essere. La scrittrice ragiona proprio secondo la logica del there’s no alternative, quella teoria economico-sociale per cui le cose stanno come stanno e non resta che accettarle. Inutile anche prenderne le distanze per valutarle in modo critico. Meglio tesserne le lodi in testi e testi che farebbero impallidire il povero Spengler, il teorico del tramonto dell’Occidente.

L’ultimo volume della serie di Sex and The City, scritto per dare svago alla mente e instupidire ulteriormente un pubblico già provato dalle mille bugie dell’informazione mainstream, va invece affrontato in modo molto serio. Psicologi, filosofi e sociologi dovrebbero discuterne in simposi e chiedersi come tutto ciò sia possibile.

Matteo Fais

L'articolo “Sex and The City… Ancora?!”: il nuovo libro di Candace Bushnell letto e recensito da Matteo Fais e Viviana Viviani proviene da Pangea.

from pangea.news https://ift.tt/2kJjSfj

#news #Società #Candace Bushnell #Houellebecq #Matteo Fais #Mondadori #Sex in the City #Viviana Vivia

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flutteringphalanges · 5 years ago

Photo

Mirabile Visue

Characters: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Chapters: 4/6

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: I want to briefly apologize. I want to stretch this fic out by adding an extra chapter to this story. I know I said this fic would only be five chapters long, but I have some stuff planned that I felt deserved it's own chapter and not be squeezed into this installment. So there will be two chapters after this chapter, not just one, making the fic a total of six chapters in length. With that out of the way, I must say you folks are truly wonderful! Thank you so much for your feedback! It means the world, it honestly does! I don't want to take up too much of your time talking, so bring on the next chapter! Also shout out to @mitsukatsu on tumblr who's been a true inspiration to me through her fabulous artwork (and allowing me to brainstorm ideas). -Jen

Chapter Four

Varna, Bulgaria

The Demeter

"You've been having a manor built in Yorkshire and never once considered asking my thoughts on it in the slightest?"

Agatha glowered at Dracula as she tucked away more articles of clothing into her bag. Sorina sat on the edge of her mother's bed, completely unaware of the anger aimed at her father. It had been mere hours since the farmer's untimely demise and already the stress of it all was eating away at the former nun's sanity. Meanwhile, her husband didn't seem the least bit bothered by the sudden need to drop everything they knew and move countries away from their home. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't been planning for this excursion all along. Though, of course, not in the manner that it happened.

"Because I knew you'd say no," the vampire replied simply. "I just needed time to figure out how to convince you and now is more convenient than ever."

He ruffled Sorina's hair and the girl giggled. At least she didn't seem traumatized by what had happened, much to Agatha's relief. Still, she was finding herself really resenting the count at that moment. With no other outfit to aim it towards, her negative emotions had chosen him as their target. Inhaling, she watched as Dracula knelt down to Sorina's eye level.

"We're going on an adventure, little one," he smiled, holding out one of her dolls to take. "I think you and your Mama are going to like it." The count's eyes flicked briefly to Agatha before returning his attention to Sorina. "I'm sure of it."

"An ad...venture?" Sorina asked, sounding out the word. "Where?"

"To a lovely place called England. Your Papa has made a special castle for you and Mama both," Dracula explained. "But we have to take a boat to get there. You know what a boat is, right? From your storybooks?"

"Mhm," the girl nodded. "Boats go in water!"

"Clever girl," the vampire chuckled, bopping her nose with his index finger. "You'll see," his attention now turned to his wife. "Everything is going to be absolutely fine."

"Madame?"

Agatha snapped back into reality, turning away from the shore's waters that lapped against the pier. Around her, men were loading various cargo aboard the large vessel that bore the name, The Demeter, in deep carved letters on the side. The air was cool, the weather surprisingly pleasant, and though any normal person would have found it a lovely day to set sail, the former nun felt uneasy.

"Madame?"

She blinked, pulling herself together as she looked over at the man who addressed her. He offered her a small smile, nodding to the piece of parchment he grasped in his hands.

"Might I have your name, if you please?"

"Agatha," she stated. "Countess Agatha Van-oh do be careful with that!"

The man's attention turned to the three crew members who seemed to struggle hauling a rather large box onto the ship. Accidentally, one of the corners smacked against the side of the boat causing the crate to sway unevenly for a moment. A round of apologies sounded as the now flustered woman looked once more at the sailor.

"It's Agatha Van Helsing," she said tersely.

"Ah," he smiled. "There you are. Cabin nine. And it also says…"

"Yes, I'm here with my husband, Count Dracula, and our daughter, Sorina." Before the man could say another word, Agatha added quickly. "They must've already gone aboard. Now if you wouldn't mind, I'd so like to do so myself."

She hurried on, pushing past a rather burly sailor with one hand who offered her a cup of some sort of liquid. Though it had been years since she had truly been able to enjoy fresh air, Agatha made her way towards the cabins. Just as she was about to grab the handle to their room, Dracula opened the door. He smirked, stepping back to reveal a slightly dirty Sorina.

"I was in a box, Mama!" She declared proudly. "And Papa too!"

"Yes, I know," Agatha replied, slipping past the count who closed the door. "Let's get you out of those clothes and into something clean." She smiled softly, licking her thumb before wiping away a smudge of dirt across Sorina's cheek.

"And you did a wonderful job," her father grinned. "Quiet as a mouse. A little bumpy getting on board, but we managed."

"Can I go outside, Mama," the little girl begged. "Please?"

"No-" Agatha started before her husband quickly cut her off.

"Later tonight, micul mea liliac," the vampire promised. "After dinner." He looked to the former nun, offering a smile. "I recommend the fish. We're on the ocean, after all. One can guarantee it's fresh."

"I'm assuming you already have your menu planned," she frowned. "Mr. Balaur." He gave her a look of pleasant surprise which, in return, she returned with a glare. "Did you really think that I wouldn't pick up on that? Such an odd name for you to suggest Sorina call her doll. Not to mention, of course, the variety of passengers is quite strange."

"I didn't just marry you for your beauty," he smirked. "Your intelligence and wit are also very charming qualities."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Count Dracula," she stated firmly. "Just...just be clean and smart about it please. And above all else, not around her." Agatha nodded towards their daughter who, at that moment, had taken to exploring the room. "Four weeks before we reach England. A month. Whatever you do, don't draw attention to us."

The vampire stood before her and tenderly tucked a lock of Agatha's hair behind her ear. When he kissed her lips, still down-turned into a frown, she couldn't help but smile a little. Damn his alluring nature. That was part of the reason that pulled her into his arms in the first place. He made it very hard to stay mad at him. Even though she found herself getting after him a lot. Perhaps all marriages were like that.

"Now, darling," he crooned. "When have I ever let you down?"

XXX

"Papa, look!" Sorina's voice was filled with excitement as she tugged on Dracula's hand. "People!"

The vampire peered down at his daughter and smiled. Before them stood the cozy quarters of an already full dining room. All who were present were elegantly dressed, Sorina much resembling one of her dolls as she sported a cornflower blue dress with a matching bow her mother had picked out for her. Agatha's eyes wandered around the room, her curiosity piqued as to what specific requirements her husband used to determine who he'd chosen for this particular voyage.

"Ah, I believe that is our table over there," Dracula stated, pulling the former nun from her thoughts. "Shall we?"

Before his wife could utter a reply, Sorina broke away from her father and hurried over to a table where a much younger couple sat. Of the pair, a rather beautiful lady beamed in delight the moment her attention was drawn to the little girl.

"Why hello there," she said cheerfully. "Aren't you just a pretty little thing!"

"I know," Sorina stated. "What's your name?"

"Dorabella," Dorabella replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sorina. Is this your first time on a ship?"

"My first time outside!" Her words caused Agatha to grimace. "I live in a castle!"

"Why, isn't that the most adorable thing I've ever heard!" Dorabella giggled, looking to her husband. "Oh, darling, isn't she just precious?! How I simply cannot wait until we have children of our own!"

"Sure," the man replied seemingly uninterested. "Whatever you say, dearest."

"I'm so sorry," Agatha said, finally hurrying over and taking a hold of Sorina's hand. "I apologize for the interruption." Her eyes flickered over to her daughter. "Come, Sorina, it's time for dinner."

"Oh, she's no bother, really," Dorabella insisted. "You have such a lovely child. You and your husband must feel very lucky. We just got married!" She smiled warmly at Sorina. "Your mummy and daddy clearly love you dearly!"

"I love my Mama and Papa," Sorina said proudly.

"My congratulations to you both," Agatha said, feigning a smile. She knew full well that neither would be making it off this vessel alive. "Darling, it's time to eat. You must be hungry."

"Bye!" The little girl called, waving to Dorabella as her mother led her off to the table where her father sat. "See you later!"

Dracula grinned when Agatha and Sorina finally joined him. He watched as his wife did her best to get their daughter situated, Sorina's head just barely poking above the table. The former nun sighed, shaking her head as she took her own seat. The menus were already stacked into a neat pile off to the side, giving the family of three much more space.

"Already being acquainted with the other guests?" Dracula inquired. "It seems Sorina has made a new friend." Agatha threw him a look as her husband's attention shifted to his daughter. "Are you having fun, love?"

"Mhm!" The girl smiled, eyes sparkling. "Papa, there are people here!"

Just as Sorina spoke those words, two plates of fish and potatoes were placed in front of her and her mother. Before even giving the marinated cod a taste, the little girl's nose crinkled in disgust. She picked up her fork and began to poke at the flaky filet with a frown.

"I only like the potatoes," she said.

"Sorina, you haven't even tasted the fish," Agatha sighed. "And do stop playing with your food. We raised you to have good table manners."

"I only like the potatoes," Sorina repeated. "Fish is yucky."

"Clearly she's got a refined palate like her father," Dracula half joked.

"Clearly," Agatha rolled her eyes. "But she can't just eat potatoes for the next month." Her husband began to open his mouth but was quickly cut off. "Don't."

The vampire raised his hands as if to protect himself. "Fair enough," he smirked. "I know my limits. Surely there are other things we can find to appease her tastes."

"Until then," Agatha said, scrapping her potatoes onto Sorina's plate. "I suppose a little bit of starch isn't terribly harmful."

Once they had finished eating, Dracula excused himself and left to strike up a conversation with a rather elderly looking woman. Agatha tried not to think about his true intentions as she led Sorina back into their living quarters. The young girl yawned as her mother helped remove her dress and ribbon before slipping a nightgown over the girl's head. It had been a rather exciting day for the child. It was no wonder she was exhausted.

"Where's Papa?" Sorina mumbled, snuggling under the covers as Agatha tucked her in.

"He'll be back when you wake up," the woman assured her daughter, drawing the curtains tightly closed. "Get some rest, sweetheart. You've had a big day." Sorina yawned once more and Agatha couldn't help but chuckle. Gingerly, she leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I love you. Papa loves you."

"I love you too, Mama," Sorina whispered. "Papa."

Agatha waited awhile until she was quite certain the child was sleeping. Quietly, she moved to a nearby chair and, what little candlelight she had, took to reading one of the few books she managed to bring from Transylvania. It wasn't until she felt someone's fingers running through her hair that she opened her eyes realizing she had fallen asleep.

"Sorry," Dracula murmured. "I hadn't intended on waking you."

"It's okay," Agatha exhaled, shifting into a more comfortable position. "That woman, is she…"

"Do you really want to know?" Agatha tiredly shook her head. "I left no trace," he promised. "No one will suspect a thing." He offered her a gentle smile. "Quite an exciting day, wouldn't you agree?"

"Perhaps for you," the former nun whispered. "I've never felt more anxious in my life."

"Sorina did beautifully," the vampire replied. "Better than either of us anticipated."

"This is only the first day out of several," Agatha frowned. "How are we to know the outcome of all of this. What if we can't protect-"

"Shh," he hushed her. "We'll take it one day at a time, yes? You know I would do absolutely anything for the both of you. I'd never let bad happen. No one would dare touch a single hair on our daughter's head if they knew who I truly was."

"But we can't let them know that." Agatha massaged her temples, clearly very exhausted over the matter. "I would die a thousand painful deaths for Sorina, but those are just words." She looked back at the sleeping frame of her daughter. "I…"

"Agatha," Dracula now cupped her face in his cool hands. "Let's step out a moment. You need to breathe. Sorina will be fine, she's fast asleep." He took her by the hand and pulled her up, somewhat surprised she didn't protest. "Come, the night is lovely."

Together, the pair stepped out of the cabin, Agatha glancing behind her once more to ensure Sorina was still dreaming. She followed Dracula to the front deck, somewhat surprised to find that they were alone. It was then she noted that her husband's cape laid stretched out before them. The vampire guided her to sit down, taking his own place beside her once he did.

"We're alone. No one will bother us for a while," he informed her. "But don't worry, I've ensured that we won't crash."

"A foggy sky is quite romantic," Agatha smirked, looking to her husband.

"An easy fix," Dracula replied smugly.

She watched as he snapped his fingers, as if doing so completed some magic trick. To her surprise, and delight, she watched as the fog lifted to reveal a clear, starry night sky. Agatha grinned, looking over at her husband. The vampire chuckled, evidently pleased by his wife's reaction.

"Does this lighten the mood?" He inquired, laying back and inviting the former nun to do the same. "I suppose it's safe to have some clarity for now."

"You can be quite the charmer when you want to be," Agatha chuckled.

"Why thank you," he mused, taking her hand to kiss it. "Countess."

Agatha snorted, shaking her head as she slid closer to his body. When his arm snaked around her, she rested her head on his chest. It sometimes felt strange, lying there unable to hear his heart beat. But she didn't mind it. As time wore on, she had grown accustomed to it. She might even go as far as to say it was comforting. Agatha exhaled, closing her eyes momentarily until Dracula's next chosen words jolted her wide awake.

"We should have another baby."

"What?!" Agatha coughed, sitting up abruptly. "A baby?! Is that why you brought me out here?!"

"Well, Sorina's getting older," Dracula replied, sitting up calmly. "And the manor I've constructed is more than capable of housing more than three people."

"Did you forget what we were just talking about in there?" She snapped, pointing her index finger towards the direction of their cabin. "We have enough to worry about when it comes to taking care of one child. I can't even begin to imagine another!"

She began to stand up when Dracula grabbed her hand. Exhaling, Agatha turned to meet his gaze. He was staring at her expectantly, for what reason, she wasn't sure. Certainly her answer was obvious. And yet, the former nun found herself sitting back down.

"If you truly do not wish for another child. I'll respect your wishes," Dracula stated. "But at least humor me and listen to my reasoning."

"...Fine," Agatha exhaled.

"Thank you," he smiled. Dracula then began to rummage before producing what appeared to be a small notepad. "Here we are. I thought I'd list some of my reasons for this discussion."

"You took notes?" She inquired, an eyebrow cocked.

"For your benefit, not mine," he explained simply. "I know you value information, so I created this with the hopes that you'd find someone honor in me for making it."

He held out the notebook which, in turn, Agatha took with hesitation. She studied it carefully, beginning to thumb through the text. Dracula watched in amusement as her brows raised and furrowed interchangeably.

"Our genetics provide attractive traits on both a physical appearance and intellectual base…" Agatha read, her eyes briefly flickering to meet his.

"Such can be seen with our dear Sorina," he stated. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"...My maternal qualities are superior to many women, and then you have in parenthesis "just from what I've observed, not that I have openly consumed the blood of mothers"?" Agatha struggled to hide the amusement in her voice.

"I kept my promise to you about not murdering anyone for the sake of understanding your pregnancy," he answered. "So I can only assume."

"Hm," she nodded, looking down once more. "Sorina will not only gain a sibling, but a lifetime friend with the understanding that she has inherited the gift of immortality," Agatha read. "We have proven to be fantastic parents and it is known, without a doubt, that we are willing to go great lengths to protect our child and will continue to successfully do so…"

"I suppose that's the gist of it," Dracula nodded. "Have I done well to convince you?"

Agatha was silent for a moment, her lips pursed in deep thought. "Well…" she ventured. "I suppose it wouldn't do much harm to consider it…" She saw his devilish grin. "Consider it, I said, I didn't say-oh!"

The former nun cried out in surprise when the vampire flipped her onto her back, his head cradling her head so that it didn't hit the wooden planks. He loomed over her, his smile mischievous. Agatha huffed, rolling her eyes in false annoyance as her husband began to kiss her neck, his lips lingering over her jugular. It was becoming much more evident that talks of expanding the family hadn't been his only motive to get her outside. She shivered in pleasure as she felt his hand begin to trail up underneath her dress.

"You're such a brute," she scoffed, unable to stifle a laugh.

"And you love me for it," he playfully growled.

"Yes," Agatha breathed, her arms wrapping around his neck. "I suppose I do…"

#Dracula #Agatha Van Helsing #Dracula on Netflix #Dragatha #Count Dracula #Mirabile Visu

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tmnotizie · 6 years ago

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ANCONA – Agenda Estate, gli eventi dal 30 agosto al 2 settembre 2018

Giovedì 30 agosto

FESTIVAL ADRIATICO MEDITERRANEO, seconda giornata

h 6.00 Passetto- Concerto all’Alba Luciano Pompilio – Corde mediterranee

h 17.00 La Feltrinelli Ancona Presentazione di Il passo dell’acero rosso. Alberi, pecore e macerie di Matthias Canapini

Incontro h 18.15 Foyer Auditorium Mole Vanvitelliana Diritti e Rovesci, a cura del Garante dei diritti – Ombudsman delle Marche Incontro sul “Diritto al lavoro e alla dignità” con Aboubakar Soumahoro e Stefania Prandi, autrice di “Oro Rosso”

Proiezione alle 19,15 del documentario “L’oro blu” alla Mole, alla presenza del regista Flavio Oliva e dei ricercatori CNR-Ismar

Incontro h 19.30 FARgO – Faro del Cardeto Quartetto Se.Go.Vi.O

Concerto h 21.15 Mole Vanvitelliana di Bombino (Gomour Almoctar) – Ingresso €12

22.30 Presentazione di La chiave di cioccolata di Enrichetta Vilella al Wine Not Hotel Palace

h 23.00 Porto Antico – Frontiere Mr Jod Concerto

44° Festival del dialetto di Varano, alle ore 21:30 la compagnia degli Intronati di Tolentino presenta “Lu sequestru” di G.Teobaldelli, regia di G.Gesueli

A TCI PORTO Festival- Molo Rizzo, Porto Antico, ore 21, “Sulla luna, ti ci porto”, laboratorio per bambini; ore 21,30 Incontro: “Talk, il mondo che i ragazzi salveranno”

Venerdì’ 31 agosto

FESTIVAL ADRIATICO MEDITERRANEO, terza giornata

h 6.00 Passetto – Concerto all’Alba Giuseppe De Trizio – Flumine

h 17.00 La Feltrinelli Ancona Presentazione di Chi Brucia. Nel Mediterraneo sulle tracce degli harraga di Marco Benedettelli

Incontro h 18.15 Foyer Auditorium Mole Vanvitelliana Diritti e Rovesci, a cura del Garante dei diritti – Ombudsman delle Marche incontro “Diritto di scrivere e liberà di parlare”: Turchia 2018” con Hakan Gunday che dialoga con Marco Ansaldo

Incontro h 19,15 alla Mole “Media e crisi dimenticate” con Loris de Filippi (Medici senza Frontiere) e i giornalisti Pierfrancesco Curzi e Barabara Curzi e Schiavulli a cura di MSF

h 19.30 FARgO – Faro del Cardeto Concerto di Gabriele Giuliano

Concerto h 21.15 Mole Vanvitelliana A.T.A – Acoustic Tarab Alchemy Concerto – Ingresso €8

h 22.30 Presentazione di Sulla Schiena del Drago di Enrico Mariani e Francesco Mazzanti alla Vineria Il Bugigattolo

h 23.00 Lazzabaretto – Frontiere dj Apeless Mindfields – electronic sounds colors and territories Concerto

Con replica il 1° e il 2 settembre, alle ore 18 e 18,30 DEPOSITI APERTI , visite straordinarie ai depositi della Pinacoteca civica F. Podesti . Quota di adesione: 5 euro.

Prenotazione obbligatoria al n. 071.222.5047 o scrivendo a [email protected]

Il Museo Tattile Statale Omero propone una singolare performance itinerante lungo le sale: saranno le statue a raccontare i loro ricordi, sogni ed emozioni tra vanità e ironia.

“SE LE STATUE POTESSERO PARLARE…” è il titolo di questa speciale serata in cui i visitatori potranno ascoltare quanto può essere civettuola la Venere di Milo, vanitosa la cupola di Santa Maria del Fiore, scocciato il David di Michelangelo, in crisi d’identità l’imperatore Augusto e molto altro. A dar voce alle statue saranno gli attori dell’Unione Italiana Ciechi e Ipovedenti – sezione Ancona: Daniela Bottegoni, Luciano Carnevali, Daniele Casarola, Maurizio Mazzieri, Samuele Mazzieri, Barbara Roefaro, Stefania Terré, Lucrezia Violante; con la partecipazione di Francesca Santi, operatrice del Museo Omero.

Lo spettacolo avrà una durata di circa 20 minuti; al termine la Cantina Castrum Morisci di Moresco offrirà una degustazione dei propri vini.

L’evento è organizzato dalle volontarie del Servizio Civile Nazionale.

Ingresso libero con prenotazione obbligatoria al numero 071.2811935 o all’indirizzo [email protected]; massimo 30 persone per ciascuno dei tre turni previsti (ore 21, 21.30, 22); età minima 8 anni. Il Museo sarà aperto solo per gli spettatori della performance.

Alla chiesa di Portonovo ore 21, 30 a cura di ITALIA NOSTRA e Gruppo Speleologico Ancona, “SERATA PER GIGLIOLA” E PERFORMANCE “DENTRO LA MERAVIGLIA” DEDICATA ALLA SCOPERTA DELLA GROTTA GRANDE DEL VENTO-

44° Festival del dialetto di Varano – alle ore 21:30 la Compagnia del Gallo di Pesaro presenta “Quasta do’ la mett?” testo e regia di Paolo Cioppi

A TCI PORTO Festival- Molo Rizzo, Porto Antico, ore 21, 30 Concerto della band Tetes de Bois

Sabato 1 settembre

Dalle ore 19, piazza del crocifisso, Archi: I PATTI NON HANNO COLORE …….E VANNO RISPETTATI, manifestazione di sensibilizzazione cittadina sul congelamento di fondi stanziati e già concessi dallo Stato con il Piano Periferie, a 96 città italiane, tra le quali la Città di Ancona. Verranno proiettati su un maxi schermo le slide ed i video relativi ai progetti di riqualificazione finanziati dal bando periferie, sono previsti interventi da parte degli amministratori locali e di alcuni cittadini dei quartieri interessati. Nella zona pedonale sotto gli Archi giovani musicisti suoneranno brani in acustica mentre bar e ristoratori del quartiere serviranno aperitivi e cena all’aperto.

FESTIVAL ADRIATICO MEDITERRANEO- QUARTA GIORNATA

h 6 .00 Passetto-Concerto all’Alba Sandor Szabò – Tra Oriente e Occidente

h 17.00 La Feltrinelli Ancona Presentazione di Il Silenzio del Mare di Asmae Dachan

Incontro h 18.15 Foyer Auditorium della Mole Vanvitelliana Diritti e Rovesci, a cura del Garante dei diritti – Ombudsman delle Marche Alessandro Barbano presenta Troppi Diritti

Incontro ore 19 alla Mole- Tra Europa e Libia: Il Mediterraneo, frontiera di diritti negati” a cura di AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL con Matteo De Bellis e Paolo Pignocchi

Incontro h 19.30 FARgO – Faro del Cardeto Hyper+

Concerto h 21.15 Mole Vanvitelliana Mezsecsinka Concerto – Ingresso €8

h 22.30 Presentazione di La musica vuota di Corrado Dottori

h 23,30 al Porto Antico- Frontiere- Sangennarobar dj set

44° Festival del dialetto di Varano

h 18- Gruppo folk Canti popolari: La Pasquella di Varano”

h 19,45 Serata finale e premiazione di VARANO CANTA

A seguire la compagnia Amici del Teatro di Loro Piceno presenta “Toccata e fuga” di D.Benfield, regia di E.Forti

Domenica 2 settembre

FESTA DEL MARE (presentazione domani alla stampa, ore 12)

44° Festival del dialetto di Varano– h 18 La musica popolare delle Marche al sud Itali con le bambine della Compagnia del Solstizio mediterraneo (Luna Dance)

h 19,45: Premiazione compognie teatrali

Commemorazione del varanese Dino Socionovo, recentemente scomparso

A seguire la compagnia teatrale Il Focolare di Loreto (fuori concorso) presenta “Da giovedì a giovedì” di A. De Benedetti, regia di R.Papa

Mostre

Prosegue fino al 3 settembre alla Mole, sala Boxe, con il patrocinio del Comune di Ancona econ il sostegno degli Ospedali Riuniti, promosso dalla Fondazione Ospedale Salesi Onlus l’iniziativa “Kostabi sostiene il Salesi”: si tratta della mostra personale del pittore Mark Kostabi , ingresso libero.

Prosegue fino al 16 settembre al Museo Tattile statale Omero FORME SENSIBILI, apertura ore 18. Paolo Annibali, Egidio Del Bianco, Giuliano Giuliani, Rocco Natale, Valerio Valeri, a cura di Nunzio Giustozzi. Cinque artisti marchigiani a significare, nell’originalità delle loro poetiche, gli orientamenti della scultura contemporanea. Quasi quaranta le opere – tra sculture, disegni e bozzetti frutto delle ricerche più recenti – fatte di diversi materiali cui si riconosce una sorta di “vocazione formale”, un’anima sensibile. L’argilla dipinta, il legno, il travertino, i metalli, lavorati o assemblati, ma anche carte, stoffe, spaghi di un’inedita qualità tattile, offrono, tra figurazione e astrazione, sviluppi espressivi inattesi e forma e materia si modulano vicendevolmente, raggiungendo una mirabile sintesi.

INGRESSO LIBERO- VISITE GUIDATE tutti i sabati e le domeniche alle ore 18. Costo: 4 euro a persona; gratuito: disabili e loro accompagnatori, bambini 0-4 anni.

Prenotazione consigliata: [email protected] – tel. 0712811935.

LABORATORI CREATIVI PER FAMIGLIE

24 e 31 agosto ore 18-20; 7 settembre ore 17-19

Costo: 4 euro a partecipante; gratuito: disabili e loro accompagnatori, bambini 0-4 anni. Prenotazione obbligatoria:[email protected] – INFO 0712811935.

Fino al 24 ottobre è possibile visitare presso la Biblioteca Benincasa una nuova mostra libraria e documentaria. Si tratta della mostra “Tra editoria e letteratura: A. Gustavo Morelli editore e tipografo ad Ancona tra Otto e Novecento”, incentrata su una figura notevole nel panorama culturale cittadino tra Otto e Novecento: il tipografo editore A. Gustavo Morelli (1852-1909). La mostra è visitabile presso lo Spazio d’Ingresso della Benincasa, in Via Bernabei 30, dal lunedì al venerdì dalle 9 alle 19.

Durante il periodo estivo (luglio e agosto), sarà visitabile il mattino, dalle 9 alle 13.30 e di pomeriggio anche il martedì e il giovedì dalle 14.30 alle 17.La mostra espone anche tra l’altro una lettera del pittore Francesco Podesti, di cui Morelli pubblicò due opere. Della mostra è disponibile un catalogo presso la Sala di lettura e a richiesta si effettuano visite guidate.

#Marche #TMNotizie

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utopiedujour · 7 years ago

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The Best Laid Schemes (Part 1), by Duncan Sutherland

Billet invité.

Improbable though it may now seem, the supreme leader of the British was only recently reckoned by many of her (mostly southern) subjects to be a political magician who might well contrive to deliver what was conceived of in the heart of darkest England as a successful hard Brexit and thereby miraculously bring about the dawning of a new age of wondrous economic opportunity in a fondly imagined land of broad sunlit uplands, from the majestic summits of which the British would contemplate the impending ruin of the European empire from the oppressive bonds of which they had sagely managed to escape.

The magician having now pulled a rabbit from her hat, there it sits with its ears flopping and its nostrils nervously twitching as it incredulously takes in the real facts of the real world into which it has dramatically emerged. Before its startled gaze lies the debris which constitutes the monumental array of disarray which the prime minister of the United Kingdom has created by summoning up a wholly unnecessary parliamentary general election, as a result of which she now finds herself going off to Brussels to negotiate Brexit with egg on her face or, as the Germans would say and are indeed delighting in saying, « mit Torte im Gesicht », i.e. with a (presumably cream) pie splattered all over the rictus in her supremely chastened English countenance.

To the dismay of her party, Mrs May has shown herself to be a stupendously mediocre politician and has disastrously demonstrated to her European Union counterparts that she is no strategist, as she appears to have based her strategy for strengthening the UK’s Brexit strategy on a series of assumptions, although it is demonstrably unsound strategy to base any strategy upon any assumptions whatsoever. Sound strategies are based on facts, preferably independently verifiable ones. As for the assumptions upon which the decision to call a snap general election was based, one of them consisted in the assertion that the British people had accepted the result of the EU referendum and that the slim majority who had voted in favour of Brexit had grown substantially, a position not considered to be accurately represented by the existing distribution of political forces in the House of Commons, the opposition elements of which were typically being characterised by Brexiteers as unpatriotic subversives who deserved to be swept away in this hour of British emergency, in which nothing but unquestioning solidarity would do.

As in a parliamentary democracy it is, however, the duty of the parliamentary opposition to oppose, and as the supreme leader had been so supremely unwise as to question the value of this, it should come as no surprise that the electorate has reached for its ever ready supply of eggs and indeed cream pies. The voters have arguably demonstrated sound common sense in depriving the Tories of an overall Commons majority which they had demonstrated that they did not deserve to have, firstly by using it to conduct a referendum campaign which generated far more heat than light and secondly by proceeding to fail to appreciate the value of legitimate political opposition to the high-handed and arrogant way in which the narrow-majority referendum decision was being implemented. The voters have also arguably shown that they are still as divided on the subject of Brexit as they were at the time of the referendum last year. At least it has been demonstrated that opposition to a hard Brexit is strong and that the electorate does not wish its representatives to withdraw the UK from the EU in such a way as to cause economic hardship.

If it is the case, as the European Commission maintains, that it is not possible to achieve a Brexit which does not cause economic hardship, the theoretical possibility appears to exist that the process of exiting the European Union may be reversed once the signs of impending economic hardship begin to become manifest and are noticed by the general public in the course of the Brexit negotiations.

Mirabile dictu, it happens that the one incontestably major achievement of the supreme leader which results from her decision to go to the country, as the process of calling a general election is quaintly referred to in the UK, is that the scope for Brexit reversal has been immensely expanded by the new distribution of political forces in the House of Commons. Hoist by her own petard, as the national bard of England might have expressed it, the supreme leader is left to reflect upon the wisdom of the national bard of Scotland, who warned us in his poem To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785 that « the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley. » (Translation: the best laid schemes of mice and men often come unstuck.)

The final stanza is worth noting in this context:

« Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me The present only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward cast my e’e. On prospects drear! An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear! »

(Robert Burns)

Some guessing and fearing on the subject of how Brexit reversal might actually be achieved (and what might transpire if it is not) follows in part 2.

from Blog de Paul Jorion http://ift.tt/2tU0Fq6 via IFTTT

#paul jaurion #analyse économique #systeme #banque #bourse #monde #france #IFTTT #Blog de Paul Jorion

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theexpectedguest · 8 years ago

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NOTES

NOT only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston's book on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston's book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To another work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I have used especially the two volumes Atthis Adonis Osiris. Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

Line 20. Cf. Ezekiel II, i.

23. Cf. Ecclesiastes XII, 5.

31. V. Tristan und Isolde, I, verses 5-8.

42. Id. III, verse 24.

46. I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the Tarot pack of cards, from which I have obviously departed to suit my own convenience. The Hanged Man, a member of the traditional pack, fits my purpose in two ways: because he is associated in my mind with the Hanged God of Frazer, and because I associate him with the hooded figure in the passage of the disciples to Emmaus in Part V. The Phoenician Sailor and the Merchant appear later; also the "crowds of people," and Death by Water is executed in Part IV. The Man with Three Staves (an authentic member of the Tarot pack) I associate, quite arbitrarily, with the Fisher King himself.

60. Cf. Baudelaire:

"Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rèves,

"Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant."

63. Cf. Inferno III, 55–57:

"si lunga tratta di gente, ch'io non avrei mai creduto che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta."

64. Cf. Inferno IV, 25–27:

"Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare, "non avea pianto, ma' che di sospiri, "che l'aura eterna facevan tremare."

68. A phenomenon which I have often noticed.

74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster's White Devil.

76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mal.

II. A GAME OF CHESS

77. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii., l. 190.

92. Laquearia. V. Aeneid, I, 726:

dependent lychni laquearibus aureis incensi, et noctem flammis funalia vincunt.

98. Sylvan scene. V. Milton, Paradise Lost, IV, 140.

99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, VI, Philomela.

100. Cf. Part III l. 204.

115. Cf. Part III l. 195.

118. Cf. Webster: "Is the wind in that door still?"

126. Cf. Part I l. 37, 48.

138. Cf. the game of chess in Middleton's Women beware Women.

III. THE FIRE SERMON

176. V. Spenser, Prothalamion.

192. Cf. The Tempest, I. ii.

196. Cf. Day, Parliament of Bees:

"When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear, "A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring "Actaeon to Diana in the spring, "Where all shall see her naked skin . . ."

197. Cf. Marvell, To His Coy Mistress.

199. I do not know the origin of the ballad from which these lines are taken: it was reported to me from Sydney, Australia.

202. V. Verlaine, Parsifal.

210. The currants were quoted at a price "carriage and insurance free to London"; and the Bill of Lading etc. were to be handed to the buyer upon payment of the sight draft.

218. Tiresias, although a mere spectator and not indeed a "character," is yet the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest. Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into the Phoenician Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the women are one woman, and the two sexes meet in Tiresias. What Tiresias sees, in fact, is the substance of the poem. The whole passage from Ovid is of great anthropological interest:

. . . Cum Iunone iocos et maior vestra profecto est

Quam, quae contingit maribus', dixisse, 'voluptas.' Illa negat; placuit quae sit sententia docti Quaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque nota. Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silva Corpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictu Deque viro factus, mirabile, femina septem Egerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdem Vidit et 'est vestrae si tanta potentia plagae,' Dixit 'ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet, Nunc quoque vos feriam!' percussis anguibus isdem Forma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago. Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosa Dicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturnia iusto Nec pro materia fertur doluisse suique Iudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte, At pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita cuiquam Facta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine adempto Scire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore.

221. This may not appear as exact as Sappho's lines, but I had in mind the "longshore" or "dory" fisherman, who returns at nightfall.

253. V. Goldsmith, the song in The Vicar of Wakefield.

257. V. The Tempest, as above.

264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of the finest among Wren's interiors. See The Proposed Demolition of Nineteen City Churches: (P. S. King & Son, Ltd.).

266. The Song of the (three) Thames-daughters begins here. From line 292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn. V. Götterdämmerung, III, i: the Rhinedaughters.

279. V. Froude, Elizabeth, Vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra to Philip of Spain:

"In the afternoon we were in a barge, watching the games on the river. (The queen) was alone with Lord Robert and myself on the poop, when they began to talk nonsense, and went so far that Lord Robert at last said, as I was on the spot there was no reason why they should not be married if the queen pleased."

293. Cf. Purgatorio, V. 133:

"Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;"Siena mi fe', disfecemi Maremma."

307. V. St. Augustine's Confessions: "to Carthage then I came, where a cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears."

308. The complete text of the Buddha's Fire Sermon (which corresponds in importance to the Sermon on the Mount) from which these words are taken, will be found translated in the late Henry Clarke Warren's Buddhism in Translation (Harvard Oriental Series). Mr. Warren was one of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies in the Occident.

312. From St. Augustine's Confessions again. The collocation of these two representatives of eastern and western asceticism, as the culmination of this part of the poem, is not an accident.

V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

In the first part of Part V three themes are employed: the journey to Emmaus, the approach to the Chapel Perilous (see Miss Weston's book) and the present decay of eastern Europe.

357. This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush which I have heard in Quebec County. Chapman says (Handbook of Birds of Eastern North America) "it is most at home in secluded woodland and thickety retreats. . . . Its notes are not remarkable for variety or volume, but in purity and sweetness of tone and exquisite modulation they are unequalled." Its "water-dripping song" is justly celebrated.

360. The following lines were stimulated by the account of one of the Antarctic expeditions (I forget which, but I think one of Shackleton's): it was related that the party of explorers, at the extremity of their strength, had the constant delusion that there was one more member than could actually be counted.

366–76. Cf. Hermann Hesse, Blick ins Chaos: "Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumindest der halbe Osten Europas auf dem Wege zum Chaos, fährt betrunken im heiligem Wahn am Abgrund entlang und singt dazu, singt betrunken und hymnisch wie Dmitri Karamasoff sang. Ueber diese Lieder lacht der Bürger beleidigt, der Heilige und Seher hört sie mit Tränen."

401. "Datta, dayadhvam, damyata" (Give, sympathize, control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in the Brihadaranyaka—Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found in Deussen's Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p. 489.

407. Cf. Webster, The White Devil, v. vi:

". . . they'll remarry Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs."

411. Cf. Inferno, XXXIII, 46:

"ed io sentii chiavar l'uscio di sottoall'orribile torre."

Also F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality, p. 346.

"My external sensations are no less private to myself than are my thoughts or my feelings. In either case my experience falls within my own circle, a circle closed on the outside; and, with all its elements alike, every sphere is opaque to the others which surround it. . . . In brief, regarded as an existence which appears in a soul, the whole world for each is peculiar and private to that soul."

424. V. Weston, From Ritual to Romance; chapter on the Fisher King.

427. V. Purgatorio, XXVI, 148.

"'Ara vos prec per aquella valor'que vos guida al som de l'escalina,'sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.'Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina."

428. V. Pervigilium Veneris. Cf. Philomela in Parts II and III.

429. V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet El Desdichado.

431. V. Kyd's Spanish Tragedy.

434. Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. "The Peace which passeth understanding" is a feeble translation of the content of this word.

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